One of my “Facebook friends” updated her status this morning to “Instant Coffee”. I laughed, but not out loud. I read through the handful of comments, mildly amused by most and impressed by one. I wasn’t prepared for where my brain would go though. It does that, wonders off to memories. And then I attempt to write the story in my head.

Dr. Carrie tells me I need to write about happy things, funny things, more joyful experiences. I think she is on to something. I think, moving forward, I am able to manifest more and more joy in my life. I have been on that path for years and continue to make progress. But, the material I have to write about now tends to be on the tragic side. The stuff that bubbles to the surface each and every day is not all fun and games. I have witnessed and lived, a lot.

The thing is, I can make it funny. I can tell a tragically sad story in a way that my friends can laugh. I wonder if I can start to learn how to translate that story telling ability into the written form. I wonder if half of my successful “in person” story telling isn’t directly related to my facial expressions and hand gestures, my body language.

How can I communicate that?

I worry about discounting the tragedy with the humor. In person, I don’t worry. My friends know me. They know that I have already survived a story if I am sitting there telling them about it.

I am sitting here listening to Bitch’s newest album, Blasted. It is my latest addiction in the music world. I have played it nearly non-stop since her concert over a month ago. It is raining and chilly outside. I would say cold, but, come on now – it is above zero. I have vowed not to complain unless it is below zero. I am drinking coffee out of a Folgers cup. No, I am not kidding. “The best part of wakin’ up…” Normally I drink out of a cup from Hazelton, which makes me laugh. But, today, I picked the Folgers one.

Get to the story Wollner… I had been working as a Case Manager at Minnesota AIDS Project for less than a year. It was in the fall of 1998. I went on a home visit early in the morning. My client’s name was Randy. I was not looking forward to the visit. He was particularly challenging to work with. He was angry, all of the time. For years, his doctors, nurses, social workers, previous case managers, family and friends had been trying to intervene on his alcoholism. He was instantly furious and defensive if anyone dared mention his drinking. He did not have a problem.

My only expectation was to get to know him better, perhaps develop some more trust. I had only spoken to him over the phone thus far.

I got to his apartment at nine in the morning.

It was rigged. He showed me the booby traps he had set up around the perimeter of his apartment. I saw the doll hanging on the wall, the noose around its neck. He had been a rocket scientist, for real. My creep factor rose. I knew I needed to stay on his good side.

He offered me coffee. I had come prepared. I had my own water bottle with me. Thank God. He proceeded to get out a ‘ginormous’ coffee mug. Seriously. It was three times the size of a ‘normal, old school coffee cup’. He reached for what I soon recognized was a large bottle of vodka. He poured and poured, until the cup was dangerously full. Next, he scooped instant coffee into his vodka. He put the cup into the microwave for however many minutes it took to come out steaming hot. He situated himself at the kitchen table next to me.

He was in no way remotely capable of even considering that this sort of behavior might appear odd, at best, to someone else.

No clue.

It was the most precise example of how someone’s alcoholism can present itself I had witnessed in action.

Nine in the morning and more vodka than I would drink if I were seriously partying all night long.

Do you want some coffee? Are you serious?

No clue. He had no clue how alcohol was destroying his life. He would die of alcoholism, not AIDS. I mean, really. I suppose it could be argued that his AIDS diagnosis and symptoms and medications with such lovely side affects could have been, on some level, an excuse to continue to destroy his life with drinking. I suppose. But, really, which came first? I imagine his alcoholism had something to do with his HIV infection in the first place. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that we all get dealt shit we have to deal with. And we all have to figure out how to take care of ourselves one way or another. He was angry and abusive. He refused any help. He drank from morning until night.

I wish I could say that I somehow broke through with this one. I wish I could say that he eventually decreased or even stopped his drinking, got some good counseling, repaired his family relationships, made new friends, and had significant improvement in his health. Instead, he got more and more angry at the system and everyone involved. He eventually left threatening voicemail messages in the middle of the night, proclaiming he planned to blow up the building. He disappeared soon after that. I assume he has died by now. I sometimes think about him, like today, reading that status update, and fantasize that he moved away and got his shit together. He was sure smart. Unfortunately, he was also truly lost.

Seriously though, can you see it? Early in the morning? A skinny white man with dark hair, his frail, shaking hands lifting up a mug bigger than his face and sipping on his “instant coffee”. I still wonder, had I said yes to his offer, if he would have just made me a vodka instant coffee drink automatically too, or if he would have made mine with water.

Godspeed Randy.