Thrift Shop Recycles Lives Lost to Addiction : Drugs: On Motor Avenue near Venice Boulevard, the owner of the Lemonade Thrift Shop combines rehabilitation with employment.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if the war on drugs is ever going to be won, it will be less because of the efforts of presidents, drug czars, generals and police officers than because of the work of people like Joe Zychik.

Zychik has no troops at his disposal, no guns, no helicopters or high-tech surveillance equipment. His resources are more limited: back issues of National Geographic, old clothes, used furniture, a yellow cockateel, stuffed bears, leather bags and a $3,000 monthly budget.

His battlefield is a small curiosity shop on Motor Avenue near Venice Boulevard, where he works with nine refugees from the street, all of them recovering or attempting to recover from addiction to drugs or alcohol, or both.

The place is called Lemonade Thrift Shop, and it is the brainchild of Zychik, a tall, wiry 44-year-old who for 14 years has fashioned an unusual free-lance career in drug counseling and rehabilitation. He works for no government or government-funded agency, and he is not aligned with any religious group or private charity.

“I have no licenses, no degrees, no formal training,” he said, but he has nonetheless managed to establish a busy practice as a personal counselor working out of an office in Culver City, dealing mainly with clients who have addictions or relationship problems.

Lemonade, his latest project, opened in August. The name, he said, was suggested by a yellowing poster that now hangs in the shop bearing the slogan: “When life gives you lemons, why not make lemonade?”

Essentially, Zychik offers Lemonade clients a job, some no-nonsense counseling and a roof over their heads--most of them live in an apartment he has rented nearby.

“It’s an unstructured environment that allows a person to choose his own niche and get off the streets,” he said.

In return, the clients help manage the shop and pay Zychik an agreed-upon share of their Social Security or general relief checks. These amounts are meager, however, and the shop leads a precarious day-to-day existence.

With items in the shop priced very low--a copy of Harper’s History of Human Civilization goes for 50 cents, an ornate lampshade for a dollar--daily sales rarely exceed $150. So, it is always a scramble to cover the monthly rent of $1,400 and other expenses.

But the constant struggle to keep the place afloat seems to have an energizing effect on Zychik. He scouts weekend garage sales for goods to sell at the shop, schedules pickups, wrestles the furniture into his aging pickup truck, manages the inventory and oversees the sales.

At other times, he is talking to parole officers and directors of shelters for the homeless, providing counseling to the Lemonade clients, or trying to make time for his regular counseling clients at his office a few blocks away.

Zychik’s rehabilitation methods are as unorthodox as the shop itself. He believes that drug and alcohol abuse are “purely psychological problems rather than clinical ones.” His counseling steers away from the established medical procedures for the treatment of substance abuse. “I just talk to them and make them feel that things can be much better for them,” Zychik said.

But he acknowledges that some clients need a more regulated and intensive regime than he can provide at Lemonade.

“There’s a lot of washout in the first 30 days. There is a sense of failure when that happens. I think later that I could have salvaged some of them if I had more time and money,” he said.

But for some people, Zychik’s low-budget, low-key rehabilitation center is all they need to get their lives under control.

Joe Matthews, 30, is one of two men who has been with the shop since it opened. Released from prison in January after serving two years for armed robbery, he quickly became addicted to drugs. For a while, he said, he lived with a woman, believing that “she would let me stay if I got her some dope.”

“But that didn’t work and when I heard about Joe from a friend of mine, I thought it was interesting and I climbed aboard,” he said.

The initial apprehensions were daunting, Matthews said. “I knew that I was going to talk to normal people. They were going to look at me. They would see the needle marks on my arm. I didn’t know what to do,” he said.

He quickly realized his fears were groundless.

“I couldn’t believe it. These were people like us. It’s a whole new life out here. I’ve never smiled so much in my life. I’ve never said so many hi’s.” Neighbors and customers, he said, “have embraced us, and we should show them all the courtesy there is.”

Though Matthews said Zychik can be extremely demanding at times, he also gives Zychik total credit for his new-found zeal and happiness: “He may get very angry at people who don’t give their best, but he is a fabulous person. He spends a lot of time with us. Stuff like that keeps me going.”

Zychik said the idea of establishing an independent counseling center struck him when some people he had previously counseled offered to help him start a “rehabilitation center just beside the street.”

He first tried a center similar to Lemonade in Hollywood, but the high crime rate in the neighborhood forced him to close. “It helped me to get my feet wet so that I was aware of the problems when I started Lemonade,” he said.

