The Bench

By Joel Elston

The Bench chronicles the life of a compulsive gambler that takes his addiction to depths most cannot imagine, only to discover that the horrors of addiction would be necessary for the amazing transformation that happened in his recovery. Author Joel Elston recounts his journey through addiction, depression, and eventual recovery and how an old bench on a beach plays a pivotal role over a twenty year span. This brutally honest account of his life is a roller coaster of emotion with an unforeseen twist that even the Author didnt see coming, will leave you speechless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504342407

Joel Elston

Author Joel Elston recounts his journey through addiction, depression, and eventual recovery and how an old bench on a beach plays a pivotal role over a twenty year span. This brutally honest account of his life is a roller coaster of emotion with an unforeseen twist that even the Author didn’t see coming, will leave you speechless.

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Copyright © 2015 Joel Elston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The following story is true. The events happened as I describe; however, several names have been changed, and the timeline may be distorted. It is certainly not a complete portrait of every day of my life, just information I feel is relevant to help one understand the amazing chain of events that took place in my journey. Others may have a different interpretation of events. I do not mention any specific relationships unless they have a direct impact on the story, and when I do, the names have been changed. I hope that someone who feels hopeless can see hope in my journey.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4239-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4241-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4240-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015916328

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/15/2015

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Tragic Update

Epilogue

Joel Elston: Life, Health, and Recovery Coaching

One

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The smell coming from the Dumpster was vile, a putrid combination of rotting food, urine, and vomit. The stench was making me gag, but it was not enough to overcome my extreme hunger. I felt as if I would die if I didn’t eat something soon; I was desperate. As I slid the door to the Dumpster open, I was hit with a wave of heat and an even more intense version of the foul odor. While I sifted through the garbage looking for food, I could hear the buzzing of what sounded like a million flies. Several wrapped cheeseburgers were one layer down but had maggots on the wrapping. Finally, I found a couple of burgers where the maggots had not yet penetrated the wrapper. Tearing off the wrappers, I started to eat. The cheese was crispy and the bun had hardened, but at least I was eating something. As I forced down each bite, I couldn’t help but think how I had ended up eating out of a Dumpster behind McDonald’s on the Las Vegas strip. I was homeless with no resources. I clearly remember looking toward the sky and saying out loud, If there is a God, I hate you. This is pointless suffering.

Having eaten for the first time in three days, I realized I hadn’t showered or slept either. I was totally exhausted and smelled almost as bad as the Dumpster. My expensive leather loafers weren’t designed to walk around for days in one hundred degree weather without even changing socks. I was now desperate for a place to shower and sleep, but I had no money and no credit cards. I had already sold my plane ticket back to Florida. I was stuck, in every sense of the word. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I sell my only way home? Did I honestly believe I was going to win enough money for that decision to make sense? Probably not. Regardless, there I was, hungry, lonely, helpless, and exhausted. The ironic thing was my Porsche was sitting in valet parking at Tampa International Airport, where I had left it ten days earlier.

Sleep—I needed some! When the sun began to set, I was wandering aimlessly in downtown Las Vegas looking for a place to sit down without being harassed or told to move along. I found an alley near Binion’s Horseshoe Casino being used as the garbage area. This Dumpster smelled similar to the one behind McDonalds, but with a stronger urine smell. I probably wasn’t the only lost soul to use it as a resting place. I plopped down on the ground and leaned against the Dumpster, quickly falling asleep despite the smell. My rest was short lived; a security guard woke me by kicking my feet and telling me to get my drunk ass up. I was too weak to argue or explain that I wasn’t drunk, that in fact I didn’t drink. Perhaps if I were drunk, the alcohol would make me pass out regardless of the misery I was experiencing. I wandered around for several hours, stopping at benches along the way to rest for short periods of time. I would stop in a casino to use the restroom and get some water before security would come tell me to either gamble or leave. After several hours of wandering, the fog in my brain was getting thicker, so I couldn’t think. I just didn’t know what to do. I decided to go back to the Dumpster by Binion’s; it seemed like my best shot for actually getting some sleep, and the security guard was probably gone. Maybe if I got some sleep, I could think more clearly and come up with a plan of action to get out of Las Vegas. I made my way back to the Dumpster and laid down, using my duffel bag as a pillow. It seemed like I was asleep for about an hour before I woke to bright lights and the loud roar of a garbage truck. The driver honked and motioned for me to get out of his way. At that point, I remember wishing I would just die.

