I met Jake soon after he’d spent the night in jail. In a drug-induced blackout at some point after a rap performance at a Cambridge bar (he was the front man in modestly successful band), he’d gotten into his car and been unable to get it out of a street parking spot. He bashed the cars on either side of him repeatedly in frustration until the owner of the BMW in front of him came out of his house, pulled Jake from the car, and beat him up. Hearing the disturbance the neighbors called the cops. Jake was arrested. The BMW owner was not.
When we met, Jake made clear that he really wanted help to clean up his act. He was still dedicated to his dream of becoming a rap star, but during our long conversations over coffee he seemed to understand that something fundamental in his life had to change.
A couple months after Jake and I met, he called in great duress. One of his band mates had gotten a stripper from the Foxy Lady pregnant and decided to marry her. A third band member had served as best man.
Jake was calling from the reception where the best man had apparently disrespected the bride in front of the groom, causing a brawl to break out. The cops had been called by the owner of the facility.
“What do I do?” he pleaded with me on the phone.
“Get the f*ck out of there!” I told him.
And he did. Permanently.
A decade later Jake is happily married with two kids and a steady career as a software programmer.