New Year’s Day! Another beginning for me. Hopefully 1991 can be my first full year without drugs. And if everything goes right, maybe without cigarettes as well. A year starts with a day though, and I must make the best of today before anything else.
I had Pandolfi wake me at four-thirty, and I actually got up at five-ten, and got to the desk by six.
Major Johnson was down there, pacing back and forth between the dining room and the desk. There were about a million Salvation Army officers, ranking from Captain to Commissioner (Captain – low, Commissioner – way up there) mooching breakfast, walking around, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Major Johnson was worrying about everything going smoothly, as he was the host. I imagine it was a little nerve racking for him.
He was sweating the proverbial load.
Mr. Vasquez, although technically off duty this morning, was out in Red Shield 4 at the time. He had gotten up earlier than I had, so he could pick up the special order of donuts from Tastee’s. He probably would have been back by the time I got to the desk if it wasn’t for all those police barricades, even though he was equipped with a special pass.
All the officers and their families soon sat down to breakfast, wanting to get an early start, and get to their parade seats on time.
Mr. Vasquez finally made it back after explaining to the police that there would be about 200 irate Majorettes around here if the donuts didn’t get back to them right smartly.
Major and Mrs. Johnson did not eat breakfast until all of their fellow officers had cleared out. Even then, the Major went outside to see his guest off, while I talked to Jenny at the desk. She was looking at him through the window, and said, “Come on Johnson, I’m hungry. Quit wheeling and dealing. You’re too old to be a Colonel.”
Politics.
The warehouse was used as a formation point for a marching band from Illinois. Robert was sent to make another run for more donuts, and sanitary napkins.
I, of course, did not get to personally see the parade, as I was working. I have never seen the Rose Parade in person. Thirty two years in southern California and I’ve never once gone. When I was much younger I may have wanted to see it, but I don’t anymore. I used to walk in parades all of the time while I was in Boot Camp. That’s all we did mostly, walk in parades, and pretend we knew what we were doing when asked to put out fires. And make our beds neatly.
It’s good to know how to put out a fire when living on board a ship. Or a boat. I never got the chance, though.
When I walked in parades in Boot Camp, I had the distinct honor to carry the flag of the proud state of Idaho. It was heavy. These days, I’m quite tired of parades.
I did catch a glimpse or two of the Rose Parade on television, and I could hear the different marching bands play from the residence.
During the later parts of my shift I did manage to get some writing and reading done. I began, The Treatment of Alcoholism, by Edgar P. Nace, M.D. This book is intended to be of use to drug treatment professionals, psychiatrists, psychiatric residents, and medical students. Maybe even psychologists. Not being any of those I will still attempt to muddle through it.
I was a bit tired after work, so I laid down in my room, while watching, “Zorro, the Gay Blade,” on T.V. I feel asleep.
Uncharacteristically, I stayed in my room most of the evening, only going down for a quick cheeseburger around six-thirty. I even forgot about bingo, for heaven’s sake.
I watched Roman Polansky’s (and Robert Town’s), “Chinatown,” with Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway. What a great movie. Jerry Goldsmith’s music score was extraordinary.
My father’s name was Roman. Roman Raymond. Unlike Mr. Polansky, he didn’t have many terrible things happen to him in his life, except World War II, and his own death.
I read some more, and then fell asleep.
I also did not have a cigarette all day. That’s probably why I hid in my room all night. I just wasn’t very good company.
January 2 Wednesday Day 112
I awoke at a little after five to the frightening visage of Wolf Pandolfi looming over me, saying, “It’s five o’clock, Rick.”
He was right, of course.
I said, “Thanks Wolf.”
He said, “Okay,” and then left.
I came down at six, did not eat breakfast, but did enjoy a cup of decaffeinated tea with some milk in it.
I felt good. It felt good to have one day of not smoking already behind me, which led me to begin thinking about smoking, which I did not want to do. So I started to think about something else. I began thinking about horseradish for awhile, which led me to think about how much I liked horseradish along with a nice, free radical laden, steak, which made me start thinking about food in general, which made me hungry, which made me want to eat food, which I was trying to cut down on, so I attempted to think of something else.
I thought about how good a cigarette was right after eating a good meal.
I decided I should just stop thinking for a while, which is usually good advice on almost any occasion.
Now it was time to choose who had the best dorm, best bed, and cleanest area. I was tired of giving it to dorm 41, which Tommy Bommarito (who suspiciously happened to reside at 41 E) being the residence laundry man, had all day to make all of the beds real nice, and get the dorm smelling good. So I gave it to 33, which being their laundry day, looked absolutely wretched. Clarence Bliss, my fellow deskman, who was asleep in his bed when I looked in, added to the general clutter.
I wrote, then managed to read a couple of chapters of the “Treatment,” book.
Mr. Vasquez was nowhere to be found. I think he slept for most of the day up in his room.
Major and Mrs. Johnson did not show for Wednesday night chapel. I guess they were too tired after all of the activities yesterday.
Still, we had over a hundred guys here needing to have their respective souls saved. Oh well.
I hope they soon recover.
When Mr. Vasquez finally did come down, he immediately began to clean both of the recently vacated apartments, cleaning up after those Salvation Army slobs.
He is compulsive concerning the cleanliness of those apartments. I don’t know why.
As I gave Tommy Bommarito his insulin, I said, “Hey Tommy, we have a little extra laundry for you in the morning.”
He had expected it. “Yeah, from the apartments.”
“Yeah, the lower apartment.”
“What about the upstairs apartment?” he asked.
“I don’t know about that yet,” I answered. “All I know is that there are three pillowcases filled with dirty laundry, waiting for you in the lower apartment.”
“Really?” he lisped. Tommy lisped because he has hardly any teeth, which he explains, hurts the formation of his speech pattern. This condition has come about mainly due to a combination of bureaucratic hesitancy, and a display of frustration because of it. Claude Hudson, the very same institution where I shall have my teeth looked at, in its wisdom saw fit to relieve Tommy of his upper choppers in anticipation of implanting brand new false ones. Unfortunately for Tom, the installation date has been repeatedly postponed, for one reason or another, for almost six months now.
Tommy thus far has reacted violently to the news of this unfortunate situation on at least one occasion, resulting in security guards being called to the dentist’s office in response to his displayed outrage. The guards removed the verbally abusive, lisping young man, negating his then current appointment, requiring a new one be made, and prolonging his discomfort for at least a month, further insuring that Tommy would be unlikely to see his new teeth before the end of January.
“Could you remind me,” Tommy asked, continuing about the extra laundry, “tomorrow morning at devotions? Because I’ll forget.”
“At devotions?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, but then I might forget. Could you remind me to remind you, so I won’t forget to remind you?”
“Yeah, sure. Good idea.”
While making my rounds, I overheard on the television that Brandon Tartakoff, president of NBC entertainment, had been seriously hurt in an automobile accident. Mr. Tartakoff is more or less responsible for choosing what shows will be shown on the NBC line up, and on what night, and at what time they will be shown. I saw a picture of his lovely wife.
I don’t watch a whole lot of television anymore, not really, and when I do, it’s either “Star Trek,” “Married with Children,” or old and new movies. I sincerely feel, or heavily lean towards the opinion that programming on the three major networks is stupid beyond endurance. So I am not what you would call a big fan of Mr. Tartakoff’s.
But I have certainly never wished Tartakoff, or anyone in his profession any ill will, and I do hope that he and his family recover fully and quickly. But my thoughts as I heard this story, of this accident was… so what? He was involved in a car crash. Just like a hundred or a thousand other people this time of year. Do those other people warrant air-time on the nightly news. No way. What about Joe Nacardo, who lost his whole family? Is that story on national television? Or Walter Wilks who died? Sometimes I get miffed that so little attention is paid to the people who really matter. Who do real things in their lives. Who are.
Charles Peary was two minutes late getting back tonight. I let him in anyway. He didn’t even say thank you.
Wait until next time, Charlie!
After work, I went to my room and read part of, The Milagro Beanfield War, then went to sleep, adding another day to my life, in which I learned something, enjoyed myself, talked and laughed with others people, ate in moderation, did not drink, and did not smoke. And maybe even helped someone with something.
It will be my great pleasure if I can do as much tomorrow.
January 3 Thursday Day 113
I did not love someone though. Maybe that will come back into my life someday.
I feel very good. Since I’ve stopped smoking, I find I have a lot more energy, so I tend to get a lot more things accomplished, and sleep doesn’t concern me as much.
It’s raining today. It does that around here sometimes. Not too bad in the morning, moderate to heavy later in the day, and constant.
I took the paperwork over while it was still drizzling. That done, I farted around the residence for most of the morning and afternoon. With my newfound energy, I worked out briefly (very briefly). I wrote, and on two occasions braved the downpour, and crossed the street to search for clients in need of counseling.
I forgot to mention that I saw my old friend, or boss, or acquaintance actually, Carlos Noble, yesterday, who I had once worked for on the dock at the Canoga Park ARC. He was standing in the foyer of the front office, trying to be admitted, and looking quite distressed.
After two years of sobriety (cocaine), Carlos had relapsed, and for one reason or another, had made his way to Pasadena. Just like I did. Carlos is thirty-three years old. A short, bright and witty, thin black fellow, a musician who used to wear a sporty ponytail. He had been employed by Capt. Strickland to supervise the dock, and help on the phones in the office when needed. After relapsing he had hid in his apartment, not talking to anyone, not answering his telephone, isolating. People worried about him called, and he would not answer. He even knew who was calling him because they would announce themselves over his answering machine. He never called them back. I’m sure he felt ashamed, his self-esteem non-existent. Not wanting to face the fact that he had relapsed after two long years he submerged into his addiction, the one thing guaranteed to take the pain away, and at the same time make it one hundred times worse.
He didn’t even talk to his own girlfriend.
Capt. Strickland called his machine one day, and told him to get his ass back to work. That’s when Carlos came to Pasadena. He couldn’t face going back to Canoga Park. I knew how he felt.
Carlos had arrived here too late to be admitted. Clarence made him stay at Union Station for the night, and he returned today. I gave him a bed in my old dorm, #14A, right near the door. I told him I was glad to see him, and glad that he had gotten out of the rain. I also told him that I knew how he felt, and things would get better.
Nobody wants to hear that crap though.
He was someone I had looked up to as a person who had succeeded in the program. Something to aspire toward. Now he was still an inspiration, although in a different way. He reminds me that all we have is a daily reprieve. That the disease that I suffer from is insidious, and is even now growing in power through potentiality, and I that I must be constantly vigilant if I am to retain what little I have now, and keep the promise of the future. One day at a time.
Rudi also called today. He let me know that he had relapsed again. Big surprise. He wanted to know if his clothes were still here. I assured him we would keep his stuff for at least thirty days. He wanted to know if I knew of any programs he could get into. I had Kevin talk to him about Union Station.
Rudi and Carlos knew each other at Canoga Park. I knew Carlos from Canoga Park. I knew Rudi from Van Nuys. We alcoholics travel in tight circles.
January 4 Friday Day 114
I had put in a wake up call for five. Art Svensk woke me at five-twenty eight. I got up at nine-fifty seven. I went to the weight room, with all of my newfound energy and enthusiasm, and worked out briefly again, then went upstairs to shave, brush my teeth, shower, meditate, shampoo and condition my flowing locks, and dry off. Then I got dressed.
I read from the “12 & 12” in the lobby (The 12 & 12 being a thin book published by A.A., detailing the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions utilized by Alcoholics Anonymous), and learned all about the Forth Step in order to prepare myself to confront my character defects.
The Fourth Step goes like this “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”
Easier said than done.
I ate too much spaghetti for lunch, but was still able to make out to the lobby to write.
I felt good again today. I’m very proud of myself that I have now gone without cigarettes for three days. The hardest part of quitting should now be over. Actually, the hardest part is to stay quit.
Unfortunately for me, when I feel good like this, that’s the time I most crave a cigarette. If I actually smoked a cigarette, I know I would automatically feel like an itty bitty little piece of dog poop that’s been stepped on, then run over by a truck. Plus, it would start that whole addiction cycle once again. So I must keep 100% alert, like Mr. Vasquez, and guard against slip-ups and relapse.
Speaking of Mr. Vasquez, he let me give out the weekly gratuity today. I did that in the small dining room. As the men came back from work I had them line up, sign for it, then handed each a manilla envelope containing their weekly allotment of cash, and canteen cards. I did this for approximately seventy-five guys. Everything went smoothly.
Six new clients to orientate, including Carlos. So far, he seems to be spending most of his time bowling. He still has not contacted his girlfriend.
Once again, Charles Perry barely made it back in time before curfew. Eleven-fifty eight.
I retired upstairs after work. Where else would I go? I put some medicine on my butt, and continued reading from the Milagro book. I felt very content, and wanted to smoke a cigarette desperately.
So I went to sleep.
January 5 Saturday Day 115
I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I made my way to the weight room and loosened up a bit. I didn’t left any weights, just loosened.
I had some porridge and gruel for breakfast, and then sat in the lobby while trying to decide whether or not I wanted to go to the Union Station Big Book study meeting.
I decided it wasn’t important whether I wanted to or not, that I should just get up off my soft, nicely rounded but hard muscled, complacent ass, and go.
So I went.
As always, and much to my delight, it turned out to be a fascinating experience. Not withstanding that the majority of those attending didn’t give two hoots about A.A., and are only there for the shelter Union Station provides. The ones who do care are what’s all about.
We read from the Big Book’s preface, this morning. Interesting. After one individual would recite a paragraph or two, they, and several others would share their opinions on what had just been read, and how it related to them. I had, until that very moment, had thought the prefix rather straightforward. But I was amazed by the various, and multicolored responses elicited this morning.
After returning to the residence, I wrote, then after being assured by Robert Vasquez that the Post Office outlet near Vons would be open today, I took Kari’s birthday package to mail it.
It was closed, of course, so I purchased a lotto ticket at Vons, and came back.
Then I took off again, and ran around the park a few times, until my side began to hurt. I stopped at the mini-mart on Raymond, and bought a pack of Newport cigarettes for Carlos, then returned to the residence for lunch.
Jack Crosley has decided that he would rather be a janitor than on the desk. As fortune would have it, we happened to lose a janitor today. Literally. Russell Star was last seen at approximately eleven a.m. All that remained of him was his locker key, which was found at the back end of the residence, on the loading dock by the kitchen.
So Jack was given his job. Another chapter in the life and times of Jack Crosley.
This turn of events had saved the janitorial career of Russell Burke. Mr. Vasquez had decided to send Russell back to work in the warehouse after catching asleep in his bed during working hours, a common habit of Russell’s. Mr. Vasquez had intended to put Jack in Burke’s spot, but since Starr disappeared, Jack was needed to fill that spot instead.
As of the moment, the residential janitorial staff consists of Jerold Schimmele, Jack Crosley, and Russell Burke, my spiritual advisor. Russell will move to the first floor position (better to keep an eye on him).
Eddie Gillespie joins our desk staff. An older, white gentleman, he has worked the desk before. This is his seventh time at the ARC, which is where he winters. He spends the rest of the year under the Arroyo Street Bridge. He tells me that he comes back to the Sally whenever his bath water starts to freeze.
By the end of my shift we had lost three more people. Victor Marlow (who had been my barber) blew a .07, and was given the boot. My old desk companion, Charles Perry gave me a ring to let me know he would not be able to make it back tonight. It seemed the local police required his presence for the weekend (he was in jail), for some unstated reason. And Art Martinez, the man who had sorted through all of the donated shoes, did not make curfew.
I wish them all well.
After work I went upstairs and started smoking again.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
January 6 Sunday Day 116
It was hard to get and out of bed, but at the last possible moment I managed it. I took a look at myself in a mirror, and owing to the fact that my hair had remained relatively unbent during the night; I skipped a shower and dressed for church.
I got to the front desk just as Major and Mrs. Johnson came in.
Every time the Major comes in on Sunday mornings, he asks, “Well fellows, what’s the score?” What he means by that is, how many clients had we lost so far throughout the weekend. We usually lay out the client’s name cards for him to examine. Attached to the card is a photograph of that person. I would then explain to him the circumstances behind each individual’s departure. We had nine this morning.
Major Johnson seemed concerned that these men were somehow acting in concert, and had conspired together to create this mass exodus in an attempt to disrupt the warehouse operations. I explained to the Major that it was my considered opinion that these clients were acting independently of each other, considering that those ho had departed and left on different days and at different times, and that so far as I knew, none had ever associated with each other.
My assumption, I believe, was a safe one. Alcoholics and drug addicts rarely behave in any organized manner.
Even when they want to.
I did my usher routine, up at chapel. While we were singing, reciting some responsive reading, giving testimonies, and listening to the Major’s sermon, I was having sexual fantasies concerning the pretty, eighteen year old, guest piano player, in her tight, trim, Salvation Army black dress, which accentuated her shapely lags nicely.
After the service I was sitting in the canteen, enjoying a richly deserved cup of coffee, when my friend Carlos came by and told me that Doug Criswell, a mutual friend from the Canoga Park ARC, would be by in about a hour or so, to drop off some of Carlos’s possessions.
I said fine, that I would like to see him again.
I read for a while, up in my room, then went for a walk.
The day passed, as days do.
One day I’ll run out of days. That’s happened to every living human, so far.
I wondered what my last day would be like, and when it would come.
I lost horribly at bingo again.
I was loitering at the desk, looking through the TV guide we have there, trying to decide whether to watch “The New Twilight Zone,” on channel 7, at midnight, or “Tales from the Darkside,” on channel 5, when out of the corner of my eye (peripheral vision is a wonderful thing), I saw someone come in, and Clarence Bliss asked if he could help him.
“Yeah, I’m here to see Carlos Noble…and,” as Doug noticed me, “Richard Joyce.” We shook hands and embraced.
Doug is a tall, good looking Caucasian (honky) type person, with thick blonde hair, a mustache, and is very laid back and easy going, very smart, observant, and witty.
He works as a plumber, and now enjoys about fourteen months of sobriety; He and I were in the same group counseling class at Canoga Park, and I had always appreciated his quiet sanity and thoughtful observations. I could always sense his sincere desire to live free of the curse of alcoholism and drug addiction.
We found Carlos, and took them down to the atrium and showed Doug around a little. Carlos had not seen Doug since he had relapsed, and was acting a bit depressed and ashamed because he had screwed up. He will eventually get over that. Doug had seen me relapse as well, so actually I was feeling only marginally less anxious than Carlos. Doug is a good and decent man though, and it was genuinely good to see him.
We were standing outside, saying goodbye, when first Warren, then Andre Laws walked by. Both knew Doug.
Doug left, saying he would drop by next week. I went upstairs to read.
I came back down eventually, and watched “Married with Children,” then went up to the sample room with Robert. He showed me a little of how the urine analyzer worked again. I then returned to my room and read some more.
After eleven, as I made my way back from the restroom, I overheard some of the guys talking about three more clients we lost this evening. Two A.W.O.L.s, Gerald Duepke and Jesurun Howard, and one for drinking, Warren Bahr.
January 7 Monday Day 117
I slept in a little this morning, until ten-fifteen. When I got up I chastised myself for wasting half the day, then took a shower and dressed.
I wrote in the lobby after lunch.
One disadvantage of hanging around the lobby is that I am quite often called upon to perform some service for someone, such as running an errand for Mr. Vasquez, or filling in behind the desk whenever the need arises. I usually don’t mind, and am happy to help out.
So when Mr. Vasquez went to the weekly Gratuity Board meeting across the street, I was not surprised when people, learning of his absence, began to come to me with their petty problems, concerns, and inquires.
Four new clients entered our domain this morning. Each of them would be required to provide us with a sample of their urine, so we could analyze it upstairs in the sample room. We do that to new guys to determine the baseline levels of cocaine and/or cannabinoids still within their system. If a later test were to discover a higher or equal level of either of these substances, it would be a good indication that the drug had been reintroduced into their systems, and probably not by accident or coercion (“They forced me to smoke it!!!”), thus we will usually ask them to depart in an expeditious manner.
I thought I’d help Robert out by labeling four sample cups with each new person’s name. I was doing this when Mark Tisdale came up to me and told me that Warren was upstairs sleeping on his bed.
Clarence Bliss had already told me that. He had found out from Mark also. Mark had told him just before he went across the street to vent his outrage at this procedural discrepancy to anyone who would listen to him. He probably didn’t find anyone who would listen to him, though, so he came back to the residence to bother me. No one would listen to Mark because he was perceived to be a sniveling, conniving, ratty, spoiled, little crybaby. The reason that he wanted me to know that Warren was sleeping upstairs was because I was the lead desk person, and whose job it was, supposedly, to go get Warren out of here.
He was right, I guess. It probably was my job to go talk to Warren, but I didn’t want to do it, thus I also ignored Mark. Clarence had already woke Warren up anyway, and reminded him that he needed to leave.
It was true that Warren needed to leave. He had to leave because he had been naughty last night. The only reason he was in the residence at all was so he could pack his stuff. He must have been hung over from all of the peppermint schnapps he had consumed last night (over a quart), and decided to take a little nap.
He had been up quite late as well, which I’m sure added to his general dilapidated condition. He had been ejected from the residence at twelve-thirty in the morning, after telling Robert how sorry he was for getting plastered.
After Clarence woke Warren, Warren being Warren, got up and took a leisurely shower, further enraging Mark Tisdale, who when all is said and done, did have a personal interest in seeing to Warren’s departure.
Warren after all, did try to kill him.
Among others.
I am told that after I last saw Warren yesterday, at around eight-thirty p.m., he got smashed. He picked a fight with Tisdale, threatening to kill him, pulled a knife on his roommate, Chris Carter, tried to pick fights with two X-ray technicians from the Breast Imaging Center (oh, how do I get a job there?) down the street, tore up one of his own fifty dollar bills, asked someone else’s girlfriend to drive him downtown where he could score some coke, and was witnessed generally stumbling around all over the place.
Mr. Vasquez wrote on the termination report that Warren had been, and I quote, “Acting in an unusual manner.”
Warren had somehow made it back to his dorm, where Mr. Vasquez finally cornered him, and got him with the breath-a-lizer. He blew a 1.7.
Today, after Warren had his shower I talked to him about what had happened. He told me that he didn’t remember anything from the night before. He hoped that he could stay with his mom for a few days. He would have to lie to her, of course, tell her that he had gotten thrown out for some other reason than for what he had.
He might be able to get an $16 an hour job in Palmdale, he told me.
He gave the addresses and phone numbers of his mom and sister. I gave him some bus passes, wished him well, and saw him on his way.
I have a feeling he’ll be back.
Sometimes it gets real hard to see this same sick cycle repeat itself over and over and over again. You meet someone, get to know them, maybe their families, become friends, then they relapse and they’re out of your life instantly, and more than likely, forever.
In Bible Study tonight, we discussed the Hebrews in the Old Testament. Seems there were a lot of them. I then went to my room and read, rearranged some new clothes I had acquired over the weekend, and went to bed.
There would be an Advisory Board breakfast in the morning, and I had a four-thirty wake up call.
January 8 Tuesday Day 118
I was woke by Mr. Pandolfi at four-thirty exactly, and actually got up at that time.
Amazing.
I reached the desk just as Kevin Rockoff announced the special five a.m. wake up call over the PA system. Everyone wishing to have breakfast needed to get up a little earlier this morning due to the Board meeting. Breakfast was served promptly at five-forty five, and the dining room was cleared by six-thirty, to give the kitchen crew time to set up for the forty or so, Board members expected at seven-thirty.
Mr. Vasquez came down at six-fifteen, and immediately shifted into a mad cleaning frenzy, which much like a shark’s feeding frenzy, can be a horrible thing to witness. Much of my morning was spent keeping out of his way.
The Board people arrived almost on time. All dressed nicely, trim and proper, as Board members should be, were directed to the dining room, where I could hear them chattering away. About one fourth were women. They discussed the general condition of the Pasadena ARC, and stuffed themselves silly with free food.
Meanwhile, in a hallway not far away, Jack Crosley was making as much noise as one could possibly make using a vacuum cleaner, merrily cleaning and slurping up vagrant dust to his heart’s content. The Major quickly came and closed a partition door, effectively muffling Jack’s enthusiastic endeavors.
When the meeting adjourned, those who wished too were invited on a tour of the residence and warehouse, conducted by Mrs. Major and Ed Reitz. Most declined the offer. They had seen the place before.
Mr. Vasquez relieved me early so I could catch a bus downtown for my big dentist’s appointment at the Claude Hudson Medical Clinic.
I got there at one-thirty seven, for a two o’clock appointment. I was seated in the dentist’s chair at two oh one, and the horror that followed lasted exactly twenty-seven minutes.
I was there to have my teeth cleaned.
The tool that is used to clean a person’s teeth is not a drill, I know this. It is more like a vibrating jackhammer specifically designed to chisel away at plaque and tarter build up, ridding the oral cavity of enclaves where infection and tooth decay can promulgate. It is a deceptively safe and harmless looking device, that put into the right hands causes the maximum amount of discomfort to a patient, without actually requiring physical restraints in order to keep them still. The dentist will methodically search out the most sensitive areas for exploration, utilizing unnerving cunning and patience, all the while duping his helpless and unsuspecting quarry into a false sense of security and calm, the plunge his weapon, mercilessly and insistently with quiet determination and abandon. He will finish with a particularly tender spot, allowing his victim to dare hope that the worst may be over, only to return with a sudden vengeance, DIGGING, DIGGING, and DIGGING! He (or she, whatever the case may be) will gleefully proceed underneath the gums, causing them to bleed and get so sore that your mouth will be of absolutely no use to you for 4.7 days. He will deposit a siphoning device upon your tongue, theoretically to remove debris and excess fluid, but the instrument is designed in such a way as to immediately begin migrating towards the back of your mouth, down into your gullet, making you wonder if you ever see the light of day again. All the while said dentist will be smiling mischievously, suppressing a slight chuckle, but you won’t be able to see the smile because of the gauze mask he is wearing, and the chuckle will be disguised as sighs of concentrated effort, because he is stifling himself, and will never, under any circumstances, let known his true intentions.
Which are?
Dean Koontz writes in his novel, Twilight Eyes, of a race of demons, who disguised as humans, live and breed among us, and feed off of our fear and pain, who’s only goal is the complete destruction of mankind (womankind too).
I firmly believe that all dentists and lawyers are members of that race.
After my dentist finished he removed his mask, and said, “You were great! You didn’t scream once.” I could tell that he was sorely disappointed.
The truth be known, I was too petrified to move, let alone scream.
I kept spitting out blood as I made my way to the bus stop.
I got back to the residence just in time for dinner. Liver.
That figured.
It really made no difference to me what was served though. At right about that time my teeth and gums were beginning to seize up on me, and got so sore that I couldn’t chew a boiled marshmallow if my life depended on it.
That’s pretty sore. My mouth would remain that way for a long, long time.
In group tonight, with Jill, she asked us what our high and low points were since she had last seen us two weeks ago.
I told her that everyday that I remained sober was a high point.
I could tell from her immense yawn that she was impressed with my snappy revelation.
My low point had been at the dentist that afternoon, and seeing so many guys relapse and get thrown out.
Al Watts returned this evening for the Twelve Step Study group, in which we never go beyond Step Three. Tonight, Step One was on the menu. Again.
I wrote in the lobby before going up to my lonely room to read for as long as I could keep my eyes open.
January 9 Wednesday Day 119
At five a.m. Wolf Pandolfi entered my room to wake me. I said, “Thanks Wolf,” and promptly jumped out of bed at five-fifty one.
Another wonderful and glorious seventeen hour work day here at the Pasadena Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center. I rubbed my hands together and smiled in quite anticipation.
I was at the desk by six-fifteen, and all was well.
While walking past the large screen television I learned from a news program that our Secretary of State, James Baker, and his Iraqi counterpart, Tarik Aziz, were scheduled to meet today, hopefully discussing ways to avert the impending war.
Good!
At least they’re doing something constructive with their time.
For my part, I kept fairly busy throughout the day, learning more of the maintenance and supply side of my job. I got to write a little as well.
At mid-week chapel, Major Johnson pointed out that the United States and Iraq may soon be at war. He told us that the peace talks broke down, and that the United Nations Security Counsel has set a January Fifteenth deadline for Iraq’s withdrawal from Kuwait, or else they will be expelled by use of military force. I think that both sides underestimate the amount of casualties they shall suffer. Iraq contends that if attacked, it will in turn attack Israel. The U.S. Defense Department is asking to mobilize one million more reservists.
I’m sure that I’m not alone in saying that this situation saddens me. I pray everyday for the continued strength that allows me to stay sober, for the health of my family and their friends, the ability, intelligence, and fortitude to help others if I can. I pray now for the U.N. forces, and the Iraqi forces (they are men and women just like us, and not responsible for the aggressive action of their leaders), for the innocents who will surely perish if war does transpire, for the entire human race, and for life throughout the universe.
Some may delude themselves, or be struck by temporary situations, but nobody really wants to die.
January 10 Thursday Day 120
Another long workday. Not an unusual one though.
Dr. Ed Reitz came over and wanted to do a dorm inspection. Specifically the kitchen dorms, 16 and 17. He wanted to do this because he happened to look in these dorms yesterday, and lived to tell the tale.
“It looked like a Claymore mine went off in there,” he said.
“All of my childish dreams of destruction and devastation are real,” I added, “they exist.”
Today the dorms took a 180-degree turn and passed inspection. Ed decided to go on and check all of the dorms while he was here. I had been handing out written warnings for messy areas and unkempt beds for the last few days, and the hint was taken, with all of the dorms passing Ed’s scrutiny.
“Next time we’ll take a look at the private rooms,” he said.
I shuddered.
I have not cleaned my room since I moved in it. I must admit I have though about it a few times, but have not been able to get past the initial planning stages. I need to correct this.
Tomorrow.
I passed by Rico in the lobby. He was talking to his new girlfriend on one of the pay phones. Her name is Tina. She’s married. They’re having what’s known as an extramarital affair.
I said, “How’s it going Rico? You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, Richard. You all right?”
“Yeah. That Tina?”
“Yeah.”
“Say hello for me, will ya.”
“Richard says hello,” he said into the phone. “Hummm. Richard. The deskman. Hummm. She says hello back.,” he told me.
“Tell her that I love her and miss her. Ask her if she’s wearing anything that’s liable to give me an erection.”
“Richard says that he hopes he gets a chance to meet you.”
Later, I went out back in the alley, behind the kitchen, to check the fenced area where some of the guys lock up their bicycles. I wanted to see if the lock securing the gate to that area was still there, because Dan Aspell, my old roommate, took the key last night, just before he went AWOL. He left at ten-forty five, fifteen minutes before curfew, saying he was going to the store, and didn’t come back.
As I approached the kitchen’s back door from outside, I noticed an arm sticking out of it. It was hard to miss. A lit cigarette was held in the fingers of the hand attached to said arm, which it turns out, was attached to Ray Wittenburg, the weekend cook. Soon the entire Ray came out and began smoking. He thrust his other arm back into the kitchen so he wouldn’t be locked out. Ray is one of the few older gentlemen here, at around 55, or so, who truly believes in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, and adheres to all of its tenets, sincerely desiring to make a change in his life and stop drinking. I admire his plasticity of mind and thinking. Most of the men his age who live here are rather set in their ways, and used to their bottoms, if you will, accepting as incontrovertible fact that their lives will never get any better than they are at present, and are just marking time, like my friend Mr. Schimmele, or the new deskman, Eddie Gillispie. They have no intentions whatsoever to stop drinking, even when they know full well it will eventually kill them. Eddie tells me that he’s just waiting for the Spring thaw, then he’s headed back to “the weeds.”
Such is their life.
Ray would be leaving in a few weeks to go back to work. He’s a plaster person. He plasters things, walls presumably. I began to talk to him about the importance of outside support systems since he would soon be leaving.
I don’t blame him for leaving. They only let him cook three meals during the week, and always the same. Fish on Friday, Polish sausages on Saturday, and leftovers on Sunday. This tends to stifle all of his creative instincts. Unbearable!
Ray is also one of the only two clients who have the luscious Stacy as his counselor.
Dennis Smith drove up on his forklift as we were talking. He wanted to smoke a cigarette also.
He asked me, “Am I really in your book?”
I said, “Yes, of course. So is Ray.”
Dennis seemed to be happy about this. He told me that he thought being in my book might somehow improve his chances of getting laid.
I kept falling asleep during the Substance Abuse seminar. I was sitting right next to Richard Bennett, who was giving the lecture. How embarrassing. I couldn’t help it though. I couldn’t keep my peepers open.
The beautiful Stacy returned to us this evening, back from a two-week vacation. She has such a nice smile. Women generally do. She reported that she had gone deep sea fishing while on her vacation, and that she had caught the biggest fish in her group. It had been a rock cod, she said.
If I were a fish, and had to be caught, I’d want Stacy to catch me.
She had caught another fish as well, she said. She couldn’t remember the name of it, but that it had been big and green.
I used to fish. I used to like it too. Then one day I got tired of killing things, even dumb little fish, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I was very tired by the time I got finished for the day, so went to sleep pretty quickly after I went to bed.
Before sleep did reach me I thought about my country being one day closer to war.
January 11 Friday Day 121
I slept in a little this morning. After lunch, I wrote, then got ready for work. Work went well, for me.
Mr. Vasquez had a rough time of it though.
At five-thirty I notice Ray Hunt passing by the desk. Ray is one of our truck drivers, who had recently strained his back, and was currently using crutches to help alleviate the pain he was experiencing. I asked him if he would mind sitting in on the new client orientation this evening. He gave me a puzzled look and asked why. I told him that I wanted to use him as an example of what happens to those who don’t follow the rules around here.
Near seven-thirty, the Night Crawler called me over the radio to let me know that their brakes had malfunctioned, and they were stuck in Tujunga. I had to go get Mr. Vasquez, who at that very moment had sent Reuben Smith down to get me because he had locked himself out of his room again, and was standing around in his underwear waiting for me to come up and let him back in his room using my master key.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” was his reaction upon learning of the stalled truck.
He took Jack De Wilde, our mechanic, and Ray Hunt (the only available truck driver) to Tujunga in another truck to rescue Lee Franklin and Dennis.
When they arrived they gave the truck they had arrived in to Lee and Dennis so they could finish their route. Robert, Ray, and Jack stayed to try to patch up the brake system well enough to get the vehicle back to Pasadena. While making this attempt, Mr. Vasquez and Jack were working under the truck’s hood, having given Ray, who was behind the wheel, express instructions to not start the engine.
I guess Ray didn’t hear them very well, or had thought they had told him to start the engine, which he promptly did, which caused Robert and Jack to immediately be sprayed profusely with a gooey combination of brake fluid and motor oil.
Such is life. Sometimes it is our fate to be sprayed profusely with brake fluid and motor oil.
Eddie Acuna later came by and talked with me at the desk. He told me that I should follow his advice more often, and learn how to speak Spanish. He said that they only spoke Spanish in Heaven.
Nicky Paloma checked out. He had only been here a few days, and he seemed in a bit of a hurry to leave. Sam Varela did not return by curfew.
Mr. Vasquez locked himself out of his room once more.
And I would find out the next morning that someone had stolen my long time friend and advisor, Noah the Parrot.
January 12 Saturday Day 122
I slept in until lunchtime. When I came down I learned of Noah’s disappearance.
“We’re missing our parrot, and this is the prime suspect,” Robert said, holding Nicky Paloma’s file card for me to see. “That’s why I continue to say, check all bags! Coming and going. If these guys give you any trouble, tell me, and their outa here.”
“Somebody stole Noah!” I couldn’t believe it. “Someone would take a bird from its cage, stuff it in a bag, and walk past us and out the door?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what happened. He probably took Noah, bless her little soul, and sold it to get some dope, or to impress his little girlfriend he had over here the other day. He was seen tampering with the cage after Robinson put up the cover for the night. Gillespie tells me he was in a big hurry to get out of here, and that he was carrying a small bag. All the circumstantial evidence points to Paloma.”
I still couldn’t believe it! Of all the things that are worth something around here; televisions, VCRs, radios, office equipment, Stacy, items that are actually worth stealing, somebody instead had birdnapped my friend Noah.
To top it off the suspected theft had occurred on my shift!
I was really pissed off.
I remembered working with mistreated animals during a three year stint as a veterinary assistant. That got me really angry too. I remembered feelings of hatred for the owners of those abused creatures, and desiring to extract some type of revenge upon them. At those times my regard for human intelligence and self-awareness, the qualities that supposedly set us apart from, and one step above the rest of our animal cousins, was at an all-time low. During those times I certainly cared more for the lives and welfare of those defenseless, innocent, and trusting dogs, cats, and gerbils, than I did for those “humans” that were responsible for their care.
I did not feel kindly for Mr. Paloma. No one around here did. Noah was well liked.
Noah was… is a fine and noble bird. A friend, confidant, a hell of a good listener. I will miss her sagely comments and kind chatter. Her substantial wit, and famine charm.
I hope she bites Paloma’s hand off.
Once someone made the mistake of sticking his nose inside of Noah’s cage. They came away minus a good chunk of that appendage. He never did it again.
Latter in the evening, Eddie Acuna and I, chased away some people who were helping themselves to some donated furniture near the trailer drop off. I wasn’t too happy about any kind of thievery today, and it made me feel a little better about losing Noah.
Also today, Congress gave its approval to the President to go to war if he should happen to think that a wise course.
It’s good to have permission.
January 13 Sunday Day 123
The Major chuckled when he heard of Noah’s theft. Either he couldn’t believe that someone would want to steal her, or he didn’t care all that much for the bird. I believe it was a little of both.
I have been told that once while the Major was escorting some VIPs around the facility, one of them, a Major’s wife, tried to coax Noah into speaking. The bird was stonily quiet however, as only she could be sometimes. Major Johnson, wishing to be a gracious host and brown noser, came to his guests aid and attempted to get Noah to say a few words. Dear reader, knowing Noah as well as you must by now, I am sure you can guess what transpired. The Major succeeded, much to everyone’s astonishment.
“Fuck you, baby!” Noah squawked.
The atrium cleared out immediately.
Major Johnson suggested that we call the police and make a missing bird report.
Later, I took a walk down Fair Oaks Boulevard. It really is wonderful living in Southern California. It was a warm, almost hot and sunny day. While most of the country was shivering and hiding under the covers, I had to take my coat off to keep from sweating.
The weather’s just too great. Who cares about the crime, gang warfare, drive-by-shootings, overcrowding, gamma ray bursters, pollution, and traffic problems?
When I returned I wrote a letter to my dear, sweat sister. To me, it seemed like a nice letter. Sometimes my sister and mother have a little trouble understanding, or coping with my sense of humor. I can’t blame them. After all, they are both relatively normal individuals.
I hoped my sister would like my letter.
I then did something I haven’t done for quite a while, for over a year actually. I sat down and watched and entire football game on TV. It was a playoff game, which made it especially interesting. My favorite team, the Los Angeles Raiders, beat the snot out of the sissy Cincinnati Bengals. 20 to 10.
Russell Burke walked by while I was watching it. He said, “Hi.”
It pains me to say that I don’t believe the Raiders will make it to the Super bowl. They’ll probably get creamed by Buffalo next week.
Suddenly it occurred to me that it was exceptionally odd, a luxury to be able to concern myself with such a trivial event like a football game. I felt some shame when I began to wonder what it was like for the people in Iraq, or Israel, or Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait right now, wondering what they were doing to pass the time on a Sunday afternoon. What they were thinking about.
It occurred to me they might be concerned they would not be alive to see another Sunday.
I ate dinner with Mr. Vasquez, then helped Joe Najar pack his stuff. Mr. Vasquez had discovered an unexplained increase of cannabinoid by-products in Joe’s urine.
I watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” which seemed to be showing first run episodes again. This one was about a Vulcan traitor, and Mr. Data learning to dance.
I fell asleep watching “Married with Children.”
January 14 Monday Day 124
I had put in for a five-thirty wake up, but Clarence forgot to write my name down on the wake up list, so Pandolfi didn’t wake me, resulting in my sleeping, quite blissfully I might add, clear through till nine-forty five.
I had planned to go to Pasadena’s Municipal Court this morning, and take care of that little legal problem I mentioned before. I had even gotten a nice letter from Clarence Orion, describing the ARC’s program, and what a conscientious person I’ve become, and all.
I have hesitated until now, mainly because I tend to dislike putting my fate into other’s hands. I realize now that they really can’t do much to me for a simple drunk in public charge, and failure to appear, especially if I surrender to the court of my own free will. Or I hoped they couldn’t. I also knew I would feel much better after getting this cleared up, and it was no longer hanging over my head.
But since Clarence Bliss neglected to add my name to the wake up list, I didn’t go to court, and a fugitive I’ll remain.
For a little while at least. I feel a fond kinship with Richard Kimble.
As I was busy writing in the lobby the renowned Zulu Brothers passed by (Rico Montgomery and Reuben Smith) on their way to the small TV room, to watch their stories (“All My Children” and “One Life to Live”).
Addicts.
I took a walk, on another fabulously sunny day, to the post office, to mail my letter to my sister.
Upon my return I skimmed through the rather large and formidable looking book, 100 Years of the National Geographic, and also made myself useful by helping out at the desk.
We studied those Hebrews some more during Bible Study.
To top the night off I attended an outside AA meeting. There were a lot of pretty girls there. I suppose the fact that the meeting was held at the Casa de Los Amigos, a woman’s recovery home, had something to do with that.
I fell in love three times.
January 15 Tuesday Day 125
Back to work!
I had the opportunity to talk to my counselor, Richard Purdy. I tell him the same thing every time I talk to him, which must be pretty frustrating for him. I tell him about how ell I’m doing, that I’m not having too many problems, that I’m continuing to work the program, that I get along with almost everybody, and that I’m getting used to, and comfortable with my new duties at the desk.
He says, “That’s good. That’s nice.”
Then he tries to create problems for me.
He wants me to rush into school.
I do want to go to school, but I’m not interested into rushing into anything right now.
He tells me things like, “You can’t live here forever.”
I tell him things like, “I haven’t even finished the program yet!” and “Right now I’m taking it pretty slow, day by day.”
It may seem that I’m having an easy time at staying sober.
I am.
Only because I’ve put myself into a situation where it is fairly easy to maintain sobriety. Further, I have the advantage of knowing exactly what would happen if I took a drink or drug. Personal devastation would happen. I know this because I’ve relapsed so many times in the past. I think it’s finally gotten through to me that I cannot ever drink or use drugs. It’s just not for me. It’s for other people, not me. I understand that now, I accept that, and I don’t make a big deal of it. I don’t even think about that much anymore. I don’t mind people who drink or use drugs, some can get away with that I guess, and it doesn’t seem to hurt them, or mess up their lives. Great! More power to them.
It’s just not for me. I can’t do it anymore.
I’m deathly afraid of relapse. Of hitting bottom again. Of the Park. It’s easy to stay sober, to do something like sobriety, when you’ve that kind of fear.
Maybe that constant anxiety and fear helps me to appreciate each and every sober day, and the joy of life unclouded by the mists and befuddlement of alcoholism and drug addiction.
I know through experience how irresistible the first drink can be, and how easy it is to go ahead and drink it. And after that all is lost.
I feel that is unlikely that real alcoholics will remain sober for any significant length of time on their first try. Some do, I know this, I have met them, but I believe they are few, and the exception. I would not be succeeding now if I hadn’t failed so many times in the past.
All in all, the total, whole experience of staying sober, of learning to stay sober, is not easy.
But well worth the trouble.
Jill and I actually talked tonight during group, and afterward. How exciting! She asked everybody how their week had been. I told her the same thing I told Richard, that everything was okay, that I was progressing. She said, “Good, that’s nice.”
Like a good short story, counselors need conflict and drama to keep happy.
I told her of my low point during the week, that someone had stolen Noah, the Parrot. She seemed really interested and concerned, even angry. She wondered about the type of person who would steal a poor, defenseless, somewhat innocent, 10 inch tall, green shaggy looking parrot.
I told her who.
Apparently she knew Nicky. She said that the next time she saw him, she would ring his neck.
Now I know for certain that Jill is a nice person, besides being infinitely gorgeous.
Next I attended the Twelve Step Study, where I learned all about Step Two. Again.
Afterwards, Jill caught me reading an encyclopedia in the lobby. She said that she liked the idea of me reading the encyclopedia, cover to cover. She asked if I was good at the game, Trivial Pursuit. I told her I guessed I was (how lame).
I stink at Trivial Pursuit.
Everybody does. Except Jeopardy contestants.
She thought my reading was significant enough to mention it in her counseling notations, in the much guarded counseling books.
Again, we at the desk are by no means authorized to read what is in those books. It’s just our job to guard them.
I myself, read everything they put in there. Items pertaining only to myself, of course. I already know how everybody else is doing.
I had finished reading the Tom Clancy book, A Clear and Present Danger, a few days ago. I thought the premise very interesting. The President of the United States wished to be reelected and had promised to do something about the importation of illegal drugs into the country. He decided to treat Medelin cartel, in Colombia, as a sovereign state which had committed an act of war by smuggling drugs into the U.S., thus disrupting our society and economy. As the title suggests, the president decided the drug trade presented a clear and present danger toward the American people, and began covert military operations within Colombia.
The last time I checked, in 1983 alone, alcohol, drug, and mental disorders cost the American taxpayers about $116,000,000,000.00, directly and indirectly. The trade in illegal drugs has only increased since then. I would certainly agree that the drain that amount of money puts on our economy annually, coupled with the cost in lives and human tragedy, would certainly constitute a clear and present danger to the United States. But unless we are willing to invade Colombia, Peru, Burma, Afghanistan, and a whole lot of other countries, it remains unlikely U.S. efforts to stop the drug trade at its source will succeed. History backs my up. We have never been able to significantly curtail the amount of illegal drugs crossing our boarders, never.
We certainly don't have the backbone, or where-with-all, to make illegal drugs legal, and thereby taking the trade away from foreign cartels and criminal enterprises, as we did when we repelled prohibition, thus being able to control the problem with some measure of rational intelligence. That has been political suicide for anyone who seriously dared to propose the idea. That's why we only hear about legalization from those politicians who have already retired and have nothing to lose.
Maybe Clancy is right and we should use the military to invade Colombia, Peru, Burma, Afghanistan, and a who bunch of other countries. That might just be the answer. The United States has rarely shied away from using force to settle minor difficulties.
And that's how we've treated the drug problem in this country, as a minor difficulty.
Our government is much more concerned about oil. That's a major difficulty.
At nine o'clock this evening the United Nations Security Counsel's deadline for Iraq to pull out of Iraq passed.
The Iraqi army is still there.
January 16 Wednesday Day 126
It had been a fairly normal 17 hour work day as I came out of the upstairs restroom, near three-forty five p.m., when Jerry Schimmele told me that Kevin Rockoff had heard over the radio that United States military forces had attacked Iraq.
It seems that my country is now at war with a relatively small Arab nation (although the military powerhouse of that region. We were now killing people in the Garden of Eden.
The war doesn't affect me very much, personally. I have no friends or relatives over there to worry about. My routine for the day would not change very much. I continued to Give Tommy Bommorito and Ruben Perez their insulin when they needed it, made dorm inspections, did paperwork, peddle canteen cards, make announcements, go to chapel, see that people got counseled, put up the damn bar in the Thrift Store parking lot. The only noticeable difference in my routine was that I watched the T.V. a little more in the evening, and felt sick.
While in mid-week chapel I wanted to get up and testify for the first time since I lived here. I wanted to thank the God I don't believe in for my life and self-awareness, for my families health and well being. For my continued sobriety. And for a quick resolution to the conflict in the Persian Gulf.
But I couldn't. I just sat there.
When I went to bed I cried for those already dead.
January 17 Thursday Day 127
Another day.
The networks are broadcasting constant coverage of events in the Middle East. Some of the guys in the residence are complaining, telling me they are missing their favorite morning cartoons, such as Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. I tried to sooth them, agreeing that the war is indeed, very inconvenient for all.
I hate war. Or killing, violence, and brutality, in all their manifestations. That does not mean I don't believe this particular war to be necessary. I do believe it to be necessary only because the situation was allowed to progress to this point. The United States was buddy-buddy with Iraq and Saddam a few months before the invasion of Kuwait. The CIA should have anticipated Iraq's intentions before they occurred, and taken steps to counter them.
I believe we wouldn't be in this mess if it were not for the fear our leaders have that our nation's supply of oil will be affected by Iraq's invasion. That's the only reason that makes any sense. True, we will also be liberating the Kuwaiti's from the cruel mistreatment they are sure to face under Saddam's influence, but our nation has no history of coming to the rescue of other nations under duress unless we've been provoked (Pearl Harbor), or our national interests were in some form of jeopardy (WW I, or the perceived threat of world domination of communism). Is the high price of oil worth dying and killing for? Apparently it is, according to President Bush. True, Saddam Husain is a sociopathic mass killer, but that didn't bother us when he was at war with Iran. Hell, we supplied him with weapons! But threaten our oil supply, and look out...
I had Pandolfi wake me at four-thirty, and I actually got up at five-ten, and got to the desk by six.
Major Johnson was down there, pacing back and forth between the dining room and the desk. There were about a million Salvation Army officers, ranking from Captain to Commissioner (Captain – low, Commissioner – way up there) mooching breakfast, walking around, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Major Johnson was worrying about everything going smoothly, as he was the host. I imagine it was a little nerve racking for him.
He was sweating the proverbial load.
Mr. Vasquez, although technically off duty this morning, was out in Red Shield 4 at the time. He had gotten up earlier than I had, so he could pick up the special order of donuts from Tastee’s. He probably would have been back by the time I got to the desk if it wasn’t for all those police barricades, even though he was equipped with a special pass.
All the officers and their families soon sat down to breakfast, wanting to get an early start, and get to their parade seats on time.
Mr. Vasquez finally made it back after explaining to the police that there would be about 200 irate Majorettes around here if the donuts didn’t get back to them right smartly.
Major and Mrs. Johnson did not eat breakfast until all of their fellow officers had cleared out. Even then, the Major went outside to see his guest off, while I talked to Jenny at the desk. She was looking at him through the window, and said, “Come on Johnson, I’m hungry. Quit wheeling and dealing. You’re too old to be a Colonel.”
Politics.
The warehouse was used as a formation point for a marching band from Illinois. Robert was sent to make another run for more donuts, and sanitary napkins.
I, of course, did not get to personally see the parade, as I was working. I have never seen the Rose Parade in person. Thirty two years in southern California and I’ve never once gone. When I was much younger I may have wanted to see it, but I don’t anymore. I used to walk in parades all of the time while I was in Boot Camp. That’s all we did mostly, walk in parades, and pretend we knew what we were doing when asked to put out fires. And make our beds neatly.
It’s good to know how to put out a fire when living on board a ship. Or a boat. I never got the chance, though.
When I walked in parades in Boot Camp, I had the distinct honor to carry the flag of the proud state of Idaho. It was heavy. These days, I’m quite tired of parades.
I did catch a glimpse or two of the Rose Parade on television, and I could hear the different marching bands play from the residence.
During the later parts of my shift I did manage to get some writing and reading done. I began, The Treatment of Alcoholism, by Edgar P. Nace, M.D. This book is intended to be of use to drug treatment professionals, psychiatrists, psychiatric residents, and medical students. Maybe even psychologists. Not being any of those I will still attempt to muddle through it.
I was a bit tired after work, so I laid down in my room, while watching, “Zorro, the Gay Blade,” on T.V. I feel asleep.
Uncharacteristically, I stayed in my room most of the evening, only going down for a quick cheeseburger around six-thirty. I even forgot about bingo, for heaven’s sake.
I watched Roman Polansky’s (and Robert Town’s), “Chinatown,” with Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway. What a great movie. Jerry Goldsmith’s music score was extraordinary.
My father’s name was Roman. Roman Raymond. Unlike Mr. Polansky, he didn’t have many terrible things happen to him in his life, except World War II, and his own death.
I read some more, and then fell asleep.
I also did not have a cigarette all day. That’s probably why I hid in my room all night. I just wasn’t very good company.
January 2 Wednesday Day 112
I awoke at a little after five to the frightening visage of Wolf Pandolfi looming over me, saying, “It’s five o’clock, Rick.”
He was right, of course.
I said, “Thanks Wolf.”
He said, “Okay,” and then left.
I came down at six, did not eat breakfast, but did enjoy a cup of decaffeinated tea with some milk in it.
I felt good. It felt good to have one day of not smoking already behind me, which led me to begin thinking about smoking, which I did not want to do. So I started to think about something else. I began thinking about horseradish for awhile, which led me to think about how much I liked horseradish along with a nice, free radical laden, steak, which made me start thinking about food in general, which made me hungry, which made me want to eat food, which I was trying to cut down on, so I attempted to think of something else.
I thought about how good a cigarette was right after eating a good meal.
I decided I should just stop thinking for a while, which is usually good advice on almost any occasion.
Now it was time to choose who had the best dorm, best bed, and cleanest area. I was tired of giving it to dorm 41, which Tommy Bommarito (who suspiciously happened to reside at 41 E) being the residence laundry man, had all day to make all of the beds real nice, and get the dorm smelling good. So I gave it to 33, which being their laundry day, looked absolutely wretched. Clarence Bliss, my fellow deskman, who was asleep in his bed when I looked in, added to the general clutter.
I wrote, then managed to read a couple of chapters of the “Treatment,” book.
Mr. Vasquez was nowhere to be found. I think he slept for most of the day up in his room.
Major and Mrs. Johnson did not show for Wednesday night chapel. I guess they were too tired after all of the activities yesterday.
Still, we had over a hundred guys here needing to have their respective souls saved. Oh well.
I hope they soon recover.
When Mr. Vasquez finally did come down, he immediately began to clean both of the recently vacated apartments, cleaning up after those Salvation Army slobs.
He is compulsive concerning the cleanliness of those apartments. I don’t know why.
As I gave Tommy Bommarito his insulin, I said, “Hey Tommy, we have a little extra laundry for you in the morning.”
He had expected it. “Yeah, from the apartments.”
“Yeah, the lower apartment.”
“What about the upstairs apartment?” he asked.
“I don’t know about that yet,” I answered. “All I know is that there are three pillowcases filled with dirty laundry, waiting for you in the lower apartment.”
“Really?” he lisped. Tommy lisped because he has hardly any teeth, which he explains, hurts the formation of his speech pattern. This condition has come about mainly due to a combination of bureaucratic hesitancy, and a display of frustration because of it. Claude Hudson, the very same institution where I shall have my teeth looked at, in its wisdom saw fit to relieve Tommy of his upper choppers in anticipation of implanting brand new false ones. Unfortunately for Tom, the installation date has been repeatedly postponed, for one reason or another, for almost six months now.
Tommy thus far has reacted violently to the news of this unfortunate situation on at least one occasion, resulting in security guards being called to the dentist’s office in response to his displayed outrage. The guards removed the verbally abusive, lisping young man, negating his then current appointment, requiring a new one be made, and prolonging his discomfort for at least a month, further insuring that Tommy would be unlikely to see his new teeth before the end of January.
“Could you remind me,” Tommy asked, continuing about the extra laundry, “tomorrow morning at devotions? Because I’ll forget.”
“At devotions?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, but then I might forget. Could you remind me to remind you, so I won’t forget to remind you?”
“Yeah, sure. Good idea.”
While making my rounds, I overheard on the television that Brandon Tartakoff, president of NBC entertainment, had been seriously hurt in an automobile accident. Mr. Tartakoff is more or less responsible for choosing what shows will be shown on the NBC line up, and on what night, and at what time they will be shown. I saw a picture of his lovely wife.
I don’t watch a whole lot of television anymore, not really, and when I do, it’s either “Star Trek,” “Married with Children,” or old and new movies. I sincerely feel, or heavily lean towards the opinion that programming on the three major networks is stupid beyond endurance. So I am not what you would call a big fan of Mr. Tartakoff’s.
But I have certainly never wished Tartakoff, or anyone in his profession any ill will, and I do hope that he and his family recover fully and quickly. But my thoughts as I heard this story, of this accident was… so what? He was involved in a car crash. Just like a hundred or a thousand other people this time of year. Do those other people warrant air-time on the nightly news. No way. What about Joe Nacardo, who lost his whole family? Is that story on national television? Or Walter Wilks who died? Sometimes I get miffed that so little attention is paid to the people who really matter. Who do real things in their lives. Who are.
Charles Peary was two minutes late getting back tonight. I let him in anyway. He didn’t even say thank you.
Wait until next time, Charlie!
After work, I went to my room and read part of, The Milagro Beanfield War, then went to sleep, adding another day to my life, in which I learned something, enjoyed myself, talked and laughed with others people, ate in moderation, did not drink, and did not smoke. And maybe even helped someone with something.
It will be my great pleasure if I can do as much tomorrow.
January 3 Thursday Day 113
I did not love someone though. Maybe that will come back into my life someday.
I feel very good. Since I’ve stopped smoking, I find I have a lot more energy, so I tend to get a lot more things accomplished, and sleep doesn’t concern me as much.
It’s raining today. It does that around here sometimes. Not too bad in the morning, moderate to heavy later in the day, and constant.
I took the paperwork over while it was still drizzling. That done, I farted around the residence for most of the morning and afternoon. With my newfound energy, I worked out briefly (very briefly). I wrote, and on two occasions braved the downpour, and crossed the street to search for clients in need of counseling.
I forgot to mention that I saw my old friend, or boss, or acquaintance actually, Carlos Noble, yesterday, who I had once worked for on the dock at the Canoga Park ARC. He was standing in the foyer of the front office, trying to be admitted, and looking quite distressed.
After two years of sobriety (cocaine), Carlos had relapsed, and for one reason or another, had made his way to Pasadena. Just like I did. Carlos is thirty-three years old. A short, bright and witty, thin black fellow, a musician who used to wear a sporty ponytail. He had been employed by Capt. Strickland to supervise the dock, and help on the phones in the office when needed. After relapsing he had hid in his apartment, not talking to anyone, not answering his telephone, isolating. People worried about him called, and he would not answer. He even knew who was calling him because they would announce themselves over his answering machine. He never called them back. I’m sure he felt ashamed, his self-esteem non-existent. Not wanting to face the fact that he had relapsed after two long years he submerged into his addiction, the one thing guaranteed to take the pain away, and at the same time make it one hundred times worse.
He didn’t even talk to his own girlfriend.
Capt. Strickland called his machine one day, and told him to get his ass back to work. That’s when Carlos came to Pasadena. He couldn’t face going back to Canoga Park. I knew how he felt.
Carlos had arrived here too late to be admitted. Clarence made him stay at Union Station for the night, and he returned today. I gave him a bed in my old dorm, #14A, right near the door. I told him I was glad to see him, and glad that he had gotten out of the rain. I also told him that I knew how he felt, and things would get better.
Nobody wants to hear that crap though.
He was someone I had looked up to as a person who had succeeded in the program. Something to aspire toward. Now he was still an inspiration, although in a different way. He reminds me that all we have is a daily reprieve. That the disease that I suffer from is insidious, and is even now growing in power through potentiality, and I that I must be constantly vigilant if I am to retain what little I have now, and keep the promise of the future. One day at a time.
Rudi also called today. He let me know that he had relapsed again. Big surprise. He wanted to know if his clothes were still here. I assured him we would keep his stuff for at least thirty days. He wanted to know if I knew of any programs he could get into. I had Kevin talk to him about Union Station.
Rudi and Carlos knew each other at Canoga Park. I knew Carlos from Canoga Park. I knew Rudi from Van Nuys. We alcoholics travel in tight circles.
January 4 Friday Day 114
I had put in a wake up call for five. Art Svensk woke me at five-twenty eight. I got up at nine-fifty seven. I went to the weight room, with all of my newfound energy and enthusiasm, and worked out briefly again, then went upstairs to shave, brush my teeth, shower, meditate, shampoo and condition my flowing locks, and dry off. Then I got dressed.
I read from the “12 & 12” in the lobby (The 12 & 12 being a thin book published by A.A., detailing the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions utilized by Alcoholics Anonymous), and learned all about the Forth Step in order to prepare myself to confront my character defects.
The Fourth Step goes like this “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”
Easier said than done.
I ate too much spaghetti for lunch, but was still able to make out to the lobby to write.
I felt good again today. I’m very proud of myself that I have now gone without cigarettes for three days. The hardest part of quitting should now be over. Actually, the hardest part is to stay quit.
Unfortunately for me, when I feel good like this, that’s the time I most crave a cigarette. If I actually smoked a cigarette, I know I would automatically feel like an itty bitty little piece of dog poop that’s been stepped on, then run over by a truck. Plus, it would start that whole addiction cycle once again. So I must keep 100% alert, like Mr. Vasquez, and guard against slip-ups and relapse.
Speaking of Mr. Vasquez, he let me give out the weekly gratuity today. I did that in the small dining room. As the men came back from work I had them line up, sign for it, then handed each a manilla envelope containing their weekly allotment of cash, and canteen cards. I did this for approximately seventy-five guys. Everything went smoothly.
Six new clients to orientate, including Carlos. So far, he seems to be spending most of his time bowling. He still has not contacted his girlfriend.
Once again, Charles Perry barely made it back in time before curfew. Eleven-fifty eight.
I retired upstairs after work. Where else would I go? I put some medicine on my butt, and continued reading from the Milagro book. I felt very content, and wanted to smoke a cigarette desperately.
So I went to sleep.
January 5 Saturday Day 115
I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I made my way to the weight room and loosened up a bit. I didn’t left any weights, just loosened.
I had some porridge and gruel for breakfast, and then sat in the lobby while trying to decide whether or not I wanted to go to the Union Station Big Book study meeting.
I decided it wasn’t important whether I wanted to or not, that I should just get up off my soft, nicely rounded but hard muscled, complacent ass, and go.
So I went.
As always, and much to my delight, it turned out to be a fascinating experience. Not withstanding that the majority of those attending didn’t give two hoots about A.A., and are only there for the shelter Union Station provides. The ones who do care are what’s all about.
We read from the Big Book’s preface, this morning. Interesting. After one individual would recite a paragraph or two, they, and several others would share their opinions on what had just been read, and how it related to them. I had, until that very moment, had thought the prefix rather straightforward. But I was amazed by the various, and multicolored responses elicited this morning.
After returning to the residence, I wrote, then after being assured by Robert Vasquez that the Post Office outlet near Vons would be open today, I took Kari’s birthday package to mail it.
It was closed, of course, so I purchased a lotto ticket at Vons, and came back.
Then I took off again, and ran around the park a few times, until my side began to hurt. I stopped at the mini-mart on Raymond, and bought a pack of Newport cigarettes for Carlos, then returned to the residence for lunch.
Jack Crosley has decided that he would rather be a janitor than on the desk. As fortune would have it, we happened to lose a janitor today. Literally. Russell Star was last seen at approximately eleven a.m. All that remained of him was his locker key, which was found at the back end of the residence, on the loading dock by the kitchen.
So Jack was given his job. Another chapter in the life and times of Jack Crosley.
This turn of events had saved the janitorial career of Russell Burke. Mr. Vasquez had decided to send Russell back to work in the warehouse after catching asleep in his bed during working hours, a common habit of Russell’s. Mr. Vasquez had intended to put Jack in Burke’s spot, but since Starr disappeared, Jack was needed to fill that spot instead.
As of the moment, the residential janitorial staff consists of Jerold Schimmele, Jack Crosley, and Russell Burke, my spiritual advisor. Russell will move to the first floor position (better to keep an eye on him).
Eddie Gillespie joins our desk staff. An older, white gentleman, he has worked the desk before. This is his seventh time at the ARC, which is where he winters. He spends the rest of the year under the Arroyo Street Bridge. He tells me that he comes back to the Sally whenever his bath water starts to freeze.
By the end of my shift we had lost three more people. Victor Marlow (who had been my barber) blew a .07, and was given the boot. My old desk companion, Charles Perry gave me a ring to let me know he would not be able to make it back tonight. It seemed the local police required his presence for the weekend (he was in jail), for some unstated reason. And Art Martinez, the man who had sorted through all of the donated shoes, did not make curfew.
I wish them all well.
After work I went upstairs and started smoking again.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
January 6 Sunday Day 116
It was hard to get and out of bed, but at the last possible moment I managed it. I took a look at myself in a mirror, and owing to the fact that my hair had remained relatively unbent during the night; I skipped a shower and dressed for church.
I got to the front desk just as Major and Mrs. Johnson came in.
Every time the Major comes in on Sunday mornings, he asks, “Well fellows, what’s the score?” What he means by that is, how many clients had we lost so far throughout the weekend. We usually lay out the client’s name cards for him to examine. Attached to the card is a photograph of that person. I would then explain to him the circumstances behind each individual’s departure. We had nine this morning.
Major Johnson seemed concerned that these men were somehow acting in concert, and had conspired together to create this mass exodus in an attempt to disrupt the warehouse operations. I explained to the Major that it was my considered opinion that these clients were acting independently of each other, considering that those ho had departed and left on different days and at different times, and that so far as I knew, none had ever associated with each other.
My assumption, I believe, was a safe one. Alcoholics and drug addicts rarely behave in any organized manner.
Even when they want to.
I did my usher routine, up at chapel. While we were singing, reciting some responsive reading, giving testimonies, and listening to the Major’s sermon, I was having sexual fantasies concerning the pretty, eighteen year old, guest piano player, in her tight, trim, Salvation Army black dress, which accentuated her shapely lags nicely.
After the service I was sitting in the canteen, enjoying a richly deserved cup of coffee, when my friend Carlos came by and told me that Doug Criswell, a mutual friend from the Canoga Park ARC, would be by in about a hour or so, to drop off some of Carlos’s possessions.
I said fine, that I would like to see him again.
I read for a while, up in my room, then went for a walk.
The day passed, as days do.
One day I’ll run out of days. That’s happened to every living human, so far.
I wondered what my last day would be like, and when it would come.
I lost horribly at bingo again.
I was loitering at the desk, looking through the TV guide we have there, trying to decide whether to watch “The New Twilight Zone,” on channel 7, at midnight, or “Tales from the Darkside,” on channel 5, when out of the corner of my eye (peripheral vision is a wonderful thing), I saw someone come in, and Clarence Bliss asked if he could help him.
“Yeah, I’m here to see Carlos Noble…and,” as Doug noticed me, “Richard Joyce.” We shook hands and embraced.
Doug is a tall, good looking Caucasian (honky) type person, with thick blonde hair, a mustache, and is very laid back and easy going, very smart, observant, and witty.
He works as a plumber, and now enjoys about fourteen months of sobriety; He and I were in the same group counseling class at Canoga Park, and I had always appreciated his quiet sanity and thoughtful observations. I could always sense his sincere desire to live free of the curse of alcoholism and drug addiction.
We found Carlos, and took them down to the atrium and showed Doug around a little. Carlos had not seen Doug since he had relapsed, and was acting a bit depressed and ashamed because he had screwed up. He will eventually get over that. Doug had seen me relapse as well, so actually I was feeling only marginally less anxious than Carlos. Doug is a good and decent man though, and it was genuinely good to see him.
We were standing outside, saying goodbye, when first Warren, then Andre Laws walked by. Both knew Doug.
