Social Shock Therapy : Shell Shock Coffee House, built on a legacy of tragedy, has become a haven for many who are trying to conquer alcohol or narcotic addictions. It offers patrons a ‘nice, clean, sober environment’ along with a cup of java.

Conversations can get intense at the little meeting hall on Beach Boulevard just south of Adams Avenue.

Here, within whiffing distance of the Pacific Ocean, members of Alcoholics Anonymous discuss their narcotic and alcoholic addictions. On bad days, some say, they feel like blowing their brains out. On good days, they feel thankful for how far they’ve come. And almost every day, seated on folding chairs around the meeting hall’s large rectangular table, they talk of the long personal roads they’ve traveled, often including years in prisons and on the pavement leading the lives of desperate drunks or junkies.

Then, frequently, they retreat a few doors down the street to talk about it some more. The place: Shell Shock Coffee House, Beach Boulevard’s parlor with a purpose. Its mission: to provide the shellshocked denizens of this beach town an environment free of drugs and alcohol in which to be themselves.

“There are lots of people who want to stay away from drinking and drugs now,” says Hollis Wilson, 36, who opened the place last year. “We offer them a nice, clean, sober environment” in which to do it, she said.

In fact, the coffeehouse--originally the inspiration of Wilson’s late husband, John--was built on a legacy of tragedy. A veteran of Vietnam, John Wilson spent much of his life battling twin addictions to drugs and alcohol, a struggle that took him to occasional AA meetings at the hall on Beach Boulevard.

A few years ago, Wilson said, her husband conceived the idea of opening a coffeehouse near the hall (called H.O.W. Hall, for Hope, Openness and Willingness) to provide a sober environment where recovering alcoholics and addicts could socialize. The place was to be called Shell Shock, she said, because “being a Vietnam vet, he always had problems with culture shock. The name fit the way he was always feeling.”

Determined to realize his dream, John leased the modest space a few doors down from H.O.W. Hall and spent a year remodeling and sprucing it up. Then one day in 1991, Wilson said, he experienced a setback and died of an overdose.

“He just fell asleep in the living room and didn’t wake up,” she recalls. “The day after he died, I was down (at the coffeehouse) assembling cabinets trying to get it going. During times of stress, I work.”

At the time, Wilson says, she thought she was doing it to honor the memory of her husband. But her grief eventually led to her becoming a Christian. And today, Wilson says, she maintains the coffeehouse because she believes it to be God’s will.

“If the Lord’s work can be done over there, then that’s what we’ll do,” said Wilson, who also owns a tanning salon next door.

While the coffeehouse is Christian-based, she said, its religious trappings are subtle. Terry Lupien, who serves coffee in the mornings, keeps a Bible behind the counter. Though he never imposes it on anyone, he says, he is quick to offer the Word of God to those expressing a need. And frequently the soft strains of Christian music flow from the stereo speakers as easily as the coffee pours from its spigots.

For the most part, though, the little coffeehouse--which seats about 10--is visually indistinguishable from the myriad of other caffeine-centered establishments that have sprung up throughout Orange County in recent years. Brightly colored paintings and photographs adorn its walls. In addition to the usual cappuccino, cafe au lait, espresso and cafe mocha, the large menu posted above the counter offers smoothies, soft drinks, muffins, croissants and cookies. And frequently, longhaired musicians--including Lupien, who likes to play his saxophone from behind the counter--entertain patrons with country and folk music.

AA members who frequent the coffeehouse during and after H.O.W. Hall’s several daily meetings say that the place provides an important aid to recovery.

“A nonalcoholic place is a non-slippery place,” said Joe, secretary of the AA meeting who, like other members of Alcoholics Anonymous, uses only his first name when talking about the organization.

A longtime alcoholic, Joe sobered up 18 months ago after almost killing himself in an accident involving a police patrol car. It is important to have nonalcoholic hangouts for recovering alcoholics, he said. “In a bar you can easily make the mistake of picking up a screwdriver instead of an orange juice, or an Irish coffee instead of a cappuccino. It’s nice to have a nonalcoholic place nearby.”

Lauren, a 32-year-old nursing student from Costa Mesa who has become a coffeehouse regular, agreed. “The only thing I knew how to do when I was drinking was go to bars,” she said. “Take that away and you still need someplace to go; everyone wants to be around people and be social.”

Indeed, the little coffeehouse seems to have become a social center for all kinds of people, some of whom come from miles away to bask in the aroma of the roasted beans, smoke cigarettes, engage in animated discussions with their friends and listen to the music of flutes, guitars or Lupien’s saxophone. Regulars are referred to as “shockies,” Lupien said. And on a recent weeknight, the conversation ranged from mundane discussions about job-hunting and home purchases to philosophical discourses on religion, politics and staying sober.

Yet, not all patrons are recovering alcoholics.

Darryl Fakhrieh, for instance, is a musician who says he frequents the place to “hang out, meet other musicians and look at pretty girls.”

“I like it because you’re not meeting belligerent people,” he said. “It’s not a meat market; it’s more intellectual and one-on-one. It’s an inspirational place for musicians, a cultural environment where people can be creative.”

For many customers, though, the Shell Shock Coffee House provides an environment that’s not just a preference but a necessity. Rick Weinheimer is one for whom the place has been like a life raft in an otherwise churning sea.

Nine months ago when he inadvertently wandered into the Shell Shock on a rainy day, the young man says, he was feeling pretty shellshocked himself. A former bartender with a longtime drinking problem, he had been recently divorced, was homeless, unemployed and in the grips of alcoholism. But the employees and patrons of the coffeehouse took him under their wing and, over time, he says, helped him rent an apartment, get a job and, most importantly, stop hitting the booze.

“I more or less got sober in this coffeehouse,” Weinheimer said recently, sitting on a stool while Lupien played his sax. “I walked in, started getting direction and have been here every day since. This place saved my life.”