On the Porch

Once or twice a week I attend an early morning meeting at an old clubhouse near the urban core of my largish city. There are a few guys who have been sober for a while, and there are almost always some people who come from one of the many half way houses or shelters downtown. I get to see some friends and I get to do some service work.

Being on the outgoing side I've always tried to make people who are new -- new to the area, that meeting, sobriety, whatever -- feel welcome. I enjoy it. I'm good at it. I'll talk to anybody, anywhere, any time, just not for too long -- I get bored easily. When I was new I traveled incessantly for work and was often surprised when members of a group paired off after the meeting and left me standing there alone, staring at the wall. I could have been ready to drink.

One day this week I was talking to a new guy who looked to be down on his luck. He was telling me about his efforts to get into a couple of local shelters and, frankly, to keep himself fed.

"Where are you staying now?" I asked.

"On the porch," he said, gesturing to the front of the building. "I'm sleeping on the porch."

This is not a comfortable porch with furniture or a roof. It's made of concrete and it's open to the elements. It's getting warm here but it's not warm at 4AM.

My friend was matter-of-fact. He wasn't complaining or asking me for money or anything.

He was sleeping on the porch, one day sober.