“Technically, no. Erik and I almost got ourselves killed in our first unofficial rescue, but it was a risk we were willing to take for ourselves. Neither of us is willing to take that risk with another human life.”
“Would it make a difference to know that we just really, really want to have a chance to punch a bad guy in the face?” Levy asks.
Charlie chuckles, fiddling with his leather wristbands. “It shouldn’t, but it kind of does.” He pauses, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. “Real talk? There are times when, logistically, we could use more hands. Whenever we do a mass rescue and reunification, we rent out a hotel and use the conference rooms to coordinate services.
“We try to work with local doctors and mental health professionals, people who can continue to help them after we’ve left. Still, emergency trauma intervention wouldn’t go awry in many of the cases we’re seeing. I don’t have any objections to bringing you in after the fact when it makes sense to do so.”
“That sounds good too,” Levy says. “But genuinely, consider us. We’re not trying to be part of that takedown crew you’ve talked about. But we don’t mind a little danger if we can help people.”
“What’s your motivation here? What’s prompting this conversation?”
I speak up, “We’ve always tried to help disadvantaged populations. Always. It’s something our parents taught us.”
My parents did okay with their little convenience store in a rough neighborhood, and they were always there for neighbors who needed it and always included us when it was time to help.
“You want to honor their memories,” Charlie guesses.
“Yes. But we also want to be worth something.”
“An admirable sentiment, for sure, and I think your parents would be proud of what y’all are doing now. My main hesitation is that people who want to do good go rushing in, thinking they’ve got all the solutions. But really, they lack a complete understanding of the situation.”
I nod, remembering how simplistic my ideas had once been regarding the issues my own patients face.
Charlie continues, “Erik and I learned the hard way to go in with questions, not solutions. The exact moment we think we’ve got the situation understood is usually the exact moment where we are the most wrong. And most in danger. Your savior complex has no place in an operation like this.”
Levy’s jaw ticks. “Right. Like you two don’t have savior complexes.”
The savior complex line hits home because our mother used to tease him with that phrase whenever he brought home a stray cat or got in trouble for standing up for the smaller kids on the playground.
Despite knowing how awful humanity can be, I sleep well at night, knowing I’m part of the solution. Levy can’tnotthink about the suffering people experience. His clinical training helps him to focus on what he can do, and that, paired with his deep empathy, makes him an amazing therapist. But it comes at a cost.
He works with the horses because they help him stay grounded and prevent him from spinning off into despair about the human condition. I’m one of the few who knows he needs the horses as much as his patients do.
“Oh, for sure. That’s at least how we started. But when you’re put in your place by the people who’ve actually lived the experience? Well, that’s a lesson you don’t forget.”
It’s a good point he’s making, and one that new therapists sometimes struggle with—letting the patient come to you with the solution and empowering them to follow through.
“See how we work on this search and rescue in East Texas. I think that’ll give you the information you need.”
More drumming on the desk. “Okay. I’ll talk to Erik, but let’s do it.”
5
NACHO
Justin and Charlie are back, but now they’re ignoring us. Great. Ant and I have another day of hard work, but we’re quiet, like we’re trying to wrangle how we feel about things.
I’m a little relieved to drop him off, if only because our individual anger seems to be multiplying in each other’s presence. Instead of going home, though, I turn out of Wild Heart and head back toward town.
The one thing I miss about drinking is the social aspect. Drinking gives you a fun, low-commitment way to be around other people, and I’ve found it difficult to replicate in a nontherapeutic or recovery-related environment. Sure, those environments are great, but sometimes you want to saddle up to a bar and have a beer.
Thankfully, Sandy, the bartender at the Broken Oak, has my back. She’s sassy, but she respects my sobriety. I walk in and head in her direction. Sandy greets me with my usual: an ice-cold Topo Chico with a lime shoved down the neck.
“Thanks, Sandy,” I say, hopping onto the barstool.
“Why so glum, chum?”
“I don’t know if I even want to get into it. It’s been a fuckingday, and I don’t want to go home to my fashionable tin can and stare at the four walls, y’know?”