Doug left, saying he would drop by next week. I went upstairs to read.
I came back down eventually, and watched “Married with Children,” then went up to the sample room with Robert. He showed me a little of how the urine analyzer worked again. I then returned to my room and read some more.
After eleven, as I made my way back from the restroom, I overheard some of the guys talking about three more clients we lost this evening. Two A.W.O.L.s, Gerald Duepke and Jesurun Howard, and one for drinking, Warren Bahr.
January 7 Monday Day 117
I slept in a little this morning, until ten-fifteen. When I got up I chastised myself for wasting half the day, then took a shower and dressed.
I wrote in the lobby after lunch.
One disadvantage of hanging around the lobby is that I am quite often called upon to perform some service for someone, such as running an errand for Mr. Vasquez, or filling in behind the desk whenever the need arises. I usually don’t mind, and am happy to help out.
So when Mr. Vasquez went to the weekly Gratuity Board meeting across the street, I was not surprised when people, learning of his absence, began to come to me with their petty problems, concerns, and inquires.
Four new clients entered our domain this morning. Each of them would be required to provide us with a sample of their urine, so we could analyze it upstairs in the sample room. We do that to new guys to determine the baseline levels of cocaine and/or cannabinoids still within their system. If a later test were to discover a higher or equal level of either of these substances, it would be a good indication that the drug had been reintroduced into their systems, and probably not by accident or coercion (“They forced me to smoke it!!!”), thus we will usually ask them to depart in an expeditious manner.
I thought I’d help Robert out by labeling four sample cups with each new person’s name. I was doing this when Mark Tisdale came up to me and told me that Warren was upstairs sleeping on his bed.
Clarence Bliss had already told me that. He had found out from Mark also. Mark had told him just before he went across the street to vent his outrage at this procedural discrepancy to anyone who would listen to him. He probably didn’t find anyone who would listen to him, though, so he came back to the residence to bother me. No one would listen to Mark because he was perceived to be a sniveling, conniving, ratty, spoiled, little crybaby. The reason that he wanted me to know that Warren was sleeping upstairs was because I was the lead desk person, and whose job it was, supposedly, to go get Warren out of here.
He was right, I guess. It probably was my job to go talk to Warren, but I didn’t want to do it, thus I also ignored Mark. Clarence had already woke Warren up anyway, and reminded him that he needed to leave.
It was true that Warren needed to leave. He had to leave because he had been naughty last night. The only reason he was in the residence at all was so he could pack his stuff. He must have been hung over from all of the peppermint schnapps he had consumed last night (over a quart), and decided to take a little nap.
He had been up quite late as well, which I’m sure added to his general dilapidated condition. He had been ejected from the residence at twelve-thirty in the morning, after telling Robert how sorry he was for getting plastered.
After Clarence woke Warren, Warren being Warren, got up and took a leisurely shower, further enraging Mark Tisdale, who when all is said and done, did have a personal interest in seeing to Warren’s departure.
Warren after all, did try to kill him.
Among others.
I am told that after I last saw Warren yesterday, at around eight-thirty p.m., he got smashed. He picked a fight with Tisdale, threatening to kill him, pulled a knife on his roommate, Chris Carter, tried to pick fights with two X-ray technicians from the Breast Imaging Center (oh, how do I get a job there?) down the street, tore up one of his own fifty dollar bills, asked someone else’s girlfriend to drive him downtown where he could score some coke, and was witnessed generally stumbling around all over the place.
Mr. Vasquez wrote on the termination report that Warren had been, and I quote, “Acting in an unusual manner.”
Warren had somehow made it back to his dorm, where Mr. Vasquez finally cornered him, and got him with the breath-a-lizer. He blew a 1.7.
Today, after Warren had his shower I talked to him about what had happened. He told me that he didn’t remember anything from the night before. He hoped that he could stay with his mom for a few days. He would have to lie to her, of course, tell her that he had gotten thrown out for some other reason than for what he had.
He might be able to get an $16 an hour job in Palmdale, he told me.
He gave the addresses and phone numbers of his mom and sister. I gave him some bus passes, wished him well, and saw him on his way.
I have a feeling he’ll be back.
Sometimes it gets real hard to see this same sick cycle repeat itself over and over and over again. You meet someone, get to know them, maybe their families, become friends, then they relapse and they’re out of your life instantly, and more than likely, forever.
In Bible Study tonight, we discussed the Hebrews in the Old Testament. Seems there were a lot of them. I then went to my room and read, rearranged some new clothes I had acquired over the weekend, and went to bed.
There would be an Advisory Board breakfast in the morning, and I had a four-thirty wake up call.
January 8 Tuesday Day 118
I was woke by Mr. Pandolfi at four-thirty exactly, and actually got up at that time.
Amazing.
I reached the desk just as Kevin Rockoff announced the special five a.m. wake up call over the PA system. Everyone wishing to have breakfast needed to get up a little earlier this morning due to the Board meeting. Breakfast was served promptly at five-forty five, and the dining room was cleared by six-thirty, to give the kitchen crew time to set up for the forty or so, Board members expected at seven-thirty.
Mr. Vasquez came down at six-fifteen, and immediately shifted into a mad cleaning frenzy, which much like a shark’s feeding frenzy, can be a horrible thing to witness. Much of my morning was spent keeping out of his way.
The Board people arrived almost on time. All dressed nicely, trim and proper, as Board members should be, were directed to the dining room, where I could hear them chattering away. About one fourth were women. They discussed the general condition of the Pasadena ARC, and stuffed themselves silly with free food.
Meanwhile, in a hallway not far away, Jack Crosley was making as much noise as one could possibly make using a vacuum cleaner, merrily cleaning and slurping up vagrant dust to his heart’s content. The Major quickly came and closed a partition door, effectively muffling Jack’s enthusiastic endeavors.
When the meeting adjourned, those who wished too were invited on a tour of the residence and warehouse, conducted by Mrs. Major and Ed Reitz. Most declined the offer. They had seen the place before.
Mr. Vasquez relieved me early so I could catch a bus downtown for my big dentist’s appointment at the Claude Hudson Medical Clinic.
I got there at one-thirty seven, for a two o’clock appointment. I was seated in the dentist’s chair at two oh one, and the horror that followed lasted exactly twenty-seven minutes.
I was there to have my teeth cleaned.
The tool that is used to clean a person’s teeth is not a drill, I know this. It is more like a vibrating jackhammer specifically designed to chisel away at plaque and tarter build up, ridding the oral cavity of enclaves where infection and tooth decay can promulgate. It is a deceptively safe and harmless looking device, that put into the right hands causes the maximum amount of discomfort to a patient, without actually requiring physical restraints in order to keep them still. The dentist will methodically search out the most sensitive areas for exploration, utilizing unnerving cunning and patience, all the while duping his helpless and unsuspecting quarry into a false sense of security and calm, the plunge his weapon, mercilessly and insistently with quiet determination and abandon. He will finish with a particularly tender spot, allowing his victim to dare hope that the worst may be over, only to return with a sudden vengeance, DIGGING, DIGGING, and DIGGING! He (or she, whatever the case may be) will gleefully proceed underneath the gums, causing them to bleed and get so sore that your mouth will be of absolutely no use to you for 4.7 days. He will deposit a siphoning device upon your tongue, theoretically to remove debris and excess fluid, but the instrument is designed in such a way as to immediately begin migrating towards the back of your mouth, down into your gullet, making you wonder if you ever see the light of day again. All the while said dentist will be smiling mischievously, suppressing a slight chuckle, but you won’t be able to see the smile because of the gauze mask he is wearing, and the chuckle will be disguised as sighs of concentrated effort, because he is stifling himself, and will never, under any circumstances, let known his true intentions.
Which are?
Dean Koontz writes in his novel, Twilight Eyes, of a race of demons, who disguised as humans, live and breed among us, and feed off of our fear and pain, who’s only goal is the complete destruction of mankind (womankind too).
I firmly believe that all dentists and lawyers are members of that race.
After my dentist finished he removed his mask, and said, “You were great! You didn’t scream once.” I could tell that he was sorely disappointed.
The truth be known, I was too petrified to move, let alone scream.
I kept spitting out blood as I made my way to the bus stop.
I got back to the residence just in time for dinner. Liver.
That figured.
It really made no difference to me what was served though. At right about that time my teeth and gums were beginning to seize up on me, and got so sore that I couldn’t chew a boiled marshmallow if my life depended on it.
That’s pretty sore. My mouth would remain that way for a long, long time.
In group tonight, with Jill, she asked us what our high and low points were since she had last seen us two weeks ago.
I told her that everyday that I remained sober was a high point.
I could tell from her immense yawn that she was impressed with my snappy revelation.
My low point had been at the dentist that afternoon, and seeing so many guys relapse and get thrown out.
Al Watts returned this evening for the Twelve Step Study group, in which we never go beyond Step Three. Tonight, Step One was on the menu. Again.
I wrote in the lobby before going up to my lonely room to read for as long as I could keep my eyes open.
January 9 Wednesday Day 119
At five a.m. Wolf Pandolfi entered my room to wake me. I said, “Thanks Wolf,” and promptly jumped out of bed at five-fifty one.
Another wonderful and glorious seventeen hour work day here at the Pasadena Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center. I rubbed my hands together and smiled in quite anticipation.
I was at the desk by six-fifteen, and all was well.
While walking past the large screen television I learned from a news program that our Secretary of State, James Baker, and his Iraqi counterpart, Tarik Aziz, were scheduled to meet today, hopefully discussing ways to avert the impending war.
Good!
At least they’re doing something constructive with their time.
For my part, I kept fairly busy throughout the day, learning more of the maintenance and supply side of my job. I got to write a little as well.
At mid-week chapel, Major Johnson pointed out that the United States and Iraq may soon be at war. He told us that the peace talks broke down, and that the United Nations Security Counsel has set a January Fifteenth deadline for Iraq’s withdrawal from Kuwait, or else they will be expelled by use of military force. I think that both sides underestimate the amount of casualties they shall suffer. Iraq contends that if attacked, it will in turn attack Israel. The U.S. Defense Department is asking to mobilize one million more reservists.
I’m sure that I’m not alone in saying that this situation saddens me. I pray everyday for the continued strength that allows me to stay sober, for the health of my family and their friends, the ability, intelligence, and fortitude to help others if I can. I pray now for the U.N. forces, and the Iraqi forces (they are men and women just like us, and not responsible for the aggressive action of their leaders), for the innocents who will surely perish if war does transpire, for the entire human race, and for life throughout the universe.
Some may delude themselves, or be struck by temporary situations, but nobody really wants to die.
January 10 Thursday Day 120
Another long workday. Not an unusual one though.
Dr. Ed Reitz came over and wanted to do a dorm inspection. Specifically the kitchen dorms, 16 and 17. He wanted to do this because he happened to look in these dorms yesterday, and lived to tell the tale.
“It looked like a Claymore mine went off in there,” he said.
“All of my childish dreams of destruction and devastation are real,” I added, “they exist.”
Today the dorms took a 180-degree turn and passed inspection. Ed decided to go on and check all of the dorms while he was here. I had been handing out written warnings for messy areas and unkempt beds for the last few days, and the hint was taken, with all of the dorms passing Ed’s scrutiny.
“Next time we’ll take a look at the private rooms,” he said.
I shuddered.
I have not cleaned my room since I moved in it. I must admit I have though about it a few times, but have not been able to get past the initial planning stages. I need to correct this.
Tomorrow.
I passed by Rico in the lobby. He was talking to his new girlfriend on one of the pay phones. Her name is Tina. She’s married. They’re having what’s known as an extramarital affair.
I said, “How’s it going Rico? You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, Richard. You all right?”
“Yeah. That Tina?”
“Yeah.”
“Say hello for me, will ya.”
“Richard says hello,” he said into the phone. “Hummm. Richard. The deskman. Hummm. She says hello back.,” he told me.
“Tell her that I love her and miss her. Ask her if she’s wearing anything that’s liable to give me an erection.”
“Richard says that he hopes he gets a chance to meet you.”
Later, I went out back in the alley, behind the kitchen, to check the fenced area where some of the guys lock up their bicycles. I wanted to see if the lock securing the gate to that area was still there, because Dan Aspell, my old roommate, took the key last night, just before he went AWOL. He left at ten-forty five, fifteen minutes before curfew, saying he was going to the store, and didn’t come back.
As I approached the kitchen’s back door from outside, I noticed an arm sticking out of it. It was hard to miss. A lit cigarette was held in the fingers of the hand attached to said arm, which it turns out, was attached to Ray Wittenburg, the weekend cook. Soon the entire Ray came out and began smoking. He thrust his other arm back into the kitchen so he wouldn’t be locked out. Ray is one of the few older gentlemen here, at around 55, or so, who truly believes in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, and adheres to all of its tenets, sincerely desiring to make a change in his life and stop drinking. I admire his plasticity of mind and thinking. Most of the men his age who live here are rather set in their ways, and used to their bottoms, if you will, accepting as incontrovertible fact that their lives will never get any better than they are at present, and are just marking time, like my friend Mr. Schimmele, or the new deskman, Eddie Gillispie. They have no intentions whatsoever to stop drinking, even when they know full well it will eventually kill them. Eddie tells me that he’s just waiting for the Spring thaw, then he’s headed back to “the weeds.”
Such is their life.
Ray would be leaving in a few weeks to go back to work. He’s a plaster person. He plasters things, walls presumably. I began to talk to him about the importance of outside support systems since he would soon be leaving.
I don’t blame him for leaving. They only let him cook three meals during the week, and always the same. Fish on Friday, Polish sausages on Saturday, and leftovers on Sunday. This tends to stifle all of his creative instincts. Unbearable!
Ray is also one of the only two clients who have the luscious Stacy as his counselor.
Dennis Smith drove up on his forklift as we were talking. He wanted to smoke a cigarette also.
He asked me, “Am I really in your book?”
I said, “Yes, of course. So is Ray.”
Dennis seemed to be happy about this. He told me that he thought being in my book might somehow improve his chances of getting laid.
I kept falling asleep during the Substance Abuse seminar. I was sitting right next to Richard Bennett, who was giving the lecture. How embarrassing. I couldn’t help it though. I couldn’t keep my peepers open.
The beautiful Stacy returned to us this evening, back from a two-week vacation. She has such a nice smile. Women generally do. She reported that she had gone deep sea fishing while on her vacation, and that she had caught the biggest fish in her group. It had been a rock cod, she said.
If I were a fish, and had to be caught, I’d want Stacy to catch me.
She had caught another fish as well, she said. She couldn’t remember the name of it, but that it had been big and green.
I used to fish. I used to like it too. Then one day I got tired of killing things, even dumb little fish, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I was very tired by the time I got finished for the day, so went to sleep pretty quickly after I went to bed.
Before sleep did reach me I thought about my country being one day closer to war.
January 11 Friday Day 121
I slept in a little this morning. After lunch, I wrote, then got ready for work. Work went well, for me.
Mr. Vasquez had a rough time of it though.
At five-thirty I notice Ray Hunt passing by the desk. Ray is one of our truck drivers, who had recently strained his back, and was currently using crutches to help alleviate the pain he was experiencing. I asked him if he would mind sitting in on the new client orientation this evening. He gave me a puzzled look and asked why. I told him that I wanted to use him as an example of what happens to those who don’t follow the rules around here.
Near seven-thirty, the Night Crawler called me over the radio to let me know that their brakes had malfunctioned, and they were stuck in Tujunga. I had to go get Mr. Vasquez, who at that very moment had sent Reuben Smith down to get me because he had locked himself out of his room again, and was standing around in his underwear waiting for me to come up and let him back in his room using my master key.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” was his reaction upon learning of the stalled truck.
He took Jack De Wilde, our mechanic, and Ray Hunt (the only available truck driver) to Tujunga in another truck to rescue Lee Franklin and Dennis.
When they arrived they gave the truck they had arrived in to Lee and Dennis so they could finish their route. Robert, Ray, and Jack stayed to try to patch up the brake system well enough to get the vehicle back to Pasadena. While making this attempt, Mr. Vasquez and Jack were working under the truck’s hood, having given Ray, who was behind the wheel, express instructions to not start the engine.
I guess Ray didn’t hear them very well, or had thought they had told him to start the engine, which he promptly did, which caused Robert and Jack to immediately be sprayed profusely with a gooey combination of brake fluid and motor oil.
Such is life. Sometimes it is our fate to be sprayed profusely with brake fluid and motor oil.
Eddie Acuna later came by and talked with me at the desk. He told me that I should follow his advice more often, and learn how to speak Spanish. He said that they only spoke Spanish in Heaven.
Nicky Paloma checked out. He had only been here a few days, and he seemed in a bit of a hurry to leave. Sam Varela did not return by curfew.
Mr. Vasquez locked himself out of his room once more.
And I would find out the next morning that someone had stolen my long time friend and advisor, Noah the Parrot.
January 12 Saturday Day 122
I slept in until lunchtime. When I came down I learned of Noah’s disappearance.
“We’re missing our parrot, and this is the prime suspect,” Robert said, holding Nicky Paloma’s file card for me to see. “That’s why I continue to say, check all bags! Coming and going. If these guys give you any trouble, tell me, and their outa here.”
“Somebody stole Noah!” I couldn’t believe it. “Someone would take a bird from its cage, stuff it in a bag, and walk past us and out the door?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what happened. He probably took Noah, bless her little soul, and sold it to get some dope, or to impress his little girlfriend he had over here the other day. He was seen tampering with the cage after Robinson put up the cover for the night. Gillespie tells me he was in a big hurry to get out of here, and that he was carrying a small bag. All the circumstantial evidence points to Paloma.”
I still couldn’t believe it! Of all the things that are worth something around here; televisions, VCRs, radios, office equipment, Stacy, items that are actually worth stealing, somebody instead had birdnapped my friend Noah.
To top it off the suspected theft had occurred on my shift!
I was really pissed off.
I remembered working with mistreated animals during a three year stint as a veterinary assistant. That got me really angry too. I remembered feelings of hatred for the owners of those abused creatures, and desiring to extract some type of revenge upon them. At those times my regard for human intelligence and self-awareness, the qualities that supposedly set us apart from, and one step above the rest of our animal cousins, was at an all-time low. During those times I certainly cared more for the lives and welfare of those defenseless, innocent, and trusting dogs, cats, and gerbils, than I did for those “humans” that were responsible for their care.
I did not feel kindly for Mr. Paloma. No one around here did. Noah was well liked.
Noah was… is a fine and noble bird. A friend, confidant, a hell of a good listener. I will miss her sagely comments and kind chatter. Her substantial wit, and famine charm.
I hope she bites Paloma’s hand off.
Once someone made the mistake of sticking his nose inside of Noah’s cage. They came away minus a good chunk of that appendage. He never did it again.
Latter in the evening, Eddie Acuna and I, chased away some people who were helping themselves to some donated furniture near the trailer drop off. I wasn’t too happy about any kind of thievery today, and it made me feel a little better about losing Noah.
Also today, Congress gave its approval to the President to go to war if he should happen to think that a wise course.
It’s good to have permission.
January 13 Sunday Day 123
The Major chuckled when he heard of Noah’s theft. Either he couldn’t believe that someone would want to steal her, or he didn’t care all that much for the bird. I believe it was a little of both.
I have been told that once while the Major was escorting some VIPs around the facility, one of them, a Major’s wife, tried to coax Noah into speaking. The bird was stonily quiet however, as only she could be sometimes. Major Johnson, wishing to be a gracious host and brown noser, came to his guests aid and attempted to get Noah to say a few words. Dear reader, knowing Noah as well as you must by now, I am sure you can guess what transpired. The Major succeeded, much to everyone’s astonishment.
“Fuck you, baby!” Noah squawked.
The atrium cleared out immediately.
Major Johnson suggested that we call the police and make a missing bird report.
Later, I took a walk down Fair Oaks Boulevard. It really is wonderful living in Southern California. It was a warm, almost hot and sunny day. While most of the country was shivering and hiding under the covers, I had to take my coat off to keep from sweating.
The weather’s just too great. Who cares about the crime, gang warfare, drive-by-shootings, overcrowding, gamma ray bursters, pollution, and traffic problems?
When I returned I wrote a letter to my dear, sweat sister. To me, it seemed like a nice letter. Sometimes my sister and mother have a little trouble understanding, or coping with my sense of humor. I can’t blame them. After all, they are both relatively normal individuals.
I hoped my sister would like my letter.
I then did something I haven’t done for quite a while, for over a year actually. I sat down and watched and entire football game on TV. It was a playoff game, which made it especially interesting. My favorite team, the Los Angeles Raiders, beat the snot out of the sissy Cincinnati Bengals. 20 to 10.
Russell Burke walked by while I was watching it. He said, “Hi.”
It pains me to say that I don’t believe the Raiders will make it to the Super bowl. They’ll probably get creamed by Buffalo next week.
Suddenly it occurred to me that it was exceptionally odd, a luxury to be able to concern myself with such a trivial event like a football game. I felt some shame when I began to wonder what it was like for the people in Iraq, or Israel, or Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait right now, wondering what they were doing to pass the time on a Sunday afternoon. What they were thinking about.
It occurred to me they might be concerned they would not be alive to see another Sunday.
I ate dinner with Mr. Vasquez, then helped Joe Najar pack his stuff. Mr. Vasquez had discovered an unexplained increase of cannabinoid by-products in Joe’s urine.
I watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” which seemed to be showing first run episodes again. This one was about a Vulcan traitor, and Mr. Data learning to dance.
I fell asleep watching “Married with Children.”
January 14 Monday Day 124
I had put in for a five-thirty wake up, but Clarence forgot to write my name down on the wake up list, so Pandolfi didn’t wake me, resulting in my sleeping, quite blissfully I might add, clear through till nine-forty five.
I had planned to go to Pasadena’s Municipal Court this morning, and take care of that little legal problem I mentioned before. I had even gotten a nice letter from Clarence Orion, describing the ARC’s program, and what a conscientious person I’ve become, and all.
I have hesitated until now, mainly because I tend to dislike putting my fate into other’s hands. I realize now that they really can’t do much to me for a simple drunk in public charge, and failure to appear, especially if I surrender to the court of my own free will. Or I hoped they couldn’t. I also knew I would feel much better after getting this cleared up, and it was no longer hanging over my head.
But since Clarence Bliss neglected to add my name to the wake up list, I didn’t go to court, and a fugitive I’ll remain.
For a little while at least. I feel a fond kinship with Richard Kimble.
As I was busy writing in the lobby the renowned Zulu Brothers passed by (Rico Montgomery and Reuben Smith) on their way to the small TV room, to watch their stories (“All My Children” and “One Life to Live”).
Addicts.
I took a walk, on another fabulously sunny day, to the post office, to mail my letter to my sister.
Upon my return I skimmed through the rather large and formidable looking book, 100 Years of the National Geographic, and also made myself useful by helping out at the desk.
We studied those Hebrews some more during Bible Study.
To top the night off I attended an outside AA meeting. There were a lot of pretty girls there. I suppose the fact that the meeting was held at the Casa de Los Amigos, a woman’s recovery home, had something to do with that.
I fell in love three times.
January 15 Tuesday Day 125
Back to work!
I had the opportunity to talk to my counselor, Richard Purdy. I tell him the same thing every time I talk to him, which must be pretty frustrating for him. I tell him about how ell I’m doing, that I’m not having too many problems, that I’m continuing to work the program, that I get along with almost everybody, and that I’m getting used to, and comfortable with my new duties at the desk.
He says, “That’s good. That’s nice.”
Then he tries to create problems for me.
He wants me to rush into school.
I do want to go to school, but I’m not interested into rushing into anything right now.
He tells me things like, “You can’t live here forever.”
I tell him things like, “I haven’t even finished the program yet!” and “Right now I’m taking it pretty slow, day by day.”
It may seem that I’m having an easy time at staying sober.
I am.
Only because I’ve put myself into a situation where it is fairly easy to maintain sobriety. Further, I have the advantage of knowing exactly what would happen if I took a drink or drug. Personal devastation would happen. I know this because I’ve relapsed so many times in the past. I think it’s finally gotten through to me that I cannot ever drink or use drugs. It’s just not for me. It’s for other people, not me. I understand that now, I accept that, and I don’t make a big deal of it. I don’t even think about that much anymore. I don’t mind people who drink or use drugs, some can get away with that I guess, and it doesn’t seem to hurt them, or mess up their lives. Great! More power to them.
It’s just not for me. I can’t do it anymore.
I’m deathly afraid of relapse. Of hitting bottom again. Of the Park. It’s easy to stay sober, to do something like sobriety, when you’ve that kind of fear.
Maybe that constant anxiety and fear helps me to appreciate each and every sober day, and the joy of life unclouded by the mists and befuddlement of alcoholism and drug addiction.
I know through experience how irresistible the first drink can be, and how easy it is to go ahead and drink it. And after that all is lost.
I feel that is unlikely that real alcoholics will remain sober for any significant length of time on their first try. Some do, I know this, I have met them, but I believe they are few, and the exception. I would not be succeeding now if I hadn’t failed so many times in the past.
All in all, the total, whole experience of staying sober, of learning to stay sober, is not easy.
But well worth the trouble.
Jill and I actually talked tonight during group, and afterward. How exciting! She asked everybody how their week had been. I told her the same thing I told Richard, that everything was okay, that I was progressing. She said, “Good, that’s nice.”
Like a good short story, counselors need conflict and drama to keep happy.
I told her of my low point during the week, that someone had stolen Noah, the Parrot. She seemed really interested and concerned, even angry. She wondered about the type of person who would steal a poor, defenseless, somewhat innocent, 10 inch tall, green shaggy looking parrot.
I told her who.
Apparently she knew Nicky. She said that the next time she saw him, she would ring his neck.
Now I know for certain that Jill is a nice person, besides being infinitely gorgeous.
Next I attended the Twelve Step Study, where I learned all about Step Two. Again.
Afterwards, Jill caught me reading an encyclopedia in the lobby. She said that she liked the idea of me reading the encyclopedia, cover to cover. She asked if I was good at the game, Trivial Pursuit. I told her I guessed I was (how lame).
I stink at Trivial Pursuit.
Everybody does. Except Jeopardy contestants.
She thought my reading was significant enough to mention it in her counseling notations, in the much guarded counseling books.
Again, we at the desk are by no means authorized to read what is in those books. It’s just our job to guard them.
I myself, read everything they put in there. Items pertaining only to myself, of course. I already know how everybody else is doing.
I had finished reading the Tom Clancy book, A Clear and Present Danger, a few days ago. I thought the premise very interesting. The President of the United States wished to be reelected and had promised to do something about the importation of illegal drugs into the country. He decided to treat Medelin cartel, in Colombia, as a sovereign state which had committed an act of war by smuggling drugs into the U.S., thus disrupting our society and economy. As the title suggests, the president decided the drug trade presented a clear and present danger toward the American people, and began covert military operations within Colombia.
The last time I checked, in 1983 alone, alcohol, drug, and mental disorders cost the American taxpayers about $116,000,000,000.00, directly and indirectly. The trade in illegal drugs has only increased since then. I would certainly agree that the drain that amount of money puts on our economy annually, coupled with the cost in lives and human tragedy, would certainly constitute a clear and present danger to the United States. But unless we are willing to invade Colombia, Peru, Burma, Afghanistan, and a whole lot of other countries, it remains unlikely U.S. efforts to stop the drug trade at its source will succeed. History backs my up. We have never been able to significantly curtail the amount of illegal drugs crossing our boarders, never.
We certainly don't have the backbone, or where-with-all, to make illegal drugs legal, and thereby taking the trade away from foreign cartels and criminal enterprises, as we did when we repelled prohibition, thus being able to control the problem with some measure of rational intelligence. That has been political suicide for anyone who seriously dared to propose the idea. That's why we only hear about legalization from those politicians who have already retired and have nothing to lose.
Maybe Clancy is right and we should use the military to invade Colombia, Peru, Burma, Afghanistan, and a who bunch of other countries. That might just be the answer. The United States has rarely shied away from using force to settle minor difficulties.
And that's how we've treated the drug problem in this country, as a minor difficulty.
Our government is much more concerned about oil. That's a major difficulty.
At nine o'clock this evening the United Nations Security Counsel's deadline for Iraq to pull out of Iraq passed.
The Iraqi army is still there.
January 16 Wednesday Day 126
It had been a fairly normal 17 hour work day as I came out of the upstairs restroom, near three-forty five p.m., when Jerry Schimmele told me that Kevin Rockoff had heard over the radio that United States military forces had attacked Iraq.
It seems that my country is now at war with a relatively small Arab nation (although the military powerhouse of that region. We were now killing people in the Garden of Eden.
The war doesn't affect me very much, personally. I have no friends or relatives over there to worry about. My routine for the day would not change very much. I continued to Give Tommy Bommorito and Ruben Perez their insulin when they needed it, made dorm inspections, did paperwork, peddle canteen cards, make announcements, go to chapel, see that people got counseled, put up the damn bar in the Thrift Store parking lot. The only noticeable difference in my routine was that I watched the T.V. a little more in the evening, and felt sick.
While in mid-week chapel I wanted to get up and testify for the first time since I lived here. I wanted to thank the God I don't believe in for my life and self-awareness, for my families health and well being. For my continued sobriety. And for a quick resolution to the conflict in the Persian Gulf.
But I couldn't. I just sat there.
When I went to bed I cried for those already dead.
January 17 Thursday Day 127
Another day.
The networks are broadcasting constant coverage of events in the Middle East. Some of the guys in the residence are complaining, telling me they are missing their favorite morning cartoons, such as Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. I tried to sooth them, agreeing that the war is indeed, very inconvenient for all.
I hate war. Or killing, violence, and brutality, in all their manifestations. That does not mean I don't believe this particular war to be necessary. I do believe it to be necessary only because the situation was allowed to progress to this point. The United States was buddy-buddy with Iraq and Saddam a few months before the invasion of Kuwait. The CIA should have anticipated Iraq's intentions before they occurred, and taken steps to counter them.
I believe we wouldn't be in this mess if it were not for the fear our leaders have that our nation's supply of oil will be affected by Iraq's invasion. That's the only reason that makes any sense. True, we will also be liberating the Kuwaiti's from the cruel mistreatment they are sure to face under Saddam's influence, but our nation has no history of coming to the rescue of other nations under duress unless we've been provoked (Pearl Harbor), or our national interests were in some form of jeopardy (WW I, or the perceived threat of world domination of communism). Is the high price of oil worth dying and killing for? Apparently it is, according to President Bush. True, Saddam Husain is a sociopathic mass killer, but that didn't bother us when he was at war with Iran. Hell, we supplied him with weapons! But threaten our oil supply, and look out...
Again, I'd have a real problem going to war just to keep the price of gasoline low. A real problem.
I'm continously amazed at what is tolerated in this world, what our political process is helpless to do anything about, how selfish self-interest transcends the common good. Homelessness in the United States, overpopulation in the world, low birth rates in other countries, destruction of our natural resources. I'm amazed at these things. This is our home, the only one we're likely to have until (if) we colonize the solar system. But there are politicians on Washington who would trade clean air for themselves and their children, or let our planet suffer a runaway green house effect (like Venus) just to make a buck, and maintain their high standard of living.
Amazing.
Every time I see pictures in the paper or on television of joint sessions of Congress I'm reminded of the old children's program Romper Room. I don't know why.
I'm further amazed (are you amazed that I'm amazed?) that the various religions throughout the world, creations myths and fables invented by man, and used by him (or her) to cope with life's hardships, immaturity, and existential loneliness, can at the same time be used by ruthless individuals to gain enormous personal power in the guise of righteousness and piety, to cause the death of millions upon millions throughout recorded history.
Except for possible the influenza virus, religion is the greatest killer of mankind (and womankind). I wish we could do without it. I don't care for all of the blood.
It amazes me when people profess to be overly concerned with life after death, or use religion to condone certain destructive behavior. That tells me they live in some other time other that the present, which also allows them be immune, or unconcerned about their earthly conduct or life, expecting some reward or paradise after their dead. And that belief, no matter how sincerely felt, is based on nothing more substantial than mere here-say, whether from the Bible, Koran, parents, peers, or whatever. Is unsubstantiated rumors worth killing and dying for?
No. Any other answer borders on the hysterical.
We may very well exist after experiencing death, but certainly in no familiar way. The atoms in our body will survive indefinitely, but our personalities shall certainly cease to exist. Maybe there is heaven, but the way I've heard it described I think I'd have more fun in Hell than I would there. Maybe we do reincarnate over and over again throughout eternity, but eventually the entire universe, the cosmos, will run out of energy and die, what happens to our souls then? Maybe, if we die as martyrs, we will be transported to a paradise of milk and honey, and be serviced by a large number of virgin women (do women get the same deal?), but there is absolutely no evidence for any of these scenarios.
At some future date I will experience death, or so I'm told. I hear it is inevitable. I have no problem facing that reality, though it pisses me off. If it's inevitable, it's inevitable. One day it will happen. Until that day I shall be alive, and attempt to live each day the best I can. I probably consider death more often than most, which I believe also allows me to enjoy life more than most. Still, I can come to terms with the certainty that my personality will be destroyed after I die, and that I shall experience some form of an endless, dreamless, sleep. Using those terms I can handle death, for I sort of die each night when I go to sleep at night. One reason I write, and write using the form of a diary, is to preserve my personality after my inevitable death, which those who don't write, or appear in movies, or sing on records, don't get to do. Their personalities die with them. By writing I give death the finger, so to speak. Living this way, and thinking this way keeps me in the present. Those who worry, to the extreme, about what happens to them after death, and are totally committed to sacrificing their present lives, as to make their afterlife more agreeable, live in tomorrow. Those who live in tomorrow seem to want to spend a lot of their time and energy there, instead of today, which implies they care less about what happens today... where I live. Those who don't care about today (the world, their own lives, other people's lives, or whatever happens to anything, doesn't matter to them because they plan a greater existence in the hereafter), make me nervous.
Put more simply; religious fanaticism makes me nervous. Really nervous.I'm continously amazed at what is tolerated in this world, what our political process is helpless to do anything about, how selfish self-interest transcends the common good. Homelessness in the United States, overpopulation in the world, low birth rates in other countries, destruction of our natural resources. I'm amazed at these things. This is our home, the only one we're likely to have until (if) we colonize the solar system. But there are politicians on Washington who would trade clean air for themselves and their children, or let our planet suffer a runaway green house effect (like Venus) just to make a buck, and maintain their high standard of living.
Amazing.
Every time I see pictures in the paper or on television of joint sessions of Congress I'm reminded of the old children's program Romper Room. I don't know why.
I'm further amazed (are you amazed that I'm amazed?) that the various religions throughout the world, creations myths and fables invented by man, and used by him (or her) to cope with life's hardships, immaturity, and existential loneliness, can at the same time be used by ruthless individuals to gain enormous personal power in the guise of righteousness and piety, to cause the death of millions upon millions throughout recorded history.
Except for possible the influenza virus, religion is the greatest killer of mankind (and womankind). I wish we could do without it. I don't care for all of the blood.
It amazes me when people profess to be overly concerned with life after death, or use religion to condone certain destructive behavior. That tells me they live in some other time other that the present, which also allows them be immune, or unconcerned about their earthly conduct or life, expecting some reward or paradise after their dead. And that belief, no matter how sincerely felt, is based on nothing more substantial than mere here-say, whether from the Bible, Koran, parents, peers, or whatever. Is unsubstantiated rumors worth killing and dying for?
No. Any other answer borders on the hysterical.
We may very well exist after experiencing death, but certainly in no familiar way. The atoms in our body will survive indefinitely, but our personalities shall certainly cease to exist. Maybe there is heaven, but the way I've heard it described I think I'd have more fun in Hell than I would there. Maybe we do reincarnate over and over again throughout eternity, but eventually the entire universe, the cosmos, will run out of energy and die, what happens to our souls then? Maybe, if we die as martyrs, we will be transported to a paradise of milk and honey, and be serviced by a large number of virgin women (do women get the same deal?), but there is absolutely no evidence for any of these scenarios.
At some future date I will experience death, or so I'm told. I hear it is inevitable. I have no problem facing that reality, though it pisses me off. If it's inevitable, it's inevitable. One day it will happen. Until that day I shall be alive, and attempt to live each day the best I can. I probably consider death more often than most, which I believe also allows me to enjoy life more than most. Still, I can come to terms with the certainty that my personality will be destroyed after I die, and that I shall experience some form of an endless, dreamless, sleep. Using those terms I can handle death, for I sort of die each night when I go to sleep at night. One reason I write, and write using the form of a diary, is to preserve my personality after my inevitable death, which those who don't write, or appear in movies, or sing on records, don't get to do. Their personalities die with them. By writing I give death the finger, so to speak. Living this way, and thinking this way keeps me in the present. Those who worry, to the extreme, about what happens to them after death, and are totally committed to sacrificing their present lives, as to make their afterlife more agreeable, live in tomorrow. Those who live in tomorrow seem to want to spend a lot of their time and energy there, instead of today, which implies they care less about what happens today... where I live. Those who don't care about today (the world, their own lives, other people's lives, or whatever happens to anything, doesn't matter to them because they plan a greater existence in the hereafter), make me nervous.
Those interested in the above diatribe who desire further information please refer to my next book, The World and How it Should Be, by R. Joyce.
The night crawler, Lee Jefferson, radioed in to report that somebody had locked themselves inside the Tujunga trailer, shouting to leave him alone and go away. We later discovered it was just the trailer attendant in there screwing his girlfriend.
Dr. Ed Reitz and I, quietly observed Reuben Smith, prevaricator extraordinaire smoking a cigarette down in the atrium. This was against the rules of course. We confronted Reuben in the weight room. We didn't write him up, only because both Ed and I were so thoroughly impressed by his natural ability to instantly fabricate such an intricate and outrageous story (to use the word "lie," would imply an inartistic endeavor), depicting the reason why it was so absolutely necessary for him to be smoking at that time and place. I won't repeat what it was he said as to do so would too much of an affront to truth, honesty, and the American Way.
I accidentally sprayed myself with some perfume that had been left over from gifts for a group of ladies Mrs. Johnson had shown around earlier. Rockoff kept telling me I smelled like a Belgian whore.
I got him to admit however, that he had no idea what a Belgian whore smelled like.
I don't know either. I imagine it would depend on the whore.
Mr. Vasquez safely returned from a trip visiting his niece in Upland. At least that's where he said he was. Lawrence Bliss suspects he is seeing a mistress.
A Scud missile was launched from Iraq into Tel Aviv today, making the Israelites exceptionally anxious. Astonishingly, there seemed to be no fatalities. I personally never use Russian medium range missiles. They just can't be trusted.
Before retiring, I shared a pizza with Tommy Bommarito, Dennis Brown, and Kevin Rockoff. Pepperoni and mushroom.
I left the T.V. on when I went to bed, listening to tales of destruction.
January 18 Friday Day 128
I slept in until nine-thirty, showered, dressed and went down to have lunch, then wrote for a while in the lobby.
My friend Warren Bahr came by to visit and collect some of his possessions. He's now living with his sister, in Palmdale. He's smoking a little dope (marijuana) now and then, he tells me, but is otherwise staying sober.
Marijuana is especially dangerous for me, because I liked it so much, and have smoked so much throughout my life. Pretty much everyday during the last five years. If I were to start smoking it again... well it's just like alcohol, isn't it? A mind altering substance is a mind altering substance, even if it's a mind altering substance. But if I were to start smoking again it wouldn't be too long long before I'd start drinking.
Warren hasn't made up his mind about coming back after his thirty day suspension.
I snuck upstairs and tried to catch a little of the news on T.V. News about the war. All the networks had gone back to regular programming though. It would appear the novelty of America going to war has worn off. Now it's time to re-anesthetize the nation with repeats of "Charlie's Angels," soap operas, and game shows.
At three-thirty I paid out the week's gratuity to those who wanted it (everyone). Don Erwin walked by and asked me what it was like in the world of high finance.
"The air is thin," I replied.
Near seven-thirty, I received a phone call from Irma, at the thrift store. She said, "Hello. Esta es Irma, de la thrift store. Vamos a poner Todo el dinero que esta aqui en la caja fuerte ahora en la noche, Solo que no tienen que llevarnos al banco... okay?"
"What?"
She sounded a tad exasperated as she repeated, "Vamos a poner todo el dinero de ahora en la caja fuerte y no hay necesidad que vengau a llevarnos al banco... tu entiendes?"
"You are ready for us to come take you to the bank, yes?"
"No! Vamos a poner el dinero en la caja fuerte so que no tienes que venir... No tenenios que ir al banco..."
"You are ready for the bank, right?"
"No! No guerenios ir al banco. Ta hablas en Espaniol?"
"No. I do not speak Spanish. I only speak English."
"No hay alguier que hable ingles? Oh, guiero decir, no hay alguier que hable Espaniol?"
I asked Clarence Bliss and Eddie Gillespie if either of them spoke Spanish. Negative.
"No," I told Irma, "no one here speaks Spanish. I'm sorry."
"Okay. We are going to put all of today's money in our vault. You don't have to come and take us to the bank. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand. You don't need to go to the bank, yes?"
"No. We don't have to go."
"All right."
"All right?"
"All right. Good by."
"By."
Later, I got into a little altercation with Lee Franklin, the night crawler. He was also this week's duty driver, and at ten, when one of the clients began to complain of chest and stomach pains, and requested to be taken to the hospital, Lee said he was too tired to take him. He asked me if it was all right if he could take him in the morning.
"Sure Lee. I'll just ask him if he could hold off his heart attack until you've rested a bit."
I quickly changed Lee's mind about waiting, and got our ailing client to U.S.C.s Medical Central.
After my shift I watched T.V., but there was no news of the war, so I turned out the lights, crawled into bed and slept like a dead, overworked and under appreciated log (coniferous).
January 19 Saturday Day 129
After writing in the lobby this morning, I got ready for work.
My friend Rudy Richardson came and picked up his stuff. He is now in the Veteran Administration's drug and alcohol treatment program. Good for him.
Still not much news about what's happening in the Persian Gulf. None that I can find, in any case.
I now list television viewing and the reading of escapist fiction as addictive behavior. When I compare the amount of effort required to sit down and read a textbook, or book of non-fiction (even concerning fields of knowledge I'm very interested in), to that of reading a Clancy novel say, the fictional book is at once more attractive and hypnotizing, and requires no effort.
I always get sleepy reading textbooks. I don't know why.
T.V. is rather self explanatory. Some, if not given proper nourishment, will die in front of their sets.
Things went well at work, until about six, the all hell broke lose.
First, a young kid by the name of Morgan, had his sexy girlfriend over for a visit. It turned out his urge to be with her was greater than it was to be with us. He was here only long enough to get a haircut.
Then Sam Varela came in to pick up his clothes after having gone A.W.O.L.
In the basement to get Sam's clothes out of storage, I passed Ray Burrows, an older gentleman, who told me he was checking out.
After getting Sam his stuff, I noticed that the guy who had been taken to the hospital last night had returned shortly after seven this morning. Apparently he survived. He had also signed out to the thrift store at noon, just as his roommate, Johnny George noticed he was missing a radio and some other personal items from his locker. This gentleman never returned to the residence.
Art Martinez then came in to pick up his six bags of stuff after he had gone A.W.O.L. We went down the elevator together, and he told me he had been mugged last night downtown, by a bunch of kids. It can be real hard out on those streets, for anybody.
Art is an older man, Hispanic, as his last name would imply. One of the few chess players that had lived here. He had gone A.W.O.L. after missing a bus.
R.T.D.
Rapid Transit District.
Art's just waiting for the thirty day restriction period to end so he can return to the center.
Finally, Ray Valverde came in, after an afternoon out in the Park with some of his home boys, and blew a .16. He won't be feeling too good in the morning. He was really smashed.
He won't feel too warm tonight either. It's cold out there.
January 20 Sunday Day 130
I woke up and glance over my shoulder (I was lying on my stomach at the time) in order to glance at one of my three clocks (it's good to be redundant). Seven-thirty. I turned over and thought to myself, I can sleep a few more hours. Usually, if I don't have the morning shift I can sleep as late as I want. I closed my eyes, but could not go back to sleep. I idly wondered why it was that I couldn't get back to sleep, why I had this nagging feeling that it was important I remain awake. Then I remembered it was Sunday, and I had chapel to attend.
Funny how the mind works.
So I got up and fought my way through Don Erwin and Roger Collins for the shower. I dressed quickly, and was at the desk by eight-thirty.
For some reason Mr. Vasquez did not need me as an usher today, so I got to stay at the desk during the service. I spent this time wisely. I earned three canteen cards by drawing a hundred little squares, a hundred and twenty one actually, onto a standard eight and a half by eleven piece of white paper. In one hundred of those little squares, I wrote down the names of all of our current beneficiaries. All 87 of them. I also wrote down the names of the 8 employees who live in the residence.
All this was for a football pool.
We usually sponsor some type of tournament over the weekend, in addition to bingo, bowling, spades, and javelin catching. Dennis Smith has been put in charge of these events (I don't know why), and he is given 30 canteen cards to dole out to the winners.
The bowling alley was out of order, we were temperairily out of javelins, and no one wanted to play spades while the playoffs were on television, so I got the idea of a football pool. Dennis agreed that it was a good day, and said he would split his commission of six canteen cards if I got everything ready.
It worked like this: I had drawn a large rectangle with a whole bunch of little squares in it. On the west and north sides of the rectangle I wrote the numbers 0 through 9. The Raiders and the Bills were playing the first game of the day, so the 0 through 9 on the west side represented the Bills, and the north the Raiders. At the end of each quarter of play, the last number in the team's score accounted for the number of the winning row. For example, let's say the score at the end of the first quarter of play was Bills 21, and the Raiders 3. Where the rows 1 and 3 intersected, the person whose name was in that little box was the winner of the quarter.
Very complicated.
The above score was in fact the actual score at the end of the first quarter. Hobart Rogers, the bailer man (the person who ran the bailing machine, where the clothes that we did not use were baled and sold as rags), won the first round and three canteen cards. This would not be the end of Hobart's good fortune.
I recall the last week I predicted the Raiders would lose this game. I was wrong, they didn't lose, they were obliterated. The score at halftime was 41 to 3. Hobart of course, won once again. At the end of the third quarter the score was 48 to 3, and the final score, 51 to to 3. Out of a possible hundred possible last number combinations, Hobart's 3 and 1, won three times.
Everyone was about ready to kill Hobart by the time the second game started. We had to put him in protective custody.
I took a little walk after the game.
There was another repeat "Star Trek, the Next Generation," episode on tonight, so to pass the time without fear of doing anything constructive, I read from Dr, Carl Sagan's novel, Contact.
I lost horribly at bingo once again. Then retired to my room to eventually fall asleep after watching, "Married with Children," "Monsters," and, "The New Twilight Zone," on T.V. The last thing I remembered, was thinking about how my mother had once told me she had met Rod Serling, the creator of the original classic "Twilight Zone."
"For your consideration..."
January 21 Monday Day 131
I slept in a little this morning, as I like to do on Mondays. I got down to the desk by eleven, and relieved Clarence Bliss for lunch.
I ate after Clarence returned. Half done breaded chicken patties. I sat next to Mr. Vasquez, who was already seated next to Ed McNicol; the morning canteen man. Ed, a quiet gentleman in his mid-sixties, with thinning white hair and a rather large paunch. Very unobtrusive. He quite possibly has the very best job around here (as far as hours go). Everyday he gets up at four-thirty (five-thirty on weekends), and mans the canteen from five to six-thirty. He sells coffee mostly.
That's all he does.
Everyday, seven days a week.
An hour and a half a day, and he gets his own private room, his meals, and twenty bucks a week. He makes more money an hour worked (almost a whole dollar) than any other beneficiary.
Ed and Mr. Vasquez were pondering the latest war news. More Scud missiles attacks into Tel Aviv and Saudi Arabia. So far Israel has not retaliated. Super amazing.
"What we should do," Mr. Vasquez ruminated, "is get all these dope fiends, gang bangers, and alkies, over to Saudi Arabia, set up a land attack, and make sure they're all in the first wave."
Mr. Vasquez is from the "Old School" of rehabilitation.
After lunch I walked up to Walnut Street in hope of going to the library to read Mary Chase's play, "Harvey." I soon found out that the library was closed today. I had forgotten that today was the day we were all supposed to be celebrating Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday, even though his actual birthday was last week.
It's more convenient for us living people to have your birthday always fall on a Monday, if you happen to be a famous dead person.
I walked back to the residence, feeling a little disappointed, and a little angry with myself for not remembering the holiday.
I got over it.
I walked past the building were I was once held captive by the Pasadena police department for most of a weekend shortly before I came to the A.R.C. I felt pretty good about looking at the building from the outside rather than being on the inside looking out. It felt even better to be able to walk away from that old, ugly looking building too. I felt a little sorry (not much) for the guards who work in there, who are actually much more of a captive than I ever was.
I wrote after returning to the residence, than farted around.
Ed Reitz discussed Israel's place in the current war during Bible Study. At least I think that was what he was talking about.
Afterwards I retired to the canteen and ate an egg and cheese sandwich while talking to Reuben Smith about his striving towards "blackness." Reuben and I both come from the San Fernando Valley, which is located to the northwest of the San Gabriel Valley, where Pasadena is located. Besides from that we don't have a whole lot in common, except we're bot slightly crazy. Reuben is very thin, about six feet tall, with a dark complexion. He has a quick wit, and is extremely bright, and very funny. He has a little problem dealing with reality though (who doesn't?). He refuses to watch horror, or science fiction movies because they give him bad nightmares. Anyway, Reuben told me that he has 50% American Indian blood in him, but he wants to be black, like Rico Montgomery, the other half of the famous Zulu brothers. Rico has made Reuben an honorary black man, you see. Reuben's now a "brother." He's also the only one around here that I know of who can juggle.
He's up to three bowling pins now.
I spent the remainder of the evening in my room, reading. I finished the Sagan book. Very good. I then read some of Concepts of Chemical Dependency, concerning addiction to tobacco. Then I decided to quit smoking tomorrow. Next, I watched a television program on channel 28, a local P.B.S. station, about the African Rift Valley. And finally, the last thing I did before I went to sleep, I read two chapters of The Milagro Beanfield War, about the ghost of a disembodied arm raking havoc in New Mexico.
January 22 Tuesday Day 132
My favorite day of the week! Sweet Tuesday.
Why, you may ask?
Well, I only work half a day, and I have the evening off. I like evenings off. I can go to meetings if I wish, or I can lie around and do nothing. Almost nothing.
I still have two meetings in the residence to attend. One of them of course, is with my one true love. Jill, of the flaming red hair.
She asked me (she's always asking me things) haw my week had been. I told her, "just fine." I told her that it had been a good week for me. It had been a horrible week for others, but it had been a good one for me.
She wanted everyone in the group to name some goals to achieve during the upcoming week. Something small, she said. Something that may help us to move forward in life.
Being the true alcoholic that I am, I gave her two more than she asked for. One, that I would continue to write everyday. Easy.
Two, to read the book that my counselor, Richard, had loaned to me earlier in the day. Also very easy. The book, Intervention, by our old friend, Vernon E. Johnson, is 111 pages. No prob.
Three, to continue not to smoke cigarettes. Decidedly the most difficult of the three, but now that's out in the open, and I've committed myself and everything, I may be able to do it. I hope.
We shall see.
Today I got to tell everyone who tried to mooch a cigarette from me things like, "I don't have any. I quit," or "I quit I don't have any." They all said the same thing back to me, "Again?"
Tomorrow morning I would discover that Jill had written down my three goals in the confidential counseling book. Now I'm on record. If I do manage to stop smoking I owe it all to Jill. What a wonderful and caring being she is for her to help me like that, without her even being slightly conscious of it.
It just goes to show...
Richard, my counselor, asked me today what was the meaning of my life.
I told him I'd get back to him on that.
After another rousing Step Study meeting, where I learned yet once again what the Third Step was all about, I wrote in the lobby, then made a mad dash for the supermarket to purchase a lotto ticket. I made my way to my lonely room upon returning, and watched a very funny Tom Hanks movie, "The Man with One Red Shoe." I watched this while reading the Johnson book.
One line from this movie has always stood out in my mind. Tom has just been struck down by an errant baseball, and is lying flat on his back on the field while Lori Singer and Jim Belushi look down upon him. Jim tells Tom to get up. Lori admonishes him, pointing out as seriously as she can, "This man has been badly beaned."
I guess you had to have been there.
It went to sleep shortly after the film ended, shortly after reading some more of the Beanfield book, learning of snake attacks, poultry be-heading's and bunny murders.
I dreamt of Arthur C. Clarke's great Ramon cylinder rotating as it hurtled toward the sun.
January 23 Wednesday Day 133
Another wonderful day here at the Salvation Army!
Another sunny, but crisp day here in Pasadena, California.
I began at the desk at six in the morning, and did the work day boogie.
Mr. Vasquez borrowed a car from someone and took off.
My counselor, Richard, came in to counsel the Zulu brothers, and dropped off another book for me. Man's Search for Meaning, by Victor E. Frankel.
I believe my counselor is trying to steer me in some direction only known to him.
I caught Rico Montgomery attempting to bring a very nice long, black coat into the residence, for his new married girlfriend, Tina. After hassling him for an adequate amount of time, I let him bring it in. I made him really begin to worry whether or not I was going to bust him for pilfering.
He kind of pissed me off by taking advantage of our friendship in that manner.
The management knows that there is a lot of pilfering going on. There's not much they can do about it. The guys are always stealing clothes, radios, jewelery, stuff like that. It is quietly tolerated, unless it becomes much too obvious, or the guys get too greedy, or they try to go into business with Salvation Army donations. It is now my job to bust those trying to bring stolen items into the residence. I haven't done so yet, but I imagine I'm capable of it. Mr. Vasquez is a Grand Master at it, as you may recall. Many a poor soul has asked themselves, why did I take those two T-Shirts I didn't need, as they sat on a sidewalk somewhere near the Park, on a cold, cold, night.
Later, To make Rico pay slightly for his indiscretion, I caught him by the phone again, talking to Tina. I asked him to say hello for me. He did. Then I asked him to tell her that I had a coat she might like, and that I thought she would look good in. That I had intended to give it to my sister, but that I thought she might like it more. I asked Rico to tell her that I would give the coat to him, to give to her.
He did as he was told.
We had a little graduation ceremony at mid-week chapel. Those individuals who had been in the program, and completed 30 to 60 days, were given little white cards with their name on them. For those of us with 3, 4, or 5 months, a silver card was given. Mine read: "The Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center, Given in recognition of 4 months of sobriety, to Richard Joyce. Date 1-23-91. D.E. Johnson, Administer."
Very nice.
Thomas Bommorito came back from the dental school at U.S.C. Medical Center, with his lips as large as New Jersey. He had gum surgery done apparently, thus causing his lips to swell monstrously. Since Tommy couldn't use his lips to blow through the breath-a-lizer, I instructed Kevin Rockoff to stick the mouth piece up his nose and make him sneeze.
At seven-thirty two in the evening, I spotted Russell Burke coming out of the elevator. As he walked toward the T.V. room and canteen area, he spotted me spotting him. He lifted up his short arm and gave me a wave. "Hi," he said. As he continued on his way, he inquired, "How ya doing? How ya doing? You all right?"
My favorite counselor, and one of my true loves, Sylvia, told me that next week would be her last, for awhile. She told me that she needed to slow down a little, rest, and clear her head.
A great idea!
What a luxury!
She told me she had to find out where she's at. She said she would come back to us sometime in the future.
Abandoned again!
I feel so used and dirty.
At ten-thirty I walked into the library, and two minutes later, walked out with about ten hard cover books that would soon be in my room, never to be seen again. I snagged some Hemingway, Melville, Jules Verne, Arthur Conan Doyle, O'Henry, the screenplay for "The Treasure of Serria Madre," a collection of masterpiece short stories, on and on. I asked Eddie Gillespie to remind me to never go in the library again.
After work I got my clothes ready for tomorrow, read some of the Beanfield War, then went to sleep.
As I drifted off I tried to imagine just what it would be like to enter the spinning cylinder.
January 24 Thursday Day 134
Another wonderful and glorious day here in Pasadena.
I must be in some kind of good mood.
Or sick.
Mr. Vasquez took off again early to take care of some business at the Department of Social Security. Now that he's over sixty-two, he starts to collect.
Art Dean stopped by. Art's primary job is to run the As-Is yard. However, he has now taken over for the departed Dennis Cunningham, and is our part time safety person. He was visiting us in the residence to inspect our restrooms, to see if they were safe. I asked him to be very careful in his new job.
"Art, the last four safety advisors either relapsed or committed suicide."
Reuben Smith demonstrated his juggling prowess for us in the lobby, with his brand new, mail order, plastic red, white, and blue juggling pins, that he got from "Juggling for the Klutz," magazine. He's pretty good.
I was peacefully minding my own business up in the sample room, when Ed Reitz called, and asked me to collect urine samples from everyone who lived in dorm 13, especially Clay Arnold. He let me know that he didn't suspect Clay (right!), but just needed a sample from him. I said, okay, no problem.
I went downstairs and took a look at the roster to see who exactly lived in dorm 13. Clay, three new clients, and Kevin Rockoff. I labeled up some sample jars, and gave one to Kevin. I thought to myself (why I do these things is beyond me) since Kevin is getting tested, why not test the rest of the desk crew, including myself.
So I went into the Major's restroom and gave up a sample. It wasn't hard. I felt a little awkward, or anxious doing this, thinking (remembering Van Nuys) what if the test screws up, or the machine makes a mistake. Reason overcame trepidation, as I felt the odds of mechanical or human error to be extremely low, I being one of the three human beings who would ever touch the sample. I got Clarence Bliss to donate also.
Ed called again. He directed me to bring a sample jar and marking pen to his office, immediately. I said, okay, sure.
Ed had gotten a tip from an anonymous source (Charles Parsons) that one of the employees in the large appliance shop had been trying to sell cocaine to some of our clients. Ernie Sens took the sample container that I brought, and got a sample from the suspect, then returned it to Ed. The suspect subsequently confessed, then quit.
The test results did confirm that he had been using cocaine and marijuana. One of the new guys had smoked a little grass before coming in also. We will test him again in a week to make sure his cannabinoid level has gone down.
Clay and Kevin showed negative. So did Clarence.
So did I, thank god. I was worried about using drugs unconsciously.
Hey, it can happen.
Ed had urine fever. He kept taking names from the roster, and asked me to get samples. He gave me about 16 names.
So then our little refrigerator upstairs in the sample room got chock full up with urine. A fact that fills our diabetic clients (who keep their insulin in there) with dread.
When Mr. Vasquez was shown all of the urine sample he would be required to run tomorrow, he briefly commented. I will not repeat what it was he said.
Mr. Vasquez told me that while riding on the R.T.D. today, he managed to lose one of his possessions... again. This time it was an overnight bag. He has a tendency to fall asleep while riding the bus, and may or may not wake up in time to get off at his intended destination. Quite often, it seems, as he wakes and rushes down the bus isle, frantically explaining to the driver that he has just missed his stop, he leaves his stuff on the seat. Hence, his lost possessions.
Shirley and Stacy were both here today. Shirley so briefly that I didn't get a chance to see her, or say hello. Stacy caught me reading the "Intervention," book. I told her what it was about. She kept saying, "Good for you," as if it was unusual for her to know someone who read books.
One of the men asked me why it was we were taking so many samples today.
I gave him a smart ass reply. "Well, let's see. Here we are in a drug rehabilitation center. WHAT DO YOU THINK? It's because we trust you guys so much."
Another then complained that this was a poor example of a Christian organization, because of all this lack of trust.
"Well, let's examine that hypothesis. Here we are in a residence that houses over a hundred alcoholics and drug addicts, proven thieves and opportunists. Birdsnatchers! You, yourself," I told the man, "steal the newspaper out of the library every chance you get. Don't talk to me about trust! The people I trust don't mind the tests."
After work I finished reading the "Interventions," book, thus completing one of my three goals for the week.
I watched the news, and discovered that today was the first day in a week that no missiles were fired from Iraq.
I finished a chapter from Beanfield, then drifted off.
January 25 Friday Day 135
Another wonderful day.
I got up after nine. I woke because I could hear Mr. Vasquez rummaging around in his room, making all kinds of noise. I don't know what he was doing in there.
I shifted out of bed and got last night's drawer money from my desk, opened my door, and confronted Robert.
His door was open. That's why I could hear him while he rummaged around, why I could hear him so clearly.
"Here's last night's money, sir," I said.
"Oh yeah. From now on, don't take over the "cash" receipts, because I've got the cash, you know. You just take over the "extra work" and the "I.O.U.s." I'll take over the "cash." All right? All right."
"All right. I was going to ask you about that."
"You all right, sir?" he asked. Had he been hanging around Rico?
"Yeah, I'm all right."
"You don't look it," he said.
So I went and took a shower and myself more presentable. Then went downstairs and wrote and read out of the Frankel book.
During my shift, I made Mr. Vasquez hand out gratuities and give New Client Orientation. It's not that I physically forced him, or anything like that. I just suggested that he do it in a way that made it difficult for him to refuse. I out-manipulated him.
Being an alcoholic, that's rather easy for me to do. Alcoholics are masters of manipulation. Except when they're trying to manipulate other alcoholics. That's why with Mr. Vasquez, I only get my way 50% of the time.
I doled out five dollars from my meager funds and gave it to Tom Rotsch. He was making a rubber band gun for me. I intend to give the gun to my beautiful little niece, Keri, for her seventh birthday. My sister, Cheryl, would truly love me for this. Keri is precocious enough without being armed. The gun would be customized. It would have Keri's name engraved on it, plus the words, "Secret Agent 6 1/2."
Tonight we hosted a graduation ceremony for students from Pacific Oaks College (which is located here in Pasadena), who had graduated from the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Counseling Program. Including their guests, there was about 85 people in all. The graduation was held in the chapel, and the reception, in the atrium. The poor little yellow parakeet (Esmerelda) looked as if it were suffering a stroke. All the elegantly dressed men and women stood around its cage, commenting on how cute it looked, as it shivered in stark terror at all the strangers invading its normally quiet and peaceful territory.
Of course I appreciated all of the lovely ladies walking around. It certainly was a nice change of pace. One gets tired of looking at men all of the time. I sat behind the desk, on our one bar stool (observation platform), so I could have an un-obstructed view of the proceedings. I assumed a stoic expression upon my face, as if to say I had everything completely under control. I'm positive I dazzled all the females with my cool indifference and efficient manner (they didn't pay the least bit of attention to me).
Later, after all of the merry making had concluded, Roger Collins, the canteen man, must have thought I wasn't as comfortable as I looked while sitting behind my desk reading a book, and assumed I would be happier and much better off by listening to all of his personal problems, and about how inconvenient it was for him to fill customers cups with hot water.
After listening to him whine for about half an hour or so, I did two things. First, I realized what a pathetic existence this man led, how lonely he was, and how unwilling to change. Second, I stole four cups of soap powder from the canteen (two for me, two for Eddie Gillespie), as payment for being subjected to Roger's barrage of bullshit. One could consider this my first payment for therapy rendered.
After work, I retired to my lonely room and watched "Nightline," on channel 7. War news. Iraq has dumped massive amounts of oil into the Persian Gulf from Kuwait, creating a huge oil slick. This may muck up (literally) the desalination plants in Saudi Arabia, where that country gains much of its fresh water.
President Bush doesn't seem too worried about it though. Then again, it's not his country, is it?
I read for a while, then went to sleep. I dreamt I was approaching the final airlock to the interior of the great cylinder.
January 26 Saturday Day 136
I got up rather early today. I don't know exactly why. Maybe, the vague feeling that I could get more accomplished out of bed then in it.
I was hungry too, so I went down to breakfast, and was immediately sorry for it. I could actually feel the globules of fat coursing through my veins as I munched down my sausage and pancakes, which was vigorously saturated with thick maple syrup.
I walked to the supermarket and purchased a very nice birthday card for my soon-to-be seven year old niece. There was a picture of a unicorn on the card's face. A purple one (very rare).
Then I tried to buy some lotto tickets from the lotto machine they have there, but there was a problem with the printer, and the machine ate my two dollars. The clerk, who was a real live individual, was good enough to give me a refund.
I took this failure to purchase my tickets as a sign from God that if I bought my tickets elsewhere I would surely win. I walked to a liquor store, near the intersection of California and Fair Oaks, but that store was closed, and there was no other store near by that dealt in lottery tickets.
Maybe this was a sign from God that I was not destined to win today.
I returned to the residence and wrote in the lobby.
This turned out to be a bad move on my part. Mr. Vasquez was out on another of his journeys, and guys kept hitting me up for canteen cards, to issue clothing orders, and answer endless questions. Relatively soon, Robert returned and took over.
After lunch, I laughed in fate's face, and bought a lottery ticket from the now open liquor store.
I was in the shower when I heard my name called over the P.A. system. I ignored it.
I do most of my meditation while in the shower. Specifically while my dandruff shampoo is doing its stuff on the top of my head. This system usually works out fairly well. However today, Mr. Schimmele interrupted me by following up on the earlier page. He let me know that one of the guys who had gone A.W.O.L a few days ago was now downstairs demanding his possessions.
The odds that he would get a speedy response from any member of our staff were not in his favor.
I told that Mr. Schimmele to tell this man that he would have to wait for either me to finish my shower (and meditation), and get dressed, about an hour or two, or for Mr. Vasquez to return from yet another sojourn.
I began work early, allowing Robert a little extra time off before his two long days.
The first part of my shift concerned a lot of paperwork and making up bundles of canteen cards. Later, Mr. Vasquez would once again demonstrate to me the intricacies of the urine analyzer while running some of the samples I had collected the other day.
I am pleased to report that my body, my temple if you will, is virtually free of any trace of cocaine and cannabinoids, though later filled with jalapeno cheese bread covered in real butter, that I made for myself and Eddie Gillespie.
I also secretly transported a fudge brownie up to my room, where I consumed it slowly, piece by delicious piece, bit by bit, while watching, first an episode of "The New Twilight Zone," then "Dracula," the T.V. show.
I then fell asleep, amazed at what actors will do to work. I guess if I were really starving, I too would start biting people on the neck.
January 27 Sunday Day 137
Up early for chapel.
I wrote for a while in the lobby, after chapel, then donned my yellow swimming trunks, grabbed my radio, blankie, and Frankel book, and headed to the park to catch some rays.
I forgot about it being around 60 degrees Fahrenheit at ground level. With the windy, cold gusts, I shivered and shook, and raised goose-bumps all over my sleek, super sexy body.
So I came back from the park a little earlier then I had originally intended. The Super bowl had already begun, Buffalo and the New York Giants. Buffalo was supposed to have blown New York away, but in the best Super Bowl I can remember seeing, the Giants won by one point, 20 to 19.
I actually cleaned my room later in the evening. Vacuumed and everything. I also arranged all my books.
While I was doing this, I watched T.V. "Married with Children," and then a comedy show, guest hosted by Victoria Jackson, one of our great contemporary gymnast poets, and a lady I've been secretly in love with for years.
