Frank McCarthy is a character from my past. I ran an alcoholism recovery home in East Boston a lifetime ago. Frank was one of my favorite residents. He was not a success and he was not a failure. Figure that one out. This story is about him and Phil Lougee. Phil was the house manager. He took care of the nuts and bolts. I was the clinical director. Somebody else was the executive director. Half-way houses are a breed unto themselves. A lot goes on inside them. There are heroes and villains and stories build upon each other day upon day. This is one of my most memorable events.
CASING THE JOINT
I sat across from Mac in the dining room. He was slouched forward, leaning on his elbows and he looked at me with drooping blue eyes the color of an Irish dawn. The light was returning to his ancient countenance. His face, the color of brownstone, glowed and he nodded ever so slightly to indicate that he was back. Mac had just returned from a hypoglycemic episode. Phil had known what to do. Phil was the house manager and also one of the half dozen counselors on staff. He’d heard the commotion in the dining room and took charge right away.
“Give him some of that sugar there”, he’d ordered. “Just take that goddam spoon and give him some.” The cook had come from the kitchen and helped Mac take a spoon full of sugar. “Just sit still, Mac”, Phil ordered. Phil was an old timer and was handy to have around in a pinch like this. He told the cook to fix Mac a sandwich and Mac ate it right away.
The excitement was normalizing to a bustle. The cook and his helper were clearing the last of the crumbs from the other tables. The evening meal was over and the other residents had all disappeared into the corners of the old house. Phil was pulling on his coat getting ready for the block-and-a- half walk to his house down the hill toward Meridian Street.
“How are you now, Mac?” Phil had his head stuck through the door of the dining room. Mac turned his head toward Phil and gave him a slight nod. “Okay. Thanks, Phil”. Phil cracked a wry smile and a wink at Mac then disappeared down the hallway toward the back door. “See you gents tomorrow”, he called as he stepped out into the gloom.
I liked Mac. He was one of the longer-term residents at the house. He had a past like every other man who lived here. Hard times, bad luck, poor decisions, failed circumstances, all kinds of situations which conspired to keep guys like Mac living on the street, under bridges, and in constant fear, suspicion, and danger. I’d been in the office when Mac returned from his work day out in the city. Like most of the men in the house he took a job painting or doing drywall. Most jobs available were construction or repairs. The worst jobs were the day-work kind. These types of hiring are common for down-and-outers, guys who are looking to get back on their feet. Unfortunately, the work is both good and bad. The money helps but the future is shaky and generally leads to a break-out, another binge and another near-death event or detox center; if they are lucky. The way out of this life style is never clear. It is nigh impossible to recognize a path to recovery from life on the street.
Mac was talking now. He described how he had neglected to eat and put off taking a break at work and didn’t have anything to ingest to keep his blood sugar up. His subway ride back to East Boston was uneventful but at Maverick Square Station he’d begun to feel tired. By the time he’d walked up Meridian Street he could feel the weight of the world bearing down and when he found the house finally, he stopped remembering. When he got in the house his slurred speech made the other residents think he’d broken out and had a few drinks.
I got up from the table to put a pan of water on the stove to make the two of us some tea. By now Mac was animated, as animated as one such as himself could be. He was back to normal I’d say. I returned to the table with two cups of hot water and a tea bag I found in the kitchen. We shared. I asked Mac about his life before this house and he obliged by mentioning that he’d done some B&E work. That surprised me. Most of our residents were straight alcoholics with jail sentences associated with clumsy driving, neglectful lawlessness, fighting, spousal abuse, and vagrancy. Breaking and entering was real hoodlum stuff, although it was less violent in a physical sense than other trades. Mac told me that he stole things from homes and sold the objects for living expenses. He’d been caught a few times and the way his luck was going he was serving a life sentence on the installment plan. Drinking had become an issue which led to him ending up here at this house.
He was good at his job while doing the B&E stuff. His problem was getting caught. Checking the layout of a house is simple, as he put it, but the police generally knew who the good B&E guys were in the city and Mac was one of the usual suspects. He had to give it up if he was going to stay around here. During our conversation Mac told me that he could walk into any place and within three or four seconds he knew all the window styles, the locks on the doors, where the furniture was in the rooms, whether there were items of value or not. His ability to case the joint, in the parlance of B&E, was extremely fine. Mac always cased the joint in preparation of thefts. Not only did he case joints for thievery, he continued to do it all the time. He could not, not do it. Wherever Mac was, he was casing the joint.
Mac would enter a bank and scan the area for all the ways to do his work. He would enter someone’s home to do a paint job or repair a wall and he would scan the doors, windows, check for alarms within a few seconds. He even told me in detail about the house we were sitting in. This recovery home was so wide open he said. It was a good thing we had a night manager on duty we agreed. Of course, we also agreed there was nothing of value or worth breaking into the house for.
Mac was back to normal now and I needed to get out of there anyway so we parted company. I grabbed my coat and walked down Meridian Street to Maverick Square to catch the subway home.
G. M. Goodwin
11 December 2015
Playing Fair and Being Kind 