As the sun came up, I was sitting on a park bench trying to figure what to do. I looked through my duffel bag, hoping to find anything of value to sell. I discovered a checkbook from The Hillsboro Bank in Plant City, Florida (my hometown) that had four checks left. The fact the account had been closed for months didn’t seem important. My mind immediately developed a plan, and I was hopeful for the first time in several days. I knew the bank in Florida closed at five, and there would be no way for anyone to verify the funds after hours. I knew I had to get cleaned up and look the part, so I went to the bathroom at McDonalds to wash my face and shave. I had some decent clothes, but they had gotten wrinkled in my bag, so I soaked a polo shirt and stretched it tight on a bench, where the intense Las Vegas sun dried it quickly. Now that I looked presentable, I went to the sports book at the Golden Nugget, picked up some discarded tickets, and pretended to be betting on horse racing. I knew if they thought I wasn’t gambling, they would kick me out. All I needed to do was wait until two o’clock Las Vegas time to implement the plan.

At that time, there were many check cashing places in Las Vegas. I randomly chose one, and at precisely 2:05 p.m., Las Vegas time, I entered. A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties greeted me from behind a waist-high counter similar to the kind in traditional banks. Behind the man was a desk with several half-empty cups of coffee and a picture of a lady and a young boy with Down syndrome. I walked up to the counter and began my con.

Good afternoon, how are you today? I asked.

He responded politely. I’m doing well. How can I help you?

I said, I missed my flight back home to Tampa and needed to get a hotel room for the night, but the hotels won’t take checks. I continued, I don’t have credit cards, I don’t believe in them, and I was hoping you would be able to cash a small personal check to cover me so I won’t have to sleep at the airport.

I didn’t feel he was buying my story, but he did ask, Did you lose your money gambling?

I quickly responded with, Heavens, no. I don’t gamble. I said it with a straight face. I am here for a job interview and was planning on being done with my interview in plenty of time to make my flight, but the interview went long.

He asked to see the check and my ID, and without hesitating, said, This bank is a small bank in Florida, and it’s past business hours there, there’s no way for me to verify that the funds are in the account.

I slapped my forehead with my palm, acting as if I just realized that fact. I forgot the time difference. I’m sorry to waste your time. A night at the airport never hurt anyone, I said in a joking tone. He then asked what type of work I did, and I quickly responded, I want to work with special needs kids as an occupational therapist. I’ve just finished the school portion of my training and am looking for a place to do my internship.

His eyes lit up as he walked over to get the picture of the young boy I had spotted earlier off his desk. This is my son, Jack. He has Down syndrome, he responded with pride.

I told him my brother had special needs as well, saying that was my reason for wanting to get into the field. In fact, I do not have a brother, nor am I an occupational therapist. I told him, I need to get going to take the bus to the airport.

He then said, Wait a minute, what amount do you need cashed?

I knew it had worked, and said, I was hoping to get $200.00; I have $543.00 in the account. It was a lie of course, but I was still selling the idea.

He smiled and said, I normally don’t cash this type of check, but I will for you. You’re pursuing such an honorable career.

I thanked him and left with my $190 ($200 minus the 5 percent cashing fee). I worked hard at keeping my composure so I wouldn’t seem too joyous, but I was very excited as I left.

There was a cheap hotel downtown that had rooms for fifteen dollars a night, and I didn’t hesitate! I was going to take a quick shower, get something to eat, and go to sleep. I would figure the rest out in the morning. I sat on the bed to take off the shoes I had been wearing for several days straight. I will spare you a description, but the smell was as I’d expected. I also expected the huge blister on the heel of my right foot that had grown through the sock. It was one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. The pain associated with the removal of the sock was as excruciating as it was disgusting. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to someone knocking on my door asking me if I needed maid service. I had literally passed out from exhaustion and slept twelve hours. I hadn’t eaten anything and I hadn’t taken a shower, I’d just passed out.

Two

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I am just a regular guy from Plant City, a small town in Florida just east of Tampa. I was born into a middle-class family. My father sold electrical supplies and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. My sister was born three years after me. My earliest memories recall a very normal beginning for our family. My mom was always providing for our needs, and my father worked during the week. My life seemed like every other kid I knew at the time.