I placed Keri's rubber band gun in a box, along with some pink finger nail polish and cologne. I then sealed it up, and got it all ready to be mailed tomorrow. After watching a very sexy episode of "Monsters," concerning satyrs, I went to sleep so I could be 100% alert for my big day in court.
January 28 Monday Day 138
My big day in court!
I didn't feel like getting out of bed at first, but I couldn't go back to sleep so I wound up just lying on my side, sort of, with my legs twisted in a ninety degree manner, staring at one of my three clocks, watching the seconds tick off toward their infinite goal. I scooted over, more and more toward the edge, until the pull of gravity forced me out the bed and deposited me unceremoniously upon the floor.
Then I was up and running.
After a hearty breakfast (hamburger drenched in gravy, over toast, known throughout the world as "Shit on a Shingle"), I moseyed up to the court building, at 200 North Garfield, an approximate 20 minute walk from the residence. I sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup while moseyed. It was an overcast and cold morning, but I enjoyed the walk, liked looking at all the other pedestrians, all the pretty ladies going to work rushing toward their destinations. Mornings can be such a special time, the promise of a new day entices. I can recall very recently when I had been forced to take long morning strolls like this, when I did not enjoy watching all of the different people. I envied them. I envied them because they had somewhere to go and I did not. I arrived at the Municipal Court Building shortly before eight AM. I was to have appeared here last September 14th. Of course, I was experiencing my second day at the center on September 14 th, riding around with Larry in a Salvation Army truck.
At eight-thirty, the door to Division 2 opened, and about thirty people were allowed to come inside. We were first shown a video tape movie in which a big fat judge welcomed us to the Pasadena Municipal Court and explained our rights as defendants and law-breaking evil-doers. We were not provided with popcorn. The video lasted about ten minutes, after which we were directed to room 106, directly across the hall from the courtroom. I explained to the lady who worked there my situation, at which point to instructed to come back at two PM, as the court's computer was currently down (not functioning) and she could not presently schedule my hearing. I said "Okay," and left.
I was headed back to the A.R.C. when an idea came to me. That happens occasionally, ideas coming to me that is.
I looked behind me, in the direction I had just come from, past the courthouse to the library. I realized that it was now eight- fifty three, and the library would open in seven minutes, at nine. I decided to go to the library and read Mary Chase's play, "Harvey."
Which I did.
By ten-thirty I had finished reading the first act, when Wilson finds out by reading in an encyclopedia exactly what a Pooka is. I put the play down, and returned to the residence for lunch.
I was sitting with Dennis Smith in the dinning room when Reuben Smith (no relation) sat at our table. Reuben began to eat his lunch. For reasons known only to Reuben, a knife is the only dinning utensil he ever uses. While eating we discussed what we thought we were accomplishing while here at the center.
"Nothing," Reuben said.
"You're learning how to juggle," I countered.
"True."
"You're learning how to be black."
"Also true. I'm just about ready for my first armed robbery," he said enthusiastically.
"But what are you learning about living in sobriety?" Dennis asked.
"Nothing. I'm cured."
"So you feel that you don't need to learn anything more? That you know all you need to know?"
"Correct."
"So now you can just kick back, take life as it comes, to vegetate. Expend no effort
whatsoever."
"Yes. No brain, no headache."
"You have no ambitions?"
"Hey, I'm just glad to be here, pal. Just hanging out. What about you, Mr. writing a book on paper without lines, and how about you, Mr. Major's son? Let me tell you something. You know how to tell when you're getting old? No? When older ladies start looking good, that's when."
By this last statement Reuben was attempting to infer that Dennis and I were wasting our time here as well, that we were not gaining anything by staying here, and that we were quickly growing old within the confines of the program. Dennis and I could say nothing to that. Older women were starting to look good to us.
On the way back to the courthouse I stopped at the post office, which conveniently happened to be on my way. Once there I mailed my birthday presents to Keri. $2.40. Then I returned to the library and finished, "Harvey."
Back in room 106 the computer was now on line (working). The same young woman earlier spurned my attempts to repay my debt to society, now was able to retrieve my case number, and was free to tell me they were one judge short today, always an embarrassing predicament, and that I would not be able to be heard until tomorrow. She asked me to please come back then.
It was nice of her to ask me to come back tomorrow, I thought. Much better than being hauled off to the old pokey to insure my appearance.
I went back to the residence and took a little nap.
I read for most of the evening, as there were no cute counselors to harass. I finished the Frankel book, which in my opinion postulates that those who feel they have a purpose, a meaning to their life, have a distinct advantage over those who don't. And that suffering has value, in and of itself.
Interesting.
I also began reading, once again, Getting Better, by Nan Robertson. Very interesting.
While I was reading I was also watching a stupid Chuck Norris Ninja movie. I mean really! As with every Bruce Lee movie ever made, all the bad guys need is a small hand gun and the protagonists are history.
I worked some on my Fourth Step, and read a little Beanfield, then turned out the lights.
The T.V. news told me that some of Iraqi's Air Force seem to be defecting to Iran.
Interesting.
I went to sleep, dreaming of nothing in particular.
January 29 Tuesday Day 139
Well, well. Up nice and early. No court today (there had been no set appointment made, so I was not actually making a second "failure to appear" offense), and back to work.
Nothing unusual this morning, except that I noticed Tommy Bommarito was a half hour late for breakfast. Later I would learn why.
At morning devotion time, Kevin Rockoff went upstairs to find out who was hiding out. He found Joe Leberthon lurking around up there. Joe is a tall, lanky, pimply faced, gumby horror. Disturbingly repugnant, self serving, deceitful, manipulating, and totally concerned with only one thing: Joe Leberthon. Throw in, more than a little clever, he has been living here longer than I have, has disregarded every rule and regulation, continues to do so even when caught and warned that further offense may result in termination. . How he has lasted this long I do not know. He has been busted and officially disciplined only once, resulting in a ten dollar loss in weekly gratuity. His reaction: "That's fucked."
Kevin reported Joe's indiscretion , and I filed it away for future reference.
Why didn't I write him up? An appropriate question, dear reader. I didn't write him up because I didn't need to. He would be leaving here soon enough. Mainly because of old Joe's sociopathic, belligerent attitude, the Center (Major & Ed Reitz) had finally had enough, and had come to the conclusion that it could no longer do anything for him, and had given him two weeks to find a job and get out.
Joe was history.
When I went upstairs to give Tommy Bommorito, Ruben Perez, and Glen Merril their insulin, Tommy related why he had been late for breakfast.
He had experienced a diabetic reaction. When Tommy's alarm clock went off this morning, his brain and body did not have enough sugar, or food, to work properly. This situation resulted in Tom acting more stupidly than usual, almost helpless in fact. Tommy does not remember much of what happened. Dennis Smith had to fill us both in.
Dennis told me that everyone in dorm 41 was woke at 5 o'clock by Tommy's alarm. He said that Tommy's alarm was of the beeping type. A particularly annoying beep, he says. Dennis, who describes himself as mildly grumpy in the morning, looked over in Tommy's direction, and saw Tommy leaning up on one elbow, staring with glazed eyes, idiotically at the alarm clock. After a few moments Tommy's bedside lamp came on, seemingly of its own accord, throwing harsh, white light throughout the darkened room, which further awakened and infuriated his fellow dorm mates. Tommy blinked his eyes in response to the sudden illumination. He was trying, unsuccessfully to turn his alarm off, and then his light.
By this time Dennis had had enough. He was mad. He couldn't understand what Tommy was doing, and his apparent irrational behavior was really pissing Dennis off. To calm down somewhat, and to escape the constant, never ending BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, of the alarm, Dennis got out of bed, left the room, and went to the restroom to smoke a cigarette.
After several minutes, sure that that the alarm would by now be silenced, Dennis returned to his dorm.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Tommy was just as Dennis had left him. Still trying trying to figure out how to turn off his alarm, looking as perplexed as a three year old in an algebra class.
Incensed, Dennis grabbed the nearest thing at hand, one of his heavy work boots, and rushed over to the befuddled Tommy. Tommy, still lying on his side, looked up innocently from his alarm and his glaring night light, at Dennis's hulking form (Dennis could be considered by some as a large individual). Tommy pathetically reached over and picked up the offending device, and handed it toward Dennis. Perhaps, Tommy thought, Dennis would know how the contraption might finally be made to cease the blaring, and persistent, BEEP, BEEP, BEEPING.
Dennis did indeed have an answer.
He smashed it with his large cumbersome boot. The alarm flew out of Tommy's hands onto the floor.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
He smashed it again, this time managing (through a sweeping side motion) to disable the table light, the beeping continued until the alarm was disconnected from the wall socket.
"I didn't think it would end, even after that," Dennis told me.
Dennis was totally unaware of Tommy's medical emergency, until Tom was finally able to dress and make it downstairs to munch down a large box of sugar Frosted Flakes.
After Dennis apologized he admonished Tom. "Next time, Burrito, you're going out the window."
Curtis Carter told me this morning that a hypodermic needle could be found in a beige coat in Joe Leberthon's locker.
Ed Reitz and I, later searched Joe's locker and found the needle. Joe is not diabetic, and is a known heroin user. We spent an hour looking through the rest of the stuff, but didn't find anything.
Ed took the needle with him, and left.
Mr. Vasquez relieved me at 2:35, five minutes late. I went up to the laundry room and retrieved my clothes from the dryer that they have in there, took them to my room, and put said clothes... away. I changed quickly into my running shorts, donned my Micky Mouse radio headphones, and made my way to the park. After a couple of laps I was destroyed, so I walked (slowly) over to the mini-mart and bought a pack of Pall Malls for Mr. Schimmele. Then I returned to the residence for a well deserved shower.
I wrote in the lobby until Jill arrived for our group counseling session. She was late too, but anybody as infinitely beautiful, wise, and as wonderful as Jill is can be as late as they want. I don't care.
We discussed the goals that we had set for ourselves last week. She asked me if I had continued not to smoke. I said yes, that I had. She said that I had had a good week, and moved on.
That felt awfully like the, "That's nice," my mother gave me when I told her I was writing this manuscript.
Damn it! I NEED ATTENTION!
Later, I was standing in the resident manager's office talking to Robert, Kevin, and Clarence Bliss, when Jill walked in and asked if Dudley Spittler still lived here.
"Not for a year and a half," Clarence reported.
"You're kidding," she replied.
"No. Been gone for a while," Clarence continued. "One day, about three years after I'm gone, you'll come in here ask whatever happened to that little short guy with the wiry hair."
Jill does do that a lot. She gets a little spaced sometimes (who doesn't?). Last week she asked where Dan Aspell was (sights still aimed at his brother, I imagine). I explained to her that he had been gone for about two weeks now.
It's not her fault though. She hadn't been around over the holidays, and besides, we alcoholics and drug addicts come and go.
As I walked through the lobby, on the way to my room, I passed Joe Leberthon with all of his possessions in hand, waiting for a ride.
I wish him well.
January 30 Wednesday Day 140
I was a little run down today. Tired. Maybe because I didn't eat anything yesterday.
My counselor, Richard, came by and dropped off another book for me to read. Eric Fromm. All about the advantages of living with a humanistic and spiritual bent, rather than materialistically. A way of life that seems to have gone underground recently. The books looks to be filled with a lot of Zen stuff, so it should be interesting for me to read. I've already come across some a couple of neat poems by Basho and Goethe.
An average day.
The Major came over for lunch, stopped by the desk and asked Kevin Rockoff a question.
"Kevin, do you know anything about, or have any idea, why there always seems to be a puddle of water in the middle of the driveway out there?"
Kevin did not give the correct answer to this question (which happened to be that there was a depression in the driveway that collected water, and because of the overcast weather, the collected water does not evaporate until after lunchtime), probably because the correct answer may have appeared flippant. However, always trying to please, he gave the best response possible.
"Ah...no."
"Why don't you, Kevin?" the Major asked, now realizing the ridiculous nature of his original question, and pulling Kevin's leg. "Why don't you know about that puddle?"
Tonight was birthday dinner night for all those who celebrated their birthday in January.
"I'm not going!" Tommy Bommorito told me. "I feel I should be able to do whatever I want to to do on my own time. Besides, I feel very uncomfortable wearing a tie. It feels like I'm being strangled." Tommy was referring to the fact that birthday dinner with the Major was mandatory, and Sunday chapel dress code applied.
"Well, Tom," I replied, "that puts me into an awkward position."
"Why is that?"
"Well, because it's my job to make sure that you go, and if you don't go I'm required to write you up, and I don't want to do that considering you're a friend of mine, and all."
"That's okay," he said with a lisp. "You have to do your job. Besides, I want you to write me up as a form of protest."
He eventually buckled under the constant pressure, and came to dinner wearing a three piece suit.
Unprincipled worm.
Shirley, for a second week in a row, managed to dash in, counsel a person, and dash out without my being able to say hello, or anything at all to her. Maybe she's afraid that her obvious lustful feelings for me may surface during a verbal confrontation.
This was counselor Joe's last night of counseling. I haven't mentioned Joe before. Male counselors bore me.
All in all, Joe was a nice guy though. He said goodbye to me, and I told him what a pleasure it was to have known him, and that maybe I'd see him again at Glendale College. I hope I do.
And of course, I wish him well.
January 31 Thursday Day 141
I wake up alone in my room. There is no sound. I got out of my bed and go to the bathroom, shave, walk into the shower alone with my thoughts. After applying my Head & Shoulders, I sit in the fold down shower chair covered in white vinyl, breath normally ten times, trying to clear the fuzziness in my head. I pray. I thank the Lord God, whatever he, she, or it may be, for another day of life and self-awareness. Another day of sobriety. Twenty four hours free of the effects of drugs and alcohol. Twenty four hours of clear thinking, of living in reality, and again, I find myself amazed that it's alright, even good, to be sober. That I can manage. That I can deal with reality on its terms, while feeling free and content. I feel my life may begin to have some purpose now. And that is something. I pray for the strength and guidance needed to get through this day, again without having to drink or use. To seek knowledge of God's will for me.
I pray for the health and well being of my family. My mother, my grandmother, my sister, and my little niece, Keri. For my family's long time friends as well.
I pray for a quick and peaceful end to the hostilities in the Persian Gulf. A stop to the killing on both sides. An end to the hatred, greed, and religious intolerance. I pray for an end to strife and oppression throughout the world, indeed throughout the universe.
I pray for the knowledge, ability, and patience to maybe help, if I can, other people, other fellow travelers through this thing called life. Specifically, to help others to be free of the constant tyranny of addiction to drugs. For others to gain a glimpse of what I can see.
Wishful thinking?
Maybe so.
So what.
I say to myself, Amen, and then open my eyes, get out of the shower, dry off, and get dressed for the day.
I close and lock the door to my lonely room, walk down the short hallway that leads into the bowels of the residence, and once again, enter into this world.
February 1 Friday Day 142
The only thing vaguely interesting that happened in my little world yesterday was that the A.A. panel did not show up.
Two very attractive female cocaine addict types did, for the C.A. meeting. They walked into the dining room, and found the usual four or five coke addict type guys waiting for them, they then walked over to the small TV room, where they found about fifty alcoholic type guys impatiently waiting for the A.A. panel type people to show up, and asked, "Anybody want to come to the C.A. panel?"
The next thing I saw was the two tight jeaned ladies walking back to the dining room followed closely by about 20 previously unknown cocaine users.
Amazing.
And Art Svensk did not show up for work. I waited for him, hoping that he had just overslept, but he never came in. I couldn't go to bed incase there was a fire, or other emergency. And someone had to stay up in order to do the early wake ups, or else the kitchen crew wouldn't get up to make breakfast. I couldn't call Art, or Wolf Pandolfi for that matter, neither had telephones. Clarence Bliss, who stayed up with me for a little while, did call the Green Hotel where Art lived, but the night manager there said he had never heard of Art.
At about 2:00AM, I began to think that Art might possibly be in some kind of trouble. Muggings are not unknown in this area. I woke Mr. Vasquez, and informed him of the situation. He told me that Art may have quit his job without telling anyone exactly when his last day (night actually) would be.
Robert said he would relieve me at 4:00AM.
So I found myself with a little extra time to read and write.
Robert relieved me at 5:07.
I finally made it to bed at 8:00, and slept peacefully for two hours, until Mr. Schimmele knocked on my door, letting me know that Kevin Rockoff needed some more bus tokens, and (as usual) Mr. Vasquez could not be found. I asked Jerry to tell Mr. Rockoff, that I had already given out the last of the bus tokens, and that was that. It now being lunch time, or close to it anyway, I stayed up to catch a bite, naively expecting to return to bed afterwards.
By now Robert had returned from wherever he had been, and I stopped by the office to see how things were going.
Total error on my part.
He thought it would be a good idea if I helped him conduct a locker inspection, which was only fair I guess, since I had told everyone there would be one today. Half way through the first dorm Robert was called to the desk. A gorgeous, young, female, technical representative from Abbott Laboratories had come to explain some things about the urine analyzer. Before he left, Robert told me, "Carry on."
So with only two hours rest I got stuck inspecting 90 lockers, on Robert's shift, while he was chatting up a pretty blonde.
Rank has its privileges.
Much later, during the end of my shift, Jack Crossley came down to take Art's place. Nobody had heard from Art all day. I was showing Jack the keys he would need to use during the night when Art walked in.
"I guess I should have called," is all he had to say.
I went to bed and finally got some rest.
February 2 Saturday Day 143
I slept until twelve. When I did manage to get up I realized that I had wasted the whole morning, and this upset me a little. So I took a quick shower and got dressed.
Having missed lunch I was kind of hungry, so I went out intending to get a couple of tacos from Los Tacos. The small restaurant was rather crowded, and for some reason I was in a hurried and anti-social mood, so I walked by, looking for somewhere else to eat.
All I found were hamburger places, and I could get a hamburger for much cheaper at the residence. I decided to save my money and eat later.
A little frustrated, I walked back thinking I had even wasted more time, when I thought about utilizing a clothing order that Clarence Orion had given to me last week. I walked to the thrift store, but it too was very crowded, and I didn't feel like hassling the line. I said hello to Jose Saucedo (the store janitor, and a program graduate) and left.
Not wanting this to be a totally wasted trip I walked to the Mobile station and purchased a chicken and cheese burrito. It was good. Very good. I wish I had about twelve of them right now.
When I got back to the residence I was briefed by Mr. Vasquez on what was going on at the current time. Nothing much for me to worry about. He and Ray Hunt had to go somewhere, and would be doing a lot of driving on their own time, which was no concern of mine.
My shift progressed smoothly, the quietest one all week. My mom called me at a quarter to eleven, and said she would come to see me tomorrow. She had already driven in from Bullhead, and was staying with her friends, Dick and Jeanette, in Van Nuys.
Later in my room, I watched "The Outer Limits," then that silly "Dracula," show, then went to sleep. I dreamt of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby road movies.
February 3 Sunday Day 144
Major and Mrs Johnson are on vacation, and were not at chapel services this morning. Robert jumped the gun on retired Major Hall, and gave the announcements and offerings before the Major had a chance to give a prayer reading. So after Johnny George, Gilbert Salinas, Kevin Rockoff, and myself passed the collection plate and sat down, the Major finally got a chance to speak.
"it doesn't matter what order we go in as long as everything gets done... especially the collection!"
I did some reading and writing in the lobby while waiting for my mother to call. She took her sweet time about it and didn't call until 2:15. I told her to come around 4:00, at dinner time.
She arrived at 3:30, and we sat in the canteen until chow time. We talked while we sat in there. It was a nice pleasant visit, the only bad news being that my Uncle Lester's cancer was worsening.Having missed lunch I was kind of hungry, so I went out intending to get a couple of tacos from Los Tacos. The small restaurant was rather crowded, and for some reason I was in a hurried and anti-social mood, so I walked by, looking for somewhere else to eat.
All I found were hamburger places, and I could get a hamburger for much cheaper at the residence. I decided to save my money and eat later.
A little frustrated, I walked back thinking I had even wasted more time, when I thought about utilizing a clothing order that Clarence Orion had given to me last week. I walked to the thrift store, but it too was very crowded, and I didn't feel like hassling the line. I said hello to Jose Saucedo (the store janitor, and a program graduate) and left.
Not wanting this to be a totally wasted trip I walked to the Mobile station and purchased a chicken and cheese burrito. It was good. Very good. I wish I had about twelve of them right now.
When I got back to the residence I was briefed by Mr. Vasquez on what was going on at the current time. Nothing much for me to worry about. He and Ray Hunt had to go somewhere, and would be doing a lot of driving on their own time, which was no concern of mine.
My shift progressed smoothly, the quietest one all week. My mom called me at a quarter to eleven, and said she would come to see me tomorrow. She had already driven in from Bullhead, and was staying with her friends, Dick and Jeanette, in Van Nuys.
Later in my room, I watched "The Outer Limits," then that silly "Dracula," show, then went to sleep. I dreamt of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby road movies.
February 3 Sunday Day 144
Major and Mrs Johnson are on vacation, and were not at chapel services this morning. Robert jumped the gun on retired Major Hall, and gave the announcements and offerings before the Major had a chance to give a prayer reading. So after Johnny George, Gilbert Salinas, Kevin Rockoff, and myself passed the collection plate and sat down, the Major finally got a chance to speak.
"it doesn't matter what order we go in as long as everything gets done... especially the collection!"
I did some reading and writing in the lobby while waiting for my mother to call. She took her sweet time about it and didn't call until 2:15. I told her to come around 4:00, at dinner time.
We had some dinner, and she left before it got dark. She doesn't like to drive in the dark.
I watched a new episode of "Star Trek, the New Generation," and played bingo.
I lost horribly.
In my lonely room I drifted off while watching, "Married with Children."
February 4 Monday Day 145
I must have been very tired because I could not drag myself out of bed until twelve. It didn't seem to bother my as much today. After I thoroughly washed myself I went downstairs to write.
I had a dentist appointment at 3:30, and I had to leave by 1:30, or 2:00 to make it there on time. Because I slept so much, and because I took my time about writing, it turned out that I became rather rushed for time. I gulped down a couple of emergency donuts for two reasons. One, this gave me a quick boost of energy need for my long trip. And second, this put my teeth into the proper condition for a trip to the dentist.
While the RTD bus was barreling down the freeway, passing General Hospital, I realized that I had neglected to bring along my health care identification card and my payment papers.
This unsettled me. When dealing with large bureaucratic institutions I like to have everything in order simply so they won't have any excuse to give me any shit. I hate shit. Hate it! Without those papers I felt hopelessly helpless, naked, and at their mercy.
I was right. They gave me shit... a lot of it. They took full advantage of the situation and placed various administration procedures in my path, which delayed me for two hours.
Once I got to the dentist's chair, Dr Lin appeared, adorned in surgical garb. His eyes gleamed with malicious intent. He shot Novocaine into my gum, stuck the old suction tube into my mouth, and told me he would be back in a couple of minutes.
A half hour later, he returned. My mouth felt prunish, all of the moisture having been sucked out of it. He proceeded with the dreaded drill.
In all fairness it didn't take very long. About five minutes. Then I was on my way.
Clarence Bliss had forgotten to put my name on the late dinner list, so I purchased a double cheeseburger with an egg on top from the canteen, and chewed every bite very carefully on the right side of my mouth. I chased the whole thing down with a cool root beer.
I watched the movie, "Midnight Run," with Robert De Niro. Very good. I then finished a book entitled, "The Artifact," then went peacefully to sleep.
February 5 Tuesday Day 146
I didn't even want to get out of my cozy bed this morning. I waited until the last possible moment, then forced myself.
After I woke up work went rather well.
My counselor, Richard came by. We had a nice little chat. He brought a couple of new books, another Frankl book, and "Another Chance," by Sharon Wegscheider. This last book concerns treatment for the families of alcoholics. I do feel it is about time for me to delve into other aspects of the disease of alcoholism.
After work I took a little nap, until it was time for group counseling with Jill. In that group we discussed last weeks goals, and surprisingly she did not ask me about my smoking, and I did not offer any information about my recent relapse (I had relapsed recently). For next week, I told her that I would be lucky just to make it through my long work days. I told her that I would continue to do my usual stuff as well. Write, and read the two new books that Richard had brought for me. Things like that.
Boring.
After group I sat in the canteen area and talked to Dennis Smith, Kevin Rockoff, and Jeff Pursell, who had just come back into the program to give it another try. I was hoping that either Jill or Stacy (who was here tonight), would come over and sit nearby, but typically neither did.
After a while I went up to my lonely room, and made it lonelier by isolating in there, and watching an Al Pacino movie, "Sea of Love." It made me think about getting older for some reason.
February 6 Wednesday Day 147
After Pandolfi woke me up I laid on my side wondering if I would wake up again before 5:30. 5:30 was the time I knew I should get up in order to shower and dress without being late for work.
Not that really matters if I'm late. I don't punch in on a time clock, or anything. I wouldn't get docked in pay. I wish I would. That would imply that I did in fact, get paid.
Since I'm a supervisor nobody would say anything if I would happen to be a little late, because it really was quite comfortable in bed, and I didn't really want to get up. Nobody would really be mad at me, because they all knew that once I did arrive for work I would have to work all the way until 11:00PM. I could be a little late. There wasn't so much to do so early in the morning.
So I closed my eyes and relaxed, and didn't wake up until the pounding on my door began at 10:30.
Just kidding.
I woke again just before 5:30, and got out of bed, and did everything I had to do to be at work on time. I guess I feel it's necessary to try and do things like that. Be on time. An embarrassing work ethic, but I think it's important, especially for recovering people. So I try to be at work on time everyday. I try to do the right things. Besides, if I do the right things no one has a reason to bitch at me.
And I can't stand people bitching at me, or any kind of criticism.
I may try and act mature, and all that, and I'll say that I appreciate constructive criticism, but I don't usually. It implies that I'm not perfect. That I'm not on top of things.
The funny thing is that I know that I'm not perfect. Far from it.
In any case, I spent most of the day wondering how come the powdered creamer in my coffee was not dissolving, and why it was so lumpy.
I also ran some urine tests all by myself for the first time. I ran six samples for opiates, marijuana, and cocaine usage, but I didn't get to bust anybody,
They all had been good boys.
February 7 Thursday Day 148
Robert had been out all night. He returned at a quarter after nine, just as I was drifting off to sleep up in the Sample Room, in an aborted attempt at a mid-morning nap.
Clarence Bliss called me up there to let me know that Robert had returned, just as there was a knock on the door.
"You alright, Joyce?"
"Yes sir, come on in."
We discussed the urine machine for a while. I told him about the six samples I had run last night, and that the machine had let me know that it required a pipette and temperature check. He showed me how to perform those procedures, and then I finished off the last of the samples. One guy's cannabinoid level was half a degree higher than the last time we had checked. Hummm! We will test him again in about a week and see what's what.
After lunch I returned to the sample room and resumed my napping activities. After an hour I got up and did my laundry. Exciting stuff.
The boys were being naughty during the A.A. panel meeting this evening. I had to sit just outside and redirect those attempting to escape through the back door. I was also told that certain individuals were being rude to our A.A. guests.
Nobody wanted to tell me who those fellows were, so there wasn't much that I could do about it. I dislike rude people intensely. You might say that I'm prejudiced against rude and obnoxious people, I freely admit it.
Robert returned from yet another outing at ten, and disappeared into his room.
After work I read a chapter from, "Beanfield," then made a right turn into dreamland.
February 8 Friday Day 149
I slept in a little. I got up for lunch, then took a nap after writing for a while down in the lobby.
I woke up again just in time for work. Mr. Vasquez was here, and accounting was late with the gratuity, so what I faced upon entering the lobby was tantamount to a scene from "The Ox Bow Incident." Robert showed at 4:00, and saved the day.
I don't know what it is. I felt a little off today. I've felt a little off for a while. You've probably noticed. Jill mentioned it in her notes. "A little distant this evening," she wrote. Maybe that's true. I know I've been isolating more lately, spending more time in my room. But I usually just sleep in there, so maybe I've just been more tired. Maybe I have AIDs, and I'm slowly wasting away. Who knows? I have to check on that soon. I haven't forgotten about it. I've been putting it off. Repressing it.
Maybe it's because I'm approaching the 164th day point in my sobriety. That's the longest time I can remember of not drinking. For some reason that day seems to hold some importance for me. It keeps popping up in my head. During those 164 days, a year or so ago, I had been smoking marijuana, so it was not by any means a period of time free from the influence of mind altering chemicals. Right now has. 148 days has. And I really don't even have that, if you take into account the effect caffeine and nicotine has on me (but I'm not thinking about that right now (denial)). I really shouldn't feel anything special about the day 164 point, or pressure about making it.
But I do a little. I will feel better when it has passed... I think.
I have been told that this is a dangerous place in early sobriety, around the six month point. I guess whoever told me that was right. After all, I did not make it to day 165.
Anyway, I snapped at some people who simply wanted the volume on the TV in the large TV room turned up. They always want it turned up, and we always tell them the same thing; that if they shut up and stop talking so much they would be able to hear the TV. But for some reason they got on my nerves tonight, and I snapped at them. I know what you're thinking... hard to believe, loveable guy that I am, but true. Immediately afterwards I felt stupid, and was sorry that it happened. I also started to think about what was happening to me, and why I did that.
I was in a foul mood. Every little thing seemed to be irritating me. I couldn't wait for my shift to end.
So what I did was to escape into a book. I began to read "The Dark Tower," by Stephen King, and was half through it by the time I got off work.
At which time I went to my room and read some more.
February 9 Saturday Day 150
I started off the day in the same funk I had been in lately. I was rudely woken by Rockoff knocking on my door, letting me know that Mr. Vasquez required the cash and left over gratuities from the day before. I gave them to Kevin, then went back to bed.
When I eventually got up I wrote for a while in the lobby. That made me feel a little better. I had lunch, then went for a walk.
I passed a lady who was leaning out of the doorway to the Jaguar repair garage a couple of doors from the residence. We looked at each other briefly, and said, "Hi." I continued on, but all of the sudden I felt really good. A short exchange with someone who was in no way involved with the Salvation Army, alcoholism, drug addiction, or recovery, and I felt wonderful. This leads me to believe that I need to get out more.
My good mood continued throughout the evening. I was fairly busy with this and that until 7:30, or so, then I read a chapter in the "Another Chance," book, a very interesting chapter concerning the alcoholic family. Then I finished the King book, "The Dark Tower, The Gunslinger." King wrote a somewhat revealing afterword to his novel. I could picture his house in Maine, his housekeeper roaming around somewhere, the one who thinks he looks ill all of the time. Reading made me feel that I was in that house, discussing writing with this most prolific of writers.
Interesting.
And also very interesting, King also happened to mention the author Clifford D. Simak. Not that it was particularly interesting in itself that he had mentioned him, but it was interesting that right after I completed reading the book, Clarence Bliss walked into my office and plopped down with a book of Simak's, "The Visitors." Clarence asked me if I had ever read it.
Coincidence, or omen?
I had fallen in love with, "The Big Front Yard," a short story of Simak's, years ago, and "The Visitors," is the only other thing of his I have ever read. I didn't like the story all that much, however I did like the cover.
Not wanting to strain my eyeballs anymore by reading, I went upstairs and gave the King book to Clay Arnold, who had mentioned that he would like to read it, who was lying on his bed reading while listening to music on his headphones. After telling him that I would like the book back after he was finished reading it, I accidentally tossed it onto his defenseless crotch.
After the screaming ended, I returned downstairs and talked to Gillespie for the rest of my shift. We discussed Napoleon, horse racing, and aging.
At midnight two things happened. One: my shift ended, Pandolfi was here to relieve me, Eddie and everybody were tucked in safe and sound, so I went upstairs. Two: I had now completed five months of sober living, as far as the number of days sober at least. 30 times 5 = 150.
February 10 Sunday Day 151
My radio alarm, that I have just figured out how to work, went off at 7:30. I ignored it, and since it was on the other side of the room, near the door, I could not reach it to turn it off. And I certainly did not feel like getting up out of bed to do it.
Twenty minutes later I heard Mr. Vasquez on the other side of my door, "Joyce!"
I jumped out of bed, grabbed yesterday's cash and left over gratuities from my nightstand, opened my door and gave them to him.
"I didn't give you back the trailer key, did I?" he asked.
"No."
"That fucking Domingo," he said, "he must have taken the key home with him."
"Didn't you put it on the Pasadena one key ring, and put it in the can?"
"Yeah," he replied. "But I had to get it again, remember? Domingo told me that he had left his coat in the tailor after I had showed him how to lock it, so I gave him the key, then I went to take down the bar. By the time I got back Domingo was gone. Now I can't open Pasadena one. That fucking Domingo," walking away, "as useless as tits on a ..."
Since I was now up, and was expected in chapel in a half hour, I stayed up.
After chapel I took another walk, but saw no more pretty ladies to say hello to. I felt very good anyway.
When I went down to eat lunch (corned beef), I noticed that someone had placed an empty pint bottle of peppermint schnapps on the floor of the elevator. It was hard not to notice, as it seemed oddly out of place. I picked it up and took it to the office.
Robert said, "Someone's playing games."
While I was eating, and Joe Brown the second chef, called the boys to come to chow over the P.A., Robert stood at the entrance to the dining room and breat-a-lized everyone who came to eat.
He didn't find any drinkers though.
He did notice, however, the aroma of alcohol wafting from Ray Hunt, as he asked Ray to pick up the men who had attended services at the Pasadena Tabernacle.
And he kicked him out.
I wish Ray well.
This leaves Mr. Vasquez in the precarious position of being the only driver around here.
Very scary thought.
I went up to my lonely room and watched the last hour of the film, "Firestarter," another King vehicle, a decent adaptation that I'd seen before. Then I went to the lobby to write.
I kept going to different areas of the residence and doing different things for the rest of the evening. I relieved Clarence Bliss at four for chow, and read some more of the "Another
Chance," book. After dinner, I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation," in my room, a new episode in which Picard makes a deal with the devil. Then I went to the canteen and lost horribly at bingo. I watched the Sunday night VCR movie in the small TV room, "National Lampoon's Vacation," with Chevy Chase and Beverly De Angelo. I had also seen this one before, but it was a funny movie, and I wanted to see the part about tying the dog to the bumper again, and Ms De Angelo's breasts. Certainly time well spent. I then went upstairs and watched, "Married with Children." For some reason Katey Sagal was not in this episode, and her absence was conspicuous. Then I returned to the canteen, ate a chocolate eclair, went to the bathroom, masturbated furiously, the went to bed and eventually to sleep after watching one and a half episodes of The New Twilight Zone.
February 11 Monday Day 152
I had intended to go back to court this morning, but I did not wake up fully enough to impress upon myself the benefits of doing so, as opposed to staying in my nice warm bed and going back to sleep.
I got up at twelve, showered and dressed, and then went to the canteen area to write.
After writing I read in the lobby from "Another Chance," until 4:00 o'clock, when I went to the thrift store where I picked up 4 pairs of pants, 4 shirts, 2 jackets, 2 ties, and a belt (brown).
I brought all of this stuff to my room where I clipped off all of the price tags with my handy nail clippers that have the word "Peace" engraved on the handle.
Then I went to Bible Study. Edmund Reitz explained Jonah to us. He explained that contrary to popular belief Jonah was not swallowed by a whale, but in fact, "A great fish." Three days and three nights he was in there. Imagine the smell! Then he got regurgitated. What a blow to the ego!
A whale of course is a mammal. Just like man is. It is also one of the most intelligent creatures on the planet. I've always thought that a whale was too smart to swallow one of us.
Since I have now completed five months of the program, and at the time I entered the program was only five months long (it is now six months), I am effectively finished with the ARCs basic program this week. So this should be my last Bible Study class, Mandatory one that is. I believe that I tend to learn more about the Bible by actually reading it.
Which I do on occasion.
After class I grabbed my tape recorder and note pad from my room, found Jerry Schimmele, and took him down to the atrium and asked him about his life. When I finished I went back to my room and listened to the tape, intending to transcribe it and enter the results here. The background noise from the buildings air conditioning made it impossible to hear anything that may have been recorded. I shall have to try again later.
I had planned to walk to the Casa A.A. meeting with Rockoff and Brian Montique, at 7:30, but they had left without me. After leaving a particularly explicit note in Brian's key box, I went to the canteen and ate a cheeseburger with an egg on top.
Then I headed back to my room and read from the Bible, the Beanfield War, Another Chance, and half a chapter from the book, Jesus, An Historical Review of the Gospels, by Dr. Michael Grant.
Then to sleep I did go.
February 12 Tuesday Day 153
Victor's back. I guess he started drinking or drugging again, and it got out of hand (as it always will for an alcoholic and drug addict). and he checked himself back in. I don't know that whole story yet, because I haven't talked to him. I imagine it isn't much different from most of the recurring themes of relapse I hear of around here. Victor seemed a little depressed, which is natural for anybody when they first get here, especially when you're coming back the second time around. I did go up and shake his hand, and told him I thought it took a lot of guts to come back, and I thought he was doing the right thing in doing so, if he thought that he needed it.
"Now I'm under you, Joyce," he said.
"THAT'S MR. JOYCE TO YOU, AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!"
Just kidding. I told him not to worry about it and left him alone. I'll talk to him later.
My friend Carlos is doing well. He has blended right in, and seems to have taken to the program, and is no longer depressed as he once was. I don't pal around with him very much, but I see him everyday.
While having breakfast with Mr. Vasquez, I noticed that Rico had poured himself two nice big glasses of orange juice. Working in the kitchen, he has access to it. This normally would not have bothered me, or have caught my attention, except for the fact that no one else had any orange juice, only Rico. He was sitting there, happy as could be, smacking his lips every time he took a sip.
I did not say anything at the time. The problem was this, to come out and tell Rico directly that he should not be drinking orange juice in front of those who could not have any would do no good. He would agree on the surface and probably stop doing it for a while, but I'm afraid the lesson would soon be lost. What I needed was an holistic approach. Something that would make a lasting impression on the young man.
Right after Joe Brown made his, "Good morning gentlemen. Time to eat breakfast," announcement, I made one of my own.
"For those of you who would like some nice orange juice to go along with your breakfast, just ask Rico Montgomery. He seems to know where it all is, and I'm sure he will be happy to get you some."
The thirsty crowd descended upon the hapless lad like a pack of mad wolves.
Another example of the use of the P.A. system as a therapeutic tool in treatment strategy.
I wrote during the morning shift. Talked to my counselor, Richard, for a while. Told him how well I was doing. Lies.
It was a pretty easy going shift. All hell didn't break loose until Robert came on at 2:30.
Arthur Martinez came back today. Good.
When I did get off work I screwed around for the rest of the evening, not doing much in particular. I was required to attend Jill's group anymore, but I think I will continue to go.
Why?
Although I have been sober for over five months now, I still have a few little problems that continue to trouble me. Same old problems. Inability to stop smoking, can't keep from cramming food into my face, whether or not I have an incurable, fatal illness other than alcoholism.
Granted, I should not let these trifles overshadow the good work I've accomplished, but they do tend to concern me. And bother me. And like the true alcoholic that I am, I let them to do so.
There is another reason that I still wish to attend Jill's group. I'm madly in love with her.
Madly.
But you already knew that.
She called in sick tonight, so I found myself with nothing in particular to do.
Stacy was here though. Cute little Stacy. She has changed to Tuesday nights permanently now. She ignored me completely.
I read a little of the "Jesus" book, and "Another Chance," then watched a horribly ridicules, made for TV, Sci Fi movie, "Not of this Earth," starring Lisa Hartman and A. Martinez.
"If the creature reaches the power grid, well... well..., we just can't let that happen!"
Why not?
They never told us what would happen if the creature reached the damn power grid!
After the movie, I walked around the residence making sure that everything was as it should be, then retired for the evening.
February 13 Wednesday Day 154
There are two Majors who work here you know. Major Johnson is the administrator. He and his lovely wife are still on vacation, up in Tacoma, Washington. The other is Major Loren Foote, retired. He comes around on Mondays and Tuesdays, and works with Maggie Harbottle from the California Department of Rehabilitation, who helps those who have completed the program reenter society. Or try to.
It was now my time to talk with him. We had said hello to each other for months, but that's as far as it went. Today he asked me what I wanted to do, now that I had effectively completed the Salvation Army's rehabilitation program. I told him that I would like to go to school, specifically for drug and alcohol counseling, generally for psychology and English. I told him that I would also like to continue working here at the residence, because it gave me the opportunity to work with alcoholics and drug addicts first hand. That there was a slight possibility that I would be chosen to take over for Mr. Vasquez when he retires later this year. I told him that for the time being I liked the idea of continuing to live in a sober environment, and that returning to work for AT&T, in their Employee Assistance Program, might be a goal.
I also told him, "To hell with all that if I win the lottery! It's straight to Tahiti for me, boy! See ya later!"
He said Vocational Rehab might be able to help me, as far as school was concerned, that is. He said he had no influence over the lottery. He said he and Maggie might be able to help subsidize the cost of school books, bus fare, etc.
I told him, yes, that might be very helpful. He gave me an application, and another form to fill out. That form asked me to provide a work history. I hate forms like that. They remind me of job applications. I have to remember the dates that I started jobs, the dates that I left jobs, my supervisors name, how much I made...
Yeah, right! I don't remember any of that crap.
But the form demanded this information. I was very unlikely that I would get a job without filling out forms like this one. A prudent person would most likely keep a record of this kind of information for reference at a later date, or even have a resume. An alcoholic though? Bloody unlikely. So the form forced me to lie.
I filled it out to the best of my ability. Major Foote took my application, and told me he would talk to me again next week when Maggie was there (she was absent today), and that was that.
I did a dorm inspection, picked the best one, the best bed, the cleanest area. This was pretty hard as they all looked lousy.
I went to the sample room after lunch. I passed Mr. Vasquez on the way. He was on his way out. Seemed like he was in a hurry.
I was reading about the various diagnostic features of the urine analyzer, when I fell asleep. I woke again at 2:30 and returned downstairs. No one had missed me.
After Wednesday chapel, I had a new group to go to. Transition Group, with George Plick. George is a likeable, very astute, black gentleman, somewhere in his forties. There were five of us in the group, not including George. I was the only honky white dude. We talked about relationships, choices and responsibilities. He gave us some examples of our relationships with things, and ourselves, the choices we make concerning those relationships, and our responsibilities for them. He asked us to think about all of the stuff we had discussed for a week. We said we would.
There is a thief among us. Jack Crossley told me that someone had broken into his locker and stolen a carton of cigarettes and some money. I told Jack that I would discuss this with Ed Reitz. Fat lot we can do about it though!
By eleven or so, Mr. Vasquez had not returned. That's okay. He's allowed to be AWOL. Tomorrow is his day off. It was unusual for him not to call and tell us that he was not coming in. He didn't sign out or anything.
I went to bed at 12:30, and dreamt of African landscapes.
February 14 Thursday Day 155
Today is St. Valentine's Day! A celebration of lover's throughout the English speaking world. Originally the Roman feast of Lupercalia. It was Christianized in memory of the martyrdom of St. Valentine in 270 A.D., who in medieval times came to be associated with the union of lovers under conditions of duress.
I don't have no valentine, under duress or otherwise.
I sat around and moped all day.
February 15 Friday Day 156
I continued moping, and started sighing listlessly.
February 16 Saturday Day 157
I got tired of moping and sighing, so I got up and started moving around.
My mother had called me on the evening of the fourteenth to wish me a happy Valentine's Day. That was nice of her. I had considered calling my niece in Bullhead City and wishing her and my sister a happy Valentine's Day, while asking Keri if she would be my valentine. I chickened out though. I felt a little silly asking my niece if she would be my valentine. What if she said no? I'd be shattered.
Probably start drinking.
Anyway, today turned out to be pretty normal. Good. The more normalcy I tuck away the better off I am, I guess.
I wrote for awhile, in the lobby of course, and then took a walk before I started work. Beautiful day outside. Since tomorrow is my day off, there is a 95% probability it will be overcast, or Pasadena will suffer a locust swarm. Or something.
Work was rather peaceful. I started about an hour early, basically because I had nothing better to do. I was sorry I did so later when I began to get tired.
Eddie Gillespie started early also. He kept telling people that he had to work two extra hours, but it was only one and a quarter. The reason Eddie started so early was because he was filling in for Kevin Rockoff, who was attending a big Hawaiian luau with Ed Reitz and his lovely wife (everybody's wife is lovely. I don't know why), at the Salvation Army's Western Territorial Headquarters, in Palos Verde (a very ritzy piece of real estate. Don't tell me the Salvation Army doesn't make money), along with some of the other residents. Ed had asked me if I wanted to go, but I begged off, citing my work schedule as an excuse, and that it wouldn't really be fair to Mr. Vasquez who would have to work in my place if I were to attend. I reminded Ed that Robert needed some time off before his two long work days. Ed bought it. Not that I would have minded going (I would have hated it).
All I had to do this evening was to make sure that our undefeated basketball team got a ride to the Corps, that bingo started promptly at six, that Domingo, the Pasadena 1 trailer man, locked up the trailer correctly, that the damn bar was was put up in the thrift store parking lot, that the ladies from the thrift store got a ride to the bank, that the Saturday night VCR movie began promptly at seven, that the now defeated basketball team got a ride back after the game, make sure no fires broke out, make sure everything was locked up and secured properly at the appropriate time, sell a few canteen cards, dole out some change for the telephone, and make sure everyone was in by midnight.
This was accomplished with minimal effort, believe me. I needed to save my energy for the real work at hand; finishing a library book that Vernon Smith had lent to me: "Drug Testing in the Workplace, A Guide for Employers and Employees." Now I know a lot more about how to perpetuate a false negative in a urine sample than I used to. I also copied a table citing detection duration times in urine, and one concerning cross-reactivity, over the counter prescription medicines that can call false positives. Stuff like that.My mother had called me on the evening of the fourteenth to wish me a happy Valentine's Day. That was nice of her. I had considered calling my niece in Bullhead City and wishing her and my sister a happy Valentine's Day, while asking Keri if she would be my valentine. I chickened out though. I felt a little silly asking my niece if she would be my valentine. What if she said no? I'd be shattered.
Probably start drinking.
Anyway, today turned out to be pretty normal. Good. The more normalcy I tuck away the better off I am, I guess.
I wrote for awhile, in the lobby of course, and then took a walk before I started work. Beautiful day outside. Since tomorrow is my day off, there is a 95% probability it will be overcast, or Pasadena will suffer a locust swarm. Or something.
Work was rather peaceful. I started about an hour early, basically because I had nothing better to do. I was sorry I did so later when I began to get tired.
Eddie Gillespie started early also. He kept telling people that he had to work two extra hours, but it was only one and a quarter. The reason Eddie started so early was because he was filling in for Kevin Rockoff, who was attending a big Hawaiian luau with Ed Reitz and his lovely wife (everybody's wife is lovely. I don't know why), at the Salvation Army's Western Territorial Headquarters, in Palos Verde (a very ritzy piece of real estate. Don't tell me the Salvation Army doesn't make money), along with some of the other residents. Ed had asked me if I wanted to go, but I begged off, citing my work schedule as an excuse, and that it wouldn't really be fair to Mr. Vasquez who would have to work in my place if I were to attend. I reminded Ed that Robert needed some time off before his two long work days. Ed bought it. Not that I would have minded going (I would have hated it).
All I had to do this evening was to make sure that our undefeated basketball team got a ride to the Corps, that bingo started promptly at six, that Domingo, the Pasadena 1 trailer man, locked up the trailer correctly, that the damn bar was was put up in the thrift store parking lot, that the ladies from the thrift store got a ride to the bank, that the Saturday night VCR movie began promptly at seven, that the now defeated basketball team got a ride back after the game, make sure no fires broke out, make sure everything was locked up and secured properly at the appropriate time, sell a few canteen cards, dole out some change for the telephone, and make sure everyone was in by midnight.
After I finished that book, I started a novel entitled "The Restaurant at the End of the
Universe." I won't go into what its about. It's too silly.
I had trouble getting to sleep, and did not drift off until after four. When I did get to sleep, I dreamt of various aspects of Christy Canyon.
February 17 Sunday Day 158
What a relaxing day.
After the monstrous inconvenience of having to get up (after only three hours of sleep) for chapel, and then actually having to go to chapel (Major and Mrs. Johnson are back from vacation), and having to wade through the Salvation Army's brand of Christian dogma (I get so tired of being told that a person who suffered with a martyr complex, and carried it out to its logical conclusion, can save me), Tom Rotsch invited me out to breakfast.
Not that he offered to pay for it, or anything. We went Dutch.
Tom is a very enterprising young fellow ( a honky, just like me), very into religion as his primary means of staying sober. An ex-painter (house, rather than picture), he now enjoys building furniture and things of that nature, over in the warehouse. He is separated (two years now from a wife and two children, but sees them occasionally), and is trying, very earnestly, to get his life together.
We had breakfast at Tiffanys. Really! Just across the street from Rose's City Diner lies a little restaurant by the name of Tiffanys. It's not a particularly good restaurant, but it's cheap. Two eggs, hashbrowns, and toast, for 99 cents.
We talked about some of our past alcohol and drug related exploits, and discussed our dreams and plans for the future.
We walked by the park on our way back. It's still there... ever present. An awful reminder of my recent past. I showed Tom the trucks I used to sleep in. He told me that he used to live under a freeway bridge. To each his own.
As we neared the residence we parted ways. I returned to the house, he continued south on Fair Oaks, toward Huntington Memorial Hospital, to visit the ex-resident manager, who was there because he was dying of cancer.
I went to my room to get my notebook, then down to the lobby to do some writing.
At two thirty I returned to my room and watched "Three Days of the Condor," with Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway on television. The film lasted until five, but at 4:03 I made a mad dash to the dinning room and gulped down some Chile Mac and Italian Sausage, then went back upstairs to finish watching the movie.
A very good episode tonight of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," concerning a missing day on the Enterprise.
I lost horribly at bingo once again. Then watched the Sunday night VCR movie, "El Diablo," with Louis Gosset Jr. I had seen part of it before while in jail. I had missed the middle of it because I went to eat jail food (Chile Mac) at lunchtime.
After the movie I watched a not quite up to par episode of "Married with Children," then read for a while before going to sleep, and continuing to explore the mysteries of Christy.
February 18 Monday Day 159
I had some SOS for breakfast today. Yummy.
Afterwards I went back upstairs, while remarking to myself (looking around at everyone preparing for a long, arduous work day), what a beautiful morning it was. My favorite kind in fact. One in which I was free to crawl right back into bed if I so desired.
Which I did desire.
And which I promptly actualized.
I turned on my television before going to sleep. I tried to catch a glimpse of Debra Norville's legs, but she wasn't showing any this morning, so I rolled around and snoozed.
At around one I decided it was probably time for me to be getting up out of bed. I went downstairs to write, which took until three thirty. I read until dinner time.
I had thought that I had the whole evening to myself to do whatever I wanted, but Kevin Rockoff let me know that I was scheduled to see a Kathy Somebody, presumably a vocational counselor.
Oh boy!
She was to be here directly after dinner, so I waited in the lobby for her, thumbing through the last pages of, "Another Chance."
She soon arrived. A very small, petite blonde, in jeans and a sweater. More youngish than middle ageish, and very pretty. I fell in love with her almost instantly.
We talked about job applications, and how to correctly fill them out. She asked me what I wanted to do. I told her that I needed to continue school. She said that was nice. She asked me what I wanted to do about a job. I told her that I wasn't really sure, that I may wind up working here after Mr. Vasquez retires. She said that was nice, what would be my second choice incase Mr. Vasquez did not retire? I told her that I didn't really know, that I might go back to work for AT&T, or that I may stay here as a beneficiary and go to school to learn all about drug and alcohol rehabilitation. She said, that was nice.
Somehow I get the feeling that nobody takes me very seriously.
If I wish not to be taken seriously all I have to do is talk to my mother.
She was a nice lady though, and trying to be helpful. She told me that if I ever needed her services to come and see her.
I felt oddly compelled to attend Ed's group counseling session at 6:30. I'm glad I did, for two reasons. First: even though I am a graduate of the program, the reason that I came to the Salvation Army, and by extension, group counseling sessions has not gone away. I'm still very much an alcoholic. Groups, although the ones provided here seem to be very superficial, can only help me. Groups are what you make of them. If I can believe something can help me I would be silly not to take advantage of it. Second: if I continue to go to Ed's group, even though it's not required of me, Jill won't think it strange that I continue to go to her group.
Why do I want to continue to go to Jill's group? The first reason I listed above basically.
The fact that Jill is the only female that I get a chance to talk to has nothing to do with it. Not one bit. Neither does the fact that I happen to be madly in love with her. Madly. That doesn't enter into it at all. My small endeavors toward self-help are very much on the up and up. Therapeutic necessities.
In group tonight we discussed change. Ed asked us what changes we found it difficult to make in recovery? The guys responded with surprising variety. It almost turned into what could be called a bitch session. When asked if I would like to participate in the discussion, I said, yeah sure. I said that it was real hard to change. But that is what recovery is all about. It was hard to change from living in the Park, to living at the Salvation Army, because I was beginning to get used to living at my bottom, and was afraid of the changes I would have to make. I put it off, resisting that attempt to change for weeks, even though I was sure that it would be a worthwhile experience and help me tremendously.
Similarly I told the group it was hard for me to even make the small changes in my routine that I needed to make just to attend this group.
Change is hard for us alcoholics and drug addict people (change is hard for everybody). Rigidity is a classic symptom of our disease. But change is what we must do. It's essential in recovery. From drinking and drugging, to learning how to live in sobriety, to learning to live with all of our crazy feelings. We don't need to learn to love change, we merely have to do it.
And maybe in time learn to accept it.
February 19 Tuesday Day 160
Up early for work. I did manage to fit some time in for writing before starting. I didn't know if I would have much time for it later.
The Major and Mrs. Johnson, Clarence and Pattie Orion, and Ed Reitz all came over for an early Advisory Board Meeting. About fifteen others also showed for the informal breakfast.
Since they were all over here, I went across the street with the morning's paperwork. I took my time about coming back, but when I did return Ed was waiting for me. He wanted to inform me that Jack Crossley had caught one of his roommates going through his night stand drawer. It turns out that it was the same guy we suspected of breaking into Jack's locker last week, and then breaking into his own to divert attention from himself.
But he kept doing it. Alcoholics and drug addicts can be clever people, but this guy wasn't one of them.
We gave him the boot. Robert told him to pack up and get out.
I wish him well. I also wish he learns how to keep his God damn hands out of other people's stuff! He'll live a lot longer.
I made a brief dorm inspection, and issued three pink warning slips for particularly unruly beds. I saw Maggie Harbottle (I don't make these last names up, folks) and Major Foote saw at 10:00. She asked me what I wanted to do, and I told her. Then she gave me a whole heck of a lot of reasons why I couldn't do what I wanted to do. Basically what she told me was that there was currently little demand for drug and alcohol counselors, and the Department of Rehabilitation could not justify putting me through school without the prospect of a firm job offer in the near future. She told me that if I were truly interested in counseling maybe another "type" might be better... as far as the Department was concerned.
I told her that I was fairly certain about what I wanted to do, and that I would most likely pursue my plans with or without the Department's help. She said she might be able to help anyway. She scheduled me for a physical, and directed me to get into contact with some acting drug and alcohol counselors, possibly connected with the V.A. (Veteran's Administration), so I could check out the job market for that kind of work. I told her that I would do this.
Next, I talked with my counselor, Richard, and told him what Maggie had told me. He offered to help me get into contact with some people he knew in the V.A. We also talked about death a little bit. Death and drugs.
By the time I finished running eight urine sample my shift had ended. After dinner, I read and wrote until Jill arrived. Adorably late, as always.
We did the same old goal routine in group tonight. I had to be reminded what my previous goals had been. I had said I would go to the dentist, which I had. I had said I would write everyday, which I do. I had said I would read two books, one by Fromm, and one by Frankl. I hadn't gotten to the Frankl book yet, and would have cited it as a new goal, but she never asked me for any new goals.
She asked everybody else. Maybe she doesn't want me in her group anymore. I have to think about this.
She did say that she wants me to continue to help Kevin Rockoff with his Forth Step. Tracy Alexander too. I told her that I would try and help them (and at the same time help myself with this difficult Step) if they wanted me to.
I think she's using me.
After group I went up to my lonely room and turned on the old T.V., and looked for any news of the war. It's still going on, you know. I haven't written very much about it because it's been pretty boring so far. We just keep pounding the shit out of occupied Kuwait and Iraq from the air. I'm genuinely surprised there's anything left to bomb.
Also, I'm not exactly sure whether the Iraqi military has inflicted any casualties to our side as of yet. Our own Air Force seems to be doing a good enough job of that.
I turned off the T.V., and read some of the Beanfield War, the Bible, and about Jesus in an historical sense, and then went to bed rather early in preparation for my big long day tomorrow.
I slept violently.
February 20 Wednesday Day 161
I got right up when Pandolfi woke me at 5:00. I even made it to the desk by 5:30. I must be sick, or going insane.
Mr. Vasquez got up early, came down to the desk and wrote up two guys, then left, not to be heard from for the rest of the day.
I managed to write a little in between dorm inspections, urine tests, and passionate requests for insulin. Oh yes, I also did my laundry. Finally.
The last three pews seem to hold some fascination for the men who sit there during chapel service. They are clearly marked as being reserved, and not for beneficiaries. The Major does not want anyone to sit there. He wants that area empty incase some V.I.P. personage shows up and needs a place to sit. But the men really like to sit there. I don't know why.
So I wrote up twelve pinks slips, one for each of the gentlemen I found sitting there this evening.
I've chased guys from there in the past. I've made numerous announcements over the P.A. I even tell individuals point blank not to sit there. They do anyway. Tonight I told Marvin Gardenshire that he would owe me a Saturday if he proceeded to sit in one of the last three pews. He told me that he already worked on Saturdays. Then I asked him what time did he get off of work on Saturdays. He said six. I asked him if instead would he enjoy working until midnight. He replied no, that he would not like that. I thought I had got my point across and walked away. When I looked back though, a short while later, he was still there! Smack dab right in the middle of the last damn pew!
So I felt entirely justified in writing those pinks slips. If I see the same guys sitting there nest week, I'll do them some physical injury.
George Plick's Transition Group was very interesting, although I must admitt I didn't understand what the hell he was talking about. Very interesting though.
I kept pretty busy for the rest of the evening, with writing pink slips and all.
Ron Collins found for me what looks like a very good book concerning Zen Buddhism, "The Three Pillars of Zen, Teaching, Practice, Enlightenment," complied and edited by Philip Kapleaw. I read the forward by Houston Smith before my shift ended.
I went to bed shortly after 12:30, and dreamed pacifist dreams.
February 21 Thursday Day 162
Today did not start out as smoothly as I would have liked. Then it got progressively worse.
Days are like that sometimes.
Victor ambushed me in the hallway as I was leaving the Sample Room. "Wasn't I sitting right in front of you in chapel yesterday?"
"Yes, you were."
"Then why didn't you just ask me to get up and move to a different seat instead of writing me up?"
"You, of all people," I explained, "should know the rules around here."
"Still, you could have just asked me to move."
"Victor, there were eleven other guys sitting in those seats. I'm not going up to everyone during the damn service, and asking them to move!"
He kept on though. "Man, I've been sitting there ever since I've got back."
"Victor, you've only been back for two weeks at most. Last week I know I announced over the P.A. system for everyone to STAY OFF THE LAST THREE ROWS OF RESERVED PEWS!"
"Man, you could have just told me."
At this point I began to get a little angry. "Victor, I don't know what your problem is. Those pink slips don't even mean anything. They're not going across the street or anything. It's just a warning... between you and me."
"You still should have just asked me."
"Yes, I could have asked you, but I choose not to. I could have wrote you a tiny, harmless, pink, warning slip, which I did choose to do. If you don't like the way I do things around here, Victor, that's just too fucking bad!" I walked off.
I shouldn't have let him get me upset. I should have merely referred him to Robert, or Ed Reitz.
When I came down to the lobby after having smoked a cigarette and calming down a tad, I saw Victor outside, angrily denouncing me to Ed Reitz, who had just drove up.
Later, as I handed him the morning paperwork, I mentioned it to Ed. "I hear Victor's a little upset with me."
He just shrugged.
We then started talking about my future and what I wanted to do with it. I got the feeling that he wasn't taking me very seriously as I spilled my guts concerning my future hopes and dreams.
Not being taken seriously, by people other than my dear sweet mother, is beginning to depress me. I wonder why I am working my ass off around here while no one takes me seriously and do not seem to appreciate my efforts.
While I was sitting in the laundry, waiting to hapless individuals trying to sneak up the back stairway during lunch time (against house rules), Curtis Carter asked me, "Why do you think Vasquez goes away on his day off now? Because he trusts you to take care of things when he's gone. He never did that when Victor was in charge."
Curtis made me feel a lot better by saying that. I also felt better after reading Frankl's A Hidden Cry for Meaning. I think Frankl cites some very valid points in this book. I'm not going to tell you what they are, but they're very valid.
On the brighter side, the hot water went off in the building, and could, and would not be fixed until tomorrow morning. Instead of listening to cries of the angry hoard, Don Erwin (the person responsible for building maintenance), wisely I think, took off and spent the night in Orange County.
I went to sleep tonight, grateful that I had once again made it through another day.
February 22 Friday Day 163
I woke up and it was lunch time, thus I got dressed and went downstairs to eat. Cheeseburgers.
Nobody volunteered to go buy me a pack of cigarettes, so I went and did it myself. Beautiful day outside. When I returned I wrote and read for awhile.
President Bush gave Saddam Hussein an ultimatum today. Either begin pulling out of Kuwait by noon tomorrow, or face a ground war invasion. No one feels it very likely Iraq will stage a retreat.
Work went very smoothly this evening, which means I got a lot of reading done. Frankl.
When he got bored, Eddie Gillespie came into my office from time to time, and told me some of his old combat stories. Quite frankly I was amazed at some of the things he has done and experienced in his life. A true American war hero, no doubt about it. Pretty soon, he tells me, with the same nonchalant attitude he uses describing getting hit by exploding shrapnel, he'll be going out again to live in the weeds (his description).
That's his choice I guess.
What a world!
February 23 Saturday Day 164
I made a dreadful error this morning. I got out of bed.
I got up because I wanted to eat breakfast and maybe do a little writing. But after I ate I got sucked into the office like a whirlpool.
One of the men had left last night without bothering to tell anyone. One of his fellow dorm mates asked what had happened to him, thus alerting us to his absence. Since Robert was no where around I needed to write a termination report on this fellow. When I was finished with that I walked out of the office, just looking around, right when a former resident walked in and demanded that I take him to the baggage room to retrieve some of his possessions. I took him down to the storage room. He had five bags, and wanted to browse through each one, take whatever he thought he would need the most (and could carry), and leave the rest.
He took his sweet time about it too.
As he was doing it I noticed that Dwight Hibbler had just sat down in the barber chair to get a nice haircut. Very commendable, but it did strike me as odd when I remembered that Dwight should have been upstairs at the time doing some Saturday morning extra work (for some slight previous misconduct). I reminded Dwight that he needed to be upstairs. He assured me he would return upstairs right after he was finished.
After my friend was done collecting his clothes I returned to the office and wrote Hibbler up for being A.W.O.L. from his extra work assignment, and one other person who I had seen leaving the building, skipping out on his work altogether.
When I finished all this I dashed up to my room, thoroughly exasperated that I hadn't gotten anything written. I was in such a lousy mood I decided to take a nap and begin the day all over again.
Having learned my lesson, when I woke I wrote in my room until it was time to get ready for work. I hardly ever write in my room, one reason being that there is no place to sit comfortably while writing. When in my room I almost always lie or sit on my bed. Today I felt I had no choice, so I wrote while laying on my stomach, still very stressed out.
Work went well though. After writing the notice revealing what the V.C.R. movie was for tonight ("The Quick and the Dead," a love story), and for tomorrow night ("Navy Seals," animal antics), I had the entire evening to read.I got up because I wanted to eat breakfast and maybe do a little writing. But after I ate I got sucked into the office like a whirlpool.
One of the men had left last night without bothering to tell anyone. One of his fellow dorm mates asked what had happened to him, thus alerting us to his absence. Since Robert was no where around I needed to write a termination report on this fellow. When I was finished with that I walked out of the office, just looking around, right when a former resident walked in and demanded that I take him to the baggage room to retrieve some of his possessions. I took him down to the storage room. He had five bags, and wanted to browse through each one, take whatever he thought he would need the most (and could carry), and leave the rest.
He took his sweet time about it too.
As he was doing it I noticed that Dwight Hibbler had just sat down in the barber chair to get a nice haircut. Very commendable, but it did strike me as odd when I remembered that Dwight should have been upstairs at the time doing some Saturday morning extra work (for some slight previous misconduct). I reminded Dwight that he needed to be upstairs. He assured me he would return upstairs right after he was finished.
After my friend was done collecting his clothes I returned to the office and wrote Hibbler up for being A.W.O.L. from his extra work assignment, and one other person who I had seen leaving the building, skipping out on his work altogether.
When I finished all this I dashed up to my room, thoroughly exasperated that I hadn't gotten anything written. I was in such a lousy mood I decided to take a nap and begin the day all over again.
Having learned my lesson, when I woke I wrote in my room until it was time to get ready for work. I hardly ever write in my room, one reason being that there is no place to sit comfortably while writing. When in my room I almost always lie or sit on my bed. Today I felt I had no choice, so I wrote while laying on my stomach, still very stressed out.
I delved into Frankl with enthusiasm. And I came across this passage:
Temporality and Mortality: An Ontological Essay
Viktor E. Frankl
Let me cite a taped-recorded interview I had with a patient of mine. She was suffering from a terminal cancer, and she knew that she was. When I demonstrated the case in class the following dialogue developed:
Frankl: What do you think of when you look back on your life? Has life been worth living?
Patient: Well doctor, I must say that I had a good life. Life was nice, indeed. And I must thank the Lord for what it held for me: I went to theaters, I attended concerts, and so forth. You see doctor, I went the with the family in whose house I served for many decades as a maid, in Prague at first, and afterward in Vienna. And for the grace of all these experiences I am grateful to the Lord.
F: You are speaking of some wonderful experiences; but all this will have an end now, won't it?
P: (thoughtfully) Yes, everything ends...
F: Well, do you think now that all the wonderful things in your life might be annihilated?
P: (still more thoughtfully) All those wonderful things...
F: But tell me--do you think that anyone can undo the happiness that you have experienced? Can anyone blot it out?
P: No doctor, nobody can blot it out!
F: Or can anyone blot out the goodness you have met in your life?
P: becoming increasingly emotionally involved) Nobody can blot it out!
F: What you have achieved and accomplished-
P: Nobody can blot it out!
F: Or what you have bravely and honestly suffered: can anyone remove it from the world- remove it from the past where you have stored it, as it were?
P: (now moved to tears) No one can remove it! (pause) It is true, I have had a great deal to suffer; but I also tried to be courageous and steadfast in enduring what I must. You see, doctor, I regard my suffering as a punishment. I believe in God.