He settled on the concept of a thrift shop, he said, because it was one of very few options that didn’t require a large investment or a team of skilled professionals.

Zychik knew that he would be “dealing with all kinds of people” and had to exercise extreme caution in choosing the right ones to work at the shop. Parole officers and a West Hollywood-based center for the homeless have been key sources of referrals.

When the first names trickled in, Zychik said, the screening began in an atmosphere of skepticism and frustration.

“There was total distrust on their part,” he said. “They thought I would rip them off. I wanted to find out how many lies they would tell, how outrageous the lies would be. The paranoia was so deep that it was absurd.

“I told them that they were going to enter situations where they had to earn their trust, work for sobriety; where they would be expected to deal with people, and where they would have to follow a routine.”

Carolyn Harris, a Long Beach parole officer who refers people to Zychik, said his “work therapy” is effective because “when people work themselves, it is easier to identify the problems they weren’t able to handle earlier.”

At the West Hollywood Homeless Program, another source of recruits, caseworker Rene Feidel also praises Zychik’s program, but said that because it lacks intensive therapy, it is most appropriate for “those who have gone through a formal rehabilitation program but have had a relapse.”

Dr. Alfonso Paredes, a UCLA professor of psychiatry who is involved in chemical and alcohol dependency research, warns against generalizations from “anecdotal testimonies” like Zychik’s. But he notes that “social groups in a drug-free environment” can go a long way in the treatment of drug addicts.

So far, for a client named Sam, who asked that his last name not be published, the Lemonade program is working. Once an established anesthesiology technician, his life fell apart early this year. His wife died. He lost his hospital job in the shakeout that followed a corporate takeover. He suffered bouts of acute depression. His son introduced him to “all kinds of drugs,” and he became addicted.

Sam found himself slipping into “a street world I wasn’t made for,” and he realized that he was all alone. “All my friends left me. When I asked them for help, everyone said no,” he said.

When he heard of Zychik through an acquaintance, it was the start of the strenuous process of bringing life back on the rails.

“It’s very tough,” Sam said, “but Joe is teaching me how to stay with problems and learn from them rather than running away. His counseling is so different. He asks you questions about yourself, and you just talk. I can’t give him as much honor as he deserves.”

Zychik said the work comes naturally to him. “I have always believed that life can be better than what it is now. . . . I have this strong determination to see that this thing is a success for people who really want to change.”

It’s not all success stories. One client who left the shop after two weeks said, “There was a lot of hard work and very little counseling. He (Zychik) lacks professionalism.”

Others disagree. Ed, a 50-year-old former homeless heroin addict said: “The work is hard and so are the people. But they are kind and nice. I’m fighting every day, and every day I get stronger.”

Zychik contends that criticism usually comes from people who are asked to leave because “they steal from the shop and expect sobriety to be handed to them on a platter.”

It was in San Francisco in the mid-’70s that Zychik discovered his unusual calling: He started by teaching a group of people how to stop smoking tobacco. It was there in 1975 that he met his wife, Mary, at a philosophy lecture.

“I was struck by the honesty of his approach to his job,” his wife recalled. “There was nothing manipulative about it. He’s remarkable for his persistence.”

Mary said her husband’s “sense of compassion” is responsible for his success. The Zychiks have been married for 12 years.

“She’s extremely supportive,” Zychik says of his wife. “Her sense of humor is a big help.”

Also supportive are the customers who troop in all day or just stop by the window to have a look at the variety of items offered at amazingly low prices.

Margaret Austin, a regular customer, calls the shop a “place full of good people.”

Another regular, Bryan Martin, 33, said: “I never forget to check out the place on weekends. It is great. I bought a world map for 50 cents.”

Asatur Agadian, proprietor of a shoe repair shop next door, is also full of praise. “They are really trying very hard to help people. And we should help them.”

Zychik admits that the shoestring budget can be very frustrating, but he is thankful to the people who provide moral or material support.

“Often, I find myself sitting on the streets at night, thinking how rough the going is. Everyone at the shop is overworked. If it rains on the weekends, there are no garage sales. And then we are dead. I ask myself, ‘Why am I doing all this?’ ”

Usually, however, the question is followed by an answer: “The belief that this can be done; the feeling that we have already saved the lives of a few people.”

Lemonade Thrift Shop is at 3771 Motor Ave., just north of Venice Boulevard. The phone number is (213) 204-3828.