Rebound: Life After Divorce & Addiction

by Matthew Andrews

I had made some foolish investments in everything from bug-zapping machines to snow boards as a way to pass the time, but a college friend had recently introduced me to an internet firm started by a couple of software wizards. It appeared to have real promise. When I met the founder and front man, we chatted casually about technology I knew nothing about. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and he wore a satin shirt, unbuttoned a bit too low.

Hat in hand, I approached my soon-to-be ex-wife and asked permission to invest. She agreed to a modest amount, less than I asked for, so long as the dollars came out of my side of the ledger in the final divorce settlement. The company was a breath away from certain death. Payroll had been repeatedly delayed. Employees had grown weary of broken promises. But my gut told me this might be a good gamble. Besides I felt I had so little to lose it didn’t really matter if it worked out. My life couldn’t get worse.

I sat in my bay window explaining the deal to my largest potential investor over the phone. My pitch was the anti-pitch. I didn’t consciously understand what I was doing or why, yet here I was talking to an investor who wanted to do my deal. Once he agreed, I quickly went about nailing down commitments from the rest of my group.

My new venture fit nicely into the new persona I was cultivating: “Scooter Boy,” as my friends affectionately called it. I threw away the blue suits and white starched shirts, and bought Italian slacks and the wildest colored shirts I could find. I replaced my brief case with a purse. I bought Gucci loafers to replace my old black lace-ups. I started wearing thick, black-rimmed Clark Kent glasses. I got up in the morning, had my coffee and meditated as the sun rose over the city. Then I got dressed in my new trendy clothes and carried my newly purchased scooter to the street. I set off for morning Alcoholics Anonymous meetings with abandon, flying down Newbury Street, my man bag flapping on the handlebars. I am sure I looked crazy—a grown man on a child’s toy—but I didn’t care. The ride was a key element of my new life.

I took the kids to mommy classes. I sat in a circle with moms and their kids. We sang, wrestled and goofed around. I was comfortable in this setting because I actually got to do something with my kids. As we rolled around on the floor, the moms at first didn’t know what to make of me; they ultimately accepted me when they saw how passionately I played with my kids and theirs.