F: (trying to put himself in place of the patient) But cannot suffering sometimes also be a challenge? Is it not conceivable that God wanted to see how Anastasia Kotek would bear it? And perhaps he had to admit, "Yes, she did so very bravely." And now tell me: can anyone remove such an achievement and accomplishment from the world, Frau Kotek?
P: Certainly no one can do it!
F: This remains, doesn't it?
P: It does!
F: What matters in life is to achieve something. And this is precisely what you have done. You have become an example for our patients because of the way you take your suffering upon yourself. You have made the best of your suffering. I congratulate you for for this achievement, and I also congratulate the other patients who have the opportunity to witness such an example. (to the audience) Ecce homo! (the audience bursts into spontaneous applause) This applause is for you, Frau Kotek. (she is weeping now) It concerns your life, which has been a great achievement. You may be proud of it, Frau Kotek. And how few people have been proud of their lives. I should say, your life is a monument, and no one can remove it from the world.
P: (regaining her self control) What you have said, Professor Frankl, is a consolation. It comforts me. Indeed, I never had an opportunity to hear anything like this... (slowly and quietly she leaves the lecture hall).
A week later she died. During the last week of her life, however, she was no longer depressed but, on the contrary, full of faith and pride. Prior to this, she had felt agonized, ridden by anxiety that she was useless. Our interview had made her aware that her life was meaningful and that even her suffering was not in vain. Her last words were: "My life is a monument. So Professor Frankl said, to the whole audience, to all the students in the lecture hall. My life was not in
vain..."
It is true, everything is transitory-everything and everybody, be it say a child we have produced, or the great love from which the child was sprung, or a great thought-they are transitory altogether. Man's life lasts threescore years and ten, possibly fourscore years, and if it is a good life it will have been worth the trouble. A thought may last perhaps seven seconds, and if it is a good thought it will contain truth. But even the great thought is as transitory as the child and the great love. They are transitory altogether. Everything is transitory.
Yet, on the other hand, everything is eternal. More than that: it becomes eternal of itself. We don't have to do anything about it. Once we have brought something about, eternity will take care of it. But we have to take the responsibility for what we have elected into eternity!
Everything is written into the eternal record-our whole life, all our creations and actions, encounters and experiences, all our loving and suffering. All this is contained, and remains in the eternal record. The world is not, as the great existential philosopher Karl Jaspers intimated, a manuscript written in a code we have to decipher: no the world is rather a record that we have to dictate.
This passage had a great impact upon me, producing a quiet feeling of peace and hope within my aching soul. Rarely am I affected in this way by such a short demonstration, a haiku poem from Basho perhaps, or some insight provided by Goethe or Montaigne. And even rarer will those inspirations detail some practical meaning, light a path in which one may direct and live with one's life. For so long a time my views concerning death had been disparaging, and I could find no intellectual escape from what I thought must surely be a painful and ignoble end. The above interview, like much that I find appealing and helpful in Zen literature, can help guide me on a day to day basis towards the goal of a fulfilling and meaningful existence, and better prepare me for the inevitable end of such.
This conversation between a doctor and patient, for me, is surely worth remembering.
In the Middle East, the President's deadline passed with no withdrawal being made by the Iraqi forces. One hour later Allied forces began their advance into Kuwait. The death and destruction will intensify now I imagine.
This is my 164th day of sobriety. I made it to this point once before, now that I think about it almost two years ago exactly. Two years ago, in or around this date, on the 165th day, I would come home from work with a pint bottle of tequila. I would drink the tequila while watching a pornographic movie (further delving into escape and fantasy), while smoking cigarettes. I would be drinking the tequila because I had run out of marijuana the day before. I would make sure the bottle was finished before Jan came home from her evening shift at AT&T. (it was funny how we always managed to work different shifts so that our time together would be minimal).
I would continue to bring home bottles of tequila and drink until one day Jan told me that she would be leaving me, that she had in fact already secured an apartment for herself, and our two tabby cats, Darla and Spanky. I would continue to drink for a while after she had left me, then sober up for as long as it took me to move into another apartment, one that I could afford.
So tomorrow at around three in the afternoon I shall break my record for not drinking, this time not using anything more psychoactive than nicotine and coffee.
That makes me feel pretty good I have to admit. It's new territory now. I'll have to watch my step.
Once again I finished another shift feeling much better than when I started. This work must agree with me.
I patted myself on the back three times, then went to bed.
February 24 Sunday Day 165
A Captain and Mrs. Hood showed us some slides taken in India this morning in chapel. They had just returned from a twelve year missionary assignment there, and the slides showed some of the work they had done, establishing a hospital in the village where they lived. Apparently Mrs. Hood is a physician.
The slide show was very interesting, not to mention a much needed break in our Sunday chapel routine.
I myself have never felt a desire to visit India. I'm a little tired of going to countries where English is used only as a second language, if at all.
I want to hear what they're saying about me.
In many ways though I envy the Hoods their experience.
I'm almost as sure that Mr. Vasquez would have enjoyed the show as well if only he had remained awake.
After the service ended I asked Dennis Smith if he would like to go to the movies with me. I had wanted to see the new film, "The Silence of the Lambs," starring Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins. Dennis had seen the trailers on TV, and also wanted to go.
We arrived at the theater twenty minutes before the box office opened, so we decided to spend some time at the bagel shop across from the movie house.
The inside of the small shop smelled suspiciously of bagels. Dennis ordered one toasted (twenty cents for toasting) with cream cheese and jelly. I had a cafe au la.
As he ate his bagel I asked Dennis about himself because he interests me. I asked him how long he had been in Southern California.
"About fourteen years now," he answered. "Almost never came back."
"Back from where?"
"Northern California. The job situation is better around here though, and I thought I could handle it... drugs I mean."
I nodded, letting him know that I knew what he meant.
"I told myself that I would only party on the weekends," he continued. "Unfortunately I came down on a Friday."
We both laughed. Other bagel eaters looked us over.
"That was the longest weekend I ever had. It lasted six months."
The movie was excellent. A fine part for Hopkins who has needed one for a while.
When I got back I took a little nap until four, dinner time. Tamales, and cold chile. Then back upstairs for a technically inadequate episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," entitled "First Contact." The first Star Trek film (in which I had always enjoyed for its large scope, despite the critical panning) was on afterwards, so I watched that as well.
I did some writing while listening to the news on TV. We seem to be winning the ground war fairly easily, taking 10,000 prisoners on the first day.
"Married with Children," then I finished the Frankl book, and began another of his. "The Unconscious God."
Then I went to bed and dreamt I went to bed.
February 25 Monday Day 166
My old non-drinking record is now officially broken now.
Good!
So I go to court and try to do something constructive today.
The weather doesn't change all that much around here. Again it's a beautiful day in Southern California, and I enjoyed the walk to the court house thoroughly. Lot's of people running around Pasadena today.
I passed the blanket lady, and old friend from my days in the Park. She was just doing what I had always seen her do before, pushing her shopping cart filled with blankets and sleeping bags down the street, seemingly with no destination in mind. She is a heavy set black woman, not old, no not old, maybe thrityish, and what she does with all of her blankets, besides lying down on one or two of them occasionally on the sparse grass of the park, I can't imagine. She must have at least twenty blankets and quilts of different shapes and colors. Once, not too long ago really, I asked her if she would sell me one of her blankets to use to keep from shivering awake at night. She told me no, that she needed every one of her blankets. I made do.
At the court house, at eight thirty, I saw the same video with the same big, fat, bald judge, explaining my rights to me.
At nine I entered the court room of Division 3, in the Pasadena Municipal Court Building. The cast included an attractive brunette type lady, with short hair: the court reporter. An older black lady with graying hair: the clerk. A tall, distinguished, white honky type, male individual: the D.A. man. An unprepossessing, longish haired man with dark features: the public defender... my attorney.
And the bailiff, an older Chicano sheriffs deputy. He brought everybody to order when the judge walked in, a man who looked remarkably like Judge Harry Stone of television's "Night Court."
He got right to work, case by case.
It was really fascinating. I like to watch this kind of stuff. Justice in action. Though usually I don't care to be so personally involved.
I began to feel a little queasy when at one point the judge remarked, "I can't seem to get my head together." And when the public defender took off, stating he was needed in another court.
When no more cases could be heard because there was no public defender the judge called for a recess.
You have to understand my state of mind. I, like most alcoholics (like most people generally, I guess), like to be in control of things around us. Or like to believe we're in control at least. By coming to this court I was relinquishing control to it. If the judge went all crazy on me (which is not without precedent), I might wind up in jail. No matter how briefly I may be incarcerated I would be listed as A.W.O.L. from the center at 11:00 tonight. I would probably lose my job, and be forced to reenter the program from the beginning, if they elected to have me back at all.
I was a little anxious.
But as the court proceedings resumed I could tell that this particular judge was okay. I was here to deal with one count of drunk in public, and one count of failure to appear for the drunk in public charge. I was not overly concerned with the initial charge. It was my first offense of this nature, deserving a mild slap on the hand at best. The failure to appear bothered me a bit more. One never knows how a judge will react to a failure to appear charge. They tend not to like it when you don't come when you say you will.
This judge had been handing out sentences of 4 days of community service for each failure to appear brought before him. I could live with that. Especially since the Salvation Army was listed as a community work area, and I could do my 4 days working at my regular job using the 17 hours of overtime I usually work each week.
So I began to relax a little.
The judge called for another recess. "No more than ten minutes," he said.
He came back 45 minutes later, about half an hour before lunch time. He directed all of us with bench warrants (me) to come back at 2:00.
I went back to the residence and asked Harold Eversley for an emergency bag lunch. After writing a little in the lobby, I was back in court b y 1:55.
At 2:50, the judge returned and resumed his duties.
I was called at 3:00 exactly.
I had talked to the public defender just before lunch, going over the charges against me.
"It says here," he said, "that the police were called to the Exxon station, and that they observed you asleep on the floor of the restroom. When they asked you to get up, you did so... then fell down again, after which they arrested you, helping you into the back of the police cruiser. They found a half empty bottle of Jack Danials on the toilet stand, and you had a strong odor of alcohol about you. Does this sound like what happened?"
"Yeah, that sums it up pretty well."
I showed him the letter that Clarence Orion had provided stating how conscientious I was, and all. The P.D. said he would bring it to the judge's attention.
"Alright," the judge said, "drunk in public. Pretty straight forward. Two days time served. We'll credit him with that. How do you plead?"
"Guilty." No doubt about it, I was guilty as hell.
"Mr. Joyce has brought a letter, your honor," my P.D. volunteered. "He has been in a treatment program with the..." looking at the letter head, "Salvation Army, in case you were concerned..."
"Is that right?" the judge asked.
I nodded my head up and down.
The judge looked at me. "Well how's it going?"
"Pretty well, sir. I have one hundred and sixty five days sober today."
"Are you kidding!?" he asked. "That's fantastic. For that I forgive the warrant."
I melted.
"Had to hit your bottom, huh. A lot of creative, otherwise responsible, outstanding people are alcoholics, and will be for the rest of their lives."
Profound insight.
"Well, keep up the good work, and good luck. That's it. You can go now."
I mumbled thank you, and skedaddled.
I felt very good about this, to say the least. This was the first instance of my sobriety, my decision to stay sober, working for me in any materialistic way. It just goes to show that it pays to be an alcoholic and drug addict. I felt so good that I thought about getting drunk to celebrate. Instead, I ran back to the residence where I thought I might be reasonably safe.
When I got back I told everyone what had happened. They seemed happy for me. Mr. Vasquez let me know that if he had been the judge he would have given me 5 years.
I had a nice spaghetti diner, then disappeared into my room. I watched the news (still winning the war rather easily, although the Iraqi's did manage to get one of their Scud missiles through. It landed on top of a barracks housing a quartermasters unit from Pennsylvania. Someone must have been asleep at the Patriot missile defense system switch. The Scud killed at least 25 of our men, and was the most devastating Iraqi attack of the war. So far), while finishing the Frankl book.
Knowing that I had to get up early for work in the morning, I went to sleep near midnight.
February 26 Tuesday Day 167
Up nice and early for work this morning.
After dropping off the morning paperwork, picking up some janitorial supplies for Schimmele, and making a brief dorm inspection, the residence seemed to be functioning smoothly so I took some time to write.
Later I talked to Richard, my counselor. We discussed the two Frankl books I had read. I told him that I planned to visit Pasadena City College (P.C.C.) next Monday, and hopefully talk to a counselor and enroll for the upcoming summer semester. Richard let me know that P.C.C. had 8 week courses during the summer, and to complete a 3 unit course one had to attend class five days a week, 3 hours a day.
My work schedule will not allow me to do that, so I may have to wait until the fall. We shall see.
At 12:30 the tutor came, and I let Kevin Rockoff go get tutored. I had the desk all to myself. I handled it. I began reading a book that Ron Collins had picked up for me "Zen, and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," by Robert M. Pirsig.
After work I changed clothes and hung around the lobby, looking at people with unguarded suspicion.
I like to do that.
Jill was almost on time this evening. She looked ravishing as usual. She seemed to have the sniffles, and was squinting delightfully out of one eye. She explained to me that she had the sniffles because apparently she was allergic to everything, and she was squinting because she had only one contact lens on. And she explained that because of her allergy it hurt her beautiful eyes to put both lenses in.
She's so cute and vulnerable.
We went through our normal weekly goals routine. Jill asked everyone if they had completed their assigned goals, everyone except me again. This time however, I refused to be ignored.
"Don't I get to talk about my week, Jill?"
"Yes, of course, Richard. I didn't know if you wanted to participate, or were only here as an observer."
I let her know that I indeed wanted to participate, and I proceeded to tell everyone about all of the wonderful things that had happened during the last week. I discovered that Jill had also seen "The Silence of the Lambs." I must congratulate her impeccable taste in film viewing habits.
I had felt tired and drained earlier, and had thought about going to my room and lying down, dismissing once again the idea of attending an outside A.A. meeting. But after Jill's group counseling session I felt all energetic and decided to go.
Robert drove us to the St. James Church in South Pasadena. Everyone crossed themselves as they emerged from the van, still in one piece.After dropping off the morning paperwork, picking up some janitorial supplies for Schimmele, and making a brief dorm inspection, the residence seemed to be functioning smoothly so I took some time to write.
Later I talked to Richard, my counselor. We discussed the two Frankl books I had read. I told him that I planned to visit Pasadena City College (P.C.C.) next Monday, and hopefully talk to a counselor and enroll for the upcoming summer semester. Richard let me know that P.C.C. had 8 week courses during the summer, and to complete a 3 unit course one had to attend class five days a week, 3 hours a day.
My work schedule will not allow me to do that, so I may have to wait until the fall. We shall see.
At 12:30 the tutor came, and I let Kevin Rockoff go get tutored. I had the desk all to myself. I handled it. I began reading a book that Ron Collins had picked up for me "Zen, and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," by Robert M. Pirsig.
After work I changed clothes and hung around the lobby, looking at people with unguarded suspicion.
I like to do that.
Jill was almost on time this evening. She looked ravishing as usual. She seemed to have the sniffles, and was squinting delightfully out of one eye. She explained to me that she had the sniffles because apparently she was allergic to everything, and she was squinting because she had only one contact lens on. And she explained that because of her allergy it hurt her beautiful eyes to put both lenses in.
She's so cute and vulnerable.
We went through our normal weekly goals routine. Jill asked everyone if they had completed their assigned goals, everyone except me again. This time however, I refused to be ignored.
"Don't I get to talk about my week, Jill?"
"Yes, of course, Richard. I didn't know if you wanted to participate, or were only here as an observer."
I let her know that I indeed wanted to participate, and I proceeded to tell everyone about all of the wonderful things that had happened during the last week. I discovered that Jill had also seen "The Silence of the Lambs." I must congratulate her impeccable taste in film viewing habits.
I had felt tired and drained earlier, and had thought about going to my room and lying down, dismissing once again the idea of attending an outside A.A. meeting. But after Jill's group counseling session I felt all energetic and decided to go.
This is my favorite meeting in the Pasadena area. A nice, cozy, informal get together.
One of our group, Andre Laws, was randomly asked if he would care to be the evening's 5 minute speaker. He readily agreed.
Andre, at 22 years old, a handsome black kid, is just that, a kid, very child like. His main interest in life seems to be involved with the physical coupling with as many white females as humanly possible. I don't know how successful he is, but I can imagine his handsome childlike appearance, his slow blinking eyes, his halting voice, could sucker in a few girls. I do know that when any reasonably attractive woman comes to the residence, Andre, as if he can smell them, appears out of nowhere and hovers nearby until he gets a chance to introduce himself, or otherwise make his presence known. We regularly have to chase him out of the small dinning room every Tuesday night when Jill visits, and by the time tonight's meeting started, 15 minutes after we had arrived, Andre made sure that every single looking white female knew he was there.
It's a good thing that they hadn't asked Andre to read anything, because he would have had a little trouble with that, but we were all proud of him for getting up and sharing (despite the chance that this was simply another lecherous ploy of his). He did manage to insult almost everyone with his opening line, "I really don't know... ah, what I'm going to be talking about. I've never spoke to an older group like this." And his choice of verbs was touching. "I started on moonshine... then procrastinated on up to the hard stuff." All in all, he did pretty well.
I watched the news on TV when I got back to the residence before going to bed. The allied cause seems to be progressing nicely. At one count, 30,000 Iraqi troops have surrendered, or been taken so far. Maybe this madness will end soon.
My God I hope so.
February 27 Wednesday Day 168
Pandolfi opened my door and stuck his head inside. "It's five o'clock, Rick."
I shifted in my bed and looked at him judiciously. "Arro etta royum?" I asked.
"Yeah, but Crawford didn't go get the donuts." He left.
I got out of bed, showered, and made my way downstairs.
A tad overcast this morning, either a rain storm is coming, or the locusts have arrived.
After completing the morning's paperwork, and inspecting the dorms, I wrote for most of the morning, and on into the afternoon.
Did I say the weather rarely changes around here? It began raining at 1:06, and never stopped. California is in it's 4th or 5th year of drought, so we could use some rain. It will help to clear off some dust at least.
One thing about rain, it always lets you know where your leaks are. I hear there are some over in the warehouse, but that doesn't concern me too much. The residence, however, is another story. Water is finding its was past the rear door of the roof, down the back staircase, and collecting at the entrance to the laundry room. We studiously applied a bucket. We hope it works.
The biggest leak is in the basement, on the west wall of the barbershop, and ruining the carpet in the clinic. I utilized a large garbage can, getting it close to the wall, and the flow, as it's shape would allow. I applied duct tape to affix the trash can to the wall itself, thereby diverting the flow into the can, in in the process, avoiding certain disaster.
Clarence Orion, our Chaplin and intake officer, stole my umbrella after chapel this evening. Well, he didn't actually steal it. Clarence Bliss gave it to him. I had stashed it away between the file cabinet and the office wall, just so no one would think that it was theirs. Pattie, Clarence Orion's wife, had left her umbrella in my office. Her's was a different color than mine, a red umbrella. Mine was a brown umbrella. Most people who have umbrellas around here have brown ones, just like mine. That's because they were the umbrellas that the Salvation Army gave to us for Christmas last year, and unless one had placed some kind of identifying mark on their umbrella, they of course were impossible to tell apart.
Unknown to me, Clarence Orion must have left his umbrella in my office as well. A brown one just like mine. I think Major Johnson took his. The Major had a brown one too. After chapel, while I was busy in the Transition Group, Clarence must have asked Clarence for his and his wife's umbrellas. Mr Bliss, ever so helpful, proceeded into my office and ferreted out mine and Pattie's umbrellas, and gave them to Clarence, and that was it! Off into the night it went, quite possibly never to be seen again.
After Transition Group ended I returned to my office and discovered my umbrella was missing. I asked Eddie Gillespie about it, and he let me know that Clarence Orion had taken it.
"You let Clarence take my umbrella?" I asked.
"The funny thing about it," Bliss volunteered, "was that I gave it to him."
I really wouldn't have minded so much if were not for the fact that I would eventually have to spend about 30 minutes in the midst of the unrelenting downpour while putting up the stupid bar in the thrift store parking lot!
Jill popped in for a talk with Ed Reitz. It's always so nice when she pops in. Dennis Smith walked up to her and asked if she had come to wish him a happy birthday. It wasn't his birthday today, but it is in the month of February, and tonight was the big birthday dinner night, and he was one of the celebrants. He thought Jill might be interested in his birthday because I had told him that I thought Jill had given him the old eye last night in group. I had in fact witnessed no such display, but told Dennis that just to start some trouble. I also suggested that he should wink at her at every opportunity.
So he was being real nice to Jill as she visited. All smooth and charming and all. I didn't notice if there was any winking going on.
At 10:00PM we heard word of a cease fire in the war in the Persian Gulf. Clarence Bliss, Eddie Gillespie, and myself, feel a cosmic connection with this event. A little Deja Vuish. For it was on a Wednesday night shift, when all three of us were together, that the air war began six weeks ago.
Hussein is still in power, but Iraq has agreed to all 12 U.N. conditions for a cease fire to occur. Allied forces have taken upward of 50,000 Iraqi troops as prisoners in 4 days. Approximately 80 U.S. soldiers have died in the war, or war related activities. Anywhere from 20,000 to 100,000 Iraqi solders have lost their lives. General Norman Schwarzkoph, Allied Commander, revealed that Allied troops had been within 150 miles of Baghdad, and could have taken that city at any time with minimum effort, if that had been his intention. Kuwait is once again in the hands of the Kuwaiti's.
They reentered their capital city on their traditional Independence Day, comparably like us retaking Washington D.C. on the 4th of July.
If Iraq does indeed keep it's promise of meeting each of the 12 conditions this war is effectively over.
A short war.
The best kind.
February 28 Thursday Day 169
Up early again for work.
Hopefully today would not be as hectic as yesterday, and as busy. I didn't get a chance to read at all last night.
At 9:00AM the Waverly Street Nursery School, two doors east of the residence, gave me a call and asked if we might help them out. They had experienced some flooding during the night and needed some big strong men to place sand bags in strategic locations to prevent further inundation. Sounds sexist to me, but we have no lack of big strong men.
In my mind I pictured scores of little moppets floating away on the high tide. I called Ed, and he volunteered 3 hefty guys, and we went to the school to check things out.
It wasn't too serious. Just 3 or 4 waifs sloshing about. I hope we were of some assistance.
Ed and Robert, quite effectively I might add, screwed up the ADx urine analyzer. So even though we have plenty of samples, we can't run them. This unfortunate development allowed me the opportunity to take about an hour off in the afternoon, time enough for a short nap.
The rain continued, although not as heavily as yesterday. The trash can I had attached to the wall in the clinic last night had filled.
Lots of mud slides and traffic accidents in the news. Even some tornadoes touched down here and there. Very rare. Tornadoes haven't happened around here since 1987.
The rest of the day went fairly easily. I didn't even have to write anyone up for missing Substance Abuse, or the A.A. panel.
A cute blonde lady came for the C.A. panel. I fell in love with her.
And I had lots of time to read during the evening. I read about opiates, and journalism in Tennessee.
Not that the two have much to do with each other.
March 1 Friday Day 170
This morning I got to sleep in a little, and didn't come down until after lunch.
I had intended to do some writing in the lobby, but as soon as I sat down the Abbott tech rep arrived to check out the ADx analyzer. Mr. Vasquez was no where in sight so I volunteered to take him on up to the sample room.
As he looked over the analyzer, I sat down and wrote. It didn't take long for him to find the problem, and then to correct it. Mr. Vasquez came in as the tech was making some final adjustments, and Robert wanted to know exactly what the problem had been (the boom calibration was off. The boom could not lower itself enough to collect the samples from the sample tray). After the rep explained, we went ahead and ran some of our samples just to make sure everything was in order.
It was. In fact, we noticed that one of the client's cannabinoid level had risen from "Low," reading, to a 10.6. The machine does not detect anything lower than a "Low." I mean the machine will register a 0.00 before it registers a "Low," so this client has ingested something of a cannabinoid nature since the 20th of February.
We of course cannot rule out the possibility of this man's being accidentally locked into an air tight room in which marijuana smoke was continuously pumped which he was forced to inhale.
It can happen.
In any case we shall keep a steady eye on this particular fellow. If he had registered 25 or above he wouldn't be here any more.
By the time we finished with the samples it was time to go to work.
Mr. Vasquez picked up Edward Taylor from the Huntington Memorial Hospital just after I began my shift. Ed had been in there a while, with all of his internal organs seemingly dying on him. The truth be known, we thought we had lost him. Even his family had given up hope and had come to pick up his things. But he's pulled through.
We're tough bastards, us alcoholics and drug addicts.
After New Client Orientation, things started to settle down to the point that I could enjoy a nice cup of coffee and read.
I had begun the book, "Illicit and Illicit Drugs," by Edward M. Brecher, and the editors of Consumer Union Reports. It was published almost 20 years ago, but for my purposes, is still extremely relevant. If one wishes to learn about addiction no better family of drugs could be picked to study:
"Opium is a raw natural product - the dried juice of the unripe capsule of the opium poppy. Morphine is the chief active ingredient in opium; each grain of opium contains about one tenth of a grain of morphine. Heroin is produced by heating morphine in the presence of acetic acid (that found in vinegar). The heroin is promptly converted back to morphine in the body. Codeine is also found in small quantity in opium, and there are numerous other opiates."
Naive that I am, I had always thought that drug addiction had been a fairly recent phenomenon. I was terribly wrong. Laws against drugs had been what was most recent, thus bringing drugs into the limelight.
"Opium was on legal sale conveniently and at low prices throughout the nineteenth century; morphine came into common use during the Civil War, and heroin was marketed toward the end of the century. These opiates and countless pharmaceutical preparations containing them 'were as freely accessible as aspirin is today.'"
Physicians dispensed them, drugstores sold them, grocery and general stores as well as pharmacies stocked and sold opiates. There were countless patent medicines on the market containing opium and morphine: Ayer's Cherry Pectoral, Mrs. Winslows Soothing Syrup, Darby's Carminative, Godfrey's Cordial, Mr. Munn's Elixir of Opium, Dover's Powder, on and on.
And if that weren't enough, opiates could be ordered and delivered through the mail!
I ask myself this question: when wasn't this country drug orientated, or an addicted society?
Because of the evil reputation some of the opiates have received within the last half century, I found it interesting to learn there were hardly any deleterious effects upon the human body upon ingestion, or even when addicted to these drugs. After decades of consistent use constipation seems to be the only effect they have on our physiology. Besides being extremely addictive that is. By comparison, smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol are 1000 times more harmful.
"For example, the narcotics addict is properly portrayed as lean, gaunt, emaciated. A subgroup of 100 addicts out of 861 in the Philadelphia study was maintained on adequate doses of morphine and intensively examined and tested while thus maintained. Only 4 of the 100 were grossly underweight - emaciated. 6 of the 100 were grossly overweight - obese. The group as a whole weighed two tenths of one percent of the norm for their height and age as determined by the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company standards. . Yet these addicts before hospitalization had been taking on the average 21 grains of morphine or heroin per day - more than 30 times the dose of the New York City street addict in 1971.
The explanation for the weight findings, which could hardly be more normal, is quite simple. The addicts in the Philadelphia study had ready access to both hospital food and hospital morphine. Under these conditions they ate well and thrived. The emaciated addict usually described in other studies is one who starves himself to save money for black market drugs - an ordeal he is able to bear more easily because of the tranquilizing effect of the drugs."
It is Mr. Brecher's opinion, and from experience and a small application of common sense, I also believe this to be true, that the harmful effects of opiate use stem not from the use of the drugs itself, but rather from the narcotics laws, and the heroin black market flourishing under those laws.
In this country the first law, or ordinance prohibiting the smoking of opium in opium dens was adopted by the city of San Francisco in 1875. The basis for this ordinance was racist rather than health orientated. The San Francisco authorities were concerned about keeping their young men and women from patronizing Chinese opium dens.
"This first law, however, like so many subsequent anti-narcotic laws, failed to work despite the promptness and thoroughness of the punishment. When opium dens became illegal, 'the vice was indulged in much less openly, but none the less extensively, for although the larger smoking-houses were closed, the small dens in Chinatown were well patronized, and the vice grew surely and steadily.' Indeed, the new law 'seemed to add zest to their enjoyment.'
When laws such as this one failed, Congress stepped in. In 1883, Congress raised the tariff on opium for smoking from $6 to $10 a pound, and in 1887 it prohibited altogether the importation of the kind of weak opium that contains less than 9% morphine used to preparing smoking opium. The 1887 law also prohibited the importation of opium by Chinese, and a law three years later limited the manufacture of smoking opium to American citizens.
The results of these steps were set forth in a letter dated January 12, 1888, from the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States to the Speaker of the House of Representatives. The effect, he wrote, had been 'to stimulate smuggling extensively practiced by systematic organizations (presumably the Chinese "Tongs" or other mutual benefit societies) on the Pacific coast. Recently completed facilities for transcontinental transportation have enabled the opium smugglers to extend their illicit traffic to our northern border. Although all possible efforts have been made by this Department to suppress the traffic, it is found practically impossible to do so.'
The law was not changed, however, indeed the tariff on smoking opium was further increased from $10 to $12 per pound in 1890. Then, in 1897, it was reduced to $6 a pound- experience having at least taught that it could not bear a higher rate without begetting an extensive surreptitious manufacture of serious smuggling operations. Following the reduction in the tariff 'the amount that passed through the custom houses... progressively increased.'
Throughout this period states and cities continued to pass laws against opium smoking; by 1914 there were 27 such laws in effect. Yet the amount of smoking opium legally imported continued to rise steadily.
The reason for these, and subsequent narcotic laws failure, 'appear obvious. They were aimed at private transactions between sellers and willing, and usually eager, buyers. Thus there were no complaints. Other such laws include the Volstead Act, since repealed, which prohibited the sale of alcoholic beverages; the laws against fornication; homosexual acts, and other sexual acts between consenting adults in private; the laws against gambling; and other drug laws generally. The phrase "crimes without victims" has been applied to such acts; they can more accurately be called "crimes without complaints." It is hard to cite a law aimed at crimes of this class which has much effect in curbing the behavior aimed at."
Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677), no doubt anticipating Columbian drug cartels, wrote, "All laws which can be violated without doing anyone any injury are laughed at. Nay, so far are they from doing anything to control the desire and passions of men that, on the contrary, they direct and excite men's thoughts more toward those very objects; for we always strive for what is forbidden and desire the things we are not allowed to have. And men of leisure are never deficient in the ingenuity need to enable them to outwit laws framed to regulate things which cannot be entirely forbidden... He who tries to determine everything by law will ferment crime rather than lessen it.""This first law, however, like so many subsequent anti-narcotic laws, failed to work despite the promptness and thoroughness of the punishment. When opium dens became illegal, 'the vice was indulged in much less openly, but none the less extensively, for although the larger smoking-houses were closed, the small dens in Chinatown were well patronized, and the vice grew surely and steadily.' Indeed, the new law 'seemed to add zest to their enjoyment.'
When laws such as this one failed, Congress stepped in. In 1883, Congress raised the tariff on opium for smoking from $6 to $10 a pound, and in 1887 it prohibited altogether the importation of the kind of weak opium that contains less than 9% morphine used to preparing smoking opium. The 1887 law also prohibited the importation of opium by Chinese, and a law three years later limited the manufacture of smoking opium to American citizens.
The results of these steps were set forth in a letter dated January 12, 1888, from the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States to the Speaker of the House of Representatives. The effect, he wrote, had been 'to stimulate smuggling extensively practiced by systematic organizations (presumably the Chinese "Tongs" or other mutual benefit societies) on the Pacific coast. Recently completed facilities for transcontinental transportation have enabled the opium smugglers to extend their illicit traffic to our northern border. Although all possible efforts have been made by this Department to suppress the traffic, it is found practically impossible to do so.'
The law was not changed, however, indeed the tariff on smoking opium was further increased from $10 to $12 per pound in 1890. Then, in 1897, it was reduced to $6 a pound- experience having at least taught that it could not bear a higher rate without begetting an extensive surreptitious manufacture of serious smuggling operations. Following the reduction in the tariff 'the amount that passed through the custom houses... progressively increased.'
Throughout this period states and cities continued to pass laws against opium smoking; by 1914 there were 27 such laws in effect. Yet the amount of smoking opium legally imported continued to rise steadily.
The reason for these, and subsequent narcotic laws failure, 'appear obvious. They were aimed at private transactions between sellers and willing, and usually eager, buyers. Thus there were no complaints. Other such laws include the Volstead Act, since repealed, which prohibited the sale of alcoholic beverages; the laws against fornication; homosexual acts, and other sexual acts between consenting adults in private; the laws against gambling; and other drug laws generally. The phrase "crimes without victims" has been applied to such acts; they can more accurately be called "crimes without complaints." It is hard to cite a law aimed at crimes of this class which has much effect in curbing the behavior aimed at."
Brecher continues, "The mere fact that a law fails to achieve it's goal fully is of course not a sufficient reason for repealing it: witness the laws against murder. The basic argument against laws creating crimes without complaints must rest on evidence that they not only fail but also, in the process of failing, do more harm than good. Such evidence exists with regard to the laws against opium smoking. For one effect of these laws was to convert opium smokers to more hazardous forms of opium use.
Surely the nineteenth-century enemies of opium smoking did not and could not foresee that the new laws were starting this country down the dismal from that relatively innocent 'vice' to the intravenous injection of heroin- the dominant form of illegal opiate use today; yet that was in fact the sequel."
More about opium and law later.
In the Middle East, small pockets of resistance from Iraqi soldiers necessitates more use of force by Allied forces. We've knocked out about 150 more of their tanks since the cease fire began. Talks concerning a formal end to the hostilities should start soon.
And my good friend, Thomas Bommorito, who had left the residence at 7:40A.M. to visit the local welfare office, did not make it back for the midnight curfew.
I had to terminate him from the program.
Wherever you are Tommy, whatever your doing... I wish you well.
March 2 Saturday Day 171
Tommy came and got his stuff this morning. I did not see him. He told the people who did see him that he had had an insulin reaction the night before, and had been helplessly riding on different buses all night trying to find his way back to the center, not really knowing where he was at or what he was doing, because his mind was all haywire, his brain starving for sugar. He said he had found himself in some garage this morning. The people who saw him told me he looked like someone who had spent a night in a garage.
I have spent a night in a garage. Several nights in fact, but that's another story.
If what Tommy said was true I hope he comes back in. We don't generally throw people out for medical reasons. We don't let people in for medical reasons (potential clients are told they must be fit and able to work a 40 hour work week, if not they are referred somewhere else), but we don't throw them out.
I suppose it's up to Clarence Orion (who gave me back my umbrella, by the way) and the Major to decide if he can come back, if Tommy still wants to that is. He had been talking about moving out lately. He had also been talking about suing the Salvation Army for every penny it had (which may influence Clarence and the Major's decision), something about denying his basic rights as a human being. But we shall see.
Work went smoothly. Mr. Vasquez was out driving around for about half of my shift. He finally brought me and Eddie Gillespie the pizza he had promised us for working the night Art Svensk didn't show. Domino's medium pepperoni. He told us he couldn't afford a large.
Right!
I found myself writing a lot about opium this evening, and after that I read of the Harrison Narcotics Act of 1914, probably the greatest factor determining the "drug problem" as we now know it. After I finished reading I talked to Eddie for awhile.
I asked him where he would go in April when the weather turned warm.
"Back to the weeds, I guess."
After work, up in my lonely room, I watched a little of "Godzilla 1985." Since I was a young lad Godzilla had always been my favorite monster (except for Cal Tiki maybe, the immortal flesh eating blob). I can relate to Godzilla.
There was only one real Godzilla movie though... the first.
When I went to sleep I dreamed (as many do) of stomping on Tokyo.
March 3 Sunday Day 172
Clarence Orion had selected me to read the responsive reading portion at this mornings chapel services. My name was listed on the program, and everything.
What this duty entailed was for me get up to the podium, in front of everybody, and lead the captive congregation in reading a portion of the Salvation Army's song book. Several excerpts taken from the Bible actually. About 8 paragraphs worth. I read the first paragraph, everyone reads the second, back to me again on the third, continuing in an alternating fashion until the end.
To make me feel more at ease while doing this it helped to know that Major and Mrs. Johnson, the visiting Territorial Director of Alaska and his wife (I don't remember their names), Capt. and Mrs. Mike Olsen, Clarence, and Mr. Vasquez were all sitting behind me (I had made sure the backs of my boots were polished nicely).
No big deal. I wanted to do a good job of it, but it's always the simple things that are easily goofed up. I was determined not to muck it up though, and the more determined I was, the more nervous I made myself.
I pictured myself going through each step that would be required of me. I ran the sequence in my head, over and over. First I had to make it from where I was sitting in the third pew to the podium without falling, or tripping over anything. Then I needed to remember what to say before the actual reading began, such as, "Good morning. Today's scripture reading can be found on page such and such, number such and such. I will read the dark print. Please follow along with the light print." Then I needed to read in a loud and clear manner all that was needed to be read. Fortunately, I had learned all about voice projection, and how to do it in high school drama class. I was ready on that score. I reminded myself not to stumble on words like, "Perdition," or, "enmity." I also had to remember the closing phrase for such rituals, "May God bless the reading of his word."
Having just read Frankl's description of Paradoxical Intention, I tried to imagine myself fucking up as badly as I possible could, falling flat on my face on my way to the stage, completely screwing up my lines (I've had some experience in this), and bumbling my way in abject humiliation back to my seat.
After imagining the worst that could happen I felt much calmer, and when my time came I did rather well. No mistakes to speak of, and I will kill Clarence Orion if he ever puts me on the program again!
After service I changed clothes and took off to see the new Oliver Stone movie, "The Doors."
The film was not about the sixties musical group The Doors though. It was more concerned with its charismatic lead singer, Jim Morrison. A sad movie, beautifully conceptualized by Stone, backed up with brilliant cinematography and frantic editing. Probably the first biographical film I've seen concerning a subject I was fairly familiar with.
Silly part for Meg Ryan. I don't know why she took it. I'm in love with her, you know.
Secretly.
I've never really been a fan of The Doors, and I really don't know why I went to see it except to get out of the residence for awhile.
Jim Morrison was a child who never had a chance to grow up. He and I share certain similarities. We both were native Californians, both extremely good looking, both like to write, both addicted to drugs and alcohol, and both bad singers.
The phrase, "locked in a candy store all night," comes to mind when I think about his life. Like a lot of people in the rock and roll music industry, he was given too much; to much money, sex, drugs, and fame at an age far too young to know how to deal with it, although I'm sure Mr. Morrison thought that he could. Youth always think that it is in control. But Jim Morrison never was. Booze and drugs and fame were in control all of the way.
He died when he was only twenty seven. I hope there were some coherent moments in his life when he was able to experience joy and love. Some time when the clouds cleared for awhile. If not, his life was a useless waste, despite the gifts of music he left the rest of us.
The film reminded me all too well of how much of my own life I have thrown away. Hopefully I am doing things to change that.
And for the rest of the night, while lying down on my bed, watching silly programs on my television, the music of Jim Morrison and The Doors ran through my head with hypnotic persistence.
March 4 Monday Day 173
"Come on baby light my fire."
Damned Doors music still going through my head.
I wanted to go to P.C.C. today, so I had asked Clarence Bliss to put me on the early wake up list for 5:30.
I don't trust my radio alarm clock.
I should have remembered not to trust Clarence.
Getting out of bed at 10:15, I showered and dressed, then went and talked to the boys at the desk for little. Before I left I had some nice tuna fish for lunch while discussing the finer points of Olympic javelin catching with Dennis Smith, Tom Rotsch, Kelly Timmons, and Bruce Elliot.
Then I caught the dreaded R.T.D. bus.
Pasadena City College has a fairly small campus, which appeared huge and intimidating to me as I roamed around trying to find the admissions office. The scenery was wonderful though. It was lunch time and there were hundreds of pretty girls to see. Surprisingly, I didn't fall in love with any of them. But I'm sure I will once I get to know them. Looks aren't everything.
Having chanced upon a campus directory I soon located the admissions office. There I found posted on a wall outside the office instructions on how to apply to the school. While reading said instructions, a young studious looking, short, eyeglass wearing, male type person approached me.
"Excuse me," he said. "I was just noticing your coat. Wool, isn't it?"
I didn't know if it was wool, or not, but I nodded yes anyway.
"I've been trying to find one just like it. Would you mind telling me where you got it."
"Salvation Army thrift store."
"Right! Thank you very much." He walked away.
Having forgotten to bring a pen with me, I was unable to fill out an application for admission, so I walked to the book store to see if they had any class schedules available. They did, but only the current ones. I needed one for the next semester, the Fall semester. The Fall semester schedules wouldn't be out until May I was told. I left totally dejected, having failed at everything I had come there to do, but as I walked to the bus stop the sight of so many lovely ladies cheered me right up. I don't know why.
Back at the residence, I had just finished a nice cup of coffee and had sat down in the lobby to do a little writing, when by chance I happened to look out the front door (I do that sometimes). My heart stopped.
The ever lovely Jill of the flaming red hair was out there, talking to of all people, Rico Montgomery. I also noticed another man with her, a slim, young fellow, with shoulder length blonde hair, dressed casually. He was holding a camera and taking pictures of the front of the building. It turns out that Jill had got this guy, who's name was David, to photograph the residence to help promote the Salvation Army's rehabilitative services at some fair being held at P.C.C. They got a shot of Rico and Kevin walking out of the front door, trying to act naturally, and failing miserably. I continued to sit in the lobby, acting cool and detached while being buffeted in all directions by the whips and under currents of Jill's loveliness. She soon came and asked me if I would open the chapel for some interior shots.
I said, "For you Jill, I would gladly give my life."
That was a lie.
I said, "Yes Jill, I'd be happy to." But I said it in such a manner that I'm sure she could feel the passion within me.
Once in the chapel I asked her if she'd seen any good movies lately. Pretty witty, huh?
"Yes I did," she replied with her haunting smile. "Sunday I went to see the new movie, 'The Doors.'"
"You did? So did I."
"Where did you see it at?" she asked.
"Up the street, at the Marketplace."
"I went to the Hastings because it's a bigger theater. What did you think of it?"
"I thought it was one of the better biographical films that I've seen. And a little depressing."
"I didn't realize," she concluded, "that they didn't write very many good songs."
Jill and David got me to pose for a few pictures. We were on the second floor, and I gazed off into the distance (as if I were seriously contemplating something of immense importance), with the atrium in the background. I'm afraid I'm not particularly photogenic. I hope they come out alright.
After taking some shots of the bowling alley, weight room, and hobby shop, they left to go photograph the warehouse, and I resumed my writing activities.
I attended Ed Reitz's 6:30 group counseling session. My old roommate, Denis Castle, had once again returned from a relapse, and was in there beginning the program all over again. That's good news really. It takes whatever it takes to stay sober. Everyone was glad to see him back.
Tommy Bommorito came by to pick up the last of his possessions, which were quite considerable in number. I went up with him to his room and helped him pack. He told me that he had entered a sober living house in North Pasadena, and that welfare would pay his monthly rent. I wished him well, and asked him if I could have the Elvira poster that was taped to the back of his locker.
Elvira, as I'm sure the whole world knows by now, is a character created by the beautiful comedian, Cassandra Peterson. Elvira hosted a Saturday afternoon horror movie program a few years ago on a local Los Angeles television station. Peterson, who is a strawberry blonde, donned a sort of black, beehive wig, a slinky, slit thigh, low cut black dress (that myself, and thousands of other men, marveled at how she stayed into. She must have used glue, or something), to become Elvira. She had a campy-comic quality that I found enchanting. Not to mention a body, adequately displayed, that most men would kill their own mothers for. I watched her show every week, when I could manage it, just to see her. It had to have been to see her, because the movies she played were God awful. C- movies. Elvira became a big success, and went on to star in her own feature film, which wasn't too bad really.
Anyway, that poster I asked Tommy for was of Elvira wearing a skimpy one piece black bathing suit, sitting as if she were at the beach, with her long legs tucked under her, mouth invitingly open. But the scene took place at night, with a full moon in the background, and a bottle of "Lunar Lotion," near by.
The caption read, "Moonbathing."
I love it.
I put it up on the wall in my room after forcefully taking it from Tom. It faces my bed.
Now I don't feel so lonely in my room anymore.
She keeps staring at me though.
It's a little unnerving.
By the way, Tommy admitted to me that he had been using the night he was gone. That's why he hadn't come back here.
He had gone to relapse city.
I tried to spend the rest of the evening watching a murder mystery on T.V. with Barbara Eden and Loretta Swift, but it was so stupid I had to turn it off. Something has to be profoundly stupid for me to do that. I enjoy a high stupidity tolerance.
I went downstairs to ask Robert if there were any special circumstances I needed to know about for when I returned to work the next morning. He wasn't there. He had taken Andre Laws to U.S.C. Medical. Andre, quite in character, has the chicken pox.
I returned to my room and read about drug laws, and soon fell asleep.
"Break on through to the other side, break on through..."
March 5 Tuesday Day 174
Up nice and early for work this morning. I had a big breakfast of scrambled eggs and salty corned beef hash, which almost immediately made me sleepy again.
Nothing much happened at work. I did some writing, Then went across the street with Mr. Schimmele and picked up some toilet paper. Very exciting.
My counselor, Richard, came by. For some reason only known to him, Ed Reitz had moved me from Tuesday's list of client's for Richard to see, to Wednesday's list, so Richard didn't seem to interested in anything I had to say today. Not that I had anything much of interest to say mind you.
The tutor came at 12:30, so I got my "Licit and Illicit Drugs," book to read, while Kevin went to class. He needs to cram for an upcoming GED test.
Mr. Vasquez finally got up, and went out saying, "I'll be back, if not by two thirty, then at least by four."
"Your shift starts at two thirty, sir. Be prompt."
He went over to the Green Hotel to vote. Some local election. He returned at 2:36, six minutes late.
I let him slide.
I skipped dinner and tried to take a nap while listening to the news on T.V. Still skirmishing over in the Gulf. Police beat up a black guy with night sticks in Lake View Terrace while someone with a home video camera recorded the action from their apartment across the street. Typical police stuff, unusual for them to get caught.
I got back up in time for Jill's group. She was breathtaking as usual this evening. We did the old goal routine. When she asked what my goals for next week were, I said, "Continue to write, and I will force myself to go to the V.A. clinic on Monday, finally."
"Why?"
"Oh, to see about upgrading my discharge. And I would like to talk to some of their alcohol and drug counselors."
"Why?"
"Because Maggie Harbottle wants me to check out the job market for alcohol and drug counselors. She says there's not many jobs available in that field, and Voc Rehab would be unwilling to pay for four years of school without the promise of a job at the end of the line."
"Is that what you want to do, Richard?" Notice how she calls me Richard.Nothing much happened at work. I did some writing, Then went across the street with Mr. Schimmele and picked up some toilet paper. Very exciting.
My counselor, Richard, came by. For some reason only known to him, Ed Reitz had moved me from Tuesday's list of client's for Richard to see, to Wednesday's list, so Richard didn't seem to interested in anything I had to say today. Not that I had anything much of interest to say mind you.
The tutor came at 12:30, so I got my "Licit and Illicit Drugs," book to read, while Kevin went to class. He needs to cram for an upcoming GED test.
Mr. Vasquez finally got up, and went out saying, "I'll be back, if not by two thirty, then at least by four."
"Your shift starts at two thirty, sir. Be prompt."
He went over to the Green Hotel to vote. Some local election. He returned at 2:36, six minutes late.
I let him slide.
I skipped dinner and tried to take a nap while listening to the news on T.V. Still skirmishing over in the Gulf. Police beat up a black guy with night sticks in Lake View Terrace while someone with a home video camera recorded the action from their apartment across the street. Typical police stuff, unusual for them to get caught.
I got back up in time for Jill's group. She was breathtaking as usual this evening. We did the old goal routine. When she asked what my goals for next week were, I said, "Continue to write, and I will force myself to go to the V.A. clinic on Monday, finally."
"Why?"
"Oh, to see about upgrading my discharge. And I would like to talk to some of their alcohol and drug counselors."
"Why?"
"Because Maggie Harbottle wants me to check out the job market for alcohol and drug counselors. She says there's not many jobs available in that field, and Voc Rehab would be unwilling to pay for four years of school without the promise of a job at the end of the line."
"One of the things," I told her. "I would like to study psychology in general, I guess. But I know a lot about alcohol and drugs."
"I think I could help you get in touch with some alcohol and drug counselors. Would you like that?"
"That's what Maggie wants."
"You got it."
Kelly Timmons stated his goals for next week. "Stop pilfering, and learn how to dress myself."
"His roommates have been doing it for him," Dennis Smith offered, winking at Jill.
"Well," Jill replied, "tell them to turn the lights on next time."
Jill sat next to me in the lobby, (my blood pressure went up sixty points) a little while later, and showed me the pictures she and David had taken yesterday.
"You don't have the picture of me, do you?"
"No Richard, it's a picture of Mohandas Gandhi. Of course it's your picture. This one turned out real well, I think. I'll make a copy and give you one if you like. For being so good about helping out yesterday."
There were two pictures. The one not showing too much of my flabby body was the one she was talking about.
"Yeah, that's not too bad. Yes, I would like a copy. For my mother. Thank you Jill."
The scintillating Stacy was also here tonight. She came up next to me while I was talking to Clarence Bliss, and playfully grabbed my notebook, which is actually a copy of the Life Science Library Book, "The Mind," which I use to write on. She opened it up, saw my notes, closed it real fast like she had inadvertently intruded upon my privacy.
"I use it for a notebook," I told her.
"I'm sorry. I'm so hyper from drinking so much coffee today. I have finals this week."
"That's pretty good for a girl who sleeps ten hours a day."
She smiled. "I only got eight hours last night."
"You must be exhausted."
I had a cheeseburger at the canteen, then went to my room and watched an Arnold Swartzenegger movie entitled, "Red Heat," with Jim Belushi. Arny's character resembled the one he played in "The Terminator."
After the movie I said good night to Elvira, then went to sleep.
March 6 Wednesday Day 175
When I have one or two good days in a row I usually have a lousy one just to keep things in balance.
Not that it was real bad. I just lost my incredible cool a couple of times.
I was minding my own business, getting some writing done early in the morning, when Dwight Hibbler came up to the desk raging.
"Will somebody fix my locker today?"
"Listen Dwight," I loudly exclaimed, "I turned in a work order two days ago. You get on Don Erwin's case, not ours! It's not my fault all of the maintenance people keep relapsing, all right?!"
"Yes, yes," he shriveled. "Sorry to have bothered you."
He turned to Carlos Noble, who was standing nearby. "Boy, Rick really got off on me. I was seeing restriction coming my way."
He said it in such a way as to make everyone around laugh, and me smile. I immediately felt bad about raising my voice too much to make my point. I didn't feel too bad though. Dwight Hibbler would give Mother Teresa an ulcer.
It was true about all of the maintenance people. Curtis Carter had went out and got high last weekend. Warren before him. Paul Pearsall, an old acquaintance from the Canoga Park days, had also wandered from our fold. Curtis and Paul each had about as much sober time as I did. Curtis about a week longer, Paul a week less.
Pretty scary for me.
Dennis Smith and I talked about it at lunch.
"They found a bottle in Curtis's locker," Dennis Said.
"Yeah, I know."
"I knew something was wrong. He wouldn't talk to anybody, and that wasn't like him. Maybe I should have said something," he said as an afterthought.
"Yes," I goaded him. "It's probably your fault he's out there, Dennis. If he ODs, gets stabbed, or run over by a truck it's all your fault. Even if a meteorite should happen to ka powie on his poor, drug addicted little head, the blame is all yours. His imminent death will be a direct result of your callus inaction toward a silent, though pleading cry for help. Well, you miserable son of a bitch, what have you got to say for yourself?"
"You're really fucked, Joyce."
"By the way, I noticed you winking at Jill last night. I think you did it perfectly. Subtle, but aggressive. Might I suggest it's time to move on. Maybe a little tip of the tongue moistening the lips, coinciding with a knowing nod and sultry smile. I don't think she will be able to take much of that."
"Yeah, she's mine." He made a hand motion as if reeling in a fish.
Besides basically being on edge today (with no apparent reason), I got even grumpier when I had to spend about an hour during the busiest part of my day, doing somebody else's job. I had to explain and demonstrate, over and over, how to lock up the Pasadena 1 trailer to Domingo, the trailer attendant. He just couldn't get it right no matter what I did. He would have been there all night if I hadn't had to put up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot.
Later, I had ordered a nice egg and cheese sandwich, and sat down to eat it, when Edward Wilder came up to me, and said, "Hey Rick, do ya think I could get a couple of canteen cards?"
"Sure, as soon as I get back to the office."
"When's that going to be," he asked.
"As soon as I eat this sandwich, Edward! Five or ten minutes."
"But the grill is going to close in two minutes, Rick," he wined.
I blew up a little again.
"God damn it! Don't I get a chance to eat? You had all damn night to buy a fucking canteen card, and you wait to the last damn minute!"
I should not have lost my temper like that.
I should have lost it like this: "Why you inconsiderate selfish pig. Say one more word and I WILL KILL YOU! Tear your measly little body limb from scrongy limb. I don't give a rat's ass if you never eat again. STARVE BITCH FACE! You rib sucking, basketball cheating, fly blown, weasely eyed, broke dick, penile nosed, mushroom headed, fungus breathing, car-stealing, hubcap-fencing, baby candy ripping, bean pie eating, pork chop frying, boat paddling, Nike wearing, wall-eyed looking, water melon seed spitting, eight ball drinking, well hung moottheerfuuuuckeer!"
And the funny thing about it is... Edward is white.
On days like this all you can do is get through them and hope for the best tomorrow.
Things usually get better (optimism).
March 7 Thursday Day 176
Things actually did get better. No temper tantrums today, at least. Except when I almost punched out a drunk who kept following me around while I was putting up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot. He kept wanting me to drink beer with him, and repeatedly called me a "smart ass," when I refused.
Besides that... no problems.
It's usually a lot less hectic on Thursdays anyway. No chapel, or Transition Group, or Graduate Group, or Ed's group counseling to contend with. Only the Substance Abuse Seminar and A.A. panel. I even had time for some reading and writing.
As I returned from my daily dorm inspection, I found Kevin Rockoff and Reuben Smith in conversation. The other half of the infamous Zulu Brothers, Rico Montgomery, was sitting behind the desk with his big feet resting on the counter.
Kevin was saying, "Reuben, if you had any brains..."
"Don't have no brains," Reuben retorted.
"Now what do you suppose would happen if I pushed this little red button here," Rico asked with mischievous glee.
"You would need to find a place to sleep tonight," I told him.
He giggled his Rico giggle (sounding like a sly hiccup, and an air brake being applied), "Let me see... I gotta make a phone call." He picked up the office phone receiver, placed his finger on the keypad, then quickly put the receiver down again. "Naw... I'll wait till later."
He got up and exited the desk area into the lobby. "Well who can I agitate now? Who can I drive to the brink of utter madness?" He walked of in search of a victim.
I had to write up old Dwight Hibbler for missing his mandatory meetings tonight. He had left at 6:30 this morning, to appear in court in Santa Monica for a littering violation. He didn't come back until 9:33PM.
"Well, after I went to court I went to see a dentist, and then a doctor..."
In the time he took he could have went to court, seen a dentist and a doctor, and rode every ride at Disneyland and still make it back in time for his meetings.
I went to bed feeling better than I had yesterday. I didn't have a nice 17 hour work day to look forward to tomorrow, that helped. I did have a physical exam I had to get up early for. Maybe they'll tell me I have H.I.V. antibodies running through my body.
That would be good to know.
March 8 Friday Day 177
I woke up at 7:30, went to the bathroom, then crawled back into bed keeping one eye open and aimed at my alarm clock until 9:00. I then showered and dressed, and left the residence to go to my physical.
The clinic I was to go to was located a few doors north of Colorado Blvd., on Raymond Street. Easy walking distance from the A.R.C., directly through the park, which was almost empty. Another sunny, beautiful day here in Pasadena.
I walked in and signed my name at the little place they have expressly for that purpose at the reception counter. The receptionist gave me a form to sign. By signing it I agreed to arbitration rather than litigation in case I should have some future complaint, or something.
I signed. They won't do anything unless you sign.
A nice nurse weighed me (189 pounds), measured me, (5 feet, 11 inches. I have often considered growing another inch to make it an even 6 feet, but why show off), took my blood pressure and pulse (100/70- - 62), and asked me if I had been hit by a truck, or anything like that within the last 30 days, then gave me a little plastic cup and asked me to pee in it. Invariably whenever some nice nurse unexpectedly demands urine from me, I've gone a half hour earlier, as in this instance. Well, after a mighty effort I finally managed to squeeze out some. The nurse seemed just thrilled. She stuck a color coded plastic stick into the cup with my urine, and watched to see it change colors.
She led me to a cubicle and asked me to take off my shirt. Before I could make any smart ass remark, she was gone. She, however, was soon replaced by a very tall, grey (bald at the top) haired, white lab coated, preoccupied, doctor type individual. As he looked over my chart he asked me how I was doing. I said okay.
"Good weight, good blood pressure," he commented, "good pulse." He looked up at me, "good urine. Have you been hit by a truck or something, within the last thirty days, or so? No, good. Walk okay? Good. Can you hop up and down on one leg, with your eyes closed, arms outstretched, fingers to nose, while turning in a three hundred and sixty five degree circle while humming 'Baby I Need Your Loving?' No? Well don't worry about it, it's not important." He looked back at the chart. "You've been referred to us by the Department of Rehabilitation." He looked back at me. "Why? Are you some kind of alcoholic or drug addict?" I told him yes, that I was those things. "How long?" he asked. About twenty years, I told him.
He let me go after saying that I was in pretty good shape for a drunk. He said he would mail the exam results to Maggie.
They did not offer a blood test. I did not ask for one. I should be at the VA clinic on Monday, and might get one there.
I took a nap when I returned to the residence, to make up for all the sleep I lost by going to see the doctor.
Later I wrote in the lobby. Ed Reitz was there, even though it was his day off. He was worried about the ADx machine. We had run out of the chemicals needed to operate it (precision sheep urine). New chemicals had arrived this morning via UPS. Good thing too. There were 17 samples up there just screaming to be analyzed. If there's anything I can't stand it's stale urine.
I eventually got upstairs to run those samples. According to the results those tested had not been using cocaine lately. I'll check for marijuana tomorrow.
March 9 Saturday Day 178
Someone knocked on my door at 8:30. I got up and answered it. Kevin Rockoff was there and I knew what he wanted. I handed him yesterday's money and unclaimed gratuities, then went back to bed and slept until twelve.
I went to the canteen and sat a table to write, but I got hit on so much by people wanting me to sell them canteen cards because Mr. Vasquez was not around, I soon gave up and left.
After I began tonight's V.C.R. movie, "A Minute to Pray, a Second to Die," with Arthur Kennedy and Robert Ryan (another Vasquez pick. I wrote a brief description on the bulletin board "The action-packed (every movie we show here is action-packed) tale of a one armed gunman, he had no other choice but to take the town single handed!!), I tried once again to write, with more success, but not without interruption.
I guess Eddie Gillespie was feeling lonely because he kept coming into my office to remind me about one thing or another. I do feel honored that he should wish to talk to me that way. That is special.
The damn fire alarm went off at ten. There was no fire, just something the matter with the circuits. It did give me the opportunity to get Mr. Vasquez out of bed.
And Dwight Hibbler came in from an evening's excursion and blew a .05 on the breath-a-lizer.
"What do you mean? I just had some duck sauce with wine in it for dinner with my Mother! You can ask her."
"Dwight, really..."
This bothered me though. Dwight was the first person I have personally had to throw out of here, face to face. Always before, Robert had been the one in authority who had actually done it. My hands were shaking a little as I wrote Dwight's termination papers.
Even though Dwight strikes me as an obnoxious, scheming, low life, I do feel sorry for him. If I had the opportunity to get to know him a little better, I may have even come to like him. Who knows? Since I've been here I've learned not to trust first, or even second impressions about people. Dwight didn't do anything tremendously wrong, especially for an alcoholic-drug addict. He just gave in. A mistake we humans make from time to time. One that I have often made myself.
I wish him well.
I woke up at 6:30, went to the bathroom, went back to my bed and kept one of my eyes on the clock until 8:00. Then I got dressed for chapel.
Major Johnson approached me in the lobby. "Hi Rick."
"Good morning, sir."
"Have you seen the photographic display that Ed and Jill made up last week?"
"No. I've seen the pictures, but I haven't seen the display yet."
"It's over in the staff lounge. Next time you get a chance take a look. Of course, you turned out to be the star of the show."
"Who?"
"You. Your picture turned out rather well."
"Well I can't believe it's due to the subject, sir. It's amazing what a good photographer can do with practically nothing."
False modesty. Perhaps. The picture was no big deal. A spur of the moment thing. Just a snapshot of myself while I pondered the mysteries of superunification. It did manage to capture my extreme cuteness though.
When the Major disappeared into the Fellowship of Prayer meeting, Eddie Gillespie told me that he had shown him a picture of the Korean War Memorial, which he had found in a copy of U.S. News and World Report. The issues lead story was an overview of the Korean War, "the forgotten war."
"What is it?" the Major had asked. Apparently he had served in Korea. So had Eddie. So had Mr. Vasquez. "I can see two trees. Is that it?"
"I don't know," Eddie replied. "I guess."
Personally I wouldn't mind a tree as a living monument. Much better than a cold piece of stone.
After chapel I sat in the lobby reading, "The Dark Half," Stephen King's latest, waiting for the clock to hit 11:30, at which time I intended to wander up to the UA theater on Colorado to see the new film, "The Hard Way," starring James Woods and Michael J Fox. A comedy. At 11:25 Mr. Vasquez called me over the PA system to come to the sample room.
"Shit!" I said to myself. I knew what he wanted. I had asked him to show me how to do a calibration run on the ADx machine, and by the time we were finished it was too late for me to go to the movies.
I was angry because of this, and was surprised at those feelings. Another example of how a spoiled little boy reacts when he doesn't get what he wants, I thought to myself. Sometimes I can be quite childish this way. I guess everybody can at times. So I experienced the anger, felt it, realized those feelings for what they were, and got on with my life. That's what recovering alkies are supposed to do I'm told. Either that, or talk to your sponsor. Then he (or she) will tell you to experience your anger, feel it, realize those feelings for what they are, and get on with your life.
After lunch I ran some more tests (since I was there anyway), then took a short nap.
Surprisingly enough, I woke just in time for dinner, in which I partook there of (tamales), then I went upstairs and watched the last three quarters of a repeat "Star Trek, the Next Generation," episode. I started to watch a teenage sex movie, "Private School," but got fed up within five minutes, and came down to write in the lobby.
I guess I'm finally maturing, or at least getting older. Teenage sex movies no longer interest me.
X rated movies of course are another matter. You can learn quite a bit from X rated movies if you work at it.
But even those no longer interest me. I'm beginning to like reality too much.
I had a nice egg and cheese sandwich while finishing up my writing. I then disappeared into my room and watched, "Married to the Mob," the Sunday night V.C.R. movie, on channel seven. I'd seen it before. Not too bad. A good part for Dean Stockwell, and I'm secretly in love with Nancy Travis.
I watched a vampire episode of the television show, "Monsters." And then two pretty good episodes of "The New Twilight Zone." One was written by Richard Mattheson, entitled, "Button, Button," concerning a young bored housewife who is given a box with a button on top. She is told she has a choice; press the button, or don't. If she does not, nothing will happen. If she does she will collect $200,000.00, but she is guaranteed that someone she does not know will die as a direct result of her having pressed the button.Major Johnson approached me in the lobby. "Hi Rick."
"Good morning, sir."
"Have you seen the photographic display that Ed and Jill made up last week?"
"No. I've seen the pictures, but I haven't seen the display yet."
"It's over in the staff lounge. Next time you get a chance take a look. Of course, you turned out to be the star of the show."
"Who?"
"You. Your picture turned out rather well."
"Well I can't believe it's due to the subject, sir. It's amazing what a good photographer can do with practically nothing."
False modesty. Perhaps. The picture was no big deal. A spur of the moment thing. Just a snapshot of myself while I pondered the mysteries of superunification. It did manage to capture my extreme cuteness though.
When the Major disappeared into the Fellowship of Prayer meeting, Eddie Gillespie told me that he had shown him a picture of the Korean War Memorial, which he had found in a copy of U.S. News and World Report. The issues lead story was an overview of the Korean War, "the forgotten war."
"What is it?" the Major had asked. Apparently he had served in Korea. So had Eddie. So had Mr. Vasquez. "I can see two trees. Is that it?"
"I don't know," Eddie replied. "I guess."
Personally I wouldn't mind a tree as a living monument. Much better than a cold piece of stone.
After chapel I sat in the lobby reading, "The Dark Half," Stephen King's latest, waiting for the clock to hit 11:30, at which time I intended to wander up to the UA theater on Colorado to see the new film, "The Hard Way," starring James Woods and Michael J Fox. A comedy. At 11:25 Mr. Vasquez called me over the PA system to come to the sample room.
"Shit!" I said to myself. I knew what he wanted. I had asked him to show me how to do a calibration run on the ADx machine, and by the time we were finished it was too late for me to go to the movies.
I was angry because of this, and was surprised at those feelings. Another example of how a spoiled little boy reacts when he doesn't get what he wants, I thought to myself. Sometimes I can be quite childish this way. I guess everybody can at times. So I experienced the anger, felt it, realized those feelings for what they were, and got on with my life. That's what recovering alkies are supposed to do I'm told. Either that, or talk to your sponsor. Then he (or she) will tell you to experience your anger, feel it, realize those feelings for what they are, and get on with your life.
After lunch I ran some more tests (since I was there anyway), then took a short nap.
Surprisingly enough, I woke just in time for dinner, in which I partook there of (tamales), then I went upstairs and watched the last three quarters of a repeat "Star Trek, the Next Generation," episode. I started to watch a teenage sex movie, "Private School," but got fed up within five minutes, and came down to write in the lobby.
I guess I'm finally maturing, or at least getting older. Teenage sex movies no longer interest me.
X rated movies of course are another matter. You can learn quite a bit from X rated movies if you work at it.
But even those no longer interest me. I'm beginning to like reality too much.
I had a nice egg and cheese sandwich while finishing up my writing. I then disappeared into my room and watched, "Married to the Mob," the Sunday night V.C.R. movie, on channel seven. I'd seen it before. Not too bad. A good part for Dean Stockwell, and I'm secretly in love with Nancy Travis.
What do you suppose the bored housewife did, dear reader? What would you do in her position?
She pressed the button, and the same mysterious man who first brought her the box came back with a suitcase full of money. He also took back the "button mechanism," stating , "One push per customer."
"Did someone... you know, did someone..."
"Did someone you did not know die?" He smiled, "Absolutely."
When she asks, what will happen next, he replies, "You can be assured, it will be given to someone you do not know."
Cute.