The first thing I remember that didn’t seem to support the Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best image of our family was when my father told me we were selling one of our cars. The fact we were selling the car is not something I would remember all these years later, except for the conversation surrounding the sale that made me never forget. When I asked my father why we were selling, he told me the brakes in the car were bad. That seemed logical to my five-year-old brain; if the brakes are bad on your car, you should sell. The part that made me never forget this seemingly insignificant event was when my father told me not to mention to anyone who may come by to look at the car that the brakes were bad. The most effective way to make a five-year-old remember something is to tell them not to tell someone. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of things changing in my life forever.

Life in our small town was probably like most other small towns back then, where image was deemed far more important than reality. Family problems were kept in the family, and we never shared them with anyone. Ninety percent of everyone we knew were conservative, middle class, and Southern Baptist.

My father didn’t seem to be at home as much as he had before, and I noticed a change in my mother as well; she seemed sad or preoccupied. One weekend, my mom told me we were going to visit my dad in the hospital because he had been sick. I was very concerned. When we got to the hospital my father was happy to see me, but it looked like he was crying. He told me he was so sorry, but I really didn’t understand why. My father also gave me a leather wallet he had made while in the hospital. I tried to reconcile how making wallets was in any way connected to going to the hospital. It was a confusing time. Shortly after that, we moved to another house, and my father was around even less. My mom and maternal grandfather awkwardly tried to explain to me, as a six-year-old, that my father was addicted to gambling and would not be living with us anymore. As an adult, I now see the car was sold to pay gambling debts and the house probably needed to be sold before it was repossessed by the bank.

I remember moving around to several different homes as a child, though the exact order and locations are jumbled in my head. I went to a few different schools and remember being sad each time I had to leave one.

We eventually ended up moving in with my maternal grandparents. I was the first grandchild on my mother’s side, so I always received lots of attention. I adored my grandfather, and he adored me, so moving in with my grandparents probably seemed like a great idea to me then. I was not aware at the time, but my grandfather was a severe alcoholic. I later learned he had actually killed a man at a bar with a knife when he was drunk, but had been cleared of the charge since it was ruled self-defense. When he was drunk, he was one of the meanest people I have ever met, but when I was little, my mom always did a great job of shielding me from his drunken rages.

I am not exactly sure how long we lived with my grandparents, but the last night we were there remains very clear in my mind. I had walked in the kitchen and saw my grandfather push my grandmother very hard into the refrigerator. He was clearly very angry and extremely intoxicated. He told me to get out of the kitchen because I didn’t need to see what was about to happen. I ran to my room and tried to ignore him as he yelled and berated my grandmother. I remember my mom crying as she grabbed a suitcase and threw in some clothes. That evening I had a Cub Scout meeting, and though I don’t remember how we got there, I do remember after the meeting walking down the street with my mom. She was carrying the suitcase in one hand and holding my sister’s hand with the other. This image of my mother, sister, and I walking down the street with a change of clothes and nowhere to go is imprinted deeply in my memory, along with feelings of helplessness, fear, and being insignificant. I cannot imagine how my mother felt; my fear was probably caused by sensing her fear. She had a friend pick us up and we stayed with her friends that night. It is a memory that is still fresh and brings me anxiety even forty-five years later. I also remember being concerned about what other people thought of us as we walked down that street. That is my first memory of ever having that concern.

It became very clear to me that my life was not like other kids. My father was not living with us, but would make an occasional appearance, and I was always happy to see him. One of those appearances occurred on a Saturday before a scheduled father-son softball game on Tuesday. I asked him if he would be able to come and play, and he told me he would. I was so excited, I told all the kids that my father would be at the game, though they didn’t seem that impressed with the news. All I could talk about was how great this game was going to be. Tuesday during school, time seemed to stand still. I could not wait for the opportunity to show off my father. I was the only one in my pack whose father wasn’t involved. In fact, a few of the boys had asked me if I even had a father. That night, I planned to have him hit many home runs and let the other boys see he did exist and was a great athlete as well. My mom brought me to the game and I jumped out of the car looking for my father, but he hadn’t arrived yet. The game began, and he was still not there. At that moment, I realized him not showing up was a possibility. I remember feeling so small as I clenched the chain link fence around the dugout, not watching the game, but looking toward the parking lot for any sign of him. One of the other dads tried to get me to play, saying my father must have gotten tied up and couldn’t make it. I remember starting to cry and running to my mom. I cried all the way home and fell asleep crying. That event still has strong emotions attached to it, as illogical as that seems to me.

Mom struggled with money, mainly due to being thrust into the workforce in the late 1960s with no formal education or work experience. She worked exceptionally hard and did her best to provide. She was able to purchase a mobile home with very little help from anyone. I never actually realized we were poor