Sue Clark
"Painkillers are fine if used properly. The problem is, we addicts
take four every one hour, rather than one every four hours!" This is
Dave Riggle's take on Rush Limbaugh's pill problem. Riggle, 56, a man
of inner peace and earthy humor, considers himself a "student of the
disease of addiction," which can be anything from drugs to sex to
booze.
A former addict and general bad boy, Dave's been in recovery 23
years and runs a quiet sober living house in Costa Mesa. Here, men
are putting their lives back together with his help. If you rent a
room at Dave's place, he'll direct you to recovery meetings, perform
court-appointed random drug tests, and offer hours of telephone
advice to your family.
Equally important, Dave's around if you need to talk. The path of
early sobriety is often confusing, and it helps to sort it out with
someone who's been there. "I consider myself a professional
listener," he says. "Listening is a lost art."
Tall, silver-haired and laid back, Dave often has his nights
interrupted by frantic loved ones of drunks and addicts calling
across the time zones. "I often feel like a doctor on call," he
admits. "I catch up on my sleep by napping. It's not a big deal to
me; I've done it for years."
When you enter Dave's backyard, you see signs of an artist in
residence. A hot tub sits bubbling, surrounded by sculptures and
hanging plants. There's a telescope in one corner, and a small
spotted terrier patrols the perimeter. Inside, the kitchen walls are
painted in a bold blue, while the bathroom is purple. Dave studied
art on the East Coast, and can draw anything he sees. Sometimes an
easel holds a portrait in progress, and there is South American art
on the walls. The overall effect is soothing, yet interesting, not
unlike Dave himself.
On one wall, an old photo from the seventies shows Dave with
shoulder-length unkempt hair and the puffy face and eyes of the
classic alcoholic. Once shy high school football player, Dave's life
changed when he was offered a bottle of beer at a school dance. He
got an immediate rush, introversion evaporated, and soon he was out
dancing with girls who had never before noticed him. That beer was
the beginning of decades of drug and alcohol abuse.
"There's a house at the end of the block where you don't want to
go," says Dave, remembering. "That house is bad news, and that's the
house I lived in at the end of my drinking and using."
In the local recovery community, Dave Riggle's name is revered.