I turned off the TV, and the lights and tried to sleep. I was planning to get up early so I needed to sleep. It did not come to me though, and I began to think of Jill. I wondered what she had done today. If she had gone to the Hastings movie theater again this Sunday, what her boyfriend was like.
I don't really know why I was thinking of her. I hardly know the woman.
I thought to myself that it was because I was feeling lonely. That I don't know that many people I can talk to, or that I didn't really have any friends. My job didn't help. I'm ostracized by most in the residence. But that's okay, anyone whose job gives them a certain amount of authority over others feel that.
I wasn't feeling sorry for myself, it was more of an acceptance of the way things are.
So why had I thought of Jill?
When men feel lonely they think of women, I guessed. Most men at least.
I fell asleep dreaming of giant cockroaches devouring Phil Donahue.
March 11 Monday Day 180
Mr Vasquez needed to go to the V.A. clinic early today. Something about the Diabetic Clinic only being open on Monday mornings.
Since it was my day off I had planned to also go to the V.A. clinic early this morning to see about a possible discharge upgrade. I had planned this excursion for the last week, and had acquired a letter written by Clarence Orion stating my intentions to the clinic.
As I have attempted to explain before, Mr. Vasquez and I can be in the residence at the same time, but we cannot both be away from it at the same time, for any extended period of time. One of us must be on duty.
In the battle to see who would actually go to the clinic I lost miserably. Not that Robert was overbearing about it, he wasn't. It's just that he had a medical reason to go and I did not.
So I took care of the residence while he was gone.
Ron Collins came up to the desk before devotions and looked out the window.
"Hey! There's some snow on those mountains."
I turned around and had a look myself. He was right, there was snow. A small amount of the white stuff had deposited itself on the higher slopes of the nearby San Gabriel Mountains over the night.
"Yes there is," I agreed. "I better call Frank Corona to get a crew up there with shovels to cover it up."
Richard my counselor came in this morning. He has volunteered to counsel now three days a week, instead of two, because most of our other counselors are abandoning us.
He was in a really good mood, the best I ever seen him. So Clearance Bliss, who was working the desk with me, got into an argument with him as soon as possible, to calm him down a little. I did not get to hear the argument myself, although I was told it was philosophically orientated.
I got some writing done, and picked up some toilet paper from warehouse supply too.
I continued reading the Stephen King novel (once I start one of these I can't seem to stop. This book, like "Misery," concerns an author. In this tale the writer's fictional character comes to life and starts acting naughty, killing people and stuff.
Robert did not come back until 12:50, ten minutes before the big gratuity board meeting began. As soon as he left for that I went up to my room and stared at Elvira for awhile, then took a little snooze.
Upon awaking, I went for a walk and bought my last pack of cigarettes.
This evening I watched the film version of one of the books I've been reading, "The Milagro Beanfield War." Although John Nichols, the author of the book, co-authored the screenplay for the movie, there seemed to be a heck of a lot of inconsistencies between the two, and within the story itself. Unforgivable compromise.
Hollywood.
It was still a very notable film.
I had at one time rented the video of this film, but I was drunk when Jan and I watched it, and I passed out about half way through. Jan later told me it was good, and she had been right.
After the movie I read some more of the book version, then yet once again, fell asleep.
March 12 Tuesday Day 181
180 days! Six months numerically! Not too bad. Not too shabby. I just be floating along now.
I was forced to get up early again today and go to work. Work, work, work, that's all I do.
Richard, my electric carted counselor, was back here again this morning. He was still in a really good mood, so we brought Clarence Bliss down as fast as possible.
I picked up some more toilet paper from across the street. You can never have too much.
Ron Collins brought me a new book to read, "A Brief History of Time," by Stephen Hawking. It's about physics basically, and cosmology specifically. The first chapter is an examination of our traditional views of the universe. The book looked to be promising, and I read it while Rockoff was in with the tutor studying for his GED.
Robert was three minutes late relieving me so I was forced to slap him around a little. He took it well.
I took a short nap after my shift, and got up for group counseling with the cool, but elusive Jill.
While I was waiting for Jill to arrive (she was a little late again) sitting in the lobby, minding my own business of course, I noticed one of the Tuesday clinic nurses talking with one of the men who had just entered the program today. He was sitting in a wheelchair. It seems he was complaining of chest pains.
Mr. Vasquez, concerned individual that he is, was calling 911, the emergency number, while asking incredulously, "You mean Clarence Orion let you in here with a heart condition?!"
Jill finally arrived and began her group. She had an opportunity to chastise me for not going to the V.A. clinic as I had told her I would, and she took full advantage of it. I told her that I would go next week, and that I would also go to the dentist, continue writing, continue reading, and quit smoking as of midnight.
Kelly Timmon's goal for the upcoming week was to try and stay clear of radioactive armadillos.
Dennis Smith kept smiling and licking his lips suggestively. To my horror this tactic must have worked as Jill asked him to stay after the meeting.
After group I took up position in the lobby, reading and writing. A visiting Captain and Colonel walked in. They were headed toward to elevator when Jill walked out of the counseling room. The two officers took a look at her and stopped in their tracks, evidently, and simultaneously coming to the conclusion that whatever they had been talking about could better be said in the middle of the busy lobby, instead of on the way to their quarters. Soon the Colonel walked up to Jill and engaged her in conversation.
These Salvation Army officers are such flirts. Transparent ones at that. Men are so obvious sometimes, I swear. It's embarrassing. I often wonder why women have anything to do with us. I wouldn't if I were a woman.
I'd be a lesbian!
I walked to Vons and bought four dollars worth of lotto tickets. Since I was going to quit smoking at midnight I could now afford to buy so many. There is a new lottery game out. It's called "Little Lotto." The odds of winning the "Little Lotto," are about one in three million, instead of one in fifteen million in the regular lottery. That doesn't exactly bolster my confidence about winning, but what the hell...
I watched a stupid Steven Segall movie when I got back, then read some more of the King novel.
Shortly before midnight I smoked my last cigarette again.
And shortly after midnight, I officially had six months clean and sober.
Not too bad. Not two shabby. I just be floating along...
March 13 Wednesday Day 182
Six months today! This book, log, journal, or whatever it may be, is 50% complete now. Don't worry dear reader, we can make it. Kevin Rockoff gave me a six month chip since I still haven't found any meetings that give them. Not that I've been going to a lot of meetings lately.
It being Wednesday I had to work all day. But to celebrate I thought it would be a good idea to inhale some more poison into my lungs, so I resumed smoking cigarettes.
Dumb.
And I got myself a new pillow. A nice big soft one. This was partly to compensate for the loss of Elvira. Mr. Vasquez had let the fire alarm people into my room to check the smoke detector, and discovered Elvira in the process. You see, we're not supposed to have pictures on our walls, especially pictures of beautiful women. It's unchristian I guess. Or at least, unSalvation Armyish. Robert told me to take Elvira down, even after I explained to him that she was my sister. He didn't buy it, and now she's history. That's okay, it was a little spooky with her staring at me all of the time.
Elvira is still in my room, but she's all rolled up now.
I also had to take down the two stuffed birds that had been hanging on the fire sprinkler.
So now my room became lonely once more.
And shortly before midnight I smoked my last cigarette.
Again.
March 14 Thursday Day 183
It started to rain. And it's cold too.
I wrote and read early in the day. I read about elementary particles, and the four fundamental forces of nature. Pretty nifty.
The visiting Captain and Colonel left this morning. We had to give them the old boot to make way for a visiting Major and his family. I've never seen as many freeloaders as these Salvation Army guys. As soon as we kicked the two officers out, I had the janitors converge in a merciless fashion upon the two apartments, sending them into a synthetic cleaning frenzy. They got everything together in record time. All the beds made, carpets vacuumed, and toilets cleaned before lunch. Very good.
We've been having a little problem getting bread lately. Supermarkets and such have not been donating as much as they should. Ron Collins is our new public relations guy, and one of his responsibilities is to convince local markets what a wonderful thing it would be for them to give us their day old bread. He was going up to Vons right after work.
"Strike up a deal," I suggested. "They give us all their bread, and we won't allow our clients to shoplift in their stores anymore. You can't lose! Tell'em we'll move over to Hughes."
I took a long nap after lunch. I was very tired for some reason.
I don't even want to talk about cigarettes.
The evening passed quickly. No problems with either Substance Abuse or the panel meetings. Wilford Maze was fifteen minutes late for the A.A. panel, and then continued to be late while attempting to talk me out of putting him on the Saturday work list.
"It's either that, Wilford, or I have to write you up."
He gave me a pleading look. "But I got stuff I gotta do on Saturday, Rick."
"Wilford! You're asking me to forget about it, and I'm not going to do that. If you couldn't afford a write up or some time on Saturday, then you should have been in the A.A. meeting twenty minutes earlier. It's as simple as that."
He was unhappy when he finally walked away, because I did not give in to him. A lot of the guys in here are used to getting their own way through the use of high intensity verbal bullshit. They are amazed when it does not work! I am now so used to this ploy that it rarely has any affect on me. Now hopefully, Wilford has a better understanding of how he is responsible for his own actions, and will surely suffer the consequences, or pleasures thereof.
I read some more about infinite gravitational fields, then at eleven o'clock went to bed, grateful that I could sleep in tomorrow.
March 15 Friday Day 184
And sleep I did. Till one o'clock or so. Then after I got my peepers open, I reached over and grabbed a book, and read in rapid succession: a chapter concerning black holes in "A Brief History of Time," a chapter of the King novel, "The Dark Half," a chapter from the Beanfield War, a portion of the Big Book of A.A., and the entry for the 15th of March out of the 24 Hour a Day book.
And then I went to the lobby and tried to write. Mr. Vasquez kept telling me about things that needed to be done, so I went upstairs and got ready for work.
Roger Collins, the canteen man, my next door neighbor, walked into the bathroom while I was shaving. He began to talk to me about his leg.
Roger's leg was slowly rotting to hell. Probably because of his smoking cutting the circulation to it and all. This condition causes him considerable discomfort at times, and he tells me, and anybody who will stand long enough to listen, that he would like to have it amputated. Ed Reitz told him that even if he did have it amputated he would probably still feel it. Roger doesn't care, he's determined to have his leg removed. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't such a general pain in the ass. He goes out of his way at every opportunity, to corner me and talk about all of the problems he has. An example: he thinks nothing of using huge amounts of my time telling me about all of the people who treat him rudely at the canteen. I couldn't care less because I know he treats his customers just as rudely employing undisguised sarcasm, just asking for all of the ill treatment he receives. I have only shown my displeasure toward his demeanor once, when he refused service to one individual simply because he disliked that persons attitude. He told that person to come and get me so that I could serve him instead. I let Roger know that it wasn't my job to run the canteen, that he wasn't there to judge people, and to just serve the hamburgers, cookies, and ice cream.
If it were up to me I'd throw him out of the canteen and put him across the street, but he'd probably alienate himself over there as well, and get himself thrown out of the center entirely. Besides, he would claim that he couldn't work because of his leg. For the time being I'm stuck with him.
I don't wish to appear heartless. I may be heartless, but I certainly don't wish to appear that way. If he doesn't care that much about himself to stop smoking (like I should talk) and reverse the deterioration of his leg, and try to get along with others, why should I go out of my way to help him?
I do anyway. I gave him some advice. I told him that he should quit smoking (like I should talk) while on the elevator last Wednesday night. A grey-haired, older gentleman, the new piano and organ player for our chapel services, a civilian, was traveling up with us.
"If you want to save your leg you should quit smoking, Roger," I told him.
"Yeah, sure. Might as well stop having sex too!" he responded.
"Oh? You getting a lot around here, are you Roger?"
The organ played looked as if he were in shock.
I could ask him that because I think he's gay. He always hangs around the bathroom smoking cigarettes, and he never goes anywhere, unless it's to the hospital. He says walking around gives him the shits.
Anyway, while I was shaving, he walked in and asked me if I would like to change the bandage on his leg for him.And then I went to the lobby and tried to write. Mr. Vasquez kept telling me about things that needed to be done, so I went upstairs and got ready for work.
Roger Collins, the canteen man, my next door neighbor, walked into the bathroom while I was shaving. He began to talk to me about his leg.
Roger's leg was slowly rotting to hell. Probably because of his smoking cutting the circulation to it and all. This condition causes him considerable discomfort at times, and he tells me, and anybody who will stand long enough to listen, that he would like to have it amputated. Ed Reitz told him that even if he did have it amputated he would probably still feel it. Roger doesn't care, he's determined to have his leg removed. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't such a general pain in the ass. He goes out of his way at every opportunity, to corner me and talk about all of the problems he has. An example: he thinks nothing of using huge amounts of my time telling me about all of the people who treat him rudely at the canteen. I couldn't care less because I know he treats his customers just as rudely employing undisguised sarcasm, just asking for all of the ill treatment he receives. I have only shown my displeasure toward his demeanor once, when he refused service to one individual simply because he disliked that persons attitude. He told that person to come and get me so that I could serve him instead. I let Roger know that it wasn't my job to run the canteen, that he wasn't there to judge people, and to just serve the hamburgers, cookies, and ice cream.
If it were up to me I'd throw him out of the canteen and put him across the street, but he'd probably alienate himself over there as well, and get himself thrown out of the center entirely. Besides, he would claim that he couldn't work because of his leg. For the time being I'm stuck with him.
I don't wish to appear heartless. I may be heartless, but I certainly don't wish to appear that way. If he doesn't care that much about himself to stop smoking (like I should talk) and reverse the deterioration of his leg, and try to get along with others, why should I go out of my way to help him?
I do anyway. I gave him some advice. I told him that he should quit smoking (like I should talk) while on the elevator last Wednesday night. A grey-haired, older gentleman, the new piano and organ player for our chapel services, a civilian, was traveling up with us.
"If you want to save your leg you should quit smoking, Roger," I told him.
"Yeah, sure. Might as well stop having sex too!" he responded.
"Oh? You getting a lot around here, are you Roger?"
The organ played looked as if he were in shock.
I could ask him that because I think he's gay. He always hangs around the bathroom smoking cigarettes, and he never goes anywhere, unless it's to the hospital. He says walking around gives him the shits.
"No Roger! That's gross. You change it..."
"I can't reach it," he said.
"Find a way, Roger."
He began telling me about the bandages he has, and how they cost him so much. He showed them to me.
Just as I was stepping into the shower he asked me if I would like to look over the literature that came with the new bandages. "No Roger. I don't want to read about your new pressure bandages. Now, if you'll please excuse me..."
Upon exiting the shower, I found Jerry Schimmele standing there.
"What is this? A convention?"
"Hey Ricky. I think I may be gett'en a new job!" He proceeded to tell me about an offer he had received from the Arcadia School District for a janitorial position. I am very happy for him. He needs to pass the civil service exam yet, and I hope that all goes well. This place can't do very much more for him except provide a comfortable atmosphere for him to waste his time.
Earlier, while I had been reading in my room, I heard two guys walking around in the hallway just outside my door. I knew one of them was Mr. Vasquez (his voice is quite distinctive), and I soon recognized the other fellow as Ed Reitz. They were in the process of inspecting all of the private rooms in preparation for the big A.R.C. review coming up in April.
Just as they reached my door it flashed on me what they were up to, and I jumped up and moved around as if I were making my bed.
Knock, knock. "Richard, open up please," Robert directed. Ed followed with, "Room inspection!"
I opened the door and let them in. "How appropriate," I said. "I was just making my bed."
"Sloppy room!" Robert observed.
"Sloppy! How dare you, sir! My room's not sloppy. I like to call it extremely organized in a surreal fashion."
"Sloppy," Robert repeated. "What are you doing, Joyce? Starting a library?" He was referring to all of the books inside of my closet.
"I do reade a bit, yes."
"He reads more than I do," Ed said. "Tighten it up a little for inspection. You know, boot camp style."
"Yes sir." They left. I tore up my bed again and resumed reading.
At work, Eddie Gillespie told me that it was my fault that he was still at the center. He said that if he had to work mostly with Robert, instead of with me, he would have been long gone.
If I were a girl I would have said, "How sweet." But I'm not, so I didn't.
"Well good," I said. "If you were out there you'd be in the rain." It was raining at the time. "I've probably saved your life."
He agreed.
March 16 Saturday Day 185
I got up to have breakfast and drop off last night's money and gratuities to the desk, then returned upstairs, turned the television to "The New Leave it to Beaver," and snoozed until one.
I was tired.
When I did get up I felt sad about sleeping all day, but decided there was noting I could do about it now (I had elected to put that sleep into the permanent storage locker of the past, and took full responsibility for it being there), and went to the bathroom to get ready for work.
Roger came in and began to describe, in excruciating detail, how bad his leg was getting. New sores popping up everywhere. He said he was very discouraged. I don't blame him for feeling that way.
Mr. Vasquez was busy today, driving around, taking basketball players to the basketball game, picking up Dudley Spittler from the La Canada trailer, getting the V.C.R. movies ("Death Hunt" and "The Prophecy" both action-packed no doubt), taking the ladies from the thrift store to the bank, on and on. I took advantage of this and got some writing done.
Kevin Rockoff had been scheduled to take his first weekend pass today. He hasn't taken one since he's been here. Neither have I, and for the same reason-- we do not have any family or friends that live around here to visit. Oddly enough, nobody who works on the desk does (except Mr. Vasquez, who is always visiting his mysterious grandniece in Upland). Too much of a social life is a liability for us desk people. It's a good thing that we're all so dedicated, unselfish, and altruistic.
Kevin would like to change his social situation though. As you may recall, he has been attempting to find a suitable female type person through the singles ads in various newspapers, and had in fact met Vicky, a nurse of Philippine descent. Things didn't quite work out though. She was to hesitant, or had so many other obligations that she could not lavish Kevin with the attention that he required. So he wandered to the first girl that had a kind word for him. She's the sister of a girlfriend of one of our clients. They've known each other for about a week, and had made plans to go out this weekend. Kevin has been all excited about it for the last couple of days, supporting a steadfast grin.
He came back from his big date after only a couple of hours with the sad news of a canceled rendezvous. It seems his new love (Debbie-- it figures it would be a Debbie) wants her divorce to finalize before she gets too involved with anybody else (prudent). Kevin just shrugged it off, poor fellow.
Just another example of how fickle women use us decent, though helpless, defenseless men, for their own nefarious, selfish pursuits. We're just objects to them. Something to be used, then carelessly discarded like an old brassiere.
After Mr. Vasquez returned, Eddie Gillespie informed him that Ed McNicols brother had not been seen for the last three days, and maybe Robert should go look for him. Ed McNicols brother, Jim McNicols, lived in the picturesque Green Hotel, on the other side of the park.
"Why should I go look for him?" Mr. Vasquez asked. "You mean to tell me that Ed McNicols won't go over there to look for his own brother?"
"I guess he's afraid too," Eddie offered.
"That's where you're going to go after you leave here, isn't it sir?" I asked. "The Green Hotel, I mean."
"That's where I'm going, yes."
"Eddie tells me that the Green Hotel is also called the Alcoholic's Haven, and you want to go there?"
"You don't have to go with the stream, Joyce."
"That's true," Eddie chipped in, "Humphrey stayed sober for over a year there... until they found him dead in his apartment at least."
Eddie later told me about how the police had tried a new way to introduce evidence during a court hearing. Unfortunately, Eddie was the subject of this experiment. The prosecutor was attempting to prove a public intoxication charge by using a video tape recorded in the police station shortly before Eddie's booking ceremony.
Picture if you will Eddie standing next to his attorney, watching along with the judge, a video of Eddie standing in between two uniformed police officers trying to determine the level of his drunkeness by tossing five coins on the floor in front of him, then asking him to bend over and pick them up.
The video quite clearly displayed Eddie contemplating this request, looking first at the officers, then to the five coins, then back to the officers, saying, "Pick'em up yourself, you dumb sonsofbitches!" Then he began to giggle.
And was subsequently convicted.
We lost four guys tonight. The second Saturday in a row we've caught someone coming in with booze on their breath. Three A.W.O.L.s.
I wish them well.
March 17 Sunday Day 186
I didn't want to get up today at all. I hadn't got to bed last night until 2:45, and I was rather reluctant to let go of the rather firm grip I had upon sleep.
But I started to visualize the consequences of me not showing up for chapel, and got out of bed.
After church, I ate two donuts and had a nice cup of coffee at the canteen, and then to the library to write until noon.
Today is Saint Patrick's Day, and I'm Irish!
Whoopee!
I was adopted when I was four days old (appropriately enough, on Halloween) , in San Jose, California. Two nice people adopted me, and I have always considered them nothing less than my true parents. Roman Richard and Susan Lucille. I have never met my biological parents. I have never learned what their name is, or tried to learn it, mainly because I have no desire or interest in knowing it, or the circumstances surrounding their decision to put me up for adoption. My lovely sister was adopted also, three years after I was. It was always enough for me to know that it was Roman Richard and Susan Lucille who desired children enough, and cared enough, to take us into their home and love us as if we had come from their union. I didn't, and still do not, need to know anything further.
The only thing I do know about my biological parents is that they must have been Irish, because for as long as I can remember, I have been told that I am completely Irish. 100%
So I suppose that Saint Patrick's Day is supposed to have some kind of significance for me. It doesn't really. I would like to visit Ireland some day, and I loved James Joyce's "Dubliners," and all, but Saint Patrick's Day doesn't give me that much of a thrill.
I do remember that I probably got more blitzed on drugs and alcohol on one particular Saint Patrick's Day than on any other day in my entire life. It happened when I was fourteen, or fifteen, and I had been celebrating most of the afternoon. By the evening I had consumed many cross-top uppers, various downers or reds, a few tabs of acid, all washed down with liberal amounts of alcohol. It is truly amazing that I didn't just lay down and die after taking all of that stuff, but the uppers and acid must have kept my heart pumping, and me up and going. I remember little of what followed, most of it told to me at a later time. I do vaguely remember going to a drive-in movie with my friends, De'ette and John. They were going together at the time, but that in no way stopped, or slowed down my drunken proclamations of undying love for De throughout the night. I was also told that I made many excursions from the car, talking to other parked movie goers, asking anyone who would listen if they wanted some coke. Those who thought the idiot drunken boy was giving up free snorts of cocaine, and accepted my offer, were quickly let down when I shoved my cup of spiked Pepsi in their faces. My two friends must have collected me and brought me home, dumping me in front of my house. My mother later told me of how she found me sitting in the front yard, in deep conversation with the tree that resided there.
Anyway, today, St. Patrick's Day, I went to the movies and saw, "The Hard Way," with Michael J. Fox and James Woods. A good film, sort of in its own little world, but very funny. I was especially intrigued by the reaction of the women in the audience as Fox role played a female on the make. They loved it.
This tells me something. What, I don't know, but definitely something.
When I returned to the residence I hurried to my room because I knew Alfred Hitchcock's "Vertigo," was on T.V., and I had never seen it. Pretty implausible story, but I imagine it was a big deal in its day. I can't stand movies in which Kim Novak dies. I'm secretly in love with her you know.
I had dinner (Chicken Cordan Bleau and chile mac), and then watched a wonderful brand new episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation." A baby space creature mistook the Enterprise for it's mother.
It can happen!
I wrote for a while after that in the library.
At eleven thirty I watched a humorous episode of "Monsters," with the delightful Teresa Ganzel.
I'm in love with her too, and I don't care who knows it!
March 18 Monday Day 187
Wolf came in and woke me at 5:30. I got out of bed five hours later, just in time to hop in the shower and pop down to lunch by eleven (B.L.T. on rye). While waiting in line to eat I noticed Rico approach Reuben Smith with the traditional Zulu Brother greeting: "Hello my African flat-topped brother!" This said while each majestically slapped the palms of their right hand together. Although Reuben is neither flat-topped, or African (he looks partly Spanish, is half American Indian, and comes from Burbank), it in no way deters from this poignant and colorful ritual.
Right after lunch I was off to the bus stop, and after only a three minute wait, was on my way to the V.A. clinic downtown, and then to the dentist.
Oh boy!
The lady at the V.A. clinic was very nice, and very helpful. But the end result of my visit was what one would expect when dealing with large bureaucracies. I was told to go somewhere else. She told me this in a very nice, and very helpful way.
The dentist made a mistake and gave me too much novocaine, so much that I actually couldn't feel anything as he routed around in my mouth with his deadly drill. He attempted to make up for this error with subtle, psychological ploys.
"Has it started to rain yet," he asked with all apparent innocence.
"Naaaw viiiiee? Iss iiittthhh tthappoooss tooo?" The anesthetic made my tongue feel like a leaden slug in my mouth. The dentist knew that I had not come prepared for any type precipitation, and that I would likely be drenched while returning to the residence. He looked at me with undisguised glee. "Yes, any moment now," he said.
With my new filling in place, I made my way to the bus stop without incident, still dry. This would be my last trip to this particular dentist. I would now need to try the U.S.C. Dental School, at the General Hospital, to see about getting a new crown for my front tooth. Next Monday I'll see about that. The Monday after that I'll go to the V.A, clinic in Westwood, where I had earlier been directed.
Back at the residence, still dry, I ate a late dinner (Veal Parmesan with pasta), and tried to write while maintaining a conversation with Dennis and Reuben Smith (at this point Dennis requested that I record the fact that he had bought me a root beer). My conversation partners soon changed repeatedly, and thus, the dynamics of the conversation wavered with each turn. First Dennis and Reuben Smith, then Reuben Smith and Ed Reitz, then Ed Reitz and Kevin Rockoff, then Jerold Schimmelle, then back to Ed Reitz with Dennis Smith, at which point I excused myself so I could go to my lonely room and watch Rob Riener's "The Princess Bride," on television. A William Goldman screenplay (based on his novel) that was at once simple, clever, and effective.
After which I accidentally tuned into the last hour of "Return of the Jedhi," the last segment of the "Star Wars," trilogy. I love this stuff! A middle ages fantasy set in outer space.
Besides I think I may be secretly in love with Carrie Fisher.
Who isn't?
I read after the movie, and it soon began to rain. I could feel the intermittent thunder shake the building at times.
When I tried I couldn't get to sleep. Probably nicotine withdrawal, as I hadn't smoked that day. I tossed and turned.
After I did that for awhile, I decided to read some more until I got sleepy.
But that didn't work either. So I turned on the T.V., and just laid there on my bed and forgot about what I was watching, which was something with Gregory Peck (I had once talked to Gregory Peck on the phone while working as a operator for AT&T. He had been trying to call Beijing, China directly, and had dialed me by mistake. I set him straight on how to do it right) and Joan Crawford. During one of the late night commercials with the ads for the 900 telephone services (I think it was the one with the sluttish looking blonde, standing next to an equally sluttish looking Oriental and sluttish black girl, saying with a sluttish looking smile, "You can go out with girls that look like us! All you have to do is call 976 GUTS. Three dollars for the first minute, one dollar for each additional."
Somewhere during all of that I fell asleep.
March 19 Tuesday Day 188
Up early for work. I hadn't slept very well the night before, but I wasn't tired.
Work went by quickly. I had a lot of energy today, and I kept myself busy doing some writing and running urine tests.
Richard, my counselor, gave me a new book to read. "Essentials of Chemical Dependency Counseling," by Gary Lawson, Don Ellis, and P. Clayton Rivers. I suspect it deals with counseling chemical dependents.
Mr. Vasquez and Ed Reitz went to the hospital shortly after lunch to move Jan Skiecicz to another facility. They had not returned by the end of my shift, so I started pulling some overtime. Ernie Sens called to find out if Robert was aware there was a 2:30 safety meeting scheduled for today. I told Ernie that it may have slipped his mind, and that he wasn't here anyway. Ernie said that he needed a representative from the residence, and that I should fill in for Robert. I promptly found myself in the boardroom with the Major, Ernie, Pattie Orion, Frank Corona, and Ron Collins. Most of what was discussed had nothing to do with the residence, so my major responsibility at this meeting was to stay awake and look alert. Robert showed up at about fifteen minutes into the session, after which, I felt the responsibility to stay awake was now his. I then felt free to doze, keeping my head in a perpetual nodding motion, as if agreeing with everything that was being said.
Don't get me wrong. Safety is very important.
After the meeting I went to my room and changed clothes. I then went out to the front parking lot and sat on one of the benches while reading about alternative cosmological models, and watching three little girls playing by the trees by the walkway which leads to the front door. I admire their youth and innocence. I do not envy it.
One of the little girls had just finished calling Bill Rausemplat a "Pendejo," (which according to John Nichols, "translated loosely means, 'idiot,' or 'fool,'-- or translated more literally means, 'pubic hair.'") then I returned to the lobby to write before Jill's group.
She picked me out to start tonight. I let her know that I had continued to write throughout the week, gone to the V.A., gone to the dentist, and stopped smoking. Everyone in the room chirped, "Again!"
Jill said that I had made it sound like it was easy to quit. I insisted that it wasn't, that it was very, very hard.Work went by quickly. I had a lot of energy today, and I kept myself busy doing some writing and running urine tests.
Richard, my counselor, gave me a new book to read. "Essentials of Chemical Dependency Counseling," by Gary Lawson, Don Ellis, and P. Clayton Rivers. I suspect it deals with counseling chemical dependents.
Mr. Vasquez and Ed Reitz went to the hospital shortly after lunch to move Jan Skiecicz to another facility. They had not returned by the end of my shift, so I started pulling some overtime. Ernie Sens called to find out if Robert was aware there was a 2:30 safety meeting scheduled for today. I told Ernie that it may have slipped his mind, and that he wasn't here anyway. Ernie said that he needed a representative from the residence, and that I should fill in for Robert. I promptly found myself in the boardroom with the Major, Ernie, Pattie Orion, Frank Corona, and Ron Collins. Most of what was discussed had nothing to do with the residence, so my major responsibility at this meeting was to stay awake and look alert. Robert showed up at about fifteen minutes into the session, after which, I felt the responsibility to stay awake was now his. I then felt free to doze, keeping my head in a perpetual nodding motion, as if agreeing with everything that was being said.
Don't get me wrong. Safety is very important.
After the meeting I went to my room and changed clothes. I then went out to the front parking lot and sat on one of the benches while reading about alternative cosmological models, and watching three little girls playing by the trees by the walkway which leads to the front door. I admire their youth and innocence. I do not envy it.
One of the little girls had just finished calling Bill Rausemplat a "Pendejo," (which according to John Nichols, "translated loosely means, 'idiot,' or 'fool,'-- or translated more literally means, 'pubic hair.'") then I returned to the lobby to write before Jill's group.
She picked me out to start tonight. I let her know that I had continued to write throughout the week, gone to the V.A., gone to the dentist, and stopped smoking. Everyone in the room chirped, "Again!"
She gave me a job market projection sheet for substance abuse counselors. This was part of what Maggie required. It was surprising that Jill gave this to me even though she had said she would two weeks ago. She is a busy lady and has a hard enough time remembering my name, let alone any extracurricular activities.
This should impress Maggie, and shut her up for a while.
The group ran a little long. We kind of hurried through the goals for next week. Jill looked at me and asked, "And what are your goals for next week, Tom?"
I'm going to have to think seriously about continuing on with Jill. I mean really! After three of four months the least you could hope from your counselor is for them to remember your name. Especially when you're hopelessly in love with them. Maybe I should have her call me Rick, instead of Richard. It should be easier to memorize. Less syllables.
Anyway I went upstairs, had a cigarette, then went to bed.
March 20 Wednesday Day 189
Today is the Vernal Equinox, the "first point of Aries," the beginning of Spring in the northern hemisphere. Today's day and night are of equal length in all parts of the world.
Wolf woke me at five. I got up at five forty-five and showered and dressed for work. After thumbing through the Encyclopedia Britannica, I went downstairs and was at work by six. I gave Kevin Rockoff the traditional deskman greeting: "Hello my fellow laid-back coffee drinking brother," while simultaneously initiating a mutual over-head, back-handed slap. The above greeting seems to be more effective and meaningful if uttered with a slight Jamaican accent.
People kept blaming me for all of their problems this morning. Roger Collins thought it was my fault that nobody would give him a ride to the hospital. I tried to explain to him that after seven o'clock I had nothing to do with transportation. That it was Frank Corona's department. That was why they had given him the title of "Director of Transportation." Roger didn't care about all that. He said he couldn't take the bus because it was raining. He didn't want to get his stinky, rotting, putrescent leg wet, and felt, due to the weather, it was my responsibility to get him to his doctor.
The rain stopped before I took the morning paperwork across the street, and resumed right after I returned to the residence. This type of thing happens to me a lot. At movie theaters especially. No matter how late I may be, only after I have found a suitable seat, am comfortably situated in it, and have taken my first bite of sweet, hot-buttered salty popcorn, will the film begin. Richard, my counselor says this happens to him quite a bit. We both attribute this to both of us being in tune with our respective higher powers.
We had to write up Reuben Smith (half of the famous Zulu Brothers) last week for never making his bed. The good folks at the Gratuity Board meeting decided to take away $5.00, or 25% of his weekly pay for one week. Accordingly his bed looked very nice today. The best in the residence actually. I would have given him the Best Bed Award, but Ed Reitz didn't think it would be appropriate and we would be sending him the wrong message if we did.
Possibly.
I took a little nap after lunch. When I came back down at 2:30, Eddie Gillespie reported, "I vacuumed the rug and cleaned the windows while Clarence just sat there and read the paper."
Clarence Bliss looked up from his paper at me, then at Eddie, "Fuck you Gillespie. I hope your horse loses."
These guys are both over sixty years old. So much for graceful maturity.
A Marine joke, by Eddie Gillespie: On a flight to Boston, a Marine PFC sitting in first class was asked by the young stewardess if he would care for some coffee.
"I don't want any fucking coffee!" was his reply.
The young lady was clearly shocked at such rude behavior. She thought the gentleman had somehow misunderstood her question, and determined to fulfill her duty, she tried again a short time later.
"You can take that coffee and stick it up your ass!"
Now hurt and offended, the stewardess noticed a Marine Captain sitting nearby and tried to enlist his aid. She asked him to observe the private's response when she tried yet again.
After receiving the usual scathing retort, she looked at the Captain with a see-what-I-mean expression on her pretty face.
"Well don't give the son-of-a -bitch any fucking coffee, you meddling bow-legged whore!"
Oh my, that was so disrespectful. I in fact would like to salute the fine job our flight attendants do on a daily basis. Fine job. Remember, that was Eddie's joke, not mine. If I had anything to say about it, it wouldn't even appear here.
And what can you do with Marines? They're just so irrepressible.
We experienced hail today. Great showers of gravel size ice came raining down.
I was safe inside, of course.
Mrs. Johnson brought us at the desk a nice Easter basket, with an Easter Egg Tree in it... and a stuffed bunny.
Very nice.
In chapel, I was sitting in the last row with Clarence Bliss when Ed Reitz announced there were three beneficiaries eligible for program graduation certificates, but only one was present at the time. The other two were either at work (Rico Montgomery), half of the infamous Zulu Brothers, or at school (Anthony Rutherford). I knew that I was eligible, and that I was there. Clarence looked at me as he heard me groan.
After Ed announced my name, I walked up from the back to where Major Johnson was standing holding my certificate. There was actual applause.
"Rick is a man of few words," the Major said, "and tonight we're going to give him the chance to say both of them." The Major was referring to the fact that I have never given a testimony during services.
"Really though," he continued, "congratulations Rick. You've done a great job in the last six months. I'm sure that those of you who feel the need at times can go to Rick for advice when you feel it necessary to talk to someone about the problems currently facing you. I'm sure he'll be happy to help, if he can."
I nodded my head in an up and down manner.
"Keep up the good work Rick, and thanks once again." I gave the Major my thanks and returned to my seat. More Applause.
After chapel the Major congratulated me once again on the outstanding job I was doing.
Outstanding.
It's very nice to be appreciated, and I do respect the Major (even though he did threaten me with physical violence once), he has an extremely difficult job here, and I'm sure he's an outstanding person and all. I like his wife too. He is ultimately my real boss, but I don't really know the man, and I don't deal with him on a day to day basis. I couldn't help but wonder how much more the praise would have meant coming from Robert Vasquez.
Robert being Robert, was no where around.
Tonight was also my last night of the Transition Group with George Plick. I had graduated from it. I had graduated right on up to Graduate Group with George Plick.
I think you have to die or something to get out of that one.
Anyway, during the group, I stopped listening to George talking about how our minds must dictate our actions rather than our emotions, and began to realize that I have become comfortable with the notion of not living up to the expectations of others, even my own. I' not saying that I do not care of what others think of me. I do. Everybody does, no matter what they say. I was thinking specifically about returning to school, and being anxious about it. I realized I needed to relax when I returned, and just do the best I could. I must give myself permission to fail occasionally and accept that it is within my nature (being a human type person) to make mistakes, and that I can learn in my own way the knowledge that I can utilize to my best advantage. I know I should not do poorly in school, and probably will in fact do well, especially for a person with a twenty year history of drug induced stupor... plus an organic brain syndrome to boot! I also became aware of how I am applying this acceptance to other aspects of my life, and I felt comfortable about feeling comfortable with that.
We had a new female type counselor person here tonight. Her name is Cathy, a demur brunette, with a pleasant figure, and I should say somewhere in her mid-twenties. However I did not actually see her face as she was walking away from me when I first noticed her. I suppose I should at least get a good look at her and maybe talk to her once or twice before I go to all of the trouble of falling in love with her.
You can't be too careful these days.
Near the end of the shift I walked outside and gazed up at the starry cloud-framed sky, and it was beautiful.
March 21 Thursday Day 190
Another nice and early 5AM start on the day. Not much happened compared to yesterday.
I gave Rockoff the traditional Deskman greeting, then began to write. I wrote for most of the morning, whenever people were not interrupting me, asking me for insulin and stuff like that.
I did my laundry and took a nap.
Pretty fast paced I admit. I read a lot about drug counseling and reexamined my motives for entering that field.
I would like to help other alcoholics and drug addicts who really want to stop drinking and drugging, and don't know how. I want to try and help those who aren't quite sure if they want to stop, but suspect they have a big problem. I want to help them learn how to really want to stop. And I want to help people learn about their defense mechanisms, how they can continue to keep you sick for a long time. While doing all that, and by doing all of that, I hope to help myself keep sober, and if I'm being paid for it I can continue to go to school. Continue to study psychology, sociology; how the brain works, i.e., the mind.
I do not perceive within myself the desire to have power over others, or wish to escape feelings of guilt, or make a lot of money. I believe these perceptions to be sincere, and my motives satisfactory.
Very nice.
Charles Parsons, the Transition House manager, was caught with alcohol on his breath today and has now moved back in with us. Dorm 4, bed C.
John Ritchie and Ray Hunt (who had been thrown out of the residence, but still worked in dispatch) quit their jobs across the street, and are said to be headed to Vegas.
The men were relatively well behaved tonight, going to their meetings on time. And everyone made it back by curfew, including Art Svensk.
I had earlier scored a copy of Arthur C. Clarke's "Childhood's End," and reread that book until 2:30 in the morning. Then I slept, dreaming of the Overlord's giant ship projections and mashed potatoes.
March 22 Friday Day 191
I had intended to get and go to the 7:30 Big Book study meeting at Union Station, but had to change those plans due to lack of motivation. I slept until lunchtime.
Cheeseburgers.
After lunch I practiced various forms of advanced yoga techniques while reading some of "The Milagro Beanfield War," "Childhood's End," "The Bible," and the "Twenty Four Hour a Day" book. After which I wrote, then got ready for work.
Mr. Vasquez stuck me with handing out the gratuities again. But after dinner it was kind of slow, an even keel sort of night. I gave the New Client Orientation, and put up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot, and besides from selling a few canteen cards and handing out straggler's gratuities, my evening was fairly free.
I had time to read, read about drugs.
I have often thought, along with many others, that the simplest way to crush the black-market in drugs would be to legalize them. Addicts who given the choice between securing their supply of the drug they are addicted to from government or private industry at low cost; or paying the high prices the black-market demands, would choose the former. Economics 101. There would soon be no black-market. The demand for its products would not exist. The addicts lifestyle (that famous "drug seeking behavior," or criminal patterns needed in order to purchase drugs) would decrease substantially. And added revenue from the taxation of the now legal substances would be one of the benefits to this country.
Nothing would please me more than to pull the rug from underneath the drug lords.
Of course, much like the bootleggers of Prohibition days, the drug suppliers of today would still be armed with nation threatening amounts of cash to do with as they please. The locating of these ill gotten gains, it seems to me, to be an ideal project for our law enforcement agencies to be concerning themselves with. Much better then the hopeless task they have currently set for themselves (or the politicians have set for them), attempting to stop the importation of drugs.
And I do understand that supporting the legalization issue is tantamount to political suicide. I am not interested in politics though, or furthering politician's careers.
Human life interests me. The negation of pain, misery, degradation, and torment interest me very much.
March 23 Saturday Day 192
I slept in again I'm afraid. I knew they would be having chicken patties for lunch, and I like chicken patties... so I got up to eat.
Afterwards I returned to my lonely, Elviraless room, and read. I read from "The Brief History of Time," book, a very depressing part. I used to not have an opinion regarding the Second Law of Thermodynamics, but now I think it's a real bitch. The way Hawkins explains it, or rather the way I understand what he's trying to say, life will not be feasible in ten billion years or so when the universe starts to collapse in on itself (if indeed that is to be it's fate). Something to do with time being equal to distance in space, and moving backwards toward The Big Crunch. Of course life would end in The Big Crunch anyway, but at the end of it all when everything gets squashed. I had at least thought we would have all of that contraction time (10 to 20 billion years) to play around in. It just goes to show... it's always something.
Worry, worry, worry.
I completed my work as fast as possible so I could write most of the night. Edward Taylor, who had recently escaped the jaws of death due to medical difficulties, did not return for curfew this evening. If he starts, or has already started using again, it will most likely finish him off.
Even armed with that kind of self knowledge it isn't enough to make a lot of us stop using.
I wish him well.
March 24 Sunday Day 193
I had asked to be woke at 4:00 so I could catch a movie on TV that came on at that time. "Creature," a bad B movie ripoff of "Alien." I had seen it before, but was badly in need of a science fiction fix. I stayed awake throughout.
Half way through the movie I hopped in the shower, so by the time the creature got electrocuted I was dressed and ready for the day.
I got a special fix of caffeine in liquid form from the canteen, and wrote while I consumed it. At 7:00 I ate breakfast (yucky pancakes and sausage), then returned to the canteen to write some more. At 8:00 I retrieved my tie from my room, then went to the lobby to write some more.
Then at 8:45, I along with everyone else went to chapel. I was once again given the privilege of presenting this week's responsive reading, and once again, managed not to muck it up too much (I was a a lot less nervous this time, probably because Major and Mrs. Johnson were noticeably absent).
One of my recurring fantasies involves Mrs. Major Hall (Ret.) She and her husband attend our services each Sunday, and she has been gracious enough to play the piano for us, ever since Audrey (the other piano player I had fantasies about) went back to Australia. The Hall's must be in their seventies, and she makes use of a cane to help her move around. My fantasy concerns the music she plays. Once, just once, instead of the soft, nondescript, melodious passages she provides as a background while us ushers are busy collecting money throughout the congregation, I would like her to break out into some Rock and Roll boogie. I can hear her voice now screaming out, "I just can't get enough of that sweet stuff my lady gets behind!"
It will probably never happen.
I took a little nap after chapel because I was tired. When I woke I read some of the "Beanfield," book, then finished "A Brief History of Time." As an epilogue, Hawking provided three brief biographical accounts of Albert Einstein, Galileo, and Isaac Newton. It was interesting to read about what an unpleasant person Newton apparently was.
I sat between Russell Burke and Mr. Vasquez at dinner. Russell was telling us that he might not be able to fulfill his duty this evening as the team mascot for the basketball game between our Pasadena A.R.C. and the dreaded Los Angeles A.R.C.. Russell wanted to watch a real basketball game on television tonight.
"They'll lose if you don't show up, Russell," I told him.
"I know. Yeah, they'll probably lose the game."
It turned out that Russell was able to attend the game, but we lost anyway.
I was able to finish my first version of the Fourth Step of Alcoholics Anonymous during the afternoon. One never really completes this step, making a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, until one kicks the bucket.
At 5:30, Dennis Smith, Kevin Rockoff, Marvin Smith, and I were driven by Mr. Vasquez to the Glendale High School auditorium to witness a performance from the Salvation Army Tabernacle Band and Songsters.
Not inappropriately, the place was crawling with Salvation Army type people. Officers, Auxiliary Officers, Soldiers, Adherents, various Salvation roadies and groupies, all decked out in their shiny black Salvation Army uniforms. It didn't take me long for me to realize that I was the only one in the entire auditorium dressed in blue jeans.
A true iconoclast. I did have a nice tie on though.Half way through the movie I hopped in the shower, so by the time the creature got electrocuted I was dressed and ready for the day.
I got a special fix of caffeine in liquid form from the canteen, and wrote while I consumed it. At 7:00 I ate breakfast (yucky pancakes and sausage), then returned to the canteen to write some more. At 8:00 I retrieved my tie from my room, then went to the lobby to write some more.
Then at 8:45, I along with everyone else went to chapel. I was once again given the privilege of presenting this week's responsive reading, and once again, managed not to muck it up too much (I was a a lot less nervous this time, probably because Major and Mrs. Johnson were noticeably absent).
One of my recurring fantasies involves Mrs. Major Hall (Ret.) She and her husband attend our services each Sunday, and she has been gracious enough to play the piano for us, ever since Audrey (the other piano player I had fantasies about) went back to Australia. The Hall's must be in their seventies, and she makes use of a cane to help her move around. My fantasy concerns the music she plays. Once, just once, instead of the soft, nondescript, melodious passages she provides as a background while us ushers are busy collecting money throughout the congregation, I would like her to break out into some Rock and Roll boogie. I can hear her voice now screaming out, "I just can't get enough of that sweet stuff my lady gets behind!"
It will probably never happen.
I took a little nap after chapel because I was tired. When I woke I read some of the "Beanfield," book, then finished "A Brief History of Time." As an epilogue, Hawking provided three brief biographical accounts of Albert Einstein, Galileo, and Isaac Newton. It was interesting to read about what an unpleasant person Newton apparently was.
I sat between Russell Burke and Mr. Vasquez at dinner. Russell was telling us that he might not be able to fulfill his duty this evening as the team mascot for the basketball game between our Pasadena A.R.C. and the dreaded Los Angeles A.R.C.. Russell wanted to watch a real basketball game on television tonight.
"They'll lose if you don't show up, Russell," I told him.
"I know. Yeah, they'll probably lose the game."
It turned out that Russell was able to attend the game, but we lost anyway.
I was able to finish my first version of the Fourth Step of Alcoholics Anonymous during the afternoon. One never really completes this step, making a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, until one kicks the bucket.
At 5:30, Dennis Smith, Kevin Rockoff, Marvin Smith, and I were driven by Mr. Vasquez to the Glendale High School auditorium to witness a performance from the Salvation Army Tabernacle Band and Songsters.
Not inappropriately, the place was crawling with Salvation Army type people. Officers, Auxiliary Officers, Soldiers, Adherents, various Salvation roadies and groupies, all decked out in their shiny black Salvation Army uniforms. It didn't take me long for me to realize that I was the only one in the entire auditorium dressed in blue jeans.
The show was wonderful. They had obviously put a lot of time into the effort, and it certainly paid off. I especially enjoyed the Songsters. Clarence Orion was up on stage for both the chorus and the band (French horn), along with my old friends, Capt. and Mrs. Strickland (Ron & Pam), she looking as lovely as ever. Dr. Doctor was in the band He holds a position similar to that of Ed Reitz's at both the Canoga Park and Van Nuys A.R.C.s. His son, and several of his charming daughters were with him. He looked right at me when he introduced his son for a solo, but I doubt he recognized me.
Kevin, Marvin, and I sat in the first row. Snobbish Dennis went off to mingle with his Salvation Army cronies. He seemed to be friendly with Dr. Doctor's family, and introduced us to one of the doctors daughters after the show.
Mary.
Mr. Vasquez, after becoming unlost, finally picked us up and returned us to the residence in time for "Married with Children."
Later, after I turned off the lights and the TV, I heard the rain begin again.
March 25 Monday Day 194
Dennis Smith knocked on my door shortly before 7:30. I got out of bed and opened it.
"Are we going to the dentist this morning?" he asked me. We had agreed to go to the U.S.C. Dental School today. He had a toothache, and I wanted to make an appointment. Dennis has never been there before and wanted me to help guide him through the bureaucratic bullshit.
I said, "Man, it's raining out there," in a truly wimpish fashion. It was true though. It was raining out there, and I did not relish the idea of getting soaked at the bus stop. However, "Hold on, I'll get ready and..."
"That's okay. We can go tomorrow."
"I have to work tomorrow."
"Well, I'll go tomorrow. That way I can leave at six."
"Okay."
I closed the door and went back to bed.
I got up at lunchtime.
Tuna fish.
I read a lot about caffeine today.
I had the distinct honor and pleasure of dining with two lovely women at dinnertime, Milda and Barbara Grothe... counselor type ladies. Milda had seen me writing earlier, and asked me what I was writing.
"A book?" she asked, in her cute little Lithuanian accent.
"Why yes, I think I am," I replied.
"Do you need an agent?" She was teasing me, in her cute little Lithuanian way.
"Who did you have in mind?" I asked.
"Ha, ha, ha. I was just kidding. What is your book about?"
I never know what to say when people ask me that. It's hard to explain all that I feel this account truly is, especially in the amount of time people will usually give me to explain.
I went over it briefly, and she did seem somewhat interested. I told her that since the book was about my first year in sobriety (if I do in fact make it that far. No fair turning to the back of this account to learn the final outcome, dear readers. For those with little patience and fortitude, I might be quite devious in hiding the true ending), and about what goes on around me, and about the people I meet, and that by extension she was now a part of, and in the book.
Which of course she is.
She looked at me, taken aback, then smiled. "Oh Rick, you're always putting me on."
Later I read about counseling chemically dependent individuals, while watching all of the stars arrive for the Academy Awards ceremony on television.
I didn't have any favorites in the running this year, so the awards show was particularly uninteresting for me. But there were some high points.
Madonna did a saucy little dance number for one of the songs featured in "Dick Tracy." It is amazing how a cheap looking blond, wiggling her butt, holds peoples attention. Or maybe it's not so amazing.
The clips taken from the past films (always a tribute to the editors) never fail to manifest a certain sense of nostalgia that can be quite touching.
The best acceptance speech came from the winner of the Best Screenplay award (Dances with Wolves," which also won Best Picture). "Stick to your dreams and never give up!"
Wonderful advice.
After the show a Barbara Walters special aired and I watched part of it. I saw the interview with Whoopi Goldberg (herself a recovering heroin addict, and winner of tonight's award for Best Supporting Actress in the film, "Ghost,"), and the Jeremy Irons interview (the Best Actor winner for his performance in "Reversal of Fortune"), but had to turn it off before Barbara got to the Mutant Teenage Ninja Turtles.
I can only stand so much.
By the way, Kathy Bates won the Best Actress Award for her portrayal of the Stephen King character, Annie Wilks, in the film, "Misery."
Very good.
I read a couple of chapters of "Beanfield War," then went to bed. For a while I listened to the sound of it not raining, then fell asleep.
March 26 Tuesday Day 195
I talked to Maggie and Major Foote this morning. They must not have remembered our last conversation because I had to explain what it was that I planned to do with my life all over again. I showed Maggie the labor market survey that Jill had given to me. She was suitably unimpressed. She wants me to call each of the prospective employers and basically get the same information that is on the survey. She wants me to ask them would they have a job for a person if that person had the right education, training, and background appropriate for the position. On its face it looks like a silly question. No, no, it is a silly question. Of course they would hire someone like that. Who wouldn't? Would the prospective employer rather go out and attempt to locate someone whose education, training, and background were inappropriate for the position?
It seems to me that the only real question might be if there were a position open which needed to be filled in the first place.
I told Maggie I would call these places.
If nothing else I think I impressed Maggie on how serious I am, and how stubborn I can be about sticking to my plans with, or without her help.
I also let her know that if for some reason I could not continue school, then I'd like to stay right here doing what I'm doing, rather than re-enter the job market.
At least I'll stay sober here.
Hopefully.
Jill seemed like she was in a big hurry tonight. She rushed through everyone's weekly goals because the room needed to be used for another meeting. She got to me and asked, "Richard, all I have written down for your goals last week were to read and write?"
"Yes, I did that."
She looked at me kind of funny, "What do you write about?"
I briefly told her what it was I write about. Like Maggie earlier, Jill was suitably unimpressed.
Just like my mom.
Just like most everybody.
Just as they should be.
Except Russell Burke. He cares. At anytime during the day or night, I can count on Russell to come up to me, and say, "Hi! Hi! How ya doing? You're looking good. Everything's alright, okay, hi!"
Bless you Russell.
March 27 Wednesday Day 196
It was one of those mornings.
First off, because of my job I was forced to get out of bed before six o'clock. 6:00AM!
Then, when I got to work the Major came in and started hanging around. Now, as the administrator of this facility the Major has every right to do that, but by doing it it affords him the opportunity to look around and complain about things, which makes him a real pain in the ass for us desk guys. For example, this morning he noticed some cobwebs, way up in the corners of the atrium where no one can get to. He of course, wants them removed. He said we need new pool cues, and that I should get busy and price some. He wanted to get a new parrot to replace Noah (no mere bird could ever replace Noah), but he wanted all of the beneficiaries to pitch in and pay for it.
Fat chance.
He also caught one hapless individual using profane language while talking on the pay phone, and went off on him. He also began crying about the cigarette butts littering the walkway in front of the residence.
I believe he was in a bad mood. For one thing the reason he was over here was to greet all of the clinical directors from all of the A.R.C.s in California. They were having a little get together here today, and they were being late about it. The Major really doesn't like to wait around a whole lot. Second, the wife of the Major's boss was heading up the meeting, Mrs. Colonel Allen, and the Major was going to have to pretend that he was all happy to see her and everything.
Politics.
Third, Mrs. Colonel Allen was late too.
One other reason the Major might not have been too chipper today was because yesterday he had an angiogram performed. Sticking a plastic tube down the old arteries would probably put anybody a little out of whack.
I was kept busy today, with one thing or another. No time for naps.
Tonight's chapel service was actually a memorial for Jan Skiecicz, who passed away on Monday. Jill came for the service and was even on time. We sat next to each other, and afterward she hung out at the desk handing out some of the photos that David had taken. She gave me three that were not used in the presentation. One was of me blinking.
While she was doing this we had a chance to talk to each other like normal human beings. She did not once ask me what my goals for next week were.
This was my first night of Graduate Group with George Plick. It was a good group. We discussed what was happening with us, what our plans for the future were, and how we were going to realize those dreams.
George got on Clarence Bliss's case for not having quit smoking. Good (like I should talk).
Later, while I was putting away the counseling books, one of them accidentally opened to my folder. To make sure it was mine, and in its proper place, I skimmed through it.
Jill wrote, "continues to work on self-improvement." That's true. Everyday I'm sober is an improvement.
George wrote, "has talked to Voc Rehab, working on getting through one day at a time." That's true as well.
I am always tempted in times like these to write my own entries. Let's say I copied George's handwriting, and wrote, "Rick was quiet and distant throughout group. Asked me if he could talk to me privately afterwards. Said he had been sick and depressed all week. Even suicidal. Had a crazed, glazy look in his eyes. Pulled a gun and said everything would be alright now. He came behind me and put the gun to my head and told me to write all of this down. He cocked the gun--Oh No!..." then splatter the paper with tomato paste.
I'm very sick, no doubt about it.
March 28 Thursday Day 197
I over slept this morning. When I looked at one of my clocks it said 5:58. That gave me two minutes to shave, brush my teeth, shower, and get dressed for work.
I made it to work with thirty seconds to spare. I skipped breakfast, and wrote.
I kept putting off doing my labor market survey. I don't know why. I feel uncomfortable calling people and bothering them in this fashion. If I knew them personally I'd feel more comfortable about wasting their time.
I did have time to do my laundry, and take a short nap.
John Walters, the new book man, brought over a box of books for the library, and I found two good ones. "On the Beach," by Neville Shute (his most popular work, although I prefer "A Town Like Alice"), and "Mystery," by Peter Struab. I spent the afternoon reading the drug counseling book that Richard had loaned to me, and the Shute book.
Most of the counselors scheduled to appear today called in sick, or had car trouble, so there wasn't anyone around to annoy, which really annoyed me, but gave me more time to read.
Dennis Smith went to the dentist today to have a tooth pulled. He was very anxious about it. He told me he had had a bad experience visiting the dentist once when he was much younger. I tried my best to reassure him.
"Don't worry, Dennis. Everything will be just fine. You tell the demon... I mean the dentist... which tooth it is, and after they finish poking it with one of those long, sharp, pointy probes for awhile, he'll pull that sucker right on out. Make extra sure he's got the right one though!"
When he regained his color he left for the bus stop. He returned a little after 1:00, minus one tooth, and very proud of himself that he hadn't made a scene in the dentist office.
We were all very proud of him too.
March 29 Friday Day 198
Good Friday (probably from God's Friday), the anniversary of the physical death of Jesus upon the cross. The Friday before Easter, observed as a day of morning and penitence.
You couldn't tell it from looking around here. The Administration of the Pasadena Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center, being essentially a Christian organization, gave its warehouse employees and beneficiaries half a day off, more or less, and released them at 1:00. The thrift store closed its doors at 3:00.
The boys, upon returning to the residence, had an excess amount of energy needing to be dissipated, which they did by hurling insults at each other and picking fights. Fighting, being one of the four ways to automatically be terminated from the program (we're here to help each other, not tear each other apart) did not actually occur, and no one was caught doing it or thrown out... but it was close.
My dear friend Dennis Smith almost punched (with abandon) my dear friend (and half of the infamous Zulu Brothers) Reuben Smith. Reuben must have said something in that childish, and totally irritating way of his, and Dennis came within a nanosecond of making mincemeat out of him. Other vocal altercations took place. I could hear them from where I was sitting in one of the restroom stalls (hiding) trying to meditate. Some residents left the building just to briefly escape the frenzied atmosphere.
Curtis Carter returned to us wishing to be re-admitted after having spent some time knocking about on downtown's skid row. Unfortunately there were no openings today. He would have to hang around until Monday hoping to take advantage of one of the weekend's inevitable terminations. I loaned him a blanket so he could sleep outside somewhere.
Without being asked, Andre Laws immediately came to Curtis's aid by getting himself terminated after being caught pilfering.
I wish the horny little fucker well.
Curtis will still have to wait until Monday as there is no intake on Fridays, or over the weekend.
Ron Collins, our new Safety Coordinator, told me that on his first day on the job, he banged his knee, cut his thumb, and jammed his finger. He is currently looking for less hazardous work.
Myself, after waking up at four in the morning only to find "Charlie's Angels," on TV, went back to sleep until lunch. Then wrote and went to work. Having discharged most of my duties I read out of the drug counseling book (learning how to counsel by reading a book is like learning to swim without getting in the water), some of "On the Beach" (a very, very sad story. I find myself getting all misty while reading it), and the "Licit and Illicit Drug" book.
Before I went to bed I noticed a newspaper article in the Times. It discussed the Rolls Royce automobile, and how much white collar criminals like them.You couldn't tell it from looking around here. The Administration of the Pasadena Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center, being essentially a Christian organization, gave its warehouse employees and beneficiaries half a day off, more or less, and released them at 1:00. The thrift store closed its doors at 3:00.
The boys, upon returning to the residence, had an excess amount of energy needing to be dissipated, which they did by hurling insults at each other and picking fights. Fighting, being one of the four ways to automatically be terminated from the program (we're here to help each other, not tear each other apart) did not actually occur, and no one was caught doing it or thrown out... but it was close.
My dear friend Dennis Smith almost punched (with abandon) my dear friend (and half of the infamous Zulu Brothers) Reuben Smith. Reuben must have said something in that childish, and totally irritating way of his, and Dennis came within a nanosecond of making mincemeat out of him. Other vocal altercations took place. I could hear them from where I was sitting in one of the restroom stalls (hiding) trying to meditate. Some residents left the building just to briefly escape the frenzied atmosphere.
Curtis Carter returned to us wishing to be re-admitted after having spent some time knocking about on downtown's skid row. Unfortunately there were no openings today. He would have to hang around until Monday hoping to take advantage of one of the weekend's inevitable terminations. I loaned him a blanket so he could sleep outside somewhere.
Without being asked, Andre Laws immediately came to Curtis's aid by getting himself terminated after being caught pilfering.
I wish the horny little fucker well.
Curtis will still have to wait until Monday as there is no intake on Fridays, or over the weekend.
Ron Collins, our new Safety Coordinator, told me that on his first day on the job, he banged his knee, cut his thumb, and jammed his finger. He is currently looking for less hazardous work.
Myself, after waking up at four in the morning only to find "Charlie's Angels," on TV, went back to sleep until lunch. Then wrote and went to work. Having discharged most of my duties I read out of the drug counseling book (learning how to counsel by reading a book is like learning to swim without getting in the water), some of "On the Beach" (a very, very sad story. I find myself getting all misty while reading it), and the "Licit and Illicit Drug" book.
Except this one:
"Newport Beach developer Kent B. Rodgers, sentenced in October to eight years in jail for massive bank fraud, said in an interview last week that he regrets ever buying a Rolls Royce.
'It was the worst car I ever had in my life. It changed lanes by itself'
He reported that the gas milage wasn't that great either."
Somehow this was oddly pleasing to me. I went to sleep tonight knowing that justice was not completely dead.
March 30 Saturday Day 199
Passover. It may have once just been a Spring festival, but that meaning has been obscured by its use by the Orthodox Jewish as a celebration of deliverance from the yoke of Egypt.
I celebrated by waking up at 4:00 to watch a movie on TV, but could not stay awake until the end, falling back asleep until lunchtime.
I read for awhile after lunch. "Milagro," the Bible, and "On the Beach," which takes place mostly near Melbourne, Australia, and stirs within me a desire to return to that country just to hear the ladies talk.
It was quiet at work tonight. Tempers seemed to have evened out compared to yesterday. And no one got drunk, or missed curfew.
I read out of the "Licit and Illicit Drug," book for most of the evening. Later I gave my mom a call to wish her a happy Easter. I learned about what was going on in old Bullhead as well.
It has been raining there recently, and this affects my mom's breathing, but she's holding her own. My sister Cheryl has had to take a step down in rank and pay at her job... from supervisor, back to casino floor person. She's doing this so she can spend more time with her daughter, my lovely niece Keri. Good for her. Good for both of them. My one time friend, "Uncle" Lester, is not feeling too well after his last chemotherapy treatment for the cancer that has lodged itself in his neck.
What can you do?
My mom had been watching the Stanley Kubrick film, "A Clockwork Orange," when I called her. I let her know that Kubrick was my favorite director, and that I would let her get back to the movie.
We told each other that we loved each other and then hung up.
I had told her that I had graduated the program, and that I had a nice certificate to prove it. She asked me what I would be taking in school when I told her that I wanted to go there soon.
"Basket weaving," I said.
I'm a smart ass to my mom sometimes. I could have said anything, but my reply at least gave her a little chuckle.
March 31 Sunday Day 200
Easter Sunday! Chief Christian feast, commemorating the resurrection of Jesus Christ after the crucifixion. "Painting and rolling eggs and wearing new clothes are Easter customs; there is no development of social festivities comparable with those of Christmas." There is no mention of bunnies in my handy dandy encyclopedia.
Appropriately enough I had myself awakened at 4:00 to watch the film, "The Nasty Rabbit," on television. A comedy about a Russian plot to let loose a bacterial laden hare here in the American wilderness.
Horrible movie.
I took care of my matutinal ablutions, then came down and wrote for a while in the canteen area. After a scrumptious breakfast I deposited myself in the lobby and read from "On the Beach."
Major and Mrs. Johnson came in at 8:10. They each said hello to me, and then something odd happened. Mrs. Johnson (Jenny) began telling me about how busy their social life had been lately, and soon the Major (Dale) followed suit.
"We've been to three weddings within the last two weeks," she said.
"And one funeral," the Major said.
"You must be getting tired," I observed.
"It is a little much. Last night we were driving with our daughter-in-law... she's pregnant you know... and she got sick all over the car." She made a face of mock disgust mixed with loving tolerance.
"Motion sickness," the Major added.
"Yes, that happened to me quite a bit when I was much younger," I said.
"Me too," the Major said. "Especially when people around me were smoking." He shook his head in abject disapproval.
I started to tell Mrs. Johnson about when I was a little boy, and that I liked corn-on-the-cob so much that I would eat it until I puked my guts out. After up-chucking all over a nice restaurant my mother would never let me order it again.
Mrs. Johnson seemed very interested.
Clarence Orion sang today in chapel. He's quite a good singer actually. He looks like a person who needs help while doing it though.
After services I helped Mr. Vasquez lock up the chapel, then went to my lonely room to watch most of the movie, "Harvey," with James Stewart and Josephine Hull. Marvelous story and delightful movie.
I ate lunch, then slept for most of the afternoon because I had only gotten about two and a half hours sleep the night before. I woke at 2:30 to the sound of very odd organ music coming from my TV, which was tuned to a channel showing the movie, "Baghdad Cafe."
After dinner I watched a fine episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation." It involved invisible aliens and their insidious ways of reproducing.
I got a front row seat for the Sunday night VCR movie, "Grim Prairie Tales," starring James Earl Jones. I don't know what they had in mind when they made this thing, but whatever it was it didn't work. I was glad when I was called to the desk half way through the film. Clarence Bliss called me over the PA system because; one, he couldn't find Robert Vasquez; and two, all of the drains on the first floor had started to back up, discharging massive amounts of odious sludge all over the place.
I directed Clarence to get maintenance on the drains, and to page Mr. Vasquez over at the warehouse, because that was the direction he had been headed when last seen.
After Robert returned, and maintenance got things under control, I slipped up to my lonely room, feeling somewhat lonely, and watched another stupid Clint (kill everything in sight) Eastwood film. After the Clint (make it with your wife the minute your back is turned) Eastwood film, I went to sleep feeling happy and at peace with the world, knowing that Clint would handle anything that may come up.
April 1 Monday Day 201
April Fool's Day!
I was woken at 4:00 again. I wanted to get an early start to the Federal Building in Westwood, but I decided to sleep in a little more.
It took a great act of will to pry myself out of bed in time to shower and make it downstairs for lunch. Chicken patties.
I made it to the bus stop shortly before 11:30, and had great good fortune with the buses today. I did not wait more than three minutes for any of them. The 483 south on Fair Oaks, to downtown at Grand and 7th, then the 320 west on Wilshire all the way through Beverly Hills (where the Hillbillies live), into Westwood near the San Diego freeway. About a two hour trip one way.
The Federal Building is huge and a tad imposing. I passed through a metal detector on my way to the Veteran's Assistance area. I gave the clerk there my name and took a seat. Very nice modern facility. A television hooked up to a VCR was showing the movie, "The Hunt for Red October." It was ending when I got there. Soon a lady came out of nowhere and popped another cassette tape into the VCR machine, and "E.T." began.
