I stood up, thrust my reinstated driver's license in the air and shouted, "Y'all, I got my (profanity) license back! I can drive again!" About 50 of my fellow recovering addicts erupted in cheers and laughter.
I laughed with them as tears stung my eyes, grateful for the people in that 12-step meeting. Each had given me dozens of rides in the year after the state suspended my license when I got my second DUI in 2010.
After the meeting, my sponsor grabbed me and said, "You owe a lot of rides. Find people to take to a meeting."
Within a day, a friend told me that Nashville's felony drug court, DC4, was always looking for people in recovery to take phase-three inmates to outside meetings at night. I'd never even heard of DC4, but found out later that it really
operated as a residential rehab for felons, with much more of a dormitory feel than a jail or prison.
That's where I met Phil. AKA Big Phil. AKA Biggie. I like to call him Philippe, because I'm a classy dame, and because it makes us both laugh. He calls me B-rad, and that also makes me laugh.
Phil and his buddy, Dre, both with convictions for selling drugs, both ended up in my car. I loved hearing their hot takes on their fellow inmates, pop culture and, of course, the ladies at the meetings. (Dre almost always hollered at female fast food workers in the drive-thru before the meetings. "Hey, snow bunny! Snow BUNNY!")
We laughed a lot, ate a lot and learned a lot about each others' worlds. We also found out that we shared a lot of the same insecurities and fears, and we used some of the same unhealthy behaviors to deal with those feelings.
My friendship with Phil came to mind often as I was researching and writing about the 15-year friendship between a Nashville Realtor and a woman sentenced on felony murder and second-degree murder charges.
My relationship with Phil changed about six months in. I took Phil to a meeting and noticed he walked out right away and stayed gone until it was time to go back to DC4. That left me feeling icky, and instead of letting it slide, I told him I was uncomfortable taking guys to meetings if they weren't going to be in the meeting.
"You called us out, and I'm glad you did," Phil told me. "That told me that you genuinely gave a (darn)."
(Phil did not say "darn.")
Phil has been in and out of jail and prison since, and we've stayed in touch. I love his sense of humor, his sincerity, his intelligence and his love for me.
We've been roommates for the last few months since he got out of prison this last time. He's a great roommate, helping keep the house clean and folding clothes I've left in the dryer. He's great to share frozen pizza, chicken nuggets and fries with. And he's great at simplifying challenges when I want to make them complicated.
I was struggling with whether to go to an acquaintance's mom's funeral a few weeks ago. He looked at me and said, "We show up. That's what we do."
So I did. It turned out to be the right move, for both my acquaintance and for my spirit.
I just hope we'll continue to get together when he gets his own place. I need his advice, perspective and friendship — and to share mediocre frozen pizza.
Reach Brad Schmitt at brad@tennessean.com.
This article originally appeared on Nashville Tennessean: I got a new roommate when my recovery buddy got out of prison
