Blow hot and cold

The last time I saw Charlie it was spread thinly in parallel vertical lines.

The mirror beneath reflected my greedy face trisected by two white stripes.

A negative version of my remand mug shot, behind bars. Yeah, we were busted.

That was three years ago.

I'd been clean since then. No choice. Lost my job. On probation. Community service.

Thought I'd hate it. I didn't. I cleaned and served food in a hostel for the homeless.

My selfish arrogance shrivelled. The people I was helping had nothing but hope.

And hope was a recent acquisition. Thanks to St. Joseph's. Thanks, in very small part, to me.

When my enforced service expired, I chose to stay on. Initially as a volunteer.

But my business experience, my qualifications, opened my eyes to the potential within St. Joseph's.

I used my contacts, my entrepreneurialism, to transform the hostel into a money-making enterprise.

St. Joseph's expanded. From six beds to eighteen. We employed more staff. The word spread.

We attracted local sponsorship, and advertising. After a while, not just local.

Our kitchen became our heartbeat. Julio, our first chef, like me a reformed addict, set the bar high.

This was not just sustenance food for our resident clientele. This was gourmet cuisine.

Julio employed other talented chefs. We were able to open the kitchen to visitors.

St. Joseph's became the in place to eat. Not just a gastronomic treat, but a chic, niche experience.

And our diners knew they were helping a deserving cause. They ate well and felt good about themselves.

The foodies reviewed us. Our star was in the ascendancy.

Everything we earned was ploughed back into increasing our bed capacity and improving facilities.

I had never been happier. And, somehow, I found God. That was unexpected, but oh so welcome.

No! He found me. He came to me in visions and dreams. I tried to resist, mustering my skepticism. Blessedly, I failed.

My drive to assist the homeless was boosted. I was not just doing good, I was doing His work.

But the more I relished success, the more I felt a returning itch I thought I would never scratch again.

The craving for sensation, arousal, disinhibition. The freedom to be, not think, or consider, or weigh.

That's when I met Charlie again.

Well, not Charlie, but Alonso. He had been my trusted dealer. And now he stood in our doorway.

Bedraggled. Haunted. Down on his luck. Seeking refuge, protection, succour.

Our eyes met. He recognised me.

"Carlito. Buenos dias. Fate has reunited us. I can get as much as you want. We can both start again."

I clasped both of his cheeks in my warm hands, and bade him kneel.

Hesitantly, uncertainly, he complied.

"Friend, you are welcome to join me here in my mission. You will share everything that I have, as a brother. All I ask is your selfless contribution, and your devotion to our Creator."

For a moment, hiatus. Then Alonso wept, perhaps achieving the release he had been seeking.

"Por cierto, hermano. Gracias. Tu tienes mi vida en las manos."

And in that moment we both found salvation.