Shortly, a nondescript middle aged lady with long white hair called my name, and asked me to follow her to her desk. I did this. I figured I better or nothing would happen. Once we were seated, she asked what it was that she could do for me. I let her know. I told her that I was seeking an upgrade of my military discharge, from an "Other Than Honorable" to an
"Honorable."
I had gotten too drunk several times while in the service and wandered off for days at a time. The navy doesn't like that type of behavior. I had no veteran's papers, or Veteran's ID to show her.
"We have forms for that," she said.
Why was I not surprised?
She gave me two of them. One to retrieve my military records from the Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri. The other was the application for the upgrade. I thanked the lady for the two forms then went back to the bus stop. It seems appropriate somehow that in dealing with the federal government I would need to spend four hours on the bus for three minutes of service.
It was a good bus ride though. I like to look at the people walking around, and the contrast between the old and new buildings. If you look carefully into the windows of some of the older buildings you can see clear through to the other side. I wondered what it looked like in those rooms, and what the building had been used for when it had seen better days.
Buses are particularly suited for this type of sight seeing.
As chance would have it, I arrived back at the residence just in time for dinner (spaghetti). I noticed Barbara Grothe and Milda sitting by themselves at my usual table. I asked them if I could sit there, and they said that I could. Now, once again I had these two lovely ladies all to myself.
How exciting.
Milda asked how my book was going. She believes that it is a good thing that I write. That it's therapeutic. Indeed it is. There is little doubt that writing this helps me to stay sober.
I don't know why.
They asked me what it was I felt that gave me a chance of staying sober this time around considering I've relapsed so many times. I told them that by pure dumb luck (and one lie, and a little work), and thanks to Jack Crossley's not wanting to work a second shift, I had been given a job with some responsibility, which I managed not to fuck up too much, which made me feel a little better about myself, because I've always known that I could handle a job of some responsibility but had never had the chance, and so far I've done a good job, which has improved my very, very low self esteem. I also told them that I have now seen what the bottom looks like, and I realized there was little future there, and that I had been lucky not to have gotten used to the bottom (the Park).
These things, among others, helps me to stay sober now. Writing helps.
Jill told me that she thinks that I will stay sober. For the first year at least.
My God, I hope she's right.
April 2 Tuesday Day 202
"The Apprenticeship of Dudley Kravitz," was on channel 13 at four this morning. I directed my eyes toward the TV until I had woken up sufficiently to turn it off. Only a person on a tremendous amount of speed could stand to watch a young Richard Dreyfuss zipping around without throwing up.
I was at my desk at a little after 5:00AM, typing in the answers to the two forms I had received yesterday. I also wrote. I managed to keep myself fairly busy throughout my work day, running urine tests, stocking up on janitorial supplies, and so forth.
I saw Richard, my counselor, for the first time in two weeks. He had been sick last week. He still looked sick. I returned his chemical counseling book to him, admitting surprise that it expounds controlled drinking as a recovery option. I disagree totally. That is not an option for alcoholics.
I was scheduled to see Maggie and Major Foote today, but Maggie had no time for me. She said she had to go to a meeting. Just as well, it gave me more time to finish my job market survey.
Which I haven't started.
I took a little nap after work, then read part of Norman Mailer's "Marilyn." Or looked at the pictures at least.
I was sitting in the lobby, minding my own business, when Mr. Vasquez announced over the PA system that Jill would be late for her group counseling meeting. Of the ten people who were in the lobby with me, nine of them were heard to say, "So what's new?"
I noticed the little girls from next door from where I was sitting. They were in front of the residence playing, begging for money and candy from whoever happened to out there, guys smoking cigarettes and lounging around after the evening meal. I would say their ages ranged from seven to ten years old. I was fond of one little girl in particular. She is a small, pretty little girl, with great black hair and dark brown eyes. She, like the other little girls who live around here, are of Spanish, or Mexican ancestry. She will no doubt grow up to be a beauty. She once confided to me that her name is Jasmine. I like her because when I talk to her, or when she looks at something, her eyes grow huge and her mouth drops open as if she were in a constant state of awe of everything around her, and all that she sees and hears. I walked out to talk to them, but they were too interested in what they were doing to pay any attention to me. Soon their mothers called to them and they all ran home.
Jill finally arrived, and we began our group. We discussed last weeks goals, and if we had met them. One of Tracy Alexander's goals had been to learn a new word, and be able to use it in a sentence. I have on occasion tried to help Tracy through some of the beginning Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. One through Three, to be exact. Tonight I provided a word for him as well. Quarks. Or a quark. The definition of this word which Tracy was able to find went like this: "Hypothetical subatomic particle that possess a fractional electrical charge, and is the fundamental unit of matter."
That is as good a definition as I've heard. Short, and too the point. I was surprised to learn that Jill had no idea what a quark was. Dennis Smith argued with me as to their actual existence (they do exist. We've been able to see where they've been), which wouldn't make any difference anyway. The word "quark" exists, and for this discussion thats all that mattered.
Jill, not to be out done, had a few words of her own. While attempting to discover what Tom Rotsch's week had been like (like me, Tom is staying in Jill's group on a voluntary basis. Maybe he's secretly in love with her too. Ahhh! I can't stand all of these secret rivals), Tracy was making a nuisance of himself by talking to Kelly Timmons. The second time Jill asked Tracy to be quiet, she added, "Tracy, stop it! Your being obstreperous!" Well, Tracy didn't know what to make of that. Later she labeled Dennis Smith as obsequious." This perplexed Dennis so much that after group he looked up these words in a dictionary. Probably as good as anyplace to look up a word. I found these definitions in the "Random House Dictionary," 1980 edition. "Obstreperous adj, resisting control in a noisy and difficult manner. Syn. boisterous, disorderly, unruly." I'm sure Dennis found something similar to the definition I found for obsequious. "Adj. servilely compliant or deferential." Dennis later confronted Jill.
"I looked up obsequious, Jill. Do you know what the slang definition of obsequious is Jill? Hummm? Do you? It means a wimp, that's what it means! I'm not a wimp! By no stretch of the imagination am I a wimp! I'm a hard-hitting, basketball-playing, jock-duuuude! You better start finding out what these ten dollar words mean before you start throwing them around, young lady. Next week find a better word that describes me. That's your assignment for the week. Got it?
"Yes Dennis."
Later, while I was thumbing through the encyclopedia in the lobby, Stacy came in and said hello to me.
"Took a little vacation last week, did we Stacy?" I asked her. She had not been here the week before.
"Yes," she answered. She's such a pretty young lady. I re-fell in love with her.
While munching out on a nice cheeseburger, I tried to cheer up my friend Ron Collins. He was a little depressed. He had banged his head earlier on a first aid cabinet while inspecting it. He told me that the thing he most wanted to do in life was to have a lot of money... and sit in a bar all day and drink.
I told him that didn't sound too bad really, but if he were to do that he would be kind of wasting his life, making himself sleep through whatever existence was meant for him.
"I'm wasting my life anyway," he said. "I start to think about how old I'm getting, and how I'll never have a good job, or do what I want to do. I'll probably live in a place like this forever. Like him." He pointed to Eddie Acuna who happened to be sitting with us. At Ron's last remark, Eddie and Ron began to playfully bicker, as only close friends can, which allowed me to make a fast and graceful exit.
I have no quick and easy answers for Ron, except that I know that drinking will only make matters much worse. That's the last thing he wants to hear.
At 8:00, John Carpenter's remake of "The Thing," was on channel 13, so I watched it. I'd seen it before, so I sat in horror at the violence the television editors had wrought upon this film. They had taken out almost everything that had made this movie interesting in the first place. They had taken the thing out of "The Thing!" Literally.
Inexcusable.
I began reading "Working," by Studs Turkel. It seems like a book I should enjoy. Jill recommended it.
We shall see.
I planned to be woken by Woody Allen at 4:00AM, so I went to sleep early and dreamed of endless snow.
April 3 Wednesday Day 203
Woody was talking to Mia shortly after I woke at 4:00. "Broadway Danny Rose," on channel 13. Mia's looking pretty saucy in this one.
I had time to read three chapters out of the Bible, one out of "The Milagro Beanfield War," and today's entry from the "24 Hour a Day Book," before going on down to breakfast and work.
Dennis Smith came into my office before he went to work to get some pills out of the medication box that I have in there.
"Good morning, Dennis," I said to him, "looking mighty obsequious today."
"That's a pretty obstreperous thing to say, Mr. Joyce."
"Yes, thank you."
I got a lot of writing done this morning, finishing up just before lunchtime.
I talked to my counselor, Richard, today. We talked about school mostly, and how to bilk the government out of grant money and loans. I also asked him if he would help me with my Fifth Step next week. He said that he would.
I typed a letter to my mother in the afternoon, enclosing some of the photos that Jill had given to me. I asked her to try and be here on the night of September 13th, as I would like her to be the one who gives me my first birthday cake for having one whole year of being clean and sober. She deserves a lot more, but at least I can give her that.
One of the guys from the drafting company right next door to the residence, on the east side, came over to see me. He said that there were hundreds of empty alcohol bottles littering their roof, and that some of them had smashed into, and damaged their air conditioning unit. He seemed to think that our guys might be sneaking up onto the roof, which overlooks our neighbor's roof, and drinking, then disposing of the empties on their air conditioner.
As if our sweet little angels would do such a thing.
I got rid of the guy, and then told Ed Reitz about it. He said he would tackle the situation by conducting a massive, surprise dorm search, and breath test after his last group this evening.
Tonight was birthday dinner night with Major and Mrs. Johnson. Those who celebrated their birthday last month got to go have dinner with them. Ron Collins, among others, was eligible.
Whoopee!
Chapel went smoothly and according to plan. Kevin Rockoff, Bill Rausemplat, and Ron Patrick, all received their graduation certificates.I had time to read three chapters out of the Bible, one out of "The Milagro Beanfield War," and today's entry from the "24 Hour a Day Book," before going on down to breakfast and work.
Dennis Smith came into my office before he went to work to get some pills out of the medication box that I have in there.
"Good morning, Dennis," I said to him, "looking mighty obsequious today."
"That's a pretty obstreperous thing to say, Mr. Joyce."
"Yes, thank you."
I got a lot of writing done this morning, finishing up just before lunchtime.
I talked to my counselor, Richard, today. We talked about school mostly, and how to bilk the government out of grant money and loans. I also asked him if he would help me with my Fifth Step next week. He said that he would.
I typed a letter to my mother in the afternoon, enclosing some of the photos that Jill had given to me. I asked her to try and be here on the night of September 13th, as I would like her to be the one who gives me my first birthday cake for having one whole year of being clean and sober. She deserves a lot more, but at least I can give her that.
One of the guys from the drafting company right next door to the residence, on the east side, came over to see me. He said that there were hundreds of empty alcohol bottles littering their roof, and that some of them had smashed into, and damaged their air conditioning unit. He seemed to think that our guys might be sneaking up onto the roof, which overlooks our neighbor's roof, and drinking, then disposing of the empties on their air conditioner.
As if our sweet little angels would do such a thing.
I got rid of the guy, and then told Ed Reitz about it. He said he would tackle the situation by conducting a massive, surprise dorm search, and breath test after his last group this evening.
Tonight was birthday dinner night with Major and Mrs. Johnson. Those who celebrated their birthday last month got to go have dinner with them. Ron Collins, among others, was eligible.
Whoopee!
Very good.
Graduate Group with George Plick was fun. We all talked about what had happened to us the week before. Reuben Smith thinks that Maggie Harbottle is trying to have him committed to a mental institution.
He may be right.
Ed choose dorm number 41 to make his massive, surprise dorm search and breath test on. We picked 41 because all of those clients happened to be in the residence at the time. Dorm 41 consisted of Kevin Rockoff, Dennis Smith, Kelly Timmons, Robert Fordan, and Jorge Estrada, all unlikely secret drinkers and pilferers. Ed used the PA system to ask all of the men of that dorm to be there in 5 minutes, effectively giving them a big warning that something was up.
After the 5 minutes Ed and I pounced on the hapless dorm like hungry wolves.
Everyone was negative for alcohol breath, and all we did with the lockers was to see how neat and well arranged they were. Ed asked them if they had been pilfering.
They all said no, that they had not.
"Hummm, obsequious looking locker you have here, Dennis."
"Thank you Mr. Joyce."
"Yours on the other hand, Mr. Timmons, is a bit obstreperous."
Later, I did some calibration runs for amphetamines and cocaine on the ADx machine, but inadvertently placed a cuvette (a small test tube) upside down on the carousel (a circular device that rotates with wooden unicorns attached), thus ruining the cocaine calibration, and wasting about $40 of the Salvation Army's money.
After running the calibration again, correctly, I made it to bed by midnight.
A poem by Eddie Pick Gillespie:
The Raton Kid and the Denver Dude
Face to face in the noon day sun
Each with his hand raised over his gun
hard eyes locked in a deadly stare
Assholes twitching at their underwear
Lips drawn back in a death mask grin
A duel to the death only one can win
The Raton Kid and the Denver Dude
Were about to settle a raging feud
Fueled by the love of the same dance hall woman
Whom everyone knew had a damn good one
Fanned by the legend of who's gun was quicker
Ignited by a card game and too much liquor
The Dude's hand dipped and came up aflame
banging and banging, again and again
The Kid's hand blurred at the very same time
Spitting out death as it came on to line
The screams of the woman was a sharp knife of pain
The fact that she cared for them both was so plain
They lay on their backs with their legs in the air
It is fair to describe they were shot everywhere
The blood had splattered a good hundred yards
Twenty two windows were shot into shards
The shots still echoed, smoke filled the sky
And the dance hall woman had started to cry
Out of the din and the smoke in the air
A strange apparition began to appear
Locked arm in arm two ghosts walked from the fray
The woman dropped to her knees and started to pray
It's an awfully tough way to get out of being married
But the only sure way is to be dead and buried
April 4 Thursday Day 204
I woke up this morning to Gene Kelly and Olivia Newton John dancing like fools in "Xanadu."
Another full day of work ahead. I read from the Bible and the "Twenty Four Hour A Day," book before I went to work.
I also managed to get some writing done early, and read parts of a relapse prevention workbook that Barbara Grothe had given to me.
I had just finished my laundry when Ed Reitz came over wanting to do some more locker searches. Not inspections... searches. He picked dorm 45 this time. He said he was looking for bottles of alcohol. He reasoned, I suspect, that the folks in dorm 45 had been boozing it up in there, and then flipping their empties out the window, up over and on to the roof of our neighbor's business. Unfortunately for Ed's theory, we found no bottles, nor drugs of any kind, or drug paraphernalia for that matter. We did find evidence of pilfering. An engraving machine and a radar detector were found in the dorm, and last but not least, and honest to God Geiger counter was in Daryl Sipp's locker.
We confiscated them all, and no one came to claim them throughout the rest of the evening. Odd behavior (or lack thereof) for one whose real property was missing.
Ed plans to have a super big locker inspection (search) tomorrow, at 4:00, when everyone comes in from work. I believe he's getting into some kind of locker search frenzy, his only barrier to success that I can discern was to give everyone twenty-four advance notice of the big inspection. I'm not saying it will, but it may allow pilferers a chance to dump whatever they have before said inspection.
Somebody must have dropped a lit cigarette into the trash compactor across the street. The Fire Department was called to extinguish the smoldering inferno just as everyone was getting off from work. The end result being a mountain of black, sooty, sludgy, garbage sitting right in the middle of Waverly Dr. About an hour later the police came and posted signs with blinking lights, all around the stinking, smoking pile, so motorists wouldn't smash into it throughout the night.
The evening was rather hectic, with people's moods a little flared. There were rumors of dorm inspections to worry about, confiscated property to contend with, going to required meetings. I hardly had time ti finish "On the Beach."
Daryl Sipp came to see me. He complained that people were making fun of him because of the Geiger counter we had found in his locker. He did not offer any explanation for it being there, he was just embarrassed by all of the attention this article had brought his way. He said that the guys at the desk were telling everyone about it, and thereby invading his privacy. He was probably right, and I apologized for their behavior.
Dennis Smith came in and talked to me at about 10:30. He said that he knew Charles Parsons had been drinking tonight, within the residence. Dennis believed that the administration was demonstrating a double standard, tolerating "valuable" employees, while giving the boot to commonplace beneficiaries. Parsons had been caught red-handed drinking at the Transition House, and instead of being ousted and fired, he was allowed to move back into the main residence. The word was out that he would soon be allowed to move back into the Transition House, so he was comparably being given a mild slap on the hand for an offense that would get everyone else terminated.
So there is a little discontent within the residence. Talk about the staff being hypocritical, allowing certain behavior by certain individuals, while checking for "unacceptable" behavior in most others.
The talk may be correct.
What an obstreperous situation!
Well, we shall see what transpires.
I finished reading "On the Beach," then went to beddie-by.
I dreamt of radioactive dust particles in my hair, as I sat and watched the waves break upon the Aussie sand.
April 5 Friday Day 205
I woke to the sight of Steve Martin arranging Rachel Ward's breasts in, "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid."
I used to be in love with Rachel Ward.
I went back to sleep, missing most of the movie. I stayed asleep on purpose (avoiding reality), till lunch time. I did not go down for lunch. I read out of the Bible, then washed and got ready for work. Before I began my shift I wrote in the lobby. Ed was there on his day off, preparing for the big, massive, sweeping dorm inspection that would be held at 4:00PM.
When I started my shift I told Ed what Dennis and the others had said to me last night, and he seemed concerned. We both went to Charle's dorm and had a look inside his locker and found nothing of an incriminating nature. That wasn't too surprising since everyone was aware of the upcoming massive dorm inspection and had an abundance of time to get rid of all of their contraband.
Charles was even one of the inspectors.
As the men returned from work at 4:00, we breath tested each, gave them their locker key, and instructed them to go to their dorm (or private room. I also had plenty of time to get rid of all of my contraband. Previously I had brought the ream of paper that I had appropriated from the Brick-A-Brack Department yesterday, down from my room and into the office. That would stop any embarrassing questions, such as, "What the hell are you doing with five hundred pieces of laser printing paper in your room, Joyce? Never mind, I don't want to know. The question is, where did you get it?" I had also taken the precaution to make sure my room was nice and tidy), and wait by their lockers.
The inspection team, consisting of Ed, Mr. Vasquez, Frank Corona, Charles Parsons, and Bill Richardson, went around, made a quick and thorough (and massive) sweep, then let the men come down where I paid them their gratuity.
Nothing was found, and no one was busted. One would have to have been in a coma for the last 24 hours to have been popped in this raid.
After dinner (fish), and after things had settled down a bit, Eddie Gillespie took me aside and told me he would be leaving tomorrow. "I thought I should tell you first. I have high hopes for you Joyce." I asked him what he would be doing and where he would be going.
"Go to the races, and the weeds."
I spent most of the evening with him, talking to him off and on, while reading a book he had pilfered and given to me, "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare." I read the first half of "A Mid-Summer's Night Dream," my favorite of his plays.
Eddie's thought processes must be as random, fast, and obstreperous, as my own, for every now and then he would look up at me from the western novel he was reading and begin talking about different subjects. Horse racing mostly, the weeds (living outside), his wife, his unsuccessful attempts to receive veteran's or SSI benefits, and the Korean War. He would shuffle from one topic to another in a haphazard, disjointed manner. I sometimes speak of my days in the navy that way. We had that experience in common. Life in the military had been exciting, a time we shall not soon forget. We could discuss books somewhat as well. But the strength of our bond, I believe came from our mutual respect, if you will, for being able to keep our individual dignity while doing a job, or living and succeeding (by our own standards) in a somewhat hostile environment, and thus achieving a certain sense of responsibility to ourselves, and a certain freedom.
I had not socialized much with Eddie. Once in a while we had lunch, or breakfast, or dinner together. Or on occasion I would sit next to him while he smoothed down a bowl of ice cream in the canteen. That's about all. His world is much different than mine. Our difference in age is significant. But I am very fond of him, and will always remember him.
At midnight there was no one to write up, or A.C.O. Everyone has made it back by curfew. Our job done, Eddie and I rode the elevator to the second floor. I shook his hand, "Well goodbye Eddie. I wish you the best out there. Come back and see us if you can."
"Oh I will, and I'll try to be somewhat sober. See ya later, Rick."
We walked to our rooms in opposite directions.
April 6 Saturday Day 206
I didn't wake up until 11:30AM, at which time I decided to get my lazy ass up and see what was for lunch. Lasagna it tuned out.
Eddie was still here. Decided to stay for lunch, he said. We sat together, not talking very much. There wasn't much to say. My lasagna disintegrated before me into wet, gelatinous glop, but tasted great. Eddie finished eating, turned in his tray to the scullery, and then was off.
I returned to my room and laid down, still tired. I read two chapters of "Beanfield War," then showered and got ready for work.
I wrote in the lobby, before my shift. Kevin Rockoff was working a double shift today, to fill in for Eddie. I would work the morning shift tomorrow.
At 2:00AM the clocks would be set ahead one hour to conform with Daylight Savings Time, which would deprive me of an hour of badly needed sleep.
Bummer.
I finished off Robert's left over paperwork for him when I came on duty. He, of course, was running around somewhere. I wrote the termination papers on Eddie and Charles Parsons (who would be returning to the Transition House today). I also wrote up Franklin Smith for being seen at the mall while still on 30 day restriction.
"I thought I was off," he said when he got back. I gently reminded him that he still had a week to go.
The idea came to me to change some of the clocks around the residence ahead one hour. I got compulsive about it, and began with the clock up in the chapel. I soon found out that Robert had already changed that clock, he was in fact up there still, and we inspected the chapel and the upstairs apartment together, giving me a rare opportunity to chat with him at length.
We discussed the leaky air conditioning system, Jan Skiecicz, the ability of the residence manager to save money owing to the fact that he pays no room and board, about jobs that we've had, women, cars, and places we have lived.
Upon returning to the lobby he took off to give the ladies in the thrift store a ride to the bank, and to put up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot. It was 7:22PM, and 4 seconds, real time.
At 10:39PM, and 30 seconds I had spent the interval reading and writing about nicotine, sold canteen cards, gave instructions to the Night Crawlers, smoked cigarettes... administering nicotine into my bloodstream, started movies, photochecked the ADx machine, checked the As-Is-Yard for suspected burglars, drank mass quantities of coffee thereby administering caffeine into my bloodstream, finished up required daily paperwork, counted daily collected monies, ate one humongous chocolate covered buttermilk donut thus administering enormous amounts of unwanted fats and carbohydrates into my bloodstream, and waged my way through malingering drunks and disturbed informers.
I thought I'd call it a night.
Almost.
I still have over an hour to go on my shift in which I believe I shall read some Shakespeare. And when Mr, Pandolfi comes my way near midnight, I shall go upstairs and fiddle around for a while, and hopefully get and hour or two of sleep before I am awakened by the same Mr. Pandolfi, to get ready to come back down to the desk for another shift and resume where I left off with nicotine and try and stop smoking. Wish me luck?
Please.
Good night.
April 7 Sunday Day 207
Good morning.
It is now 6:27AM, and 59 seconds real time. At 5:00 I was woke by Mr. Pandolfi, whereupon I stayed in bed for another half hour, having decided I didn't really need to take a shower until later.
This seems to be the weekend of losing good friends. First Eddie, then Rico Montgomery, my "you alright?" flat-topped, African Zulu brother, who came here the same day as I did, and who did not return for last night's midnight curfew. I was maybe the last person from the residence to see him. As I was returning from putting up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot, I noticed him walking toward Fair Oaks. We did a closed fisted handshake, and I asked him where he was going.
"To see another woman," he replied.
I wish him well, and I shall miss him if he does not come back.
I will depart from real time now. I have some work to do, and Mr. Vasquez will be back soon from getting the morning's donuts from Tastee's and Honey Glazed, and I mustn't be writing when he returns. When I get a chance to resume, probably when everyone is up in chapel, I shall continue.
Things got progressively more hectic here at the desk. Major and Mrs. Johnson came in a little after eight. The Major was upset that so many men were outside smoking. I don't know what he expected considering he had banned smoking inside the building entirely after the big compactor fire of last Friday (that fire, and smoking in the residence having a tenuous connection at best). Sometimes I feel that the Major would be a lot happier if only there were no alcoholics and drug addicts loitering around his Adult Rehabilitation Center, that we are a necessary evil that he and his fellow officers have to put up with.
While I was talking to him he noticed Donnie Whitehurst flick a cigarette butt onto the parking lot tarmac. Major Johnson angrily walked out the front door to confront him.
"Do you like living here?" the Major asked.
"Yeah," Donnie replied. He is an older, black gentleman, very close to the Major's own age.
"Well you better pick up that butt, or get out," the Major demanded.
"Okay, I'll leave," Donnie calmly stated.
The Major was clearly taken aback. "Well all you have to do is pick up your cigarette butt," he pleaded.
"No sir, I think I'll be going."
And during chapel service he packed up and left.
To the Major's credit, he asked about Donnie after the service, and said to me, "Maybe I should of handled that a little better."
To ease his anxiety I told him that Donnie had probably been thinking about leaving anyway.
Rico returned to pick up some of his belongings. He offered no explanation as to hisIt is now 6:27AM, and 59 seconds real time. At 5:00 I was woke by Mr. Pandolfi, whereupon I stayed in bed for another half hour, having decided I didn't really need to take a shower until later.
This seems to be the weekend of losing good friends. First Eddie, then Rico Montgomery, my "you alright?" flat-topped, African Zulu brother, who came here the same day as I did, and who did not return for last night's midnight curfew. I was maybe the last person from the residence to see him. As I was returning from putting up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot, I noticed him walking toward Fair Oaks. We did a closed fisted handshake, and I asked him where he was going.
"To see another woman," he replied.
I wish him well, and I shall miss him if he does not come back.
I will depart from real time now. I have some work to do, and Mr. Vasquez will be back soon from getting the morning's donuts from Tastee's and Honey Glazed, and I mustn't be writing when he returns. When I get a chance to resume, probably when everyone is up in chapel, I shall continue.
Things got progressively more hectic here at the desk. Major and Mrs. Johnson came in a little after eight. The Major was upset that so many men were outside smoking. I don't know what he expected considering he had banned smoking inside the building entirely after the big compactor fire of last Friday (that fire, and smoking in the residence having a tenuous connection at best). Sometimes I feel that the Major would be a lot happier if only there were no alcoholics and drug addicts loitering around his Adult Rehabilitation Center, that we are a necessary evil that he and his fellow officers have to put up with.
While I was talking to him he noticed Donnie Whitehurst flick a cigarette butt onto the parking lot tarmac. Major Johnson angrily walked out the front door to confront him.
"Do you like living here?" the Major asked.
"Yeah," Donnie replied. He is an older, black gentleman, very close to the Major's own age.
"Well you better pick up that butt, or get out," the Major demanded.
"Okay, I'll leave," Donnie calmly stated.
The Major was clearly taken aback. "Well all you have to do is pick up your cigarette butt," he pleaded.
"No sir, I think I'll be going."
And during chapel service he packed up and left.
To the Major's credit, he asked about Donnie after the service, and said to me, "Maybe I should of handled that a little better."
To ease his anxiety I told him that Donnie had probably been thinking about leaving anyway.
A.W.O.L.ish activities. In fact, he hardly talked to me. And he left again without saying goodbye.
Similarly, Eddie Acuna let me know he would be leaving tomorrow. He said things were getting to weird around here. He tried to hit me up for some money, but I told him that I had none to give him, that I was a beneficiary just like him. I did give him some unauthorized bus tokens.
Robert discovered that the radio in Red Shield 18 had been stolen last night. The truck had inadvertently been left in the thrift store parking lot.
Bummer.
He also let some guys into the As-Is Yard to work on Red Shield 17, which they had bought at auction. He locked them in there after giving them instructions to tell the trailer attendant when they were finished so he in turn could call me to let them out. When they did call, Robert was eating lunch, and I was alone at the desk, so I sent Bill Rauschemplat to open the gate for them, after which they promptly drove off in the truck, after which I was promptly told by Bill Richardson, the dock foreman, that those people had not finished paying for it.
Bummer.
I had not smoked all day, but at 1:45, my head began to feel as if it were about to explode, so I bummed a Marlboro 100 from Ron Collins, and stepped outside the front door and smoked it. It gave me a good buzz. Too good. I needed to hold on to the counter as I returned to the desk, and when I sat down I thought about how strange it felt to feel stoned behind the desk. I felt that way for about 90 seconds, after which I felt calm and relaxed. I could feel the nicotine bubbling away in my brain.
After work I went to my lonely room and laid down. I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation." In this episode, an engineering officer was having a conversation with Albert Einstein on Halodeck 3, in which most of what I had learned reading Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time," was related.
Glad to see the writers are doing their homework.
I came downstairs and had an egg and cheese sandwich in the canteen, then watched the VCR movie, "Deepstar Six," an aquatic monster movie. I had seen it before, and it really didn't hold up to reexamination.
I went back upstairs and watched TV until I fell asleep. I was really rather tired. I had a dream in which Major Johnson called me on the phone to tell me that since I had graduated from the program I should get a job and get the hell out of here.
He wished me well.
April 8 Monday Day 208
I slept in again, really late, but not late enough to miss lunch. We had "chicken," or Southern fried something. I then went to the library and read and wrote about nicotine and cigarettes for the rest of the day.
April 9 Tuesday Day 209
Back to work after a brief time off period. I spent most of the morning writing. My counselor Richard came in. He's been smiling a lot lately, and saying things like, "It's soooo gooooood when your higher power is working."
I suggested a urine test, but he declined and I couldn't force him.
I also talked to Maggie and Major Foote. She asked me for the third time what it is that I want to do now that I've graduated from the program. I told her once again that I wish to continue with school. I told her that I would be applying for admission at P. C. C. next Monday, and that I planned to go to school whether I took over for Robert here, or worked somewhere else. I told her that since she could not justify having the California Department of Rehabilitation help me through a drug and alcohol curriculum, there was little she could do for me.
She thinks I'm not being realistic. I told her that I didn't have much choice, that there was really no other way that I could be. If I returned to a routine, mundane, repetitive job, I might as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I don't believe I'm exaggerating when I say this, I just know how I am, or am beginning to understand how I am.
I knew that I would soon become dissatisfied and restless in a job like that, and that I would soon start to isolate again, and soon start to drinking. I wouldn't want to, but that's what would happen.
Maggie would like it though if I got a nice, easy, simple job, something minimum wageish, something that would be relatively easy for me to secure, so she could mark a "26" in her files and be done with me, her job finished.
I don't mean to imply that she wishes me any harm, I do not believe that she does. She just doesn't understand the problem. The total picture.
I do.
And Maggie does not understand how adamant I can be about doing everything I can to give myself the best chance of staying sober. I really have no other choice.
I am now too old to add any more vicious cycles into my life.
Maggie said she would put me on hold for the time being. I wonder what she means by that.
I must be very troubling for her.
I laid down for awhile after work, skipping dinner. I couldn't sleep so I just laid there on my bed. I got up again in plenty of time for Jill's group.
Wilford Maze got a little upset with me tonight in group. He was holding a grudge. He was mad because he thought I was picking on him by writing him up almost every week since he's been here (about 4 months now), which is true. Either Mr. Vasquez or I have written him up almost every week. The fact that he breaks the rules every week, flagrantly, by continuously wearing either sunglasses, a hat, walkman headphones, earrings, or any or all combinations thereof, does not seem to concern him, enter into his deliberations, or interfere with his indignant outrage in the least. Robert puts him on the Saturday work list for wearing a hat while wandering around the lobby. He works it, then on Sunday shows up at the desk with earrings, sunglasses, and headphones on. We write him up, or put him on the Saturday work list again. He cries about it, wondering what it is we have against him, works the Saturday or pays the fine, and does the very same thing over again. We write him up, he does it again, over and over-- ad infinitum.
Anyway, he made a big scene about it in group, getting rather nasty. It got to the point where I began to argue back at him. Vernon Robinson pointed out that this was no place for this type of behavior, so Wilford started arguing with him. He finally got so upset that he left.
Wilford does have a valid point. I am picking on him. So is Robert. When anyone consistently screws up so much and so blatantly as Wilford does, they gain our undivided attention and we keep a weary eye on them.
Especially when they're manipulating sconks like Wilford.
Even though Wilford is a manipulating sconk, if my continued presence in Jill's group proves to be disruptive in this manner then I should probably consider not going anymore. It's not fair to the group members, and attending is a luxury for me that I guess I can do without.
I can set my own goals.
I always could. I just like hanging out with Jill, my one true love.
I watched a bad Burt Lancaster movie ("The Lawman") up in my lonely room, which had the same plot as about a million Clint (shoot'em in the back) Eastwood movies; indestructible gunman comes to town and kills everybody. But this one had morals: "A man lives by his own doing." Better justification than most for blowing people away.
"Tell Them Valdez is Coming," was a lot better.
I read for awhile, then tried to sleep. It would be a long day tomorrow.
April 10 Wednesday Day 210
Another day of life.
Oh boy!
After taking over the morning paperwork I had a chance to write, then make a brief dorm inspection, making my big decision for the best dorm, best bed, and cleanest area for the week. Today I picked dorm 44, and bed 3A.
My counselor Richard came in and discovered that I was the only one on his list of people to see that was available, so he cornered me in my office for a one on one. We talked about some classes he was taking at the time, that he was getting through okay, but disagreed with some of the concepts put forward in them. He equates behavioral psychology with mind control, which it very well may be, to a degree. I told him he should carry on and muddle through it, that he may still learn something. Similarly, when I start a book and find out that I don't care for it (like "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," which appears to me to just be a personal account of a pseudo-psycho-philosopher tooling around the country, with the hots for his friend's wife), I most often read it end to end in the hope of learning something useful, if nothing else how not to write a book.
We also talked about what we would do if we had a lot of money. I told him that I would give it all to Alcoholic's Anonymous. He knew, as did I, that A.A. cannot except large donations, and would give it back to me.
We both decided that we would continue with school.
We talked a little about this book, and that I may soon need to learn how to type. He said it probably wouldn't hurt, and that he had a typing tutor program on his old computer, and asked if I would like to borrow it from him.
I told him that would be great.
I ran some urine samples, and did my laundry in the afternoon. I read some of the Bible, "Beanfield," and "Working," by Studs Turkel.
Mr. Vasquez has picked Bill Raushemplat to replace Eddie Gillespie on the desk. Bill is a rather stringent, good looking, five foot eleven, white boy, born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and of German ancestry. He has been here just a little less than I have, and up until last Sunday had been working in the phone room taking orders and writing pick up tickets. He is very smart, not extremely sociable or well liked, and plays the guitar. I like him, and get along with him. He should do well if he doesn't let people get on his nerves... and holds his temper.
Chapel went particularly well. The Major wasn't there (he and the Mrs. are in Hawaii), and I didn't go. Clarence Bliss showed Bill how to take attendance up there, while I stayed downstairs reading "Working," and talking to George Plick.
George's group was nice. I talked about what had happened with Maggie yesterday. James Shelton and Joe Brown both told of how they had been made employees during the last week. Everyone around here is getting a job except me. Joe works for Harold Eversley as his second cook, and Jim works in the Antique Shop. Jim said that in a couple of weeks he will probably move into the Transition House. I let him know that a move to the Transition House almost rates as a relapse warning sign all by itself.
My counselor Richard called me at 8:15, and said he'd be right over. I had an egg and cheese sandwich while waiting.
It was good.
Richard arrived with a big, bulky looking box with him. It was his old Kaypro portable (barely)computer that he said had been collecting dust in his closet. He had brought some floppy disks and instruction books as well. He told me it had been his first.
You never forget your first.
He showed me how to operate it a little, and how to use the typing tutor program.
I asked him to write a description of what he had brought for my inventory. Instead of writing, "I'm loaning Rick this computer," he wrote, "I'm giving Rick this computer." I asked about that, and he said, "Have fun," and took off.
Nobody's ever given me a computer before!
Amazing.
April 11 Thursday Day 211
Seven months numerically today. No alcohol, pot, speed, downers, LSD, or peyote.
Now if I can only stop sniffing glue...
I'm still hooked on cigarettes and coffee though, and I feel bummed out about it.
I'm such a perfectionist.
I did make it until 9:30PM without a cigarette. Then the demons began to play with my mind and I broke.
Actually what did it was getting into an argument with one of the clients. These guys get sooooo mad at me simply because I keep busting them when I catch them doing something they oughtn't be doing. I really don't understand it. I don't force them to steal clothing from across the street, or smoke upstairs and be dumb enough to get caught. They act as if it's all my fault though. They act all hurt, as if I had insulted their mother or something.
Anyway, I felt very agitated and smoked a cigarette. After smoking it I immediately calmed down. I shouldn't have tried to quit on a seventeen hour shift, I suppose (cop out).
Better luck next time.
April 12 Friday Day 212
I was really tired. I slept until 1:30PM.
I did get up briefly at 7:15. I had used the restroom, and heard my name called over the PA system. I went to the desk in my ball cap and flannel gown. I kind of knew what they wanted.
Bill Raushemplat was working the morning shift for Kevin, so Kevin could go to the dentist to have his teeth cleaned. This was Bill's first morning shift, and he was being all confused and helpless. He had run out of bus tokens and wanted to know what to do about it.
Taking his newness into consideration I spared his life for dragging me down there.
I put last night's canteen card money into the strong box, and pulled out two books of bus tickets for Bill.
Robert had gone for donuts and had not yet returned. Later I would learn that while at Tastee's , he accidentally locked the key to Red Shield 4 inside of Red Shield 4, and had stranded himself. He took a bus to get back to the center to pick up a spare set of keys, then returned via a bus back to Tastee's top rescue Red Shield 4... and the donuts.
After giving Bill the tickets and a little moral support, I went back to sleep, and as I've already said, slept for an awfully long time. When I finally got up it was pretty darn near time to go to work. I got ready and went down.
I wrote a little before my shift. Kevin was working with me tonight, sore mouth and all. After things settles down, and Robert returned from taking the ladies to the bank, I had a chance to go upstairs and read about alcohol and cocaine. But I wrote about barbiturates (not appearing in this account).
Reds, they were called. Little red capsules. Take one and you were almost instantly drunk. I only used them for 6 weeks back when I was in high school. I liked them, but I got into too much trouble, too fast because of taking them, that even I couldn't handle it. I probably came closer to death than at any other time in my life because of those little red suckers. So after weeks of indulgence I stopped taking them and haven't had one since. Of course today, I couldn't find one to save my life, they just aren't around anymore. Not easily available on the black market that is. Now we have drugs like valium. Fortunately for me, Valium and quaaludes make me sick, or at least a little queasy.
And sleepy, so I never really got into them.
I like to be wide awake when I'm incoherent.
April 13 Saturday Day 213
Seven months! I woke to Humphrey Bogart removing his head bandages in Lauren Bacall's bedroom, in "Dark Passage."
Before breakfast I wrote in the canteen while sipping (administering) coffee (caffeine) with Ron Collins. Later in the day Jeff Pursell would dye Ron's hair dark brown from his natural gray, to help give him a more youthful appearance.
He's still got a great big bald spot though.
I returned to bed after eating. It doesn't pay to stay up around here in Saturday mornings. I reawoke at 11:15 and since it was such a nice and sunny southern California day I decided it would be a good thing to go lie out in the park.
There was another Arts and Crafts show there this weekend. It was hard finding a semi-secluded spot to lie down at. I finally settled for one between two groups of meandering derelicts who were busy boozing it up and checking out all of the pretty ladies.
I listened to my radio (classic rock) while laying on my back for thirty minutes, turned over, then read "Mystery," by Peter Straub while laying on my stomach for an additional thirty.
When I returned I worked out for a little while, then showered. I played with my new computer, but couldn't get it to do anything worth while.
I wrote a lot at work. Our basketball team (comprised of Harold Eversley, Anthony Bullock, Curtis Carter, Ron Patrick, and Carlos Noble, second stringers, Dennis and Reuben Smith (no relation), mascot and spiritual advisor, Russell Burke), won the league championship this evening. They brought back a nice big trophy, which we proudly displayed at the desk.
And I made my first bust using the ADx machine. One of our clients, still on their initial thirty day restriction, disappeared from the residence for at least an hour. When we eventually spotted him walking by the desk we asked where he had been.
"I was bowling, or outside."
That's why he could not hear our insistent paging, he explained to us.
We tested him. His urine told us that if he had been bowling he had been smoking a lot of grass and cocaine while doing it. I let Mr. Vasquez give him the old boot the next morning. I didn't want to be bothered with it.
Just before we locked the place up for the night, I stepped outside a happened to catch sight of a long lasting shooting star in th eastern sky. I wondered briefly about where it had come from, how many millions of years it had been tooling around the solar system only to burn to dust in our atmosphere.
A noble death at least.
April 14 Sunday Day 214
Before breakfast I wrote in the canteen while sipping (administering) coffee (caffeine) with Ron Collins. Later in the day Jeff Pursell would dye Ron's hair dark brown from his natural gray, to help give him a more youthful appearance.
He's still got a great big bald spot though.
I returned to bed after eating. It doesn't pay to stay up around here in Saturday mornings. I reawoke at 11:15 and since it was such a nice and sunny southern California day I decided it would be a good thing to go lie out in the park.
There was another Arts and Crafts show there this weekend. It was hard finding a semi-secluded spot to lie down at. I finally settled for one between two groups of meandering derelicts who were busy boozing it up and checking out all of the pretty ladies.
I listened to my radio (classic rock) while laying on my back for thirty minutes, turned over, then read "Mystery," by Peter Straub while laying on my stomach for an additional thirty.
When I returned I worked out for a little while, then showered. I played with my new computer, but couldn't get it to do anything worth while.
I wrote a lot at work. Our basketball team (comprised of Harold Eversley, Anthony Bullock, Curtis Carter, Ron Patrick, and Carlos Noble, second stringers, Dennis and Reuben Smith (no relation), mascot and spiritual advisor, Russell Burke), won the league championship this evening. They brought back a nice big trophy, which we proudly displayed at the desk.
And I made my first bust using the ADx machine. One of our clients, still on their initial thirty day restriction, disappeared from the residence for at least an hour. When we eventually spotted him walking by the desk we asked where he had been.
"I was bowling, or outside."
That's why he could not hear our insistent paging, he explained to us.
We tested him. His urine told us that if he had been bowling he had been smoking a lot of grass and cocaine while doing it. I let Mr. Vasquez give him the old boot the next morning. I didn't want to be bothered with it.
Just before we locked the place up for the night, I stepped outside a happened to catch sight of a long lasting shooting star in th eastern sky. I wondered briefly about where it had come from, how many millions of years it had been tooling around the solar system only to burn to dust in our atmosphere.
A noble death at least.
April 14 Sunday Day 214
Up nice and early after only a few hours of sleep. I stayed in bed though, watching "Gumball Rally," on TV until I was awake enough to crawl out of bed and get ready for church services.
I wrote in the canteen until breakfast time. Breakfast was good. I liked it so much I'm not even going to tell you what it was. Then I wrote some more, but this time I did it in the lobby.
I sat there in that lobby, watching people go in and out the front door until it was time to up to chapel. In chapel, I had tremendous difficulty staying awake through Clarence Orion's message for the week. Mr Vasquez, who was sitting behind the podium facing all of us in the audience, was seen dropping his head several times, chin to chest, then whipping it back up rapidly.
This was his custom.
After chapel I returned to my lonely room to rest up. I read from the "Mystery" book until my eyes could not stay open, at which point I turned over to sleep, but it did not come to me. Then I noticed it was lunchtime.
When I returned to my room after eating I was no longer sleepy, so I played with my new computer, making some progress in learning how to use it. One would think that having instruction books and manuals, and such, would help matters along. It appears though that one actually needs to know how to use a computer before one can make sense of the instructions which explain how to use a computer.
Interesting educational concept.
I read some more "Mystery," then the Bible, and "Beanfield," then went down for dinner (breaded fish).
More writers doing their homework on "Star Trek, the Next Generation." This week the Enterprise was trapped, and slowly being drawn into a string segment, which according to Commander Ryker, is "worse than a black hole." String Theory is a recent attempt attempt at constructing a Grand Unification Theory (GUT), a theory simplifying, or transforming the four forces of nature (electromagnetism, gravity, and the strong and weak atomic forces) into a single equation. This episode managed to weave physics, science fiction, and psychology (issues of emotional alienation) into a somewhat languid cliffhanger. It seemed to me a little odd that throughout the entire episode, Counselor Troy's (who I happen to be in love with... really) main concern centered around her future employability, while the Enterprise, inch by inch, was being drawn closer to the dreaded "string segment," ("worse than a black hole" (although I'm hard pressed to imagine anything which gets much worse than being torn to shreds by the raging tidal forces close to a black hole)), and utter destruction. Her obsession (which was indeed warranted by the story line) just added to the overall sense of non-urgency which pervaded throughout the show, diminishing it's general appeal.
Still a good episode. Better than anything I'd seen on TV all day.
Rerun next week though.
I came down shortly before 6:00 and secured a front row seat for the Sunday Night VCR movie. One of my favorite westerns was on tonight, "Will Penny," starring Charlton Heston, and my favorite character actor in one of his best performances, Donald Pleasence, who you might remember as Dr. Loomis, from the original "Halloween" movies. Joan Hackett's effort was also notable. The story concerns an aging cowboy, whose simple and hard way of life is threatened by both, a helpless and lost woman with her young son, and a family of mad outlaws.
Just as the film reached it's climatic finale, my name was called over the PA system. I was wanted at the desk.
Bill Richardson, the dock foreman, was having some difficulty catching his breath, and Robert wanted to drive him over to USC medical. For some reason he wanted to take Clarence Bliss along with him, which meant he wanted me and Kevin to cover them at the desk.
After the video was over, I returned it, along with the Saturday Night VCR Movie, "Memphis Belle," to Music Plus on Arroyo Parkway. When I got back I made rounds throughout the building, locking it up as I went.
Mr. Vasquez and Clarence returned at 10:30. Bill would be staying at the hospital for a while.
I asked Robert if he had saved any for me and Kevin.
"Saved what?" he innocently inquired.
"Pizza! I know you must have stopped off to get some. I could have walked back from U.S.C., by now."
"We don't like pizza," Robert said, glancing at Clarence. "We did take a little ten forty (radio speak for rest stop) at McDonalds though."
By now I was pretty tired, so I went up to my room and to bed.
I dreamt of dancing Big Macs.
April 15 Monday Day 215
Tax day! For the first time in twenty years I don't owe Uncle Sam a penny in income tax. I didn't make a dime all of last year, so the government can't take the usual 2 cents out of it, and will have to pay for the war, and the failed savings and loans without me.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
I had put in for an early wake up, but I guess Wolf Pandolfi forgot about me. It was 10:30 when I woke up.
After lunch I caught a bus to Pasadena City College, to apply for admission. The college is such a nice place, filled with so many young people so eager to learn things. I know I'll like it there.
I went to the Admissions Office and procured an enrollment form, and immediately noticed that I needed a number 2 pencil in order to fill it out. I had neglected to bring one. No body looked like they were willing to loan me one either. I took the admissions form with me and walked to the college book store. No sharpened number 2 pencils there. I suppose I could have asked someone if I could use their pencil, bit I didn't wish to make a nuisance of myself, and as you all know I'm very shy.
I got back on the bus, west on Colorado to the mall, where I got off and walked north to the library. I did some research on "crack" cocaine and the Salvation Army.
At 3:00 I left the library and walked back to the residence. As I walked through the park I noticed a young man sitting on one of the benches they have there. A park bench. I used to sit at those very same benches. This young man was reading. I noticed several paper bags near his feet, and I saw a beer can poking out of one of them. The young man looked tired and bored. He looked exactly what I must have looked like a little over seven months ago. It was warm out, but the images that came into my mind made me shiver.
When I got back to the residence I found myself a number 2 pencil. I had seen my friend Jasmine with three of her friends outside, so I took my new found pencil to one of the benches in the parking lot and began to fill out the admissions form.
The girls immediately pounced on me, each demanding that I give them three sheets of paper. I had my notebook with me so I gave up the paper readily (I learned a long time ago that there is little future in arguing with women). Jasmine and I talked about her kindergarten school, and the vast differences between pens and pencils. She promised to draw me a picture.
I wrote for a while after dinner, then walked down to Vons to buy a lotto ticket. The current jackpot is the largest it's ever been. $100,000,000 I believe.
I want it.
Every penny.
Not for myself, mind you. I would immediately give the full amount to charity, or some worthy organization.
Like A.A.
I fell asleep while watching the first installment of a six part mini-series on PBS, entitled, "The Astronomers." I'm sure it must have been very good. From what I can recall the episode dealt primarily with dark matter in the universe, a hypothetical form of matter that is undetectable by its emitted electromagnetic radiation, but whose presence can be inferred from gravitational effects on visible matter. According to present observations of structures larger than galaxies, as well as Big Bang cosmology, dark matter and dark energy could account for the vast majority of the mass in the observable universe.
Anyway, I fell asleep about half way through the show.
Perchance to dream.
April 16 Tuesday Day 216
Back to work.
Work. Work. Work. Work!
I woke to Montgomery Clift, a priest, being suspected of murder by Karl Malden, who played a police inspector of all things.
I got to the desk by 5:30, and wrote a little. After the troops went off to work I took the paperwork across the street, made a brief dorm inspection, ran a photo check on the ADx machine, then ran some samples.
Matthew Moreth stopped by to say hello to Maggie Harbottle, after which he began to pick fights with various members of the kitchen crew, Harold Eversley in particular. He would hold up his fists while saying things like, "Come on, put'em up."
He flipped me the bird while scratching his forehead.
After Mat left the tutor came, and I let Kevin go to his class. For some reason Clarence Bliss approached me at the desk and said, "Rick, you're a good person." I thanked him for saying that. It's not often I receive unsolicited encouragement.
Richard Bennet came in early to begin his counseling duties. He told me that he had just seen Eddie Gillespie walking up Fair Oaks, all drunk, dirty, and disheveled.
I was sorry to hear that, but I guess that's what Eddie wanted. No one forced him out there.
After work I read in my room for a while, then tried to sleep.
I did not go to Jill's group tonight. I feel my presence there may inhibit others who may otherwise benefit from the experience.
Besides, my one true love can hardly remember my name.
Instead of going to group I choose to put myself through a high degree of frustration by trying to get me computer to do something. Anything.
I have the feeling it's laughing at me.
I read until midnight, then went to sleep. I dreamt of iridescent daffodils blowing in the wind.
April 17 Wednesday Day 217
I saw Gillespie this morning. Along with Eddie Acuna and Hobart Rodgers. They were all sitting right out front in the parking lot. Eddie was trying to sell some of the bus tokens I had given to him to some of the guys standing around smoking. Liquidating his assets, you might say. He didn't look to bad to me. Acuna looked a lot worse. Unshaven and dirty. He carried a big walking stick. I don't believe I would have recognized him if I hadn't already known that he was hanging around outside trying to scare up some change. After a while the three of them walked over to the As-Is Yard, then soon disappeared.
They made the pretense (perhaps to themselves more than any body else) that they were alright, that they were freely doing what they wanted to do, and are relatively happy and content.
I don't know... maybe they are. However:
Eddie Acuna will say that he's just waiting for his welfare check. Gillespie will say he's waiting for SSI. Everything will get better after they get those things. When, and if, they get those things (and they may never get those things, at least not anytime soon. Well made plans notoriously go awry for us practicing alcoholics and drug addicts) it will only serve as a means of continuing their squalor.
As I've said before, no one forced them out there. They could have stayed here and continued to be part of the cheap (slave) labor pool for the Salvation Army, living under the rules of others until something better came along (is that what I'm doing?). But for these men, all three of them old enough to be my father, the chances of something better coming along are about as great as mine are of winning the $117,000,000 lotto jackpot tonight (I did manage to get two out of the six numbers needed to win last Saturday's contest. That netted me a total of $0). So right now Eddie, Eddie, and Hobart are following the easy path. The path of least resistance. Or so it would appear (there is nothing easy about living out on the streets). They go out, get drunk, and try to forget about they're troubles for a while.
I hope one of them wins the damned lotto.
Lots of urine to keep me busy this morning.
And I wrote a bit.
Right after lunch I did my laundry. The excitement was palpable.
The window washers came, so I gathered Don Robinson and Gerald Schimmele together with a great big watering hose, put them on the second floor and directed them to wash off the atrium walls, clearing away all of those cobwebs that were there, while being careful not to soak our one remaining suspect killer parakeet (Esmerelda). We finished (as planned) just in time for the window washer guy to clean off all of the messy water spots from the atrium windows. All of this in preparation for next weeks big time, massive, annual facility inspection.
I had time to read some of the "Mystery" book. Some of the characters are a tad weird, but it is still very, very, good, and very, very well written.
I inspected the chapel at 3:00, and discovered tons of last Sunday's programs scattered about, along with various other trashious articles. I returned to the desk and called Russell Burke over the PA, the chapel being one of his areas of responsibility (to clean).
When he finally came down I said this to him: "Sorry to wake you Russell, but I noticed some old programs from last Sunday lying around in the chapel, and an empty gallon milk bottle was sitting in the first pew. If you're not too busy, could you take care of those little matters for me?"
"Oh yeah. Suuuuurre Rick. Sure. I must have forgot. I must have missed it. Gimme the key, and I'll go take care of it right now." Bill Rauschemplat gave him the key. "I'll do it right now."
Seven minutes later Russell returned the key to the desk.
"Everything okay up there, Russell?"
"Sure, Rick, sure. I took care of it. Don't worry about a thing. All done." With plastic squeeze bottle in one hand, dirty wipe rag in the other, "Hoops" Burke made a gradual retreat from the vicinity of the desk, wiping every counter, window, or ledge in sight, whether is was dirty or not, needed or not, making sure that I noticed what an efficient and conscientious worker he was. He slowly faded away within the bowels of the building.
A little while later I went to unlock the chapel in preparation for the night's service. The milk bottle was gone, but the programs were still scattered all over the place. I was instantly overcome with a fresh insight of realization. Satori - enlightenment! I marveled at the subtle intricacies of the Master. Russell's statement of non-action revealed to me the ever present truth that if I desired the programs to be picked up, the best and simplest way of achieving that goal would be for me to pick them up myself. Which I did.
Chapel went well. Carlos Noble (who has changed over to the kitchen from the Sorting Room) won the coveted Best Bed and Cleanest Area Award, simply because I thought he had the best bed and cleanest area. He seemed happy about it.
Ed Reitz needed to attend his son's school's open house tonight, so he would not be able to hold his two scheduled group counseling sessions. He gave me a video to play at the two groups instead. It was a 1980 TV program, a "Forty-Eight Hours episode, with good old Dan Rather. The show dealt primarily with cocaine abuse, especially the extremely addictive habit of smoking "crack," a sort of refined form of cocaine, which is itself a refined form of the coca plant. Like distillation of alcohol, for example. The program was very informative, especially for me because by some miracle I had never been introduced to crack cocaine, and had never smoked it, thus escaping that particular tour of hell.
Thank God.
Later I was reading in my office when one of our new counselors came in to talk about a client he had just met for the first time. The client's name was Ben Driscoll. The counselor's name was Romy. Romy is a large, Samoan type individual. We had only talked briefly before this, as I usually don't have a whole lot to say to male counselors, except my own. Romy was very nice though. I could tell he cared a good deal about what he was doing here, and about the men he talked to.
He told me that Ben displayed all of the classic symptoms of schizophrenia. I agreed with him. Indeed, I had discussed the very same issue with Ben's former counselor, Richard Bennett. Romy, Richard, and I all felt that Ben's problems were beyond the scope of the program that we were able to offer here at the A.R.C. (in fact, Ben very likely had never abused substances). By not dealing directly with any of the issues really affecting Ben, we may inadvertently be aggravating them, and doing Ben a serious disservice. Romy suggested having Ben tested, possibly using the MMPI personality test, in an attempt to asses the situation. Hopefully, after some kind of appraisal has been made, we could refer Ben to an appropriate program or institution that would be better equipped to deal effectively with the issues confronting him, and give Ben the best chance of coming to some kind of terms with reality.
As it is, Ben walks in a different world.
April 18 Thursday Day 218
Up early again for work. I didn't manage to turn on the TV last night, so there were no old movies this morning. I just laid in bed while watching the clock. At 5:00 I got up to shower, but I soon found out that Don Erwin had beaten me to it. I went and laid back down until 5:30.
At the desk by six I greeted Wolf Pandolfi and Kevin Rockoff, and gave them a big cheery, "Good morning." I learned that Victor Johnson's girlfriend had came in at five, and Victor had taken off with her. Victor will return for 7:15 devotions.
They've been doing this for a few days now.
Morning love.
I, on the other hand, wrote for most of the morning.
No urine today.
I discussed the matter of Ben Driscoll with Ed. He agreed that Ben probably should be referred somewhere else, and he thanked me for bringing the matter to his attention. I also had the opportunity of talking with Richard Bennett about what Romy had said. He told me that Ed had told him Ben should have been referred to another program months ago. Richard thought that Ed was having a little trouble getting active about this.
We shall see.
Mr. Vasquez came down, making an appearance at lunchtime. He started working with Schimmele and the other janitors, getting ready for the big time inspection next Monday. Ed Reitz and I went around the building checking this and that. He pointed out things, maintenance things, that needed doing, and I wrote down those things on this piece of paper I had with me, attached to a clipboard.
He always seems to want to drag me around on pet projects of his on Thursday afternoons. I think he's a bit intimidated by Robert, and believes that I'm easy prey. He asked me what my days off were.
"Sunday and Monday," I told him
"Good luck," he said, looking at me and smiling. He was trying to imply that I would be too busy getting things ready for the big time inspection to be able to take my days off.
Good luck my big, fluffy, sweet white ass! He is involving himself in a fantasy that, one: I'm sweating the load over the upcoming inspection, and two: that I'm actually like getting paid for the work I do here. I work sixty hours a week as it is. Robert and I put in more hours than anyone else here... anyone! Including Ed and Major Johnson. I take great pleasure in knowing that if I ever were fired the end result would be that I would be forced to work somewhere else for only 40 hours instead of 60... and for more pay.
Kevin Rockoff wasn't feeling very well today. He was almost forced to miss lunch.At the desk by six I greeted Wolf Pandolfi and Kevin Rockoff, and gave them a big cheery, "Good morning." I learned that Victor Johnson's girlfriend had came in at five, and Victor had taken off with her. Victor will return for 7:15 devotions.
They've been doing this for a few days now.
Morning love.
I, on the other hand, wrote for most of the morning.
No urine today.
I discussed the matter of Ben Driscoll with Ed. He agreed that Ben probably should be referred somewhere else, and he thanked me for bringing the matter to his attention. I also had the opportunity of talking with Richard Bennett about what Romy had said. He told me that Ed had told him Ben should have been referred to another program months ago. Richard thought that Ed was having a little trouble getting active about this.
We shall see.
Mr. Vasquez came down, making an appearance at lunchtime. He started working with Schimmele and the other janitors, getting ready for the big time inspection next Monday. Ed Reitz and I went around the building checking this and that. He pointed out things, maintenance things, that needed doing, and I wrote down those things on this piece of paper I had with me, attached to a clipboard.
He always seems to want to drag me around on pet projects of his on Thursday afternoons. I think he's a bit intimidated by Robert, and believes that I'm easy prey. He asked me what my days off were.
"Sunday and Monday," I told him
"Good luck," he said, looking at me and smiling. He was trying to imply that I would be too busy getting things ready for the big time inspection to be able to take my days off.
Good luck my big, fluffy, sweet white ass! He is involving himself in a fantasy that, one: I'm sweating the load over the upcoming inspection, and two: that I'm actually like getting paid for the work I do here. I work sixty hours a week as it is. Robert and I put in more hours than anyone else here... anyone! Including Ed and Major Johnson. I take great pleasure in knowing that if I ever were fired the end result would be that I would be forced to work somewhere else for only 40 hours instead of 60... and for more pay.
Everything was rather peaceful after Ed went home. Even the night's meetings went well. I got to read a lot of the "Mystery" book, which I'm enjoying a great deal. The best thing Straub has written since "Ghost Story."
I went to bed with the knowledge that I would not have to get up early. That I could sleep in if I so desired.
That made me happy.
I had trouble getting to sleep though. Disturbing thoughts ran through my mind.
Things I can't remember now.
April 19 Friday Day 219
I slept in on purpose. I didn't want to run into Ed Reitz today and get involved in any of his projects. Robert would be busy enough handling the list of things to do that Ed and I had compiled yesterday, and probably would not be in very good humor as well. I crept out of the room in order to eat lunch, and when I returned Robert was standing inside of his doorway, which happens to be right next to my doorway, reading the instructions on a medium sized plastic bottle. He called me over.
"This is to clean the blinds," he said. "As advertised on T.V." He went on to tell me that he also had a special cleaning attachment to go with the contents of the plastic bottle. The attachment had multiple brushes that supposedly were perfect for cleaning venetian blinds. As he went on telling me about the lights bulbs he had been changing in the bathrooms, Ed appeared. A feeling of impending doom fell upon me. Robert and Ed began spiritedly discussing various aspects and methods of cleaning various objects. I kept my mouth shut as to not draw attention to myself. Ed explained to Robert what he wanted done around the residence. Robert told Ed what he was going to do. As Ed emphasized the shower stalls as his number one concern, I quietly backed out into the hallway and slipped away.
When the coast was clear I slipped back into my room and read for awhile. "Mystery," "Beanfield," and the Bible, then I went downstairs and wrote (a risky move on my part) until it was time to go to work.
I write in longhand on typing paper I err... borrow forever from the office. I write in longhand because I don't know how to type very well, and even if I did know how to type I don't have a typewriter. Even if I did have a typewriter and did type, I know I would become so exasperated by all of the inevitable mistakes I would make typing that I wouldn't get anything done.
I use a copy of the Life Science Library's "The Mind," as a notebook and writing pad. I err... borrowed it from the A.R.C.'s library. I use it for several reasons; first, when I began writing this book (book, for this is what this has become) it was the only thing I had to write on. It's small and thin enough to carry around without much trouble. It's stiff, reinforced cardboard cover, which is useful to write on if there is no table or desk to use (when I'm writing in the lobby for instance). It holds a goodly amount of fresh blank paper, and it has a lovely picture of a young boy with inquisitive blue eyes on the cover. Sometimes I feel very much like I think that little boy must have felt like when the picture was taken... searching, and filled with wonder.
I use pens to write with (black and blue ink only) that I err... borrowed from the office. After I complete ten pages or so (both sides), I take them upstairs to my lonely room and lock them away in a briefcase I err... borrowed from Warren Bahr. I err... borrowed the English language from a bunch of crazy Anglo-Frisians.
The only things that are mine I'm afraid, are my own thoughts, feelings, and reminisces, which reminds me of a favorite poem of mine from Goethe, entitled "Property."
I know that nothing belongs to me
But the thought which unimpeded
From my soul will flow.
And every favorable moment
Which loving fate
From the depths lets me enjoy.
Shortly after arriving for work I was talking to Mr. Vasquez in the office, when Bill Rausemplat told me that Eddie Gillespie was outside and asking for me. I went to see him.
He didn't look too bad. He was unshaven and wore an embarrassed smile. I asked him how he was doing.
"All right. Staying drunk."
I saw Eddie Acuna and Hobart Rodgers sitting in the shade across the street. Gillespie told me they needed to get Acuna into a detox center. He also wanted to let me know that he had come over to see me, just as he said he would before he left, and that he could also use a few dollars if I had it. He told me that he wouldn't mind though, wouldn't hold it against me, if I didn't have any money to give him. I knew hat he would use it for. I gave him two bucks anyway.
I said goodbye, asked him to say hello to the others, and to come around and see me every once in a while if he could.
It was a relatively peaceful evening. I read through most of it. Bill kept up a constant monologue concerning the cheeseburger he was going to have when he went on break. He compared Ed McNicol's cheeseburgers to those made by Roger Collins, and came to the conclusion that he preferred Roger's fare. I tried to block out his words as he described the way Roger grilled his onions by reading of the happenings on the Caribbean island of Millwalk in the book "Mystery." I also read of amphetamines and speed.
Oh yes, one more thing. Rockoff wanted me to mention that he's got the runs.
April 20 Saturday Day 220
I slept in again, on purpose of course, until nine.
Then I went back to sleep.
When I finally did get up I finished reading "Mystery," by Peter Straub. Very good.
I watched a news program on television that discussed the role the lottery plays in the California educational system. The lottery, it seems, was to have provided extra revenue for California's schools, thus buttressing the educational foundation of the state, and by extension, the nation, at the same time quenching the citizen's thirst for gambling and dreams of instant millions. It is true that the lottery has been a huge success here, generating hundreds of millions for the state's schools.
Then why do I hear about so many teachers being laid off? Why do I hear of illiterate graduates? Why do I hear of no money for school books, pay reductions, budget cuts? Why is the quality of education (proportionally) so low in California?
Considering the economic incentives to become a teacher I'm surprised there are any at all.
The news program would have me believe that as the revenue of the lottery rose, bringing more money into the state's school system, the state, in contrast, would siphon other funds normally set aside for our schools. This being tantamount to a strategic deficit reduction ploy, which cancels out the intended purpose of having the lottery to begin with, and of course is contrary to the wishes of the voters of California.
I could not believe this. I find it extremely hard to swallow that the folks up in Sacramento would resort to such stupid, ill considered, and short sighted tactics.
No responsible government elected by the people could do our children such a disservice.
I just couldn't believe it!
After taking a cold shower to calm down, I dressed and went to the library to write until it was time to go to work. After starting my shift I wrote some more.
I'm writing right now in fact.
Jerry Schimmele came to me wondering if I had checked the chapel yet. I told him no, that I had not.
"Why not?," he asked.
"Why should I?" I countered.
"Because we always have to check Russell."
Just then Russell Burke walked by on his way outside to smoke a cigarette.
"We're checking on you, Russell," Schimmele goaded.
"Okay," Russell said, dismissing him. "Go find some dust."
Schimmele is famous for looking for and finding dust, or rather pretending to look for and find dust. Hence his nickname, "The Bug-Eyed Dust Fairy."
I wrote for most of the evening. "A Man for all Seasons," was on T.V. tonight, but I couldn't watch it because I was supposed to be working.
Near midnight I walked outside to look at the night. It had rained earlier, and the street was still wet and shiny. Cars picked up water as they drove by. I remembered where I had been last year at this time. At the Canoga Park A.R.C. getting ready to relapse. Then I thought further back to two years ago when I was still living with Jan, right before she told me she was leaving. I considered what it would be like to return in time 730 days, and what I could have done to prevent our breakup. I thought about the things I could have done differently.
I realized how bad our lives together had become by that time, how we had hurt each other, and I asked myself if I would have ever had a chance at recovery within the confines of that relationship.
And I admitted to myself, not without a twinge of pain, that things had turned out for the best.
April 21 Sunday Day 221
Wolf woke me at four. I got up at five, showered and dressed for chapel. I loaded everything that was on my floor (shoes, extra blanket, grenade launcher, trash can, etc.) on to my bed, so Jack Crossley would have an easy time of shampooing my carpet right after the service.
