Breaking the Habit
An unexpected rehabilitation journey
I was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard the other day, and as I drove past some seemingly omnipresent golden arches on the side of the road, I saw a billboard. I had to slow down and read the sign twice to make sure I hadn’t read it wrong. It read: “Addicted? Arrested? Rehab is your way out.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed. I didn’t think those things were equivalent. Is rehab a way out of addiction or just a way out of trouble? I thought of some celebrities who had gotten into hot water recently and had to go to facilities for treatment.
Were their criminal consequences going to be dismissed because they’d gone to rehab? Should they be? How many times do we get to make the same mistake? Is going to rehab a way to shirk responsibility, or a way to face it?
I didn’t have an answer. I guess it depends on how dedicated they are to such a thing.
But I knew this wasn’t about them. This wasn’t about the billboard, or those ethical questions: It was about him. It brought everything flooding into my mind, the memories coming back so vividly I jumped, like a jack-in-the-box that I knew was coming, yet still caught me by surprise.
And before I’d even turned down 26th street, I’d been transported back in time.
It’s been 15 years since I worked in the facility, and they say that you never forget your first patient. I know that for me, well, I can’t for the life of me remember who the hell that was. I truly can’t remember the first handful, and I mean that both as a numerical count and as a descriptor.
But I’ll never forget my eighth patient. After all, he's left as indelible a mark on me as he has on the world at large. Just because it was so long ago doesn’t mean he’s faded in my memory, even though he may have from general culture. But he’s still unforgettable.
Four weeks in, and I’d had my share of stories from the facility already. I’d had attempted escapees, hidden breakdowns with smuggled contraband, and even one handsy patient who thought that the fourth step of dealing with addiction was the middle of the word, presumably mine.
On the first day of my second month, he walked in, and I knew my life would never be the same. I remember it like it was yesterday, although that’s partially because I dreamt of this moment last night, as I do every night.
He walked in with his white suit, thick black stripes horizontally cutting across as though trying to censor parts of him from the world. Even now, I wonder if I’m wrong, and the suit was actually black, his stripes white, like a zebra, which is a real thing. Were those white bars across his clothes just lights of the heavens shining across, trying to illuminate who he could be?
His eyes shone from behind a black mask, begging us all to look behind it and see him, no, look beyond it and see him. We had a no-mask policy as we needed to see the faces of those we were to help, but even I knew at first glimpse that this was a part of him. His dark, wide-brimmed hat sagged slightly, as though tired of the life it had lived alongside its owner.
His red-and-white sneakers squeaked on the floor, which made me giggle. After all, they weren’t very effective as sneak-ers then. His red gloves matched his shoes, his ginger hair a lighter orange, but his tie crimson as well, a stark contrast from the black-and-white full-body suit he wore. It was the tie that gave him away, for it wasn’t blank.
“You must be the Hamburglar,” I said, approaching to shake his hand, trying to keep my eyes from flitting back to the big cartoon burgers on his tie. He flinched, like a dog that had been kicked by its owner before. I pulled my hand away, but he put his out tentatively just as I drew it back to my chest. I brought mine back out. Our hands met. I looked into his eyes, beyond the black mask secured across them, giving him an air of mystery and fierceness as though he were Zorro and not a man who had gained infamy for burger grabbing.
I realized he must have come straight in after his most recent crime, as when our handshake parted, I caught a glimpse of the streaks of mustard and ketchup he had left on my hand. The Hamburglar didn’t seem to notice, or at least gave no indication that he did.
It was then that the other orderlies arrived and took him for admission. He waved at me as they pulled him away, his shoes squeaking with each step. How he had ever stolen anything while sounding like a one-man dog toy, I’ll never know.
What followed was three months of hard work together in group settings, in private therapy sessions, and in our many healing facilities.
I saw him on the basketball court, playing a true All-American.
I saw him reading about alternative meats and diets.
On a trip we all took to the local botanical garden, I saw him pick up a beautiful green clover. He leaned in close and took a deep breath in, not quite smelling the roses, but something adjacent. His flared nostrils brought a gust of air into his lungs, the breeze making the Shamrock shake.
In our sessions, we talked about his childhood. It was full of happy meals, sure, but there was always something bad around the corner. The Hamburglar told me about a man named Big Mac who got him involved in some bad things. He didn’t tell me why Mac was called Big. The Hamburglar also had an unhealthy on-and-off relationship with a hip-hop artist who went by the alias MC Rib.