I went to the canteen to write until breakfast time, after which I went to the lobby to finish up. As I sat down I remembered that Major and Mrs. Johnson would soon be arriving, so I got up again and went back to the canteen.
I've had my share of Major J's complaining of fingerprints on the windows, and cigarette butts littering the parking lot. No doubt if he saw me sitting in the lobby he would come directly to me with his concerns. Then I would have to pretend to do something about the situation. So I took a cue from Robert, who never seems to be around when the Major and his lovely wife arrive.
Chapel went well. I continued to have trouble to stay awake for the morning inspirational message. I'm afraid uppers are not an option for me.
I changed into casual clothes after chapel, and sat on a chair in my bathroom reading Nan Robertson's "Getting Better," a very insightful book I would recommend to anyone interested in a behind the scenes look at A.A. It made me aware of certain aspects of Bill Wilson's (along with Bob Smith, the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous) life one will not find in any A.A. literature.
Jack came along a did my carpet for me. Robert came along and insisted on doing his own room, along with the carpet in the hallway. I read in the looby while the carpets were drying.
After lunch (ribs) I cautiously tread upstairs, and without stepping on my floor, made it to my bed, where I fell asleep.
When I woke I took three sheets from my bed and washed them. I cleaned the window blinds, and generally put everything else that was lying around into some kind of orderly fashion.
This concluded my preparations for the big time, massive, annual facility inspection.
A movie on television started about this time. "The Search for the Goodbar Killer," with George Segal, the beginning of which depicted a crowded discoish dance floor, lights flashing on and off, young, good looking people swirling around and swaying to the song, "Gloria." I thought to myself what a fun thing that would be to do. Go dancing.
I watched a repeat episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," after dinner, then lost horribly at bingo. I then grabbed a seat for the V.C.R. movie, "The Guardian," directed by William Friedkin, of "The French Connection," and "The Exorcist," fame. Although the story made no sense, it was a bit scary. A director such as Friedkin should have done better. I sat next to Dennis Smith during the show.
The film ended in time for me to smoke a cigarette before "Married with Children." I then read until I felt sleepy. I had not made my bed. I would make it tomorrow morning, make it so it would be beautiful for inspection.
I had odd dreams. I do not remember them in any detail, which is not unusual for me, but I sensed they were vaguely disturbing. I was glad when I finally woke up.
I don't suppose we dream when we die. In a way I'm glad.
April 22 Monday Day 222
I slept until about ten today. Over slept actually. Wolf had woke me at four. By the time I had showered and dressed it was lunch time (turkey salad sandwiches).
Mr. Schimmele told me that Robert had mentioned something to him about my becoming an employee. I told Schimmele, I'll believe it when I see it. Although Robert may want me on the payroll to help him with driving chores, the decision is not his. That lies with the Major. Majors in the Salvation Army are notoriously thrifty (cheap, and very careful about adding people to the payroll).
My counselor Richard came rolling up to my table in his golf cart, and we had lunch together.
Then I was off like a flash to Colorado Blvd. and Fair Oaks, where I caught the mighty 180 to Glendale and Broadway, where I caught the 91 to Glendale College, which is located in the northern section of the city, nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The college itself was built upon several hills, making my walk to the administration building somewhat arduous. I purchased a copy of the Summer schedule of classes for 50 cents, and picked up an admissions application. Then back on the bus to Pasadena.
I barely had time to fall in love while I was there.
I went to the Pasadena Central Library on Walnut Street, to learn all I could about "crack" cocaine. Crack is one of the few mind altering substances I have not experimented with, and I am extremely grateful for that. My close circle of druggie friends (friends?) never indulged in the smoking of cocaine. If someone had introduced me to crack I am sure I would have succumbed to it's temptations. At one time in my life I inhaled cocaine nasally (and noisily) quite a bit while I was living with my first wife's Aunt, Debbie, but only because she was dealing the stuff and I got it free. I have rarely paid for cocaine. I always considered the high (euphoric feeling, stimulant) cocaine provided, although pleasant, not substantial enough to warrant paying $100 a gram for it (like Salvation Army Majors, I can be notoriously thrifty (cheap) at times), an amount I could easily consume at one sitting. Booze was always so much cheaper and easier to procure.
But the distributors of cocaine on the black market have found a way to circumvent the price obstacle. Anyone can afford the $5, $10, or $25 chunks or "rocks," of crack that thousands of Americans are addicted to (because it is relatively as addictive as nicotine). My own personal experience in recovery centers has been that about half of the population are alcoholics and polidrug users, and the other half, young recovering crack addicts. Their relapse rate is extremely high. In Cocaine Anonymous it is more unusual than not to find long periods of sobriety (5 years or more). The addictive nature of this drug is alarming- houses, cars, families, and businesses gone to pay for the drug in a blink of an eye.
As luck would have it I got back to the residence just in time for dinner. I sat next to Barbara Grothe, and asked her why they built her college (she attends Glendale College) on so many damn hills.
She had no answers.
Ed Reitz sat at our table. He sat across from me with Barbara between us. He looked a little morose. I suspected he was having a rough time lately, with the inspection and all.
And his in-laws had come to visit.
I learned that one of the inspectors, a Col. Johnson (no relation to the Major) had fallen ill and had been taken to Huntington Hospital (no USC General for the Salvation Army), apparently due to heart trouble.
I wish him well.
The inspection may be canceled because of this. No one knows for sure. The other two members of the inspection party left later in the evening.
Dennis Smith was sitting at another table close by. Just to the side of Ed's stern face I could see Dennis looking at me, and I couldn't help but smile. Ed noticed my moronic expression and must have thought I was looking at him, which did little to help his already deteriorating disposition.
I read in my room later. At eight I turned on the T.V. to the second installment of "The Astronomers." Tonight's show provided some insight into how radio astronomers work, and their attempts to reveal the energy sources of quasars at the furthest detectable boundaries of the universe.
Very nice.
I read some more after the program, looked over the Glendale College catalog, and decided I should make a trip back to P.C.C. next Monday to apply for the Fall semester, and schedule myself for an English placement exam.
Then I thought about beautiful women for awhile before going to sleep
April 23 Tuesday Day 223
I can be fast when I want to.
Wolf woke me at 4:00, and I switched on the T.V. just in time to witness James Cagney happily excepting his first gun in "Public Enemy." I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them it was 5:45. After putting them back in their sockets I raced to the bathroom, shaved, showered, and dressed, and was at work by 6:00.
Good thing too. Robert was up and getting ready to pick up the day's donuts. It's never good to let your boss know when you're late.
Robert would be running around the residence for most of the day, as we're still not sure if we're going to be inspected or not.
Mrs. Col. Johnson was now in the downstairs apartment, her husband in the hospital. Major Johnson told us at lunch that she and her son would be taking the Col. up north somewhere, to their home later in the day, which is exactly what they did.
We heard rumors that the inspection has been canceled, been postponed, going to be conducted By Col. Allen (Major Johnson's boss), or just by Major Johnson himself. We don't really know what's happening, and to tell you the truth I'm getting pretty sick and tired of the whole thing. It's been a long time since I've been required to stand an inspection, and I didn't like it then either.
Our ADx urine analyzer is acting silly. I had one lonely urine sample to run, but the machine would not let me do it. It kept telling me that the R boom would not home. That of course meant that the boom arm, which positions the probe, which in turn draws the urine to be sampled, deposits it into the mixing cartridge, dilutes it, transfer the heady mixture into a glass tube or cuvette where the sample will be read via polarized light measuring the rotation speed of specific molecules by the photometer, was not working properly. I checked the troubleshooting section in the operators manual and could find nothing that would cause this malfunction to occur.
I was perplexed!
As I later ran a photocheck, which does not require the use of the boom, the machine told me by printout that there was no carousel in it, when in fact there was. I know there was. I had put it in there.
As I said, it was acting silly.
I would have called Abbott Labs 800 number to discuss the situation with their people in Dallas, but at that time Jack Crossley began shampooing the carpet right outside the Sample Room's door, and was making such a racket that I would not have been able to hear anybody on the phone.
I would let Robert deal with it.
Although I spent most of the evening upstairs in my room playing with my computer, I did manage to see Jill. I was sitting in the canteen with Dennis Smith, eating a nice cheeseburger. Denis was talking about his first meeting with Maggie Harbottle and Major Foote. Dennis had the same reaction that I had, the same frustrations. Maggie wants him to do anything but what it is that he wants to do. Anyway, Jill came in and sat with one of her clients. She took a box of Trivial Pursuit questions from the recreation cabinet (obviously a psychological counselor type ploy used to draw information from her subject), and began asking her client questions. Without being asked Dennis and I involved ourselves.
I hate Trivial Pursuit. Everybody does. Except Jeopardy contestants, and pretty marriage and family counseling type students.Wolf woke me at 4:00, and I switched on the T.V. just in time to witness James Cagney happily excepting his first gun in "Public Enemy." I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them it was 5:45. After putting them back in their sockets I raced to the bathroom, shaved, showered, and dressed, and was at work by 6:00.
Good thing too. Robert was up and getting ready to pick up the day's donuts. It's never good to let your boss know when you're late.
Robert would be running around the residence for most of the day, as we're still not sure if we're going to be inspected or not.
Mrs. Col. Johnson was now in the downstairs apartment, her husband in the hospital. Major Johnson told us at lunch that she and her son would be taking the Col. up north somewhere, to their home later in the day, which is exactly what they did.
We heard rumors that the inspection has been canceled, been postponed, going to be conducted By Col. Allen (Major Johnson's boss), or just by Major Johnson himself. We don't really know what's happening, and to tell you the truth I'm getting pretty sick and tired of the whole thing. It's been a long time since I've been required to stand an inspection, and I didn't like it then either.
Our ADx urine analyzer is acting silly. I had one lonely urine sample to run, but the machine would not let me do it. It kept telling me that the R boom would not home. That of course meant that the boom arm, which positions the probe, which in turn draws the urine to be sampled, deposits it into the mixing cartridge, dilutes it, transfer the heady mixture into a glass tube or cuvette where the sample will be read via polarized light measuring the rotation speed of specific molecules by the photometer, was not working properly. I checked the troubleshooting section in the operators manual and could find nothing that would cause this malfunction to occur.
I was perplexed!
As I later ran a photocheck, which does not require the use of the boom, the machine told me by printout that there was no carousel in it, when in fact there was. I know there was. I had put it in there.
As I said, it was acting silly.
I would have called Abbott Labs 800 number to discuss the situation with their people in Dallas, but at that time Jack Crossley began shampooing the carpet right outside the Sample Room's door, and was making such a racket that I would not have been able to hear anybody on the phone.
I would let Robert deal with it.
Although I spent most of the evening upstairs in my room playing with my computer, I did manage to see Jill. I was sitting in the canteen with Dennis Smith, eating a nice cheeseburger. Denis was talking about his first meeting with Maggie Harbottle and Major Foote. Dennis had the same reaction that I had, the same frustrations. Maggie wants him to do anything but what it is that he wants to do. Anyway, Jill came in and sat with one of her clients. She took a box of Trivial Pursuit questions from the recreation cabinet (obviously a psychological counselor type ploy used to draw information from her subject), and began asking her client questions. Without being asked Dennis and I involved ourselves.
Jill's a nice lady. It bothers me that I don't have, nor probably never will have, a basis to talk to her in a manner other than a superficial one.
That's the way it is sometimes. You like someone, and want to get to know them, and there just never seems to be the time or opportunity to do so. I know I say I'm in love with her and all, and in a way I am, but really all I'd like to do is find out if she could be a friend. And that will probably never happen. It would be too threatening for her I'm afraid.
Bummer.
April 24 Wednesday Day 224
I felt absolutely lousy this morning, like I had a hangover or something. Maybe I felt that way because I hadn't gotten enough sleep. But usually when I don't sleep much I just feel tired for a little while in the morning, not bad.
It seems (because you notice it more) that the best time for everything to go wrong, or fall apart, is when you're not feeling up to par.
Ron Collins came into my office before morning devotions to tell me there was a sick person in the upstairs bathroom. We went together to take a look and found Vernon Smith (a fellow Steinbeck fan) clutching his head in apparent agony. He was disoriented, and could barely walk. We took him to his dorm so he could lie down, then I went for help. Charles Parsons came from the warehouse to drive him to U.S.C. Medical.
Vernon came back to us later in the day, and the story I eventually got out of him (he was still pretty messed up) was that he had had a reaction to medication he was taking, causing severe cramps to the muscles of his neck and back. U.S.C. gave him more pills to take, and sent him back to us.
Now certain people around here are afraid of catching spiral meningitis.
About five others complained of illness (two couldn't make it out of bed) and received bed rest. Reuben Perez was one of them. At ten thirty he left the residence saying he was going to see a doctor. He is one of our diabetics. Two days ago he was walking around with uncontrollable shakes and had gone to Huntington and been given something for it. Today he went all the way to Olive View (another county run facility) in Sylmar, north of the San Fernando Valley. That's where he gets his insulin from, and all of his medical records are located there. It's about a three hour bus ride from Pasadena though. At 8:30PM he called and said he was still waiting to be seen by a doctor. He was worried about being A.W.O.L., and that he might get into trouble considering he had not bothered to get a day pass to begin with. In any case, he would be staying overnight in Sylmar.
Mr. Vasquez got up early to pick up the donuts, and at morning devotions he made this now famous announcement outlining the great towel resolution.
Let's go back in time for a moment. About a year ago, Col Allen ordered all the A.R.C.s under his command to provide fresh laundered towels, each and every day, to all the residents. A reasonable request one might say. Instead of each man having his own towel issued to him, or for that matter, his personal towel from home, the Colonel wanted a pile of clean towels placed in the shower areas each morning so the men could pick one up upon showering, then throw it in a hamper to be washed after use. This strategy completely eliminated the messy wet towel in the dorm locker syndrome. The other A.R.C.s had implemented this plan months ago. Mr. Vasquez just hadn't gotten around to it yet.
Robert had anticipated problems with the new system. Indeed, there are certain drawbacks to the plan. The laundry man's work day would be twice as long with the added burden of at least 106 towels to wash 7 days a week. The washers and dryers were not made for this type of use (they were in fact being used constantly already by the men doing their laundry). Also, the boys had a tendency to use more than one towel (one to dry their hands, one to dry their feet, one to use as a bath mat, on and on), insuring there were never enough clean towels for everyone.
It would be quite a headache.
The private towel system was working just fine. Major Johnson never inspected upstairs, and in fact thought that Col Allen's order had already been carried out months ago.
If the inspection had not been postponed because of Col. Johnson's illness we would have been caught with our pants down, or our towels awry, if you will. So Robert announced the new plan to the men this morning, to a multitude of grumbles, mumbles, and groans. Possibly a few genuine moans in there as well. The most asked question was what if I have my own towel from home? Can't I use that, and wash it myself? No. No. No. Robert would say. If they had their own personal towel, they were to be put in a plastic bag and put at the bottom of their locker where he couldn't find it easily. Or take it back home. Any wet, or dirty towels found in a locker during the work day would result in a couple of hours of extra duty on Saturday morning for that individual.
More grumbles, mumbles, and groans.
Before leaving the building Robert told me he would be back later in the day to get the new towels ready.
He never came back!
Given its momentum, this idea should fizzle out all together in a week or two. At least until the next inspection, or until Robert retires.
Richard, my counselor came in, and it was his day to talk to me. I forced myself to do something I had put off for two weeks now. My Fifth Step.
This is the Step most people are reluctant to take because it requires one to lay one's self out completely open to another individual, and action none of us have any natural inclination to do. Especially us alcoholics and drug addicts. We like to hide. It took only 45 minutes to tell him the whole sordid tale.
"Admitted to God, to Ourselves, and Another Human Being, the Exact Nature of our Wrongs." Pretty scary. Richard qualified as a human being. I'd already admitted the exact nature of my wrongs to God and myself while writing my Fourth Step, along with numerous times in the past when I have reminiscenced over various mistakes and triumphs I have made and experienced. Now I feel I may move on to Step Six.
Whoopee!
I had thought I would feel relieved when I had finished with Richard, and I did in a way. I was definitely glad I had done it, and that it was over. I still felt bad though. And tired.
The ADx man got here at dinner time. I had given him ambiguous instructions on how to get here, so he had probably gotten lost once or twice on the way over. He looked the machine over, asked me what had happened to it, said he needed some parts and would return tomorrow.
Chapel went well. Thank God. It was the only thing that did today.
Matt Moreth dropped by looking for Richard Bennett. He seemed troubled, and I asked him what the problem was.
"I whe whe whe whe whe went, ou ou out la last night. A a a an an an and, got, pla pla pla pla er pla pla pla pla plas plas plas wh pla pla plas plastered."
I told him not to let it get him down, and to have a cup of coffee while he waited. He grabbed the coffee, went out the front door, and disappeared.
I know exactly what he's going through. I hope to God he comes back. I just learned from Paul Wisely that Matt's wife is expecting a child. Matt needs to end his relapse before things get out of hand.
Romy, Ben Driscoll's counselor, came to my office. He told me he thought that a lot of Ben's problems had started in his youth. Very Freudian. Ben told him, in his typical disorientated and round about fashion, that he had been abused physically, and that his father had had access to thorazine, and used it to shut his children up.
There are monsters in this world. They are real.
Throughout this hectic day I did manage to get a little writing done.
And to end on a happy note, I fell in love. With Kathy, our new counselor. I found out she is a recovering alcoholic or addict, recovering something at least, just like me. 3 years sober. I accidentally heard her talking to Bill Rauschemplat. She gives me the impression of being a very sincere and dedicated individual, very serious about what she does, in tune with reality, meaning that she is aware of the hazards recovering counselors face (burnout, relapse, stuff like that), hard working, conscientious, and has the ability to laugh with others, and at herself. All wrapped up in a cute little brunette package.
I think this is a charming way for a young girl to be. Recovering or not.
Too bad she's married.
At least I got the impression that she's married. I shall have to investigate.
April 25 Thursday Day 225
I looked at my clock. It was 6:50. I closed my eyes, thinking it must be my day off. Then I though, no, it's not my day off, and shot out of bed, cursing Pandolfi, Rockoff, Saddam Hussein, and any other foreign sounding people.
As my velocity approached close to that of light, time dilation occurred. For me it appeared that I only spent 1 minute, 38 seconds, shaving, showering, and dressing. To a stationary observer, 12 minutes, 42 seconds elapsed before I was ready for work. I didn't have time to worry about gaining infinite mass.
Just I reached for my door knob, Mr. Vasquez knocked.
He looked at me with a slow smile. "You alright, Joyce?"
"Yeah, I'm alright. I just woke up ten minutes ago."
"Alarm didn't go off, or something? Well, that's alright. No big thing. About Perez..."
He went on to tell me what to do about Reuben Perez, who had been transfered to High Desert Hospital, in Lancaster, suffering with gall stones and a liver infection.
And so my day began. I felt a lot better than I had yesterday. Maybe the extra unauthorized sleep helped. And knowing that I didn't have to work all day tomorrow helped.
I kept myself as busy as possible and the time flew by. I wrote a lot in the morning, but barely had time to read.
I met Harold Eversley and Carlos Noble in the parking lot after dropping off the morning paperwork.
Harold stretched out his long arm, supporting a huge smile, saying, "Gee, it sure feels good now that I have a full years sobriety."
"Hey Harold," I said, "that's great! Fantastic. Congratulations." We shook hands.
Miracles exist, they are real. Harold is a recovering crack addict. He gives me, and everyone else around here a lot of hope for our own futures.
The lovely Mrs. Strickland was inside at the desk. She had come over from Canoga Park to help Mrs. Johnson with some project. I didn't say anything to her, and I don't believe she recognized me. She didn't say anything if she did.
The Pasadena A.R.C. is in the midst of an opossum attack. They're all over the place. They just walk around, keep to themselves, look us over with big opossum eyes.
The ADx man spent most of the afternoon here. He claims to have replaced a broken thermoster module, whatever that is, and that everything is now working properly.
But as I ran some samples I started to get some peculiar readings, and it began to eat up my reagents. So I stopped fooling with it.
I was talking to Eugene White later in my office. He was telling me of the frustrations he was experiencing in the program. He doesn't think that everybody is serious enough about staying sober, and this causes him distress affecting his own program.
I tried to remind him that probably 50% of more of the guys here were using this place for reasons other than to learn how to stay sober, and that he should not let that interfere with what he was doing to try to get better. Outside, in the real world, I told him, most people won't be overly concerned with maintaining their sobriety. That's why A.A. is so important.
We talked about this and that for about twenty minutes. I hope he left my office feeling a little better. I know I did.
I heard a scratching at my window and turned in my chair to see two great big, stupid, opossum eyes looking inquiringly at me. We stared at each other for a few moments, trying to bridge the gap evolution had placed between us. I watched as it turned and slowly lumbered away.
April 26 Friday Day 226
I slept in until ten. It felt good, but I was having disturbing dreams again, so once I woke I stayed awake.
I believe I dreamed that I stabbed someone in the eye who was asleep or dead, and walked away as if nothing happened. I hoped that no would notice and that no one would bother me about it. I remember feeling remorse afterwards, wishing that it had never happened.
How weird.
After lunch I tried to write in the lobby but there was too much activity going on there, and Rockoff kept wanting me to fill in for him while he roamed around.
About twelve of the guys had been selected to go on a camping trip to Camp Craig, near Malibu. They used to film the exterior shots of the television show "M.A.S.H." close by.
Kevin Rockoff was going, but had neglected to find somebody to finish his shift.
So I got volunteered.
April 27 Saturday Day 227
I slept in again until lunch time. Then I went to the park and laid out in the glorious sun, while listening to rock and roll on the radio. Old Beatles songs and Jethro Tull.
I exercised a little when I returned, read in my lonely room, and got ready for work.
I had not smoked all day today, preparing for my Sixth Step, but during my first half an hour or so at work, I got so irritable and snappy at everybody (I even started yelling at Frank Corona over the telephone), I thought it best to break down, go to the store and buy some cigarettes before I either got fired or killed.
Around 6:30, as I went to put up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot, I noticed Eddie Acuna and Hobart Rodgers sitting at the wall at the far end. Eddie called me over and told me they had talked to Clarence Orion, and he had told them to come back in the program on Monday. He asked me for a couple of dollars to hold them until then. They reeked of booze. I asked them if they had seen Gillespie. They had seen him just that morning. He had stopped drinking and gotten into detox.
I didn't give them any money. I instead told them to follow me back to the residence where I gave them some jelly donuts, and asked them to do themselves a favor and get here early Monday morning.
I wrote for most of the evening. Everything went pretty smoothly until Art Martinez came in at 11:57, three minutes before curfew, and blew a .05. I had to ask he to leave.
I wish him well.
April 28 Sunday Day 228
I had Wolf wake me at 6:30. No use waking up at 4:00, as there were no good movies on, and I probably wouldn't get up that early anyway.
I was able to do a little writing before chapel. Good thing too, because I passed out afterwards. I slept for most of the afternoon.
I felt lonely and depressed today for some reason. I let little things depress me, like not having a car, or any money, or in fact a job. I thought about how hard it's going to be to start all over again.
I felt lonely because my family lives so far away, and I don't have anyone around who's close enough to care about what might be happening to me one way or the other.
I felt depressed because I don't have a girlfriend, someone I can share life with and care about.
When I have a girlfriend, I don't want one.
And when I don't, I do.
Very depressing.
If I were not living here I'd probably relapse on a day like today. Hopefully by now if I were living on my own I'd have enough sense to get to an A.A. meeting.
Too much time on my hands and no desire to get up and do anything.
What a way to feel on my big day off.
Since I do live here and didn't feel like drinking, and didn't feel like going to an A.A. meeting (relapse warning sign), I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation," instead. A hearty substitute. It went a long way in cheering me up. An excellent new episode in which Q revisits the Enterprise, and sends the crew to his version of Sherwood Forest.
Ha!
Then I read, and smoked cigarettes, and read some more, and watched "Married with Children," then read some more. I read about life in America after a limited nuclear attack. The book was "Warday," be Whitley Strieber and Jim Somebody. Wishing the day to end I went to sleep.
April 29 Monday Day 229
I got up in time to be dressed and ready to go out before lunch (cheeseburgers). I then headed for the good old bus stop and caught a ride to Pasadena City College, where I zipped right into the administration building and handed in my admissions application. A very nice lady took my application and asked if I had brought my school transcripts. I told her that I had not, and that I would need to get them. She gave me a special, secret form to help me do that. I needed to send this form to my last school, Pierce College, in Woodland Hills, and they would send my records directly to PCC. The nice lady also told me to pick a date for the school orientation meeting, so I could get orientated. I choose the 4th of June, at 2:30 in the afternoon, because it interfered least with my work schedule. She also made a registration appointment for me for August 23rd.
Then I was off like a shot.
I stopped by the bookstore once again to see if there were any Fall schedules available. No luck there.
And I made it back to the residence in time to grab my blanket and hit the park for an hour of afternoon sun.
I think that is what was depressing me yesterday. It's too damn sunny around here!I was able to do a little writing before chapel. Good thing too, because I passed out afterwards. I slept for most of the afternoon.
I felt lonely and depressed today for some reason. I let little things depress me, like not having a car, or any money, or in fact a job. I thought about how hard it's going to be to start all over again.
I felt lonely because my family lives so far away, and I don't have anyone around who's close enough to care about what might be happening to me one way or the other.
I felt depressed because I don't have a girlfriend, someone I can share life with and care about.
When I have a girlfriend, I don't want one.
And when I don't, I do.
Very depressing.
If I were not living here I'd probably relapse on a day like today. Hopefully by now if I were living on my own I'd have enough sense to get to an A.A. meeting.
Too much time on my hands and no desire to get up and do anything.
What a way to feel on my big day off.
Since I do live here and didn't feel like drinking, and didn't feel like going to an A.A. meeting (relapse warning sign), I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation," instead. A hearty substitute. It went a long way in cheering me up. An excellent new episode in which Q revisits the Enterprise, and sends the crew to his version of Sherwood Forest.
Ha!
Then I read, and smoked cigarettes, and read some more, and watched "Married with Children," then read some more. I read about life in America after a limited nuclear attack. The book was "Warday," be Whitley Strieber and Jim Somebody. Wishing the day to end I went to sleep.
April 29 Monday Day 229
I got up in time to be dressed and ready to go out before lunch (cheeseburgers). I then headed for the good old bus stop and caught a ride to Pasadena City College, where I zipped right into the administration building and handed in my admissions application. A very nice lady took my application and asked if I had brought my school transcripts. I told her that I had not, and that I would need to get them. She gave me a special, secret form to help me do that. I needed to send this form to my last school, Pierce College, in Woodland Hills, and they would send my records directly to PCC. The nice lady also told me to pick a date for the school orientation meeting, so I could get orientated. I choose the 4th of June, at 2:30 in the afternoon, because it interfered least with my work schedule. She also made a registration appointment for me for August 23rd.
Then I was off like a shot.
I stopped by the bookstore once again to see if there were any Fall schedules available. No luck there.
And I made it back to the residence in time to grab my blanket and hit the park for an hour of afternoon sun.
After being hit up a few times for spare change I made my way back to the residence, worked out, and got ready for dinner (meat loaf).
I read from Chronicles II while relaxing on my bed. When I couldn't take anymore, I went to the lobby to write.
I had not smoked up till this point in the day. I had done this in preparation for my Sixth Step, and in observance of Japan's Greenery Day. But one of the men who was just about to check out of the program, came and sat nearby and began to harass me. He insisted I provide him with some kind of documentation, proof of his residency or something, which I could not give to him. He should have been asking Ed Reitz, or Mr. Vasquez. I told him this and he got all mad, calling me some pretty descriptive names and inviting me outside. By this time I was a little mad as well, and not only because of his actions, I was already tense from nicotine withdrawal. I was seriously considering taking the guy up on his offer, smashing his stupid little face in and teaching him some manners.
The rock band Mott the Hoople wrote a song about just this type of situation. I went like this: "Violence, violence, it's the only thing that will make you see sense."
But I thought better of it. Almost always anything is better than violence. If we got into it I would probably get thrown out of here, or at least lose my job. The other guy was leaving anyway and had nothing to lose. So I swallowed my anger, a bitter pill.
But I did go and buy some cigarettes.
Damn.
I guess God didn't want me to quit smoking today (major, but typical cop out).
I decided the best course of action was to isolate for the rest of the evening. I'd be a lot safer that way.
I watched part of "The Astronomers." This episode involved searching for clues to the origen of the universe. The Big Bang, and all that. There are certain questions astronomers have about the formations of galaxies. Huge lumps of localized star systems, gas, and dust formed in what was believed to have been a very smooth and uniform dispersion of matter and energy directly following the event known as the Big Bang. Various theories have been put forward to explain the discrepancy by physicists such as Stephen Hawking. One of them may be correct, maybe not. Experimentation, observation, theoretical calculation, and time will tell.
Maybe.
A beautiful map of the dispersion of the galaxies throughout the universe was shown. The Great Wall it is called, the largest known structure. When one realizes, or attempts to realize and picture the magnitude and size of these intricate lattice conglomerations and the vast empty spaces in between, one can begin to appreciate the meaning of the word Humility.
I read for a while, then went to sleep soon after. I dreamt of floating through the void.
April 30 Tuesday Day 230
I woke up in a B17 Flying Fortress, busy dropping bombs on the hapless Japanese fleet.
At least that's what they were doing in the 4:00AM movie I woke to.
A worthy endeavor, I suppose.
I made it to work on time this morning. Did some writing, handed out bus tickets, walked around and looked at things. The usual stuff.
Michael Green was sent back from the warehouse and told to sit in the lobby until ten o'clock, until the powers that be could figure out what to do with him. He had gotten his supervisor, Charles Parsons, all mad at him.
Michael is a small, shinny black person, who wishes to become a model. He can be very independent and stubborn at times, which is what got him into this jam. He and Parsons could not reconcile, so Ernie Sens eventually offered him a choice of either working in the residence or leaving the program.
He left the program. Had his mother pick him up, and that was that.
I wish him well. Nice fellow actually, lots of spunk.
The ADx man came to refix the machine. He brought a cohort with him this time. Maybe the two of them can patch it up. I hope so as we're getting a goodly back load of urine here.
I got off work at 2:35 (Robert was late again), and tried to take a nap, but couldn't quite drift off.
I read until 5:30, then went down to the lobby to check out what Jill was wearing tonight, which is where I'm at right now. It's 5:53:30PM real time, and Jill has not yet arrived for her 5:45 group. I will wait a while longer.
Here she comes! Intensely beautiful, as always.
She walked through the door at 5:56, wearing a flowing ankle length black dress, with a smart gray business coat. Everything she has on goes extremely well together, setting off her deep, luscious eyes. I watched as she was slowly introduced to someone, a visitor, who was conducting a survey and wished to sit in on her group. She acquiesced.
She did an exemplary job of not noticing I was there. Her back is turned to me as she leaned on my front desk, talking to the elderly survey taker. I noticed that she was wearing black shoes, which accentuated her hair, which a little darker tonight than usual.
Odd.
As usual different men gathered around her, flock is more like it. They were mainly the guys who were in her group wanting to know when she was going to get on with it.
She walked toward the small dinning room, but was waylaid by Wilford Maze. Wilford told her that he did not wish to attend her group tonight. He had something more important to do. He gave her a hard time. Wilford is an ass. She told him that she will talk to him about it later, and demanded that he attend her group as scheduled.
Good for her.
She finally got her group started at 6:06:32.
Well, enough excitement for one night. Now that the high point of my week was over, I believe I'll leave real time and go upstairs and smoke an unauthorized cigarette.
After I finished with that I returned downstairs to the canteen and ate a nice grilled cheese sandwich while talking to Mr. Schimmele about initiation rites held aboard U.S. Navel vessels that pass the equator. Jill came and asked Ed McNicol for something. I was too busy pretending to ignore her to notice what it was she asked for. I kept up the conversation with Schimmele, while keeping a peripheral eye on Jill. She was there a good two, two and a half minutes. We ignored each other beautifully.
What a turn on!
Teasing her by dashing back upstairs, I began reading a James Bond novel (a habit I acquired years ago from my father), and watched an excellent movie on T.V., "The Accused," starring Jodie Foster and Kelly McGillis.
I went to sleep shortly after the movie ended.
Tonight, what was thought to be a meteorite, interacted with the atmosphere above Los Angeles and the fog near the ground, creating a huge flash of blue-green light, causing a sensation throughout the entire city.
Being asleep, I didn't notice.
May 1 Wednesday Day 231
I woke up inside a diesel submarine with Glenn Ford and Ernest Borgnine, drifting around a mine field.
Well, if that don't beat all.
Once at work I learned from Mr. Rockoff that someone had thrown a rock through the thrift store window and made off with as much loot as they could within five minutes. Mostly portable TVs, and VCRs. It was a fairly gutsy heist, considering the store faces Del Mar Blvd., one of the main thorough-fairs in Pasadena running east-west. The burglary occurred sometime between 1:00 and 1:15AM. We know this because Mr. Pandolfi had been wandering around out there at that time, amazingly enough, doing his job. When Wolf discovered the broken window he notified Mr. Vasquez, who had just retired for the evening having finished his shift. Robert wound up spending the rest of the night inside the thrift store, watching the "Late, Late, Late Show," and had in fact also witnessed the Glen Ford/Ernest Borgnine debacle. While he was there he held on to a small hatchet, something he found in the store, just incase the burglars returned.
I met Mr. Borgnine once. When the Universal City branch of Bank of America first opened, he was there, I guess helping them promote the opening. He was wearing his Commander Quinton McHale uniform on from "McHale's Navy," which he was filming at the time (so this would have been some time between 1962 and 1966), and was on his way back to the set when a young boy out on the sidewalk asked him for his autograph.
That was me. I remember him as being very nice.
I've asked like about three people for their autographs in my entire life. Ernest was one. Another was that of a young, promising actor by the name of Peter Duel. I had helped my dad with a delivery and met Mr. Duel outside one of the large, cavernous sound stages that make up the front lot inside Universal Studios. I asked him if he was the guy who had played in the TV show, "Love on a Rooftop," with Judy Carn from "Laugh In." He said that he was. He was also very nice. He was concerned that I might not be able to handle all of the stuff I was carrying. I assured him that I could.
"Of course you can," he said to me.
Peter Duel would later go on to star in the television show, "Alias Smith and Jones," a rip off of the film "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." It would prove to be a big success for Mr. Duel, and his co-star, Ben Murphy.
Apparently he was not as happy as one would think because he wound up shooting himself in the head.
Misery knows no boundaries.
Doug McClure, at the time an actor on the TV show, "The Virginian," gave me an autographed picture of himself dressed as a cowboy. Today he is in a sitcom about a teenaged half-breed, alien girl living with her mom on Earth.
I believe the police eventually caught those responsible for breaking into our thrift store. Or else they caught somebody who was out thieving that night. Our guy who worked in the TV shop was requested by the police to help identify some stolen property.
After Wolf relieved him at the store, Mr. Vasquez came back and had breakfast, then went to bed. I told him I'd give him some extra canteen cards for his trouble.
He had ran all of the samples the night before, so there was no urine for me. The ADx machine seems to be working all right now. Could use a bit of calibrating though.
So when I wasn't too busy I worked out a little, helped Schimmele move a rather large table from the basement to the chapel in preparation for tonight's big safety meeting, did my laundry, read some of the Bible, and did my Sixth and Seventh Steps.
The Sixth I did before lunch. The Seventh after the Sixth.
The Sixth Step assumes we "Were Entirely Ready to Have God Remove All These Defects of Character." I prepared for this by not smoking this morning, and intending not to smoke for the rest of the day. A cigarette fast. This was intended to be symbolic of being ready to have God, or my conception of God, or my higher power, remove all of my character defects. I also read, and reread, the Sixth, and later the Seventh Steps as outlined in the 12 & 12 (the "Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions").
I felt ready. I felt good. I flipped my decision making coin, which allows me to talk to my higher power, and it told me, "Go for it!"
So after lunch I did the Seventh Step. "Humbly Asked Him to Remove Our Short Comings." This I did by being ready to continue to not smoke, reading and rereading the outline, and reciting the Seventh Step Prayer found in the Big Book.
After I said the prayer I felt very good, which was how I felt for the rest of the day. I let God worry about smoking. He, or She, or Whatever, is much more capable of dealing with it than I am.
Instead of chapel this evening we had a nice safety meeting. We talked about safety. We were all shown a video concerning dangerous chemicals found around the work place, and how to deal with them in a safe manner. Afterwards, as the men filed out they were required to pass by a long table, the very table Schimmele and I had brought up earlier, and sign their name on three different sheets of paper. Ron Collins, Frank Corona, and myself made sure this was done all correctly and succinctly.
I still felt good. Clarence Orion's daughter and I kept giving each other the old eye.
Kathy was here tonight as well. Very cute, very busy, and very serious.
I kept myself busy for the rest of the evening. I tried as best as I could to not to let myself sit and think, which of course can get anyone in the most impossible trouble.
On the whole I was successful. Whenever I found myself thinking I began to read that James Bond book, which immediately ceased all cognizance.
I made my way to my room after work and went straight to bed. I even managed to drop off despite the enormous amounts of coffee I had consumed earlier. I dreamed of swinging on a rope through a dark nothingness, jumping off into...
May 2 Thursday Day 232
...a nuclear reactor control room, along with Jack Lemon and Jane Fonda. "The China Syndrome," being this morning's movie.
I had lots of energy (please excuse the unintended pun), and was still feeling good.
But that would change.
I got to work early and got some writing done.
At breakfast Jack Crossley sat at my table and told me that while job hunting yesterday he had felt like getting drunk. He has fourteen months of sobriety so I asked him what he did about it, hoping that he didn't give in to the urge.
"I uuh, stopped off at a A.A. meeting in Glendale. That's why I didn't get back until almost ten last night. Umm, uuh, they made me lead the meeting," he added with a shy grin.
To get Jack Crossley to lead an A.A. meeting, a man so withdrawn he easily manages to isolate himself in a house full of 100 men, is no small thing.
I asked him if he had drank.
"No."
"Good for you, Jack. I'm glad you told me this. It makes me feel better. It helps me."
Last night the L.A. Center gave me a call and let me know that one of our trucks had been spotted in Highland Park making a drop off. They provided me with the vehicle's license plate number.
We only had one truck out the night before, The Night Crawler, driven by John Jimenez, with Darrell Sipp as his helper. Highland Park is way out of our service area, and our trucks do not drop things off, they're out there to pick things up.
Something was afoot.
When the Night Crawler returned last night I checked the License plate. The number L.A. had given me was very close to John's truck, Red Shield 21. Not exact, but close, too close to be a coincidence.
I liked both John and Darrell. John is a quiet guy, easy to get along with, who has always impressed me as being very serious about his program and wanting to stay sober. Thirty years old, an intelligent man with a wife and two children. He is well liked around here. He had just been made an employee because Ernie was short on drivers, and had been helping Robert with the morning donut runs. He hadn't even finished his 24 weeks of mandatory meetings.
So I was very surprised to get this report.
I had to tell Frank Corona about the call. It's my job, and I can't let my personal likes and dislikes interfere with that job, although I sometimes do. Besides, L.A. would probably call back, and then there would be questions about why I hadn't passed on the information, if in fact I hadn't.
They later fired John for making an unauthorized stop.
He came to the residence to pack his stuff and talked to me about it.
"I made a stop in Highland Park to see my mom," he told me.
The only reason that had come to mind for making an unauthorized stop would be to steel stuff.
Just like Larry and I did on the second day I was here.
"My mom had gotten a threatening call from a bill collector," he went on. "You know how those guys can get."
I nodded yes, that I knew.
"I tried to calm her down, to make her feel better. Frank found out about it and had to let me go."
"How did they find out about it," I asked, feeling like an absolute jerk.
"Someone at the L.A. Center saw us, I guess. Frank said I could come back Monday, and be re-admitted as a client. I've never finished anything in life. I'd like to finish this program."
I told him that I hoped to see him on Monday.I had lots of energy (please excuse the unintended pun), and was still feeling good.
But that would change.
I got to work early and got some writing done.
At breakfast Jack Crossley sat at my table and told me that while job hunting yesterday he had felt like getting drunk. He has fourteen months of sobriety so I asked him what he did about it, hoping that he didn't give in to the urge.
"I uuh, stopped off at a A.A. meeting in Glendale. That's why I didn't get back until almost ten last night. Umm, uuh, they made me lead the meeting," he added with a shy grin.
To get Jack Crossley to lead an A.A. meeting, a man so withdrawn he easily manages to isolate himself in a house full of 100 men, is no small thing.
I asked him if he had drank.
"No."
"Good for you, Jack. I'm glad you told me this. It makes me feel better. It helps me."
Last night the L.A. Center gave me a call and let me know that one of our trucks had been spotted in Highland Park making a drop off. They provided me with the vehicle's license plate number.
We only had one truck out the night before, The Night Crawler, driven by John Jimenez, with Darrell Sipp as his helper. Highland Park is way out of our service area, and our trucks do not drop things off, they're out there to pick things up.
Something was afoot.
When the Night Crawler returned last night I checked the License plate. The number L.A. had given me was very close to John's truck, Red Shield 21. Not exact, but close, too close to be a coincidence.
I liked both John and Darrell. John is a quiet guy, easy to get along with, who has always impressed me as being very serious about his program and wanting to stay sober. Thirty years old, an intelligent man with a wife and two children. He is well liked around here. He had just been made an employee because Ernie was short on drivers, and had been helping Robert with the morning donut runs. He hadn't even finished his 24 weeks of mandatory meetings.
So I was very surprised to get this report.
I had to tell Frank Corona about the call. It's my job, and I can't let my personal likes and dislikes interfere with that job, although I sometimes do. Besides, L.A. would probably call back, and then there would be questions about why I hadn't passed on the information, if in fact I hadn't.
They later fired John for making an unauthorized stop.
He came to the residence to pack his stuff and talked to me about it.
"I made a stop in Highland Park to see my mom," he told me.
The only reason that had come to mind for making an unauthorized stop would be to steel stuff.
Just like Larry and I did on the second day I was here.
"My mom had gotten a threatening call from a bill collector," he went on. "You know how those guys can get."
I nodded yes, that I knew.
"I tried to calm her down, to make her feel better. Frank found out about it and had to let me go."
"How did they find out about it," I asked, feeling like an absolute jerk.
"Someone at the L.A. Center saw us, I guess. Frank said I could come back Monday, and be re-admitted as a client. I've never finished anything in life. I'd like to finish this program."
Even though it was not my fault I felt pretty miserable.
We have a lousy system here. To help keep production up Ernie Sens will yank beneficiaries out of the program, guys in an early and fragile stage of recovery, and make them employees, subjecting them to stresses and pressures they sure don't need. The men of course, go right along with it, anticipating the meager compensation. When you're unemployed even a low paying job looks good. The Center always needs drivers, and drivers are faced with the most temptations and stress.
And the Salvation Army, like most armies, is a very unforgiving employer.
I remember the last birthday dinner night we had here, when John asked about the canteen cards and socks the Major always gives as presents. John was concerned that he wouldn't be able to receive his socks, as it was the month of his birthday and he would be away, working the Night Crawler during the dinner. He was joking, not really caring about the cards and socks.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "You can forget about the cards and socks. Just have the Major and the other guys remember me in their prayers, and we'll call it even."
I told him that I would, and I did.
I hope he comes back, and I hope they let him back in.
One other thing caused me to feel a little uneasy today, other than allowing myself to worry about smoking again.
Ernie made my friend Tom Rotsch an employee.
A driver.
May 3 Friday Day 234
I woke up, went back to sleep, woke up again, went back to sleep again. Woke up, had lunch, then went back to sleep. Again.
Then I got up and went to work.
I did not feel good anymore.
Kevin Rockoff told me, among other things, that Ernie Sens had made my friend Dennis Smith an employee today as well. He'll be the new Night Crawler.
I remembered Dennis telling me yesterday after hearing about John Jimenez, that he would never work full time again for the Salvation Army.
"I've driven too many trucks for these guys," he told me, "and I've relapsed every time.. They make me a driver and within five weeks I'll be back on the streets, using."
So I asked him today, why did he take the job of Night Crawler.
"It's just temporary," he said. "I'll do it for a little while. Until Art Svensk retires, and I take over for him. I made sure Ernie knew it would be temporary only! And besides, I can go to school in the mornings!"
I told him that I would kill him if he relapsed because of this.
Dennis, myself, Tom Rotsch, Harold Eversley, and perhaps, Kevin Rockoff, I personally believe have the best chance for anything like long term sobriety this go around. Including myself in this list is itself a relapse warning sign. I can never allow myself to become over confident. The men I've mentioned are the one's I'm most aware of... there are probably a lot more. I hope there are.
I would hate to see anyone else's chance cut short due to the Sally's thirst for drivers.
I'm afraid I've already seen it too many times. Lee Franklin, Luis Carter, John Jimenez, are just a few. When these men become employees they are instantly transformed from recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, into workers, and if they've got a problem they better learn to deal with it themselves because the Salvation Army doesn't want to hear about it.
May 4 Saturday Day 235
Curtis Carter did not make it back last night for curfew. He had a pass for the night, having just finished his thirty day restriction, but had voided it earlier in the day.
He came back this morning and talked to Robert. When Mr. Vasquez told him he'd have to take a urine test to get back in, Curtis silently withdrew.
I wish him well.
I got out of bed at about 10:00, or so, and took a long shower. I talked with God awhile, prayed or whatever, then had lunch.
I wrote in the library after lunch, then went to the liquor store to buy some cigarettes. There was another fair in the park today. One booth afforded me the opportunity to register to vote, which I did. As a reward for doing so the nice lady who registered me threw a handful of confetti over my head.
I returned to the residence, and after removing most of the multicolored paper from my hair, I returned to library to write about "speed." I would do so for the rest of the evening.
May 5 Sunday Day 236
For myself, I have used amphetamines for many years.
It began back in high school where I experimented with most of the drugs I've come into contact with. We called them "uppers," "whites," or "cross tops," because the tiny pills were white in color, and had a cross (+) stamped onto one side. Ten for a dollar back then. Two or three would be enough to get me "wired," the euphoric, or energetic state I desired. I would hardly ever stop at two or three. If two or three made me feel real good just think how I'd feel taking all ten. I would usually wind up taking all ten, and then manifest very energetic drug seeking behavior until I found some more.
"Moderation," was not a word that much concerned me.
Diet pills worked just as well. My mom had bottles of them in our refrigerator at home. And once I discovered that they had much the same effect as the uppers I bought from my friends at school, the amount of pills in my mother's medicine bottles mysteriously decreased over the months until one day, lo and behold, the bottles disappeared altogether!
Amazing!
Surprisingly I was never caught, or charged by my family with the theft of those pills. One of the only times I was not busted for doing something like that.
That is of course only until my mom reads this.
Uppers allowed me to stay awake while drinking or getting stoned smoking marijuana. Beer and uppers were always a good combination. The beer took the edge off of the amphetamines, making me more mellow, and the speed allowed me to drink much more than I could normally, while not getting slow, lethargic, or stupid. Usually never.
And I'd get crazy on them. Not at times that anybody would notice. I would stay awake three or four nights in a row manufacturing the greatest sexual fantasies imaginable. I could never perform sexually while on speed, just fantasize a lot.
That could be frustrating at times.
In my twenties I found a more potent form of the drug called a "Black Beauty," a large black capsule, bought for two or three dollars apiece. The effect brought about by a single capsule would easily last for up to 24 hours.
For the most part I always took the amphetamine orally. Besides having no access to needles, they always turned me off. In later years I would sometimes snort the drug, inhale the crumbled pills, or the contents of the capsules through the nose. Amphetamines are quite irritating to the nasal passages though, and half of the time I would sneeze out more of the drug than I would take in.
I took amphetamines a good deal while in my teens, slowly tapering off while in my twenties, hardly at all in my thirties, where I now find myself. I stopped using the drug mainly because I disliked the aftereffects... the come down, the horrible feelings of fatigue, depression, and wretchedness that followed so close behind each instance of prolonged use. Eventually the bad points of amphetamine use outweighed the good, and that fact somehow made its way through the ten or more centimeters of skull that surrounds my brain.
I graduated from frequent large doses to small doses once or twice a year. My history of the use of LSD is very similar.
Well, on to other matters.
Dennis Smith did not last the weekend.
Yesterday I saw him sitting in the car he had bought from Ernie Sens. He smiled at me. He soon left and did not return by curfew. I didn't write him up. His being an employee now an A.W.O.L./A.C.O. wrap wouldn't stick. Even then, he did not follow procedure by neglecting to sign out in the employee pass book, a small requirement when a resident employee spends the night somewhere else.
I didn't see him all day today. I hope he's alright.
I had intended to go see "The Silence of the Lambs," again, and get another dose of Anthony Hopkins's Dr. Lecter, but the film had finally disappeared from the theater up the street. Instead, after chapel I returned to my room and watched some movies on television, and read. I felt tired because I had gotten up very early. I fell asleep while watching a lecture concerning Buddhist theory on PBS.
An interesting episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," tonight, reminiscent of the McCarthy hearings of the 1950s.
After which I secured a fairly decent seat for the Sunday night VCR movie, "Ghost," starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and Whoopi Goldberg. Demi provided most of the emotional content for this film. She's a great crier.
Near the end of the movie, as the bad guys got dragged down to Hell, a lot of comments like, "Makes you think about how you live your life," were made from the audience.
Mass guilt trip.
I went upstairs and watched "Married with Children," then finished reading the James Bond book and went to bed.
I've been having trouble getting to sleep lately, and tonight was no exception. I stopped trying to fall asleep and dropped off instantly.
May 6 Monday Day 237
No sign of Dennis yet. Rumor has it that he was in the front office this morning.
Curtis Carter was hanging around the lobby before lunch, waiting for today's board meeting determination.
Before lunch I went to the warehouse to look for a small cardboard box to use as a shipping container for the present I had bought for my mom for Mother's Day. I could not find one. Marvin Smith has taken over the bailing job from Hobart Rodgers, and is so efficient that he tears apart every box he receives immediately after receiving it in preparation for it being crushed and bailed, giving box hunters like me nary a chance to pounce upon an unsuspecting receptacle. Marvin felt a little guilty because he had no boxes to give me, so he went to the dock and scrounged one up.
I have given my mom a five inch long glass piano that can be utilized to hold various small objects within it's body by lifting the hinged lid. Pins and needles, candy, or what not. Totally useless really. I wrapped it carefully in newspaper, packaged it, and after lunch took it to the postal outlet on California Street to be mailed.
Afterwards I made what is becoming a weekly trek to P.C.C. This time I wished to find out the schedule for the English placement exams. Something I could have done on any of my previous visits, but being an alcoholic I tend to go out of my way to make everything a lot more difficult than it has any right to be. I discovered that I could take the test next Monday at 12:15PM. I must remember to take a pen and #2 pencil along.
From the college I walked west on Colorado to the Academy theater, where I had noticed "The Silence of the Lambs," was still playing. However, I found out that the first show would not begin until 5:00, many hours away, and I did not want to see it badly enough to wait around in the hot sun, so I caught the 256 back to the residence.
Where I worked out vigorously, then went to the park to lay out in the hot sun which I had earlier avoided. I listened to classic rock and roll while getting thirty minutes on each side.
Upon returning to the residence I worked out yet again, then showered and had dinner. Barbara Grothe sat with me, and gave me a tape to listen to. She had purchased it at a seminar she had attended over the weekend. The tape was all about guilt and shame. I listened to it up in my lonely room, and would now know everything there was to know about guilt and shame if I had not fallen asleep about half way through.
But perhaps all of that guilt ridden and shameful knowledge is up there in my subconscious, having been taken in subliminally. Sure feels that way.
When I woke up I wrote for a while in the lobby where I finally caught up with Dennis. He did not offer any explanation for his unexpected disappearance, and I did not press. I was just glad to see him safe and sound. He did tell me that he caught hell from old Ernie, but he would remain an employee, with no punishment, restriction, or whatever.
Odd.
He did look a tad guilty and shameful, but maybe Barbara had gotten to him.
At 8:00 I watched the fourth installment of "The Astronomers." Tonight's show dealt with gravitational wave theorists, and quantum cosmologists. Stephen Hawking made a brief appearance. Remarkable man. This was the least informative of the episodes I've seen thus far, seemingly looking like a self admiration hour.
I watched a last hour of a T.V. movie, read, then went to sleep. My work week would begin in a few hours.
May 7 Tuesday Day 238
I woke to Gregory Peck and Lauren Bacall in "Designing Women," (the movie), a comedy (not one of Mr. Peck's finer talents).
Mr. Vasquez had gotten up early to get donuts, and upon returning he got very busy running around doing all kinds of things that didn't need to be done, or could have easily been done by someone else.
He may be shooting speed.
I waited patiently for him to go back to his room and settle down before I did any writing.
Instead of going back to bed like I thought he'd do, Mr. Vasquez left the building at 10 o'clock, telling me he'd be back by 7:00 (he's supposed to relieve me at 2:30).
Since he was gone I was then free to run amuck.
But I restrained myself.
Talking to Mr. Schimmele, Reuben Smith, and Clarence Bliss, who was working the desk this morning (filling in for Kevin Rockoff, who would be at Worknet school this week), I absently mentioned that I had relapsed in the month of May for the last two years. Last year at the Canoga Park A.R.C., and the year before that, a continued relapse actually, when Jan left. When I said this everyone kind of looked at me like they didn't know what to say.
Clarence finally came forth with: "I never relapsed. I just went out and got fucking drunk!"
This is a typical response given by gentlemen of experience when confronted with modern sounding clinical terminology used today to describe aspects of the disease of alcoholism. When asked why they drink one often hears, "Because I like too." and "It's a habit." Very simple, straight forward, no nonsense answers to what to me is a very complex problem. When I ask them, do you think a person who continues to drink even though they know it will cause them great discomfort in the near future, has a problem? If I don't get an ambiguous response they generally will agree with me. Yes, that person has a problem they will say. Do they think A.A., or a program like the one here, at the A.R.C., can help? They say, it probably couldn't hurt, but they personally couldn't be bothered with it. The answer to them seems to be that if a person wants to stop drinking all they have to do is stop.
Very simple. Straight forward. No nonsense.
And to a large degree true. Although they tend to ignore, or discount the disease concept of addiction, and that little matter of "compulsion" that seems to play such a heavey-handed part in it all. This, coupled with the fact that most (not all) of these older gentleman apparently have no real desire to stop drinking any longer than is necessary in order to meet their residency requirements, explains our fairly large population of men fifty years, or older. These men are just getting by. Spinning their wheels. Marking time.
My mother agrees with these gentlemen of experience. She doesn't understand why I didn't want to stop drinking for such a long time.
Anyway, I was talking to these guys, and I couldn't help but notice that Reuben Smith was looking much like a raccoon. He looked that way because he had gone to the park yesterday (just like I did) to catch a few rays, and wanting to maintain his super cool image, did not remove his sunglasses while lying in the hot sun. As a result, his face is two shades darker than the area directly surrounding his eyes. A true iconoclast, he wears his temporary birthmark with pride.Mr. Vasquez had gotten up early to get donuts, and upon returning he got very busy running around doing all kinds of things that didn't need to be done, or could have easily been done by someone else.
He may be shooting speed.
I waited patiently for him to go back to his room and settle down before I did any writing.
Instead of going back to bed like I thought he'd do, Mr. Vasquez left the building at 10 o'clock, telling me he'd be back by 7:00 (he's supposed to relieve me at 2:30).
Since he was gone I was then free to run amuck.
But I restrained myself.
Talking to Mr. Schimmele, Reuben Smith, and Clarence Bliss, who was working the desk this morning (filling in for Kevin Rockoff, who would be at Worknet school this week), I absently mentioned that I had relapsed in the month of May for the last two years. Last year at the Canoga Park A.R.C., and the year before that, a continued relapse actually, when Jan left. When I said this everyone kind of looked at me like they didn't know what to say.
Clarence finally came forth with: "I never relapsed. I just went out and got fucking drunk!"
This is a typical response given by gentlemen of experience when confronted with modern sounding clinical terminology used today to describe aspects of the disease of alcoholism. When asked why they drink one often hears, "Because I like too." and "It's a habit." Very simple, straight forward, no nonsense answers to what to me is a very complex problem. When I ask them, do you think a person who continues to drink even though they know it will cause them great discomfort in the near future, has a problem? If I don't get an ambiguous response they generally will agree with me. Yes, that person has a problem they will say. Do they think A.A., or a program like the one here, at the A.R.C., can help? They say, it probably couldn't hurt, but they personally couldn't be bothered with it. The answer to them seems to be that if a person wants to stop drinking all they have to do is stop.
Very simple. Straight forward. No nonsense.
And to a large degree true. Although they tend to ignore, or discount the disease concept of addiction, and that little matter of "compulsion" that seems to play such a heavey-handed part in it all. This, coupled with the fact that most (not all) of these older gentleman apparently have no real desire to stop drinking any longer than is necessary in order to meet their residency requirements, explains our fairly large population of men fifty years, or older. These men are just getting by. Spinning their wheels. Marking time.
My mother agrees with these gentlemen of experience. She doesn't understand why I didn't want to stop drinking for such a long time.
Richard Bennett came in early to begin counseling. He asked for Dennis Smith first. We paged him, and after a while Dennis appeared, smiling sheepishly. Then he grinned at Richard. Richard stared back at him, cold, without flinching. Dennis kept on smiling. Richard said, "Don't you smile at me! Let's have a little talk." They went to the counseling room.
Which of course, is right next to my office. I heard several loud noises emanating from that direction for the next forty-five minutes.
When they finally came out, Dennis went upstairs to get ready for work. I asked Richard how it went.
"I had to give him a drop kick through the goal post of life."
I went to sleep after work. A troubled sleep with bad dreams. Dreams of using.
I got up at five and dressed. Then I went for a walk along Fair Oaks Boulevard. I returned a few minutes before Jill was due to arrive, only to discover that she had called in sick, and had canceled her groups
A week without Jill is like a week without sunshine. I exist halfheartedly until the next time I may gaze upon her radiant smile.
I sank back into my room, my lonely room, for the rest of the evening, reading and watching silly television shows, until I fell, with a great sigh... to sleep.
May 8 Wednesday Day 239
I asked Russell Burke if I could interview him for this book.
"You really writing a book," he asked enigmatically.
"Sure."
"What's it gonna be about? Alcoholics and stuff?"
"Well yeah, I guess Russell. Living here, the first year of trying to stay sober, The people who live here."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well I think that's a really good idea, Rick. Keep it up. Yeah, sure, I'll give ya an interview."
"When Russell? When will you give me an interview?"
"Anytime Rick. Anytime you want. That's a good thing, writing a book. Takes patience, maybe help a guy out..."
His voice faded as he made a quick, unobtrusive retreat, while wiping down anything that was not already moving and within arms reach.
I'm glad Russell thinks my writing is a good idea. That sort of sanctifies it.
And since Jill did not visit, this constituted the high point of my week.
May 9 Thursday Day 240
Bill Rausemplat on the PA: "Goooood moorrrnnninggg! (slight German accent) Rise and shine! It's six o'clock! Up! Up! Up, up, up, up, up! Looovvveeely, lovely day!"
It's a miracle no one has killed him. Yet.
I began another nice 17 hour, nonstop, action packed, work day with one of my favorite breakfasts: SOS.
Really. I like the stuff.
Though I didn't feel like moving around much after I ate it, so I hid out in my office a got some writing done, until all of the guys went across the street to work.
Mr. Vasquez got up early to go to the V.A. clinic to have his foot calluses sand blasted down.
There wasn't really a whole lot to get done today. I had ran all of the urine the night before, and the janitors didn't need me or want me to supervise them, so I killed some time, not feeling like doing anything constructive. I read some short horror stories written by Joyce Carol Oats, Theodore Sturgeon, and Clifford D. Simack, which picked my spirits right up.
After lunch I got Ernie Sens to let Dennis Smith drive me to Builders Emporium, in South Pasadena, so I could have some locker keys made. I also needed to stop off at Vons to buy some razors so our new clients could shave. We had a couple who looked like they'd been in the mountains three years without benefit of toilet facilities.
Sounds vaguely familiar somehow.
Both were from New York City. They had that quiet, glazed, homicidal, New York stare about them.
While driving south on Fair Oaks, I asked Dennis what had really happened last weekend, why he had been A.W.O.L.
He had been driving in his new car it seems, cruising the Southland freeways, when he "accidentally" passed by an old girlfriends house. Naturally he just had to stop and have a chat, and the two of them continued to drive around, exploring the mysteries of his new car.
Upon returning to her house they began exploring the mysteries of each other (I've got to get a car!), afterwards falling blissfully into deep sleep. Dennis woke at 12:30AM, said fuck it, and went back to sleep. He decided the next morning that since he was already A.W.O.L., he might as well stay A.W.O.L. until Monday morning.
Probably not the best decision to make, looking back on it. But that's what he did.
And he got away with it, only receiving a (stern) reprimand from Ernie. Not a tremendous example to set for the men of the residence though. It's not a very good idea to start letting some break the rules without serious repercussions, while throwing out others out for similar offenses. A lot of the men who had looked up to Dennis as being an example of how the program works, let him know that he had let them down, and Dennis felt bad about that.
I told him he was an idiot.
All of the above adding a great deal of scurrilous, unwanted, bullshit pressure upon a man still in the infancy of his recovery.
But I guess that's how it is sometimes.
All in all, he had been chastised rather harshly. He deserved it, but I'm glad he's back and continuing with the program.
The most surprising thing about the whole situation, surprising to both Dennis and those of us back at the center, is that he did not use.
Which of course was confirmed by urinalysis.
He told me that his usual pattern after an initial fuck up would be to merrily move forward in the process and fuck up to the extreme (no moderation in fuck upingness).
This is the usual pattern for many, if not all alcoholics and drug addicts, myself not excluded.
By some miracle Dennis was able to halt the process this time. Halt the guilt and self loathing, then the mindless and blind merry-go-round ride toward debasement and self destruction. He was able to stop while relatively little harm was done, before he gave up all of his choices. If the whole episode had been some kind of test, then this time he was able to pass it.
He saved his job, but that was the least important thing he saved.
Good for Dennis! Very good.
After a little over a month Rico Montgomery has returned to us. He came back all smiles, but did not have much to say for himself. At least not to me. I will no doubt talk to him later.
And once again the infamous Zulu brothers are united.
The only thing I did of consequence for the rest of the evening was to write up Ron Basemore for missing both his Substance Abuse seminar, and his A.A. panel. And I made an appointment for an H.I.V antibody test at the Jackie Robinson Health Center in north Pasadena, for May 20th.
I've decided it's time to stop mucking around and find out something of what the rest of my life is going to be like.
May 10 Friday Day 241
I had the opportunity to catch up on some sleep this morning, and I made use of it. At 10:22AM I climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. This triggered an alarm inside of the janitor's closet, at which time they descended upon my bathroom like a pack of hungry wolves, armed with mops and scouring brushes.
I made a hasty retreat and showered, dressed, then went to lunch, Club sandwiches.
I wrote in the lobby until it was time to start my shift. Russell Burke walked by the desk and said, "Hi, hi. How ya doing?" A little while later Scott Feeney also walked by, and mumbled, "I hate this place."
Everything's normal.
I suffer from an affliction other than alcoholism and nicotine addiction (many others actually, most too sordid to mention). I like to make other people read books, and stories, and pieces, that I have once read and found worthwhile. I like to think that I am enriching my victims lives by doing so. I like to think that they will find the same enjoyment and feel the same things that I felt while reading these wonderful works. I am almost always disappointed.
Anyway, I found a copy of Vonnegut's "Slaughter House Five" in the residence library, and showed it to Robert Vasquez. "It's about the bombing of Dresden," I said, a little unfairly. "He was there."
The old war horse looked at with interest. "Dresden?" he asked. "What? He was underground?"
"In a meat locker."
"Hummm, let me have a look at it when you're finished."
"I've already read it, sir. You can have it."
I neglected to tell him the the book also concerned time travel, flying saucers, multidimensional living, and porno queens. If I had he probably wouldn't have read it.
He probably won't anyway.
After everybody was paid, after the bingo, and tournaments, and cash, and extra work canteen cards were counted and bundled, after the New Client Orientation, and after the stupid and heavy bar was put up in the thrift store parking lot, I spent the remainder of my shift reading about cocaine.
May 11 Saturday Day 242
I have come to terms with reality. A bold statement, but true. I have come to the conclusion that I do not have to face it, all of the time. That it is alright for me to escape its influence every now and then, by reading, or watching television. As long as I do not use a chemical to escape the perils and joys of everyday life, or read so much and so often that that's all I do, isolating. It's alright, even healthy, to read and view worthwhile programs and movies on T.V. (there are a few), it can even envelope one at times, with a higher sense of reality, of what is really important in life.
Many newly recovering alcoholics and addicts do feel that they must deal with everything, and every issue that reality throws at them in a most succinct manner, and that they must never again shy away from responsibility or avoid taking part in their brave new world.
I say, hey, chill out! Calm down, take things easy. Don't stress! Relax.
This morning I diverted reality in a positive manner by staying in bed and sleeping until 11:00AM, thus allowing sleep to replenish whatever it is that sleep replenishes, plus preparing my sorely taxed mind for the day's upcoming adventures.
Upon awakening, I felt so rejuvenated that I tackled my computer, and attempted some of the typing exercises, actually completing a few. This made me feel very good and worthwhile. I was now ready to open my door and face the day.
I went to work and had a fine time with reality. My desk crew ready to assist me in whatever I may endeavor.
Clarence "Eagle Eye," "The Flash," Bliss, who when asked at first will invariably give the incorrect answer to any question posed. From experience I have learned when dealing with Clarence, and asking him a question and receiving a reply, to always ask, "Your sure?" Almost always he will say, "No. wait a minute, it's such and such..." then will supply the correct information. One of his nicknames, "The Flash," derives from a current television show depicting an ultra speedy super hero, and is paradoxically applied to him because of the fact that it takes him so long to shift his mode of thought, and because of the halting quality of his movements. Clarence reasons in a linear fashion, one thing at a time (very A.A. ish), and if you need something from him, and he at that time has placed his train of thought somewhere else, you're damn sure going to wait until he can get to you, and that may or may not happen on the same day that you would like it to.
Bill Raushemplat, although at times very witty, is constantly thinking and talking about food. Many, many times while working a Friday or Saturday night shift, Bill will walk into my office with a most serious expression on his handsome, young face, and begin to expound upon the merits of one particular cheeseburger manufacturer over another. He directs my attention to the delicacy and texture of the grilled onions, the poignancy of the mustard and relish, the tartness of the pickles. He describes the different sauces he has sampled throughout the ages. He will not shut up until I finally say, "Okay Bill, go take a break." He will the take off merrily on his way to the canteen to munch out. His hunger satiated, I will have peace for a short time.
If something displeases him about his meal, he will let everyone know about it. Everyone.
A dry pork chop will ruin his day.