The most harrowing thing to hear was how much he used to do for only a dollar.
I went to sleep every night asking myself if The Hamburglar was born this way, made to order. Was it a case of nature or nurture that made him so stuck on stealing these burgers? Was he more of a klepto- or carnemaniac?
My days were occupied with this fascinating patient, who was actively trying to get better each day. Each day that he opened up to me, I felt his supersized problems growing smaller. It was the greatest joy of my professional career.
Every night, I got home and got emotional myself, just thinking about my work. I felt fulfilled in a way I’d never felt before. I’d lie in bed and think, I’m helping someone. I’m making a difference. Ba-duh-ba-ba-bah, I’m lovin’ it.
Everything felt like it was going well. He was breaking the Habit.
Sometimes you get people who come in and need treatment for years, but I thought he was going to be one of those patients who is just in-n-out.
But I was wrong. The Hamburglar was, as most are, somewhere in between.
I thought I was going to lose him more than once. You always have those moments of doubt. It’s part of the job. I remember when he went through withdrawal, which was hard. He dealt with nausea, headaches, sleeplessness, even meat sweats.
The lowest moment was when I caught him in the cafeteria in the middle of the night on one of my night shifts. He cried in my arms, his mask getting heavier with tears. He told me he’d had some trouble with a group of guys in the facility. Five guys. I asked him who they were, but he was no snitch, he said.
He broke down. I went to get him some water, but he asked me to put soda in the cup instead. As I brought the Hi-C over, I saw him stripped to the core of his soul. I didn’t know if he could make it much longer. I could smell the pickles on his breath, but I never told.
I just held him and asked that he keep going: if not for himself, then for me.
He was the only patient I ever asked to do that.
And he did do it for me, for a little. Only until he started to do it for himself again.
I knew our time together was coming to an end soon when I spotted him walking around the garden in a new tie, bright blue, and with hot dogs on it. He’d also shed his uniform of white-and-black horizontal stripes to white-and-black pinstripes, so he looked much slimmer. I almost didn’t recognize him.
In our last session, he finally fully took off his mask, and I saw who he truly was. It wasn’t someone I recognized, in the best of ways. This was not who I met when he first walked in. In my office, we talked about his plan for when he left the next day.
He was going to look for a job, but it was going to be tough - there aren’t many places that hire ex-convicts and that aren’t fast food places. I warned him that going back to that life for him would be like dropping a Miami addict into a Pitbull concert.
The Hamburglar was going to stay away from his old friends. They were bad influences. It was clear to me. One of them was a real clown, and the other was named Grimace, for goodness sake.
The Hamburglar was going to make amends. It was going to take a long time. I had seen the list of who had to apologize to, and with 99 billion served, a personalized apology for everyone who had ever come by and been told the ice cream machine was broken, just because the Hamburglar didn’t want to make a cone, that was a lifetime of amends to be made. But he was going to do it. I told him I was proud of him. He thanked me for everything I’d done. We both cried a little.
I would check in with him in a couple of weeks, although we’d find him a proper sponsor. I knew a girl named Wendy who would be right to help him through.
The billboard that started this journey down memory lane is so far from where I am now in my mind. So far back, all the way back to where I started. I don’t have any more of an answer than when I began writing this, but I’m not sure I tried to find one.
Maybe I’ll look for it next time, but for now, I’m deep in the rabbit hole, searching for the last fry at the bottom of the bag. I never found out if rehab was the Hamburglar’s way out of addiction or out of being arrested. I don’t think I even care why he came to treatment. Not when I can remember what treatment did for him. And what it did for me.
Maybe the reason why he came to rehab doesn’t matter. Maybe only the outcome does.
On the way out of the facility, I gave a wave and a holler. “Stay gold, Hamburglar!”
He turned to me, a slight smile on his face. A subtly proud smile. He walked back over to me with purpose and looked me dead in the eyes, the outsides of his own still not yet clear of the mask tan lines he’d been accruing for decades.
“I don’t want to be called that anymore. That’s not who I want to be,” he confided. I smiled at him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He waved off my apology. “Then what should I call you?” I continued.
“Just my real name, if you would.” I nodded and smiled. He looked away and brought his gaze back to look at me, tears filling his eyes, knowing he was taking a big step.
“Call me Carl.” He stuck out his hand, confident this time. I shook it. “Carl Jr.”