Kevin Rockoff has resumed his quest for his dream girl (or any girl) through the Christian singles ads. He has secured the name and address, by way of a pen pal club, of a lady approximately his own age, who lives in Japan.
Unheeded by national boundaries the search continues.
The issue at hand is not to avoid reality, but to learn how to live with it. Please now allow me to ease back into it, and conclude for the time being, spending the rest of my shift learning about cocaine.
I will end with the startling realization that "crack" cocaine is not addictive at all, supplied to me from the comedian, Richard Pryor: "It's not habit forming! I've been using it everyday for fifteen years and I don't have a habit."
Mother's Day!
I talked to my mother on the telephone. I caught her as she was applying her lipstick in preparation for a trip to her best friend's house, Alice and Lester, for dinner.
She's doing alright. She always does alright. If her stupid kids would just leave her alone, quit being alcoholics, and quit bothering her with boyfriend problems (my sister, not me), her life would be a paradise.
She has not yet received the gift that I had mailed to her last Monday. The little glass piano. I certainly do want to make any disparaging or derogatory statements concerning our world famous postal system, so I will not make any comments concerning the fact that it has taken them almost a week to get one small light weight package all the way over to the very next state. I won't say anything at all.
My mother told me that my sister and her boyfriend have broken up. The same guy that showered Cheryl and Keri with presents last Christmas, and forced a tree upon my mother.
This news made me a little happy. If I can't find joy and happiness in a relationship right now, why should my sister be entitled to?
I'm very sick. I need to be here.
Besides, I never really liked the guy to begin with.
My beautiful little niece, Keri, keeps getting her name put on the classroom blackboard. This indicates that she is a perpetrator of some misdeed, or has broken one of the rules at school.
Isn't she a doll?
My own day began at 4:00AM, with watching "The Crawling Eye," with a subdued Forrest Tucker (before "F Troop"). This movie seemed so much better when I was a kid.
During chapel Major Johnson related some personal information, it being Mother's Day and all. I had not known that he had been born right here in Pasadena. He was a victim of polio in the thirties, in fact, the second recorded case in this area. Because of that dubious distinction his picture had appeared in the local newspaper, The Star News. The Major, at least in part, attributed his eventual recovery to all of the people who saw that picture and prayed for him. The disease affected his legs substantially, leaving his left leg atrophied. His mother, he said, helped him day after day, month after month, to exercise the useless muscles, until once again he could use the limb and walk unassisted. For that he was thankful to his mom.
Much like the Major I am thankful to my mother for not giving up on me.
After chapel Ron Collins and I walked to South Pasadena, to the American Legion building, for a 11:30 A.A speaker meeting. We found good old Skip Fennel there, my ex-desk pal. He's living with his parents now and attending P.C.C. He attended the speaker meeting regularly, he said.
It was a good meeting. Nice, fashionable people attended. Some pretty ladies. I may have fallen in love once, I'm not sure.
The speaker was a good one. The line I remember most went like this, "After tens years of living with an alcoholic, my wife had had her fill of joy and happiness and left me."
Ron and I walked back to the residence after the meeting. I went upstairs and made my bed. Reuben Perez had given me a nice set of yellow sheets to try, instead of my drab old white ones. They were a size too big for my bed. I put them on anyway.
I like yellow.
They help cheer up my lonely room.
I finished "The Milagro Beanfield War." Very, very good. I shall remember it for the rest of my life as the one book I took the time to really read during the first year of my recovery. It shall remind me of this place. This residence. This stinking, lousy, little, lonely room.
I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation," and "Married with Children," and fucked off for the rest of the night.I talked to my mother on the telephone. I caught her as she was applying her lipstick in preparation for a trip to her best friend's house, Alice and Lester, for dinner.
She's doing alright. She always does alright. If her stupid kids would just leave her alone, quit being alcoholics, and quit bothering her with boyfriend problems (my sister, not me), her life would be a paradise.
She has not yet received the gift that I had mailed to her last Monday. The little glass piano. I certainly do want to make any disparaging or derogatory statements concerning our world famous postal system, so I will not make any comments concerning the fact that it has taken them almost a week to get one small light weight package all the way over to the very next state. I won't say anything at all.
My mother told me that my sister and her boyfriend have broken up. The same guy that showered Cheryl and Keri with presents last Christmas, and forced a tree upon my mother.
This news made me a little happy. If I can't find joy and happiness in a relationship right now, why should my sister be entitled to?
I'm very sick. I need to be here.
Besides, I never really liked the guy to begin with.
My beautiful little niece, Keri, keeps getting her name put on the classroom blackboard. This indicates that she is a perpetrator of some misdeed, or has broken one of the rules at school.
Isn't she a doll?
My own day began at 4:00AM, with watching "The Crawling Eye," with a subdued Forrest Tucker (before "F Troop"). This movie seemed so much better when I was a kid.
During chapel Major Johnson related some personal information, it being Mother's Day and all. I had not known that he had been born right here in Pasadena. He was a victim of polio in the thirties, in fact, the second recorded case in this area. Because of that dubious distinction his picture had appeared in the local newspaper, The Star News. The Major, at least in part, attributed his eventual recovery to all of the people who saw that picture and prayed for him. The disease affected his legs substantially, leaving his left leg atrophied. His mother, he said, helped him day after day, month after month, to exercise the useless muscles, until once again he could use the limb and walk unassisted. For that he was thankful to his mom.
Much like the Major I am thankful to my mother for not giving up on me.
After chapel Ron Collins and I walked to South Pasadena, to the American Legion building, for a 11:30 A.A speaker meeting. We found good old Skip Fennel there, my ex-desk pal. He's living with his parents now and attending P.C.C. He attended the speaker meeting regularly, he said.
It was a good meeting. Nice, fashionable people attended. Some pretty ladies. I may have fallen in love once, I'm not sure.
The speaker was a good one. The line I remember most went like this, "After tens years of living with an alcoholic, my wife had had her fill of joy and happiness and left me."
Ron and I walked back to the residence after the meeting. I went upstairs and made my bed. Reuben Perez had given me a nice set of yellow sheets to try, instead of my drab old white ones. They were a size too big for my bed. I put them on anyway.
I like yellow.
They help cheer up my lonely room.
I finished "The Milagro Beanfield War." Very, very good. I shall remember it for the rest of my life as the one book I took the time to really read during the first year of my recovery. It shall remind me of this place. This residence. This stinking, lousy, little, lonely room.
May 13 Monday Day 244
Again I didn't want to get up, but I forced myself. I showered, dressed, and made my way downstairs in time to grab a bite of tuna fish sandwich before leaving for P.C.C. I had an English test to take.
As I left the residence I noticed my counselor, Richard, in his car preparing to drive away. He motioned me over and offered me a lift, which I gladly accepted. Because of my ride I arrived at the college early, about forty five minutes before the test was to begin. I waited around in front of the administration building, smoking cigarettes and watching the scenery.
As test time approached I wandered up to the second floor, to room C311, which was located, curiously enough, on the exact opposite side of the building from room C310. Gathered around the entrance to room C311 were about twenty other students, most in their early twenties. My fellow test takers.
As we filed into the large classroom I felt a determinedly odd sense of de'javu. It has been fifteen years, more or less, since I sat in a room such as this, at desks such as these, with a teacher standing up front explaining (in an authoritative voice) what we would be doing for this session. It felt very strange, yet very familiar.
The test itself was relatively simple. All multiple choice questions. I had been afraid that spelling would be involved, as I'm not particularly suited for that activity. Usually, if I am uncertain how a word is spelled, and no dictionary is nearby, or I don't have the time to look it up even if I do have a dictionary, I will attempt to spell it phonetically, they way the word sounds when spoken, which is usually the wrong way to spell it because English is crazy. Fortunately for me all I had to do was pick out misspelled words from sentences, something I seem to be much better at because of the way my poor old alcoholic brain dysfunctions.
The remainder of the test was also fairly simple and easy to understand. When finished I had a good feeling about attaining a satisfactory grade. I was told the test results would be available in an hour if I choose to wait around for them. I didn't really need them today, so instead I picked up a student aid application from the counseling office, then made my way back to the residence.
As I was getting my room key from the front desk, Reuben Smith asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with him. He wanted to see "FX2," a film that had opened over the weekend. Mainly because I had never been out socially with Reuben, I agreed.
"FX2" is the sequel to the film "FX," with the Australian actor, Brian Brown starring, with Brian Dennehy, which I had enjoyed. But this sequel, like most sequels, was a poor second best. Silly really. FX stands for special effects in movies I guess, and Mr. Brown played the expert in both films, using his magic in real life situations and getting into all kinds of nasty trouble. It seems to me that in the sequel it would have been a lot easier to get the job done without mucking around with all of those gadgets.
I imagine not using those gadgets would have negated the hoped for primary appeal of the film though.
Later in the evening I saw on the news "FX2" was number one at the box office for the weekend.
"Silence of the Lambs," is still in the top 5. Very surprising.
When Reuben and I returned I wrote in the lobby.
Barbara and Milda walked by and said hello.
So did Russell Burke.
When I finished writing, I ate a late spaghetti and Italian sausage dinner, then retired to my room and played with my computer. Perplexed, I began to read from the Bible. "Ezra." Some of J.D. Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye," and a lovely and haunting story by Clifford D. Simack, "The Wishing Well."
As I mentioned earlier, I watched the news, then "Nightline," afterwards with that Koppel person, then went to sleep wanting to get at least four hours in before I began my work week.
I dreamt of moths.
May 14 Tuesday Day 245
At 7:15 I made an announcement at morning devotions.
"All of this loud playing of radios in the bathrooms, early in the morning, gentlemen... there's just no future in it!"
I had had complaints from Harold Eversley of vapid, insistent, "Rap" music emanating from the restroom located on the other side of his bedroom wall. It kept waking him, he said.
For myself, I woke up in an elevator, or should I say, "lift," with Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh, headed to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was quite splendid really.
Work went well. I managed to write a little in the morning, ran urine tests, the usual stuff. I spent most of the shift trying to figure out how to complete the student aid form I received the day before, and failing.
After work I went upstairs to my lonely room and slept until 5:15, after which I returned downstairs and hung around the lobby.
Jill made it in today, radiant as ever. I asked if she felt better, referring to her absence last week (just between you and me, I do not feel Jill was being 100% completely honest about being ill). "Jill," I told her, "it's like a week without sunshine when you don't come to visit us."
Sickening yes, but my delivery was good, and it worked. She gave me a beautiful smile, and her eyes lit up. "Thank you," she said.
Since I had missed dinner I went into the canteen and ate a nice cheeseburger with an egg on top, then went to my room and read until "The Terminator," came on T.V. at 8:00.
Dear reader, does it seem to you that I am in a rut? That I do the same boring things week after week? That my life has entered into a state of obsequiousness and humdrum?
It does to me.
I'M BORED! (relapse warning sign) with doing the same old stuff all of the time. Day after day. I WANT TO LIVE (relapse warning sign)!!! I want excitement (relapse warning sign)! I want to fly like a bird (relapse warning sign)!
I better settle down and be quiet.
May 15 Thursday Day 246
I worked my ass off today! I got no more ass!
May 16 Wednesday Day 247
I'm bored with the same old stuff week after week. I want to live! I want excitement! I want to go to Reno!
I guess I'm in a rut. I would not recommend to anyone in early recovery to work a sixty hour a week job that pays $19 and a canteen card (are canteen cards negotiable on the world market?), a supervisory position at that, so you get be ostracized from those who you live and work with (only a 100 or so people), to the point that conversation slows and dwindles when you pass by, and people act differently with you than others, and talk differently, and look differently. And it's your duty to scold and reprimand your fellow brothers when the occasion calls for it.
And you don't have the time, energy, or money for any kind of social life.
And certainly one of the most frustrating aspects of the whole affair, your bosses over in the front office hardly realize you exist, base your entire job performance on how many smudges are on the windows of the front door, and when your presence is considered to any degree, they'll shake your hand, tell ya what a great job your doing, and act as if your a moron.
Well, enough sniveling from me. Actually, the above sounds like a lot of jobs people in America have today. Except for the pay.
I guess I'm building strength of character, or something. Although I still would not suggest that most alcoholics in early recovery take on all of these trials and tribulations. Live in a cave maybe. I console myself by thinking things may change when Mr. Vasquez retires (if he retires). I think about going to school and all of the pretty girls there, and what a pleasure it is not to worry about bills, or paying rent for the time being. Our about taking out the garbage, or going grocery shopping, or having to cook, or meeting a cute and intelligent and sincere lady while shopping for groceries that I would eventually cook for the both of us over a nice romantic candle lit dinner for just us two, or marrying the girl, and having children, or a cat or two, or maybe a little puppy, or buying life insurance.
I'm starting again.
Well, one day at a time.
I worked my ass off again today. Got a positive urine test on a loud mouthed, bald headed, inconsiderate trouble maker that no one could get along with and who had been seen rolling joints (marijuana cigarettes) in his dorm.
So Robert and I gave him a collective boot!
And Stacy came in early to say goodbye. She will not be coming in to counsel anybody anymore. She plans to become a cocktail waitress maybe. I let her know that there was a lot of money in the cocktail waitress trade if she could stand the degradation.
I knew that cocktail waitresses could make a lot of money (and about the degradation) because my second wife, Debbie, used to work as a cocktail waitress, and usually brought home lots of money in tips. She had a little problem with polishing off all of her customers unfinished drinks and didn't last too long in that profession, which was fine with her. She didn't really like to work anyway.
Stacy brought goodbye cards to each of the clients she had counseled. That was nice of her. I discovered that she was just 21 years old.
A kid. A smart and nice kid.
I hope she doesn't become a cocktail waitress.
May 17 Friday Day 248
I went to bed last night at 2:00AM, and didn't get up until 11:00 this morning. I had some fish for lunch, then went back upstairs and took a little nap until 3:00.
I was recharging my batteries.
I had some nice liver for dinner, and after I got all of my chores caught up and the paperwork completed, I read about inhalants and solvents and glue-sniffing.
May 18 Saturday Day 249
Last night, while Bill Raushemplat changed the lobby bulletin board, my good friend and Zulu Brother, Reuben Smith returned from an outing. His would be the only breath test I would administer all evening.
Reuben was fortunate in that.
Or maybe not, I don't know. I'm not wise enough to tell.
He blew a .02, not a high reading by any means. Just high enough to get him thrown out of here.
I looked at the breath-a-lizer with disbelief. Not Reuben! No. No. Not Reuben. I asked him what he had been eating or drinking.
"Pizza and coke," he answered.
I immediately remembered that Reuben was a chronic liar. A truth avoidance expert. Whenever confronted with some misdeed of his own design (an almost constant occurrence) he will say anything and everything to avert blame or responsibility. He is capable of manufacturing the most outrageous confabulations at the drop of a hat. So it was useless to attempt to wrangle the truth from him at this time, and I did not attempt it.
I made a snap decision to ignore the reading. I looked at Bill to see if he had noticed any change in my demeanor. Apparently he hadn't. Reuben looked at me a little expectantly, or perhaps apprehensively. I quickly cleared the breath-a-lizer's air chamber so the reading would return to 0.00, all ready to use again.
I didn't say anything more to Reuben. He had been out all afternoon, so I paid him his gratuity and sent him on his way. Throughout this brief exchange Reuben acted strangely for Reuben. A bit pensive, and too polite. Just like he would act if he were guilty about something, knew he had been caught, but still didn't want to admit anything.
I don't know if he had been drinking, or not. It may have been a false reading.
Yeah, right. The breath-a-lizer is a pretty reliable machine. That's why we use it.
I'm not sure I did Reuben a favor by not pressing the issue and throwing him out. I don't know. Maybe it would have been better for him in the long run if I had. I just couldn't do it. Not this time.
If Bill had caught him Reuben would have been history. There would have been no way to save him. Bill likes to catch people.
Maybe I should have a little talk with Reuben. Soon, before it's too late.
Would it do any good?
If I catch him again I'll be forced to terminate him.
I happened to walk by the big T.V. while "America's Most Wanted," was on. They were dramatizing a story about a man in Switzerland who had drown his two small children in a bathtub. A little boy and a little girl. It was, although not graphic, quite horrible to watch. Knowing that it had actually happened made it horrible. This man, the T.V. said, may have escaped into the United States.
I wondered about the world we lived in for a moment and felt a little better about the job I've been given here.
The fire alarm woke me at 6:00AM, this morning. Something had set off the smoke alarm in dorm 33. Clarence Bliss's dorm. No fire.
I had breakfast, then went back to sleep. I got up around noon, skipped lunch (I need to lose some around the waist), and took a walk.
Remember when I said that the month of May had not been particularly pleasant for me historically. Well, I think my friend Dennis Smith has taken that curse away from me and transfered it to himself. Besides having that little A.W.O.L. episode earlier in the month, he gave me a call this afternoon at around 4:00PM, shortly after my shift began. It seemed the police in West L.A. had relieved him of his liberty after stopping him and running a warrant check. He was calling from jail.
Jail for the most part (and I have some experience) is boring. Like an isolation tank, one starves for some form of external stimulus. As far as I know, in all of the small city jails smoking is not allowed, so if you're a smoker you'll be more on edge and more conscious of your bleak surroundings than you'd normally be, and more depressed. There is usually no television, no reading material, you're damn lucky if you have a window to look out of. And if you do have a window, the bars on it are a constant reminder of where you are at, which depresses you further, to the point that you won't feel much like looking out of that window after a while. The only break in the monotony are the three meals one receives each day. TV dinners for lunch and dinner, dry cereal and a cup of milk and coffee for breakfast.
You could try talking to your fellow inmates to wile away the hours, or days, but it's not very rewarding. For some unexplained reason (a survival mechanism perhaps) the majority of men and women, once incarcerated, revert to a subhuman level of thought and speech. Vulgarity is the norm, with a lot of "homeboys," and Holmes," thrown in. Besides from offering their many and varied tales of how they came to be in jail, they sadly have very little to offer in the way of entertainment.
So it's a fine place to catch up on lost sleep and wonder what will happen when you finally get to court.
One other piece of bad news. If you happen to get busted on a Friday or Saturday, and you don't happen to have the money required for bail, and you've been so busy as to never had the time to develop the necessary social skills to have anyone out in the "free" world who is willing to put up said bail money for you... you're fucked. You're in jail for the whole weekend because there are no courts open on the weekend. The best and only thing to do is sit back, relax and wait to see the judge come Monday.
So I do not envy Dennis his weekend.
He told me that he had already satisfied the demands of the Sacramento court which had issued the warrant and that his arrest had been in error. If that is indeed the case he should be out of jail in a jiffy sometime Monday morning. That is if the charge he was stopped for to begin with was a minor one. A broken tail light, or no registration tag, or something the court would give him time served for.
He was very vague over the phone about what exactly the charges from Sacramento had been, so he may not have been telling me the whole truth, in which case he could be in the slammer indefinitely.
For myself, I had a rather pleasant day. After chapel Ron and I met Skip Fennel at the American Legion 11:30AM A.A. speaker meeting. The speaker was a pretty, 25 year old female type art student. I instantly admired her composure and wit. Her ability to talk in front of a large group for over 50 minutes amazed me. She had four years of sobriety! My God! I was so screwed up when I was her age (not that I'm that much older).
I fell in love.
After the meeting I went to the park for an hour, laying out in the sun while listening to classic rock and roll, and reading "White Knights," by Dostoevsky.
Fyodor Dostoevsky in case you were wondering which one.
Another beautiful day in Pasadena.
I spent much of the evening watching movies on television. "Escape from Alcatraz," and "First Blood." "Star Trek, the Next Generation," and "Married with Children," of course. I watched these while reading "The Eye of the Dragon," by Stephen King.
Then I went to bed. Tomorrow is the day of the big blood test.
May 20 Monday Day 251
You could try talking to your fellow inmates to wile away the hours, or days, but it's not very rewarding. For some unexplained reason (a survival mechanism perhaps) the majority of men and women, once incarcerated, revert to a subhuman level of thought and speech. Vulgarity is the norm, with a lot of "homeboys," and Holmes," thrown in. Besides from offering their many and varied tales of how they came to be in jail, they sadly have very little to offer in the way of entertainment.
So it's a fine place to catch up on lost sleep and wonder what will happen when you finally get to court.
One other piece of bad news. If you happen to get busted on a Friday or Saturday, and you don't happen to have the money required for bail, and you've been so busy as to never had the time to develop the necessary social skills to have anyone out in the "free" world who is willing to put up said bail money for you... you're fucked. You're in jail for the whole weekend because there are no courts open on the weekend. The best and only thing to do is sit back, relax and wait to see the judge come Monday.
So I do not envy Dennis his weekend.
He told me that he had already satisfied the demands of the Sacramento court which had issued the warrant and that his arrest had been in error. If that is indeed the case he should be out of jail in a jiffy sometime Monday morning. That is if the charge he was stopped for to begin with was a minor one. A broken tail light, or no registration tag, or something the court would give him time served for.
He was very vague over the phone about what exactly the charges from Sacramento had been, so he may not have been telling me the whole truth, in which case he could be in the slammer indefinitely.
For myself, I had a rather pleasant day. After chapel Ron and I met Skip Fennel at the American Legion 11:30AM A.A. speaker meeting. The speaker was a pretty, 25 year old female type art student. I instantly admired her composure and wit. Her ability to talk in front of a large group for over 50 minutes amazed me. She had four years of sobriety! My God! I was so screwed up when I was her age (not that I'm that much older).
I fell in love.
After the meeting I went to the park for an hour, laying out in the sun while listening to classic rock and roll, and reading "White Knights," by Dostoevsky.
Fyodor Dostoevsky in case you were wondering which one.
Another beautiful day in Pasadena.
I spent much of the evening watching movies on television. "Escape from Alcatraz," and "First Blood." "Star Trek, the Next Generation," and "Married with Children," of course. I watched these while reading "The Eye of the Dragon," by Stephen King.
Then I went to bed. Tomorrow is the day of the big blood test.
May 20 Monday Day 251
I got up at about 10:00. I showered and dressed, then went to have a bite to eat.
I wrote in the lobby until almost 1:00, then it was time to get to the bus stop.
A straight shot north on Fair Oaks Blvd., the bus let me off directly in front of the Jackie Robinson Health Center. A clean modern building set in the middle of a lower class neighborhood. On the other side of the street, across from the Center, lies the large recreational park where Larry and I spent most of the afternoon of my second day at the A.R.C. Sure enough, as I looked over at the park, Salvation Army Red Shield 17 was parked, with Red Shield 11 pulling up.
I entered the one story building and made my way to room 200, the Health Care Center. The waiting room was full, and I had to stand in line in order to check in with the receptionist. When I reached her she verified my name on the appointment list, and gave me two forms to fill out. One of them had "HIV Test" written in big letters across the top, which I kept sort of close to my chest as I walked across the lobby so no one would be able to read it and know why I was there. God, they might think I was a fag, or something.
Not that I have anything against gay people. In fact, I've had several close friends who were gay or bisexual. As long as they didn't try to seduce me we could be friends (although I don't think I'd mind a lesbian trying to seduce me).
I needn't have worried. No lesbians tried to seduce me, and almost everyone there was getting an HIV test. There was an equal amount of men and women in the waiting room. Maybe it's the fashionable thing to do these days, take these types of tests. There were secretaries here on their lunch hour, housewives, young men. Everyone seemed very nonchalant about it, as if it's a normal everyday thing to inquire if you have a life threatening incurable illness, or a carrier of a fatal disease. I suppose I looked nonchalant as well, although I had my hat covering the top of my form still.
I had brought the Dostoevsky book with me, and finished reading "White Knights," while waiting. Like many of his stories I can personally relate to the situation and feelings of the male characters. "White Knights," if it does not capture the particulars, at least describes the general theme of my entire love life as a young man in grade school. I almost damn near broke down in tears after reading it, and if I had done so, I'm sure everyone waiting in the lobby would have been sure that I'd already received the results of my positive test, and taken pity on me, and attempt to counsel me, if they weren't so afraid to touch me.
I should stick to Dostoevsky's comedies. And I would too, if I could find one.
After what seemed like days my name was finally called, and I was ushered into a small office by a young Hispanic woman who had a bit of trouble pronouncing my first name. She asked if this was indeed my first test for HIV antibodies. I assured her that it was. She asked why I was taking the test, why I thought I may have been infected. I told her why. She explained that from the time of initial infection to the time the test would be able to detect the antibodies could be anywhere from 3 to 6 months. I let her know that I understood that.
She gave me a date, June 5th, after 3:00PM, to come back to the center to get the test results. She also let me know that whatever the results of the test proved to be, positive or negative, I would be taken to a small closed room to receive them, in case I had questions to ask.
I guess another reason she told me that was so I wouldn't drop dead on the spot from heart failure when asked to step into the depressing privacy of a very small, doom room.
She let me go after I signed a form verifying that I had been counseled. I thanked her, then was ushered into another room to await the needle.
After the blood was withdrawn I left the center and took the bus back to the residence. As luck would have it I arrived just in time for dinner (little lumps of meat somewhat resembling meat loaf).
I sat with Barbara Grothe. We discussed how our days had gone. I tried not to give away any information about what I'd been up to all afternoon.
Reuben Smith sat down (back to his old self) and told us of the horrible nightmare he'd had the night before.
"I had a dream last night," he said. "In it I woke up SERIOUS! It was awful! My heart pounded. Blood rushed to my head. I thought I was gonna have a cerebral hemorrhage!"
Kevin Rockoff had gone on a first date with a girl he'd found in the Christian Singles. An ex-lawyer Apache Indian. Apparently they hit it off. At least Kevin is on cloud nine. Good for him!
I watched the fifth episode of "The Astronomers," concerning planetary exploration, with a particularly exciting look into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory right here in Pasadena The focus of the show was on the Voyager imaging team, before, during, and after it's encounter with Neptune and it's moons. A beautiful and majestic planet, at this time the furthest known planet from the sun (Pluto being inside Neptune's orbit until later in the decade).
After the show I walked downstairs to talk to Robert and found out a few things.
Jack Crossley, the perennial desk man, has found himself a job somewhere in Vernon, California (wherever that is). He starts on Wednesday. He will continue to live here for at least two weeks (maybe four), before he has to move elsewhere.
I wish him well.
And no one has heard from Dennis Smith. I would have thought he would have called today. In any case, he is no longer an employee here. They fired him. Gave him the boot.
And Robert tells me that as far as he was concerned Dennis is also out of the program, and out of the residence.
Terminated.
A.C.O.
I wish Dennis well too.
May 21 Tuesday Day 252
At breakfast I asked Jack Crossley if he would "watch the line," count the men off five at a time as they came into the dinning room to eat. I told him that it would do my heart good to see him there one more time.
He said he would do it.
The morning went rather quickly. After I dropped the paperwork off at the front office, I ran what urine samples there were to run, then played with the amphetamine assays, trying to figure out why they had been giving me bazaar readings lately.
I got finished trying to figure that out at about 10:00, after which I began writing in my office.
After lunch I saw Maggie Harbottle and Major Foote. They effectively cut me from the Vocational Rehabilitation Program. I won't take what they feel I should take in school, so Maggie said she will refuse to sponsor me. She described my desire to be a drug and alcohol rehabilitation counselor as being unrealistic. I told her that I'd read almost everything there is available on the subject, that I'd been told that I'd be a good counselor from all of the counselor's who worked here, and that my own counselor refers to me as his counselor. I suggested that for me to do anything else than enter the drug and alcohol rehabilitation field would indeed be "unrealistic."
It's hard to tell her anything though. She keeps talking all of the time. It's hard to get a word in edgewise.
Women.
The subject of this book came up in conversation. Maggie said that I would probably write about how she and the state of California wouldn't give a dime to help me.
I let her know that I would write that only if it were true.
Which it is.
Just before I got off work I received a call from Dennis Smith. He had just been released from county jail, and was in a big hurry to get back here as fast as possible. He asked me if he still had a job here. I told him that I didn't think that he did.
"What a crock of shit," he said.
I told him that he should come on back anyway and talk to Clarence Orion.
I purposely did not come down to see Jill today, even though the temptation to do so was great. I wanted to see how much she missed me when I was not around.
As far as I can discern she did not miss me at all. I don't believe she even noticed I was missing.
And now, by my not being there, she's probably already forgotten my entire existence.
Dennis did come back, and I talked to him briefly. He'll more than likely re-enter the program tomorrow, as a client. He said he would stay at a motel for the night.
After being here an entire year, my old friend Reuben Perez, the man who gave me my Big Book when I first arrived here because he was the center's book man at the time, and who was the current laundry man, came to me at the desk at 8:00PM, and said he was "disgusted with everything," and checked out. V.C.O.
I wish him well.
I watched the movie, 48 Hours," with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy up in my lonely room, while reading "The Three Pillars of Zen," by Kapleau. I read from the Bible also.
After the movie the news came on, as it is want to do. I learned that Inderia Gandhi's son, Raji, the leader of India since his mother's assassination, was himself assassinated by a radio controlled bomb hidden in some flowers. The explosion tore his head off and ripped his body to shreds.
I also found out that there were twice as many cases of AIDs reported last April than there were the same time a year ago.
So, I watched "Cheers," before going to sleep in the hopes that it would lift my spirits. I remember thinking, what do I do if they say, yes, I do have HIV. How will I take it?
Then I fell asleep.
May 22 Wednesday Day 253
Another fine Salvation Army day.
I kept busy for most of it. Ran some urine, picked the weekly dorm awards, switched some bunk assignments. Same old stuff.
We've got about a full house. 105 raging alcoholics and drug addicted individuals.
I moved Tom Rotsch from dorm 4, into Don Erwin's old room. Tom is now a part time night crawler type person. He's also taking a math class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings (I don't know why). The private room will give him a nice place to study.
I'm pleased to report that the Dennis Smith saga continues. After retrieving his car from impound he returned to our happy fold- as a client. We immediately slapped a 30 day restriction on his young ass to help him stay out of trouble. We'll try to make sure he doesn't hurt himself.
We talked a little, he and I. I and he. I and him. We discussed what a fun place county jail is. I did manage to wrangle out of him why the police had stopped him in the first place, allowing them to run a warrant check. Illegal U-turn. It just goes to show... it's one damn thing after another.
I gave Kevin Rockoff some advice on how to meet women while riding the bus.
"What you've got to understand, Kevin, "I explained, "is that girls crave affection and physical contact. They love to be held. Makes them feel secure. So, the next time you see a pretty lady on the bus, sit down next to her and put your hand right on her knee. I'm not kidding! They love that straight forward kind of action. Oh, they might not act like it at first. As a matter of fact they may seem a little hostile and say rude things to you. They may even try to hit you. Don't pay any attention to them. They're just being coy. Persevere! Keep that hand right on that knee, even slide it up a little maybe. Let them know you care."
I can't seem to get the subject of AIDs out of my mind. Tonight's AIDs Seminar didn't help matters much in that respect. My entire desk crew and I were scheduled to attend. I got out of it only because someone had to stay at the desk.
I know enough about AIDs.
I watched a "Cheers," rerun after I finished my shift. Good show. Great ensemble work. I remember when the show first started and was going to be canceled due to low ratings. Now it's number one in the nation.
I couldn't get to sleep. I tossed and turned until 3:30 or so.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
I zipped (zipped) out of bed at 5:30, shaved showered, and dressed for work. My eyes looked as if I'd been on a three week bender. The thought of my next 17 hours on duty did not thrill me. My bed screamed (screamed) for me to return and fill it up. I told it that I would be back later, then made my way to the desk.
Wolf Pandolfi's smiling face greeting me. I again felt an intense desire to disappear back into the cool sanctuary of my room.
I endured.
I got some writing done while everyone was at breakfast. After I made the morning run to the front office I told Kevin I would be in the sample room for a while, and to call me if anything came up.
There were no samples to run. I stretched out on the bed they have in there and slept for two hours.
I got up at 9:40, just as Ed Reitz walked in with some samples for the ADx machine.
We said hi to each other.
We also discussed various things (various). Drug testing, and why it seemed that half of the center was absent from last night's mid-week chapel service. We went down to my office and I showed him who exactly was absent, and why. He told me that the Major had inquired.
He left, I got myself a nice cup of coffee with a little powdered cream in it, sat back in the chair behind my desk, opened up the Business Section (everything you ever need to know about anything can be found in the Business Section) of the L.A. Times, took a deep breath, when I noticed that Ed had returned.
I hurriedly put the paper away, hid the coffee, sat up straight, and said, "Hi Ed," just as he entered my office.
"Rick, you got a minute?" he asked.Wolf Pandolfi's smiling face greeting me. I again felt an intense desire to disappear back into the cool sanctuary of my room.
I endured.
I got some writing done while everyone was at breakfast. After I made the morning run to the front office I told Kevin I would be in the sample room for a while, and to call me if anything came up.
There were no samples to run. I stretched out on the bed they have in there and slept for two hours.
I got up at 9:40, just as Ed Reitz walked in with some samples for the ADx machine.
We said hi to each other.
We also discussed various things (various). Drug testing, and why it seemed that half of the center was absent from last night's mid-week chapel service. We went down to my office and I showed him who exactly was absent, and why. He told me that the Major had inquired.
He left, I got myself a nice cup of coffee with a little powdered cream in it, sat back in the chair behind my desk, opened up the Business Section (everything you ever need to know about anything can be found in the Business Section) of the L.A. Times, took a deep breath, when I noticed that Ed had returned.
I hurriedly put the paper away, hid the coffee, sat up straight, and said, "Hi Ed," just as he entered my office.
"Anything for you, Ed. You know that." What an ass kissy kind of guy I am.
I hate it when they do that. I've been fired, threatened, cajoled, given good advice, given bad advice, been praised and condemned, when someone has said those words to me. I registered a sharp rise in my anxiety and stress levels.
"The Major and I have been talking," Ed told me as we sat facing each other. He went on to offer me a job, of all things. As Robert's assistant. I would start out at minimum wage, but would continue to live here free of charge.
This is exactly what I'd been waiting for, I guess. I wouldn't need to wait for Robert to retire. I could save almost all of my pay, and wouldn't have to worry about pesky little things like paying rent, or bills. I could in fact pay back my numerous creditors, and have my front tooth fixed. All for doing what I'm already doing for free.
Ed even mentioned the possibility of taking over from Robert, when and if he retires.
Patience! Patience my dear friends. All we need is a little patience in the world and things will come to us.
I get a nice bonus in this deal. I get to stay in the sober atmosphere of the residence for a while, and everyday I stay here adds another brick in the foundation of the rest of my life, whatever the hell that means.
And I get to continue to help others live without drugs and alcohol... live well.
I get to work in my chosen field. Or a field that chose me, whatever. Take that Maggie Harbottle!
I told Ed that I might be interested.
He told me that it might be a little while before I was actually on the payroll, budget being what it is. He would discuss it with the Major though, then he went back across the street.
Well, all of a sudden I felt really good. The work that I had done here had been recognized. I know, with all of my Zen training, that should be a petty consideration, but it felt good just the same. So good in fact, that I felt like chucking everything and going out to belt down a few to celebrate.
I decided that that course of action may prove to be counterproductive.
Indeed.
I floated (floated) through the rest of the day. There were some hassles, yes. I had to write up one guy for sitting on the toilet for the entire half hour the Substance Abuse Seminar was held, and I threatened to write up Wilford Maze, yet again, for ditching the A.A. panel. But these were minor irritations.
Reuben Perez came in to pick up his insulin. He now says he's sorry that he left. There was nothing I could do for him except give him permission to get something to eat from the canteen. I felt bad for him.
Dennis Smith came back alive from a court appearance.
Scott Feeney told me that he hated this place.
And Russell Burke said "Hi," to me... several times.
Everything's normal.
May 24 Friday Day 255
I woke promptly at 9:00AM. I don't know why, but I did it promptly.
After lunch (baked fish), I wrote until 1:00, and then went to the park to lay out in the sun. I met Ray Valverde there, a former resident, one I had kicked out for using drugs. He had just returned from Las Vegas, and was on his way to Santa Barbara simply because he had never been there. He hadn't had a chance to wear out the local population yet, he told me. He asked me for a smoke, I gave him one, shook his hand, and wished him well.
When I returned to the residence, I showered off the sweat from my rugged body, dressed, then went to work.
After I did all of the stuff I normally do on Friday nights, I copied down some information concerning the hallucinogen, LSD, a drug I first used as a teenager, and intermittently up till about three years ago. Back in grade school I used to save the lunch money my mother gave to me so I could buy a tab (tablet, or dose) of Orange Sunshine, in anticipation of dropping it (consuming it) on Friday nights while watching horror movies on late night T.V. (is it any surprise that I've turned out the way I have?). At the time it was quite popular among young people, especially the ones I hung out with. Mescaline as well. They both gave me a strange taste in the back of my mouth, as if my saliva glands were stuck in the "on" position, but not producing any saliva. At times it gave me a feeling of pending excitement, paranoia, elation, and at times fright, due to a sense of loss of control. I used to drink a lot of beer while tripping on acid. Alcohol seemed to moderate, or mellow the overall effect.
After an extensive introduction to LSD, I tapered off its use very quickly, to maybe once or twice a year. While in Boot Camp, I dropped some blotter acid (the liquid drug permeated in a piece of paper), but the surroundings were not conducive to enjoying the experience, although it allowed me to run very fast for a long period of time, which was helpful.
Because of the sense of control loss (once you've swallowed the drug you're on it for the next 4 or 5 hours whether you like it or not), I have never liked to use it while around a whole bunch of people. Another reason for this is that while on it one tends to giggle incessantly, which can be rather annoying (not to say notable) within a crowd.
The last time I used the drug was with Jan. She took some too. We watched the movie "Space Camp," while giggling at each other all night. That time was actually very enjoyable. I felt a little closer to her afterwards, as if we had shared a secret experience only the two of us would ever appreciate.
The drug is not addictive. It's too unpredictable to be a good addictive drug. I do not crave it, or miss its effects. It was a diversion for me, nothing more. I never had what is known as a "bad trip" (horrifying hallucinatory experience), but do on occasion see herds of 9 foot tall, purple and yellow, Woody Allens on the horizon.
May 26 Sunday Day 257
Someone stole the V.C.R.!
Last night at V.C.R. movie time (7:00PM), I entered the small T.V. room and opened the box that housed our beloved V.C.R. machine, and low and behold, it had vanished. Someone had simply pulled it out of the open back end of the locked box and absconded with it. It must have happened the night before after my shift, while Arthur Svensk was on the night watch. Nothing against poor Art, but that's really the only time someone could have taken it without being seen. What they did with it after they took it is anybody's guess. Mr. Vasquez, upon being informed of the theft, wanted to do a locker search of the whole building, and then thought better of it. It probably wasn't here anymore.
Fortunately we have an unending supply of V.C.R.s.
I don't believe Robert even mentioned it to the Major this morning. He had other problems. Red Shield 21's engine had died, and the large truck was stuck outside of the residence in the middle of the street. And our elevator was acting silly. It wouldn't go up or down.
The Major had to hobble up the two flights of stairs to chapel.
Mr. Vasquez had calmed down by the time chapel had ended. He gave me and Ron Collins a ride into South Pasadena, to the American Legion A.A. meeting, after dropping Dennis Smith off the Corps service. We even drove by Jill's house, and were hoping to stop in for tea and biscuits, but we didn't have her exact address and couldn't find her car.
Damn.
Maybe some other time.
The A.A. meeting was very nice. Ron had brought a brass bell he found in the warehouse which he gave to the meeting's secretary, to replace the little tinkler they had been using to bring the meeting to order. The bell Ron gave them could actually be heard above the noisy din. I won't say the Ron had pilfered the bell. I won't say that. Let's just say it was an unofficial gift from the Salvation Army to the folks of Alcoholics Anonymous in South Pasadena. A gift that the Army would have been proud and pleased to have given, I'm sure, if it had known anything about it.
The lady speaking today, though she had fifteen years of sobriety, was obviously very nervous, and spoke in an halting, disjointed manner. I was amazed she made it through the whole 45 minutes of speaking time. The house listened politely, and gave her a good round of applause when she finished.
It must be very hard to speak like that, telling your life story to a room filled with people, most of us alcoholics and drug addicts not being very proud of our past. However, this divulgence helps us, cleanses us, lets us shed our pretenses for a while, reminds us of how bad it was when we drank and used, reminds us of where we came from.
It being very easy to forget.
And it helps those who listen. It shows newcomers that they are not alone. That they are not the only ones whose lives have been mucked up by drugs and booze. It shows them that it is possible to end the compulsive madness. That one can live a somewhat normal and fulfilling life without having to take anything to ease the pain, or accentuate the joy.
For those who've been around a while it reminds them of why they quit, that they still face many problems and obstacles, that they can get through them, for better or worse, without relying on chemicals, for it has been said, "There is no problem that drugs and alcohol will not make worse."
Skip, Ron, and I walked north on Fair Oaks after the meeting. Skip is now working part time as a telemarketing person. He tries to sell newspapers and magazines over the phone to helpless, unsuspecting individuals.
I went to the park and sat out in the sun for an hour (30 minutes on each side), while listening to classic rock and roll. As I laid on my stomach the shade from a nearby palm tree crept over my back, unbeknownst to me. Now the back of my legs are a shade darker than the rest of me. I looked like a half painted fence post.
I relaxed in my room for the rest of the evening. I read while watching a "Star Trek, the Next Generation," rerun. And a movie. "Plymouth," about a town that migrates to the moon after their home was overrun by toxic gases.
That people actually get paid for thinking up and writing these stories amazes me.
TV amazes me.
I'm amazed.
It lets me know in no uncertain terms that immaturity, greed, and poor judgment, is rampant throughout the world (foreign television being even sillier than our own). Which is good for me. It lets me know that I'm in tune with society.
Of course television is only one of many indications of America's immaturity. Our sense of values, materialism, beer commercials, take our political process... please.
I finished the King book, "The Eyes of the Dragon." A simple tale of delayed justice. I then went to sleep. I had to rest up for my big day of doing absolutely nothing tomorrow.
May 27 Monday Day 258
Memorial Day! Or at least the day we're celebrating it. The real Memorial Day is next Thursday, the 30th.
I celebrated by sleeping in until 1:00. I had gotten up earlier, at about 9:00, and used the restroom. I won't go into it, except to say it soon got too crowded in there with all of the janitors and all, so I went back to bed.
When I did get out of bed, and dressed, I went downstairs and partook of the holiday buffet. The buffet was set out from noon until 4:00, and the guys could come at their leisure to help themselves. Hardly anyone was around though. We had about twenty guys out on pass. The place looked empty. I helped myself to a hefty ham and turkey sandwich, with some barbecue chicken to round out the meal. I enjoyed the food and the quiet atmosphere. I sat around, talking to some of the cooks, and Ed McNicols and Clarence Bliss.
I wrote in the lobby until holiday bingo time.
I lost horribly.
I wrote some afterward. I also had a nice grilled cheese sandwich from the canteen. Then up to my lonely room to watch a movie, "Dawn's Early Light." Another World War III scenario, this time telling how a nuclear conflict could occur even after the apparent progress that's been made thawing our relationship with the Soviet Union.
Tell me, with all the political and economic upheaval in the U.S.S.R. today, do you feel the threat of nuclear war has lessened?
I don't feel very reassured myself. The thought of the Soviets losing control of their own weapons scares the hell out of me, I don't mind saying.
I talked to Robert after the movie, to find out if anything special was up for tomorrow. There wasn't.
I returned to my room, read some, then went to bed. It had been a no stress, relaxing day. I had enjoyed it.
I dreamt that I was in Hong Kong, looking at all of the laundry fluttering from the windows of skyscrapers, and noticing in the distance, Chinese I.C.B.M.s being launched from the mainland, their destination unknown.
May 28 Tuesday Day 259
A rather murky day here in Pasadena.
I started out with a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, waffles, milk and coffee (heart attack express). After which I ran about eight million urine samples, from all of the guys who had been out on pass over the weekend.
One fellow had a cocaine metabolite level about 100 times higher than it should have been had he been abstinent as long as he should have been for as long as he's been here. That lead me to strongly suspect... strongly suspect, that this individual may have indulged while away on pass. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) for him- I have no real way to prove it as he appears to be one of the few who got by us, not giving an initial urine sample when he entered the center, so I have no reference from which to kick his ass out of here.
Oh well, he's not hurting me if he's using, and he's earned my special attention for the near future.
I wrote after lunch. It was more difficult than usual to do so today, as Robert annoyingly kept popping up every now and then, and he is not the type of person who would appreciate my taking company time for personal endeavors (the whole idea of me writing this book seems to make him a bit skittish. On one hand he'll tell me I can use his real name, while in the same breath stating he'll sue me for every penny I've got). He doesn't like it too much when us desk people read, smoke, or drink beverages while on duty. If he were totally serious though, we'd stop doing those things. But he's not, and we don't. Anytime a parrot, or a V.C.R. is stolen though-- boy do we hear it. "I don't want to see anymore newspapers, books, crossword puzzles, or anything behind the desk! We are here to observe, gentlemen, not keep up with current events!"
Every time I forget, and leave an empty coffee cup behind in the office, he'll confront me.
"Why sir," I tell him, "I have no idea how that got there!" I'll look at Kevin, and ask, "Who keeps putting these half empty, lukewarm, cups of coffee in here Rockoff?" It goes on and on.
Today he got me good. I had placed a full cup of steaming hot coffee on top of the file cabinet in the office, behind the briefcase we use to take the paperwork across the street. This is a tried and true hiding place. The cup is difficult to see unless one is consciously looking for it. Unfortunately, Robert has found many of my cups there before.
Two minutes after I placed the cup there, Robert came waltzing into the office, looked around nervously (not appearing to focus on anything in particular), and using his right hand gave a single little push to the briefcase, a very slight, jerky movement- he looked at me, then blazed out, disappearing into the building's confines. Hot coffee ran down the sides of the cabinet.
Did he in fact know that the full cup of coffee was there? Was he instinctively (and unconsciously) making a statement defending the house rules?
We probably will never know.
At 5:30 I came down to the lobby to write some more. To write, as it happens, the very words you're reading right now. By some strange coincidence, Jill was soon scheduled to arrive. It had been two weeks now since we had seen each other, so I thought I'd give her a mild break.
She arrived promptly 12 minutes late, in her usual Jill fashion. Her cool, almost regal beauty permeated the lobby as she glided in the front entrance. The air rushed out of my lungs as my gaze fell upon her. The blood rushed to my head. I felt faint.
I have to hand it to her. She did a smash up job of acting as is she were totally ignorant of my presence and my adoring existence. She made not noticing me seem like the easiest thing in the world. I knew though that she was seething inside with pent up, frustration and turmoil. I could tell this from the indistinct color of her eyes.
I said nothing. No mere words could express my feelings. I resigned myself to a grilled egg and cheese sandwich in the canteen. Jill went to her group, and that is the last we'll see of each other for another week. Each of us not daring to let our external facade slip for an instant, fearing the shear magnitude of our mutual desire.
I went upstairs and strove for sleep. It did not come however. My heart was beating too wildly. Four hours later it returned to its normal rhythm, and I was allowed once more to escape into dreams.
May 29 Wednesday Day 260
I forgot to set my alarm clock last night, and Mr. Pandolfi stubbornly refused to make sure I was awake ("He's not on the wake up list, I'm not waking him up!"), so I slept until 6:39. By the time I got to the desk it was 7:00, an hour late for work. No big deal, but it didn't help my employment fantasies any ("We were gonna give ya the job, but anybody who shows up an hour late for work, well, we better think on it.")
A rather smooth day, as far as all day work days go. Things began to pick up in the evening.
Birthday dinner night! Scott Feeney, Clyde Foster, and Carl Boggus had dinner with Major and Mrs. Johnson, receiving some nice socks and canteen cards as presents.
Chapel went well, Ron Collins being too sick to sing.
I was forced to attend the damn AIDs seminar at 6:30. No viable way to avoid it this time. Most of the old timers were also required to go, including Mr. Vasquez, Frank Corona, Jack DeWilde, Clarence Bliss, and Russell Burke, all likely HIV carriers. For the most part it was extremely depressing for me. I had seen the lead in the video they showed before, from the Canoga Park A.R.C., and the guy giving the presentation resembled "Married with Children's" Bud Bundy, with a spike haircut on drugs. He did offer one piece of information I had not heard before. No one who had been diagnosed with HIV in 1977, when the virus was first discovered, has survived to this day.
Great.
I have decided to quit smoking once and for all... on June 7th, if the results of my HIV antibody test are negative. I don't know what I'll do otherwise. I can't think about that now.
Ed Reitz told me I'd get on the payroll after the center got its books balanced a little. By July 1st at the latest. One more month at 19 bucks and a canteen card.
I told Ed that was good news.
I'm sorry to report that one of our cooks, Charles Wittworth, got a little careless and was seen drinking up all of our orange juice. He was using it as a chaser for his vodka. Robert tested him after dinner. 0.13.
I wish him well.
Kathy came in to counsel Ron Collins and a couple of other guys. She seems to be doing very well. Her clients are very impressed with her.
I've begun to read another collection of Clive Barker horror stories to help cheer me up. The collection is entitled, "In the Flesh."A rather smooth day, as far as all day work days go. Things began to pick up in the evening.
Birthday dinner night! Scott Feeney, Clyde Foster, and Carl Boggus had dinner with Major and Mrs. Johnson, receiving some nice socks and canteen cards as presents.
Chapel went well, Ron Collins being too sick to sing.
I was forced to attend the damn AIDs seminar at 6:30. No viable way to avoid it this time. Most of the old timers were also required to go, including Mr. Vasquez, Frank Corona, Jack DeWilde, Clarence Bliss, and Russell Burke, all likely HIV carriers. For the most part it was extremely depressing for me. I had seen the lead in the video they showed before, from the Canoga Park A.R.C., and the guy giving the presentation resembled "Married with Children's" Bud Bundy, with a spike haircut on drugs. He did offer one piece of information I had not heard before. No one who had been diagnosed with HIV in 1977, when the virus was first discovered, has survived to this day.
Great.
I have decided to quit smoking once and for all... on June 7th, if the results of my HIV antibody test are negative. I don't know what I'll do otherwise. I can't think about that now.
Ed Reitz told me I'd get on the payroll after the center got its books balanced a little. By July 1st at the latest. One more month at 19 bucks and a canteen card.
I told Ed that was good news.
I'm sorry to report that one of our cooks, Charles Wittworth, got a little careless and was seen drinking up all of our orange juice. He was using it as a chaser for his vodka. Robert tested him after dinner. 0.13.
I wish him well.
Kathy came in to counsel Ron Collins and a couple of other guys. She seems to be doing very well. Her clients are very impressed with her.
And guess what my thoughts kept returning to as I tried to sleep tonight. Viruses, HIV, positive tests. Little protein packets filled with self replicating nucleic acid. A definition of life that kills.
Paradoxically, I slept well. I dreamt of making love with Nanette Fabray.
May 30 Thursday Day 261
I made it to work on time this morning. I wish I hadn't.
Everybody had a complaint today. Loud radios in the dorms and the bathrooms. Open windows chilling everybody out. Boisterous behavior. On and on.
I wrote in the morning. I then went to the sample room to run some sample, but the machine was acting silly again. It would not allow me to run a photo check on it, and I wanted to run one real bad. I called Abbott customer service in Dallas, and told them of my problem. A very cheerful young lady (she sounded young) assured me she would have a technical representative get in contact with me, ASAP. Sure enough, one of the frisky little devils was here by lunchtime. I escorted him to the sample room and left him to his work.
He spent the rest of the afternoon here, not leaving until after dinner. He left me a note telling me he'd be back tomorrow. Apparently we needed a new power supply.
A typical Thursday evening. I had to sit across the two exits of the small TV rooms while the panel meetings were in progress. This was necessary to motivate those who were required to attend to actually stay inside that room. Some displayed a tendency to sort of seep out once in a while. Like a prairie dog sniffing the air above it's den to see if the coast was clear, occasionally the TV room door would open, and a face would peek out to judge if an easy escape could be made. I gently urged these individuals back inside where it was better for them to be.
The pretty lady who caused the mass defection from the A.A. panel to the C.A. panel a few months ago, returned tonight. My attendance sheet reported a 24% increase in the number of cocaine addicts from the week before.
I passed the rest of my shift doing paperwork, counting the cash and change, and reading the Clive Barker book. These are the best of his stories I've yet come across.
Later, as I was lying in my bed trying to get to sleep, my thoughts returned to the possibility of being infected with HIV. I thought about having it, and how I would live with it. I thought about all of the thousands who live each day with the knowledge that they have an incurable, and possible fatal illness.
What do they do? How do they cope? What reasonable alternative do they have to do anything but cope? What keeps them going?
Hope?
Maybe.
Maybe I'll have the opportunity to find out.
May 31 Friday Day 262
I was having a conversation with Jill, somewhere near the immaculate houses and opulent apartment buildings of her neighborhood. It was a beautiful and sunny, Southern California day. We exchanged personal stories and anecdotes, confidences. We laughed.
Then I woke up.
Although the dream was very pleasant, it left me with a gnawing, empty feeling.
I had slept late. Pretty tired I guess. I had wanted to take a nap yesterday for an hour or two, but the ADx repairmen had been in the sample room all afternoon, and that's where I like to snooze.
By the time I showered and dressed I only had an hour before my shift began. I thought about what my next move should be for a moment and decided my body required a donut. I satisfied that requirement, then took a walk to the store to get some smokes.
The stress was heavy as I began my shift. Rico Montgomery was upset with me for putting him on the Saturday work list for missing devotions last Tuesday.
"But I was there, Rick! I sat next to Vernon Smith, and ... what's that brother's name?... uh I forget, but they both saw me sitting there!"
"No one else saw you Rico."
"Man, I was there I tell you. That light skinned brother was doing it, and they all said the Lord's Prayer at the end."
"Rico, I said, "anyone in the building could have heard a hundred guys saying the Lord's Prayer, and there's no big trick in finding out who led it."
"Man I was there!"
"Rico, your own boss, Joe Brown, was the one that gave you up. I wouldn't have known about it if he hadn't told me. Are you saying he deliberately lied to me?"
"No man! He just didn't see me. I was there though."
"You were there... were you late, maybe?"
"Uh, yeah. I was a little late. But I was there."
"Okay. You're on the Saturday work list for being late for devotions!"
"Oh man! That's some chicken shit, petty crap, man." On and on, eventually walking away. He would continue to cry about it until about 6:30, when Reuben Smith came back from an all day trip to Burbank.
He came in looking all innocent, and everything, something that is exceptionally hard for Reuben to do. Mr. Vasquez was telling him about a basketball game to be played that night, while I gave him the mandatory breath test. He registered. Robert could tell something was up by the look on my face.
"What? What?" Robert said. He took the breath-a-lizer from me, reset it, and had Reuben blow again.
"I haven't had nothing," Reuben kept repeating.
Robert looked at the device a long time, while Reuben denied and fidgeted. Finally, saying nothing, he held it out so Reuben could see the .06 reading.
Reuben continued, "No, no, I didn't have anything."
Robert had him blow one more time. "I can smell it from here, Reuben," he told him. After the third positive reading, Robert directed him to get what he needed from his locker and depart.
Still denying, Reuben walked away, almost in tears.
Rico came down a short while later and asked me if I could give Reuben another chance at the breath-a-lizer. He said Reuben had drank a few Near Beers, and hadn't realized they would register. I told him that it wouldn't do any good to test him again. Reuben had been drinking something with alcohol in it and would have to leave.
Reuben made some phone calls, and left about a half an hour later.
Maybe, if he returns Monday morning, early Monday morning, sober, they'll let him back in. Him being the Major's waiter (Blue Room Smack), and all. They let Schimmele back in. If they let Schimmele back in they'll let anybody back in.
Maybe this place isn't helping Reuben anymore. Maybe he needs to move on. He's pretty much exhausted all of the possibilities for growth around here.
Since the ADx machine was now working I spent most of the night running samples.
After my shift I retired to my room and watched, "Friday Night Videos," on T.V. A music video show I hardly ever watch. A rap video was on. The performer, in my opinion, had about as much talent as a snail dipped in salt, which he slightly resembled. The music was uninspired mechanics.
I idly wondered where they had found so many beautiful girls to dance around like that. Is there a company where you can call up for some gorgeous dancing girls? I suppose there must be.
Then I went to sleep.
June 1 Saturday Day 263
"OH, WE WANT THE BUMP... GOTTA HAVE THE BUMP... OH WE WANT THE BUMP... GOTTA HAVE THE BUMP..."
There I was, dancing in unison with four scantily clad lovely blonde ladies, with vacuous, stupid smiles plastered onto their pretty faces. We all move to a brutal rhythm, in myriad contorted stances, jumping about, twirling around, always just in sink.
"OH WE WANT THE BUMP... GOTTA HAVE THE BUMP... OH WE---"
I woke up. Thanked the Lord it was only a dream, then went about my business.
Which was to go to the store for cigarettes. I met Eddie Gillespie on the way back.
"Hi Eddie," I said by way of greeting.
"Oh, hi Rick."
"How ya doing?"
"Pretty good for a derelict."
He looked good. Healthy and clean. He was on his way to Union Station. We talked briefly about Eddie Acuna and Hobart Rodgers, who had left the Canoga Park A.R.C. and have been hanging around the residence, bumming money from whom ever they could. I had given them a bag lunch each in return for a promise they would come in the next day and talk to Clarence Orion. They did come back the next morning, but couldn't pass the breath test. They returned a second time yesterday and failed again. By that time, tired of game playing, Clarence told them that if they didn't pass the test come Monday they needed return, ever.
I told Gillespie about my new job opportunity. He was very happy for me. He said he might stop by if he could find the time. I'd look forward to it, I said.
June 2 Sunday Day 264
I woke upon a boat headed for Africa with Humphrey Bogart, Gina Lolabrigeda, Robert Morley, Peter Lorrie, and other assorted unsavory characters, in "Beat the Devil." Not a bad place to wake up actually, except it was thought the boat was sinking.
A beautiful day here in Pasadena. Clear and warm. A slight breeze brought relief from the Sun's steady downpour.
After chapel I changed into casual clothes in anticipation of attending the A.A. meeting at the American Legion. But when I entered the lobby Ron Collins told me that he would not be going today. He wanted to watch the first game of the NBA playoffs, between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Chicago Bulls. I briefly debated whether to carry on and go by myself, or go back upstairs to my nice cozy bed, remembering that I had only gotten about two hours of sleep the night before. I decided not to go, and at the same time make Ron feel as guilty as possible.
"No! I'm not going either. It just wouldn't be the same without you there," I told him.
"Oh, shut up, you sludge. Now you're making me feel guilty."
It's so easy.
"And poor Skip will be by himself," I continued. "He'll probably think we both relapsed and are now living in the bushes with Gillespie, Acuna, and Rodgers... underneath a freeway overpass somewhere, dirty, destitute, and helpless. He'll probably relapse..."
"Will you stop it!"
We decided to go to the mall for coffee. Robert gave us a ride and dropped us off after giving Dennis Smith a ride to the Corps.
Walking through the mall early on a Sunday morning reminded me of a few months back when I inadvertently discovered the secret of feminine allure. That knowledge has been a terrible burden, let me tell you. The strain is overpowering at times.
We passed a Zales jewelry outlet, which reminded me of how much money I owed them. In turn, that reminded me of how much money I owe everybody.
I started to get a little depressed at this point.
But only briefly. Alcoholics Anonymous tells us we must not shirk our debts, and I have no intention of shirking mine. That money will have to be paid back, and like everything else in my new life it will be one day at a time, one dollar at a time, until the debt is erased and I am free of that particular piece of wreckage from my past.
Passing Zales also made me think of Jan. The reason I owed Zales money was because I had bought an engagement ring for Jan there. A ring that Jan had wanted for years before I finally got around to buying it. Jan left me a couple of weeks after I gave it to her.
But I don't blame her for leaving.
Oh well, I survived, and I'm not doing too badly now.
I hope she's doing well, everything considered. I really do. She was never happy living with me, really. I don't see how anybody could have been. I was never happy ("happy," what a word!) living with myself. I hope she has found, is ready to seek, whatever it is she was looking for.
Ron and I walked past the pet shop. This reminded me of Spanky and Darla, Jan's two orange and white tabby cats that I lived with for five years, and loved. I had cared for them when they were sick, gave them their shots, fed them, played with them. Of course Jan took them when she left. It was like taking away my children.
I also thought about my black and white kitten, Pita (short for Pain In The Ass), which I had to abandon upon entering a hospital treatment program for alcoholism.
All this remembering was getting more and more depressing.
I played with the cute little kittens in their cages inside the pet shop. Their eyes were wide and quick, full of wonder, chasing anything that even looked like it might make a move. I wanted to take one home with me... I'd have to get a home first though.
I saw some nice birds there as well. I left the shop determined to renew the campaign for a new residence bird.
We had some coffee, Ron and I. We drank it at a table near a whole bunch of other tables, in the middle of a whole bunch of small restaurants, or shops that sold food and beverages... like coffee. We watched other people walking around while we drank it. We watched other people drinking coffee too.
After that I insisted we check out the Walden book store. Everything was out of my price range. Bubble gum is outside of my price range.
After we left the mall Ron and I went our separate ways. I went to the park to lay out in the sun while listening to classic rock and roll, and sweating. I find it a little embarrassing when so many teenage girls stop to ogle and sigh as the gaze upon my youthful, athletic type hard-body.
I got back to the residence just in time to witness the Lakers squeak by the Bulls, 93 to 91, winning the first game of the series. Rico Montgomery, coming from the Chicago area, was very saddened, walking around the building for the rest of the day in what some thought to be a catatonic daze. He muttered listlessly to himself, "The Lakers are sooooo lucky... sooooo lucky..."
I basically kicked back in my room for the rest of the day, reading and watching television. I read a chapter from Nan Robertson's "Getting Better," entitled, "The God Part," which helped me to understand some of the spiritual aspects of A.A.
And I watched the Tony Awards. Neil Simon wins again.
Sleep eventually overtook me. I dreamed of yellow cats and blue canaries.
June 3 Monday Day 265
I subbed for Robert this morning. He needed to go to the VA clinic to have his blood sugar checked. I guess they only check blood sugar on Mondays.
I was happy to get up and do it. Otherwise I might have been in danger of wasting the whole of this lovely morning doing something decidedly innocuous, like sleeping. Now I had the opportunity to get some early morning writing accomplished. Imagine my excitement.
Besides, I would be owing Robert a little time as he was relieving me an hour early tomorrow afternoon so I could attend the college orientation class at P.C.C.
I felt fine today. Happy to be alive. I find it hard to believe that I'm 35 years old, because I sure don't feel 35 (decrepit). I feel like I'm about 19 (jubilant and stupid). They say that emotional development ceases after heavy drinking begins. I'm all for that. And it would be typical of my luck be a 19 year old stuck in a 35 year old body... even though that 35 year old body is extremely sleek and slim, and adored by all (hallucination).
Even though I was feeling good and all, about three people came up to me saying I looked sick. Even dead.
Jealousy.
Reuben Smith came back this morning. For awhile there it didn't seem like they were going to let him back in before completing a 30 day suspension. But he got into high "kiss ass" mode... and being the Major's pet... they re-admitted him.
I'm glad he's not on the streets, but I'm not sure the Major did him a favor. We shall see.
Reuben hasn't said a word to me. I think he may be miffed.
Robert returned shortly after lunch. I had already changed clothes, so I immediately took off for the park. Another hour of sunshine and classic rock and roll for me, with a little Dostoevsky thrown in for good measure.
I laid down on my bed upon returning and fell into a soft slumber. As luck would again have it, I woke just in time for dinner.
Like yesterday, I read and watched television for the rest of the evening. An obscure Robert DeNiro movie was on, "Jackknife."
After watching a rerun of "Cheers," I vigorously switched to channel 7, to catch "Nightline." Ted Koppel was fucking off somewhere, so Barbara Walters hosted tonight. The topics: how big business had taken over the publishing industry; the large amount of "tell all" garbage books coming out these days, and the emphasis within the industry toward promotion and marketing rather than on editorial quality.
Considering the part literature plays in our society and cultural heritage, this story was a little disconcerting.I was happy to get up and do it. Otherwise I might have been in danger of wasting the whole of this lovely morning doing something decidedly innocuous, like sleeping. Now I had the opportunity to get some early morning writing accomplished. Imagine my excitement.
Besides, I would be owing Robert a little time as he was relieving me an hour early tomorrow afternoon so I could attend the college orientation class at P.C.C.
I felt fine today. Happy to be alive. I find it hard to believe that I'm 35 years old, because I sure don't feel 35 (decrepit). I feel like I'm about 19 (jubilant and stupid). They say that emotional development ceases after heavy drinking begins. I'm all for that. And it would be typical of my luck be a 19 year old stuck in a 35 year old body... even though that 35 year old body is extremely sleek and slim, and adored by all (hallucination).
Even though I was feeling good and all, about three people came up to me saying I looked sick. Even dead.
Jealousy.
Reuben Smith came back this morning. For awhile there it didn't seem like they were going to let him back in before completing a 30 day suspension. But he got into high "kiss ass" mode... and being the Major's pet... they re-admitted him.
I'm glad he's not on the streets, but I'm not sure the Major did him a favor. We shall see.
Reuben hasn't said a word to me. I think he may be miffed.
Robert returned shortly after lunch. I had already changed clothes, so I immediately took off for the park. Another hour of sunshine and classic rock and roll for me, with a little Dostoevsky thrown in for good measure.
I laid down on my bed upon returning and fell into a soft slumber. As luck would again have it, I woke just in time for dinner.
Like yesterday, I read and watched television for the rest of the evening. An obscure Robert DeNiro movie was on, "Jackknife."
After watching a rerun of "Cheers," I vigorously switched to channel 7, to catch "Nightline." Ted Koppel was fucking off somewhere, so Barbara Walters hosted tonight. The topics: how big business had taken over the publishing industry; the large amount of "tell all" garbage books coming out these days, and the emphasis within the industry toward promotion and marketing rather than on editorial quality.
The last question Barbara (I'm in love with Barbara) asked was, how do first time authors go about getting their books published?
The CEO of Putnam replied, "Just send it to a literary agent, or a publisher."
Next a literary agent said, "I never read unsolicited manuscripts."
Very disconcerting.
Shirley McLaine had the best advice. "Get a good editor."
June 4 Tuesday Day 266
A very stressful day.
Stress, stress, stress.
It began at lunch. I was sitting with Harold Eversley and Hugh Hogle, munching on some taquitos, and minding my own business, when the new store janitor came in a little late to be served early chow. Harold explained to him (maybe a little to forcefully due to exasperation) that he would not be served until the regular lunch began, in about ten minutes, and he would have to wait in line like everyone else. This guy, who was normally very quiet and subdued, came up to the table we were sitting at and started arguing with Harold. He hadn't liked the way Harold had talked to him. As they got more and more into it, the volume got louder and louder. I tried to break it up to no avail. Finally the guy left the dinning room and things calmed down a bit. The janitor found Ed Reitz and told him he was going to leave the center. Ed said, okay, and the guy went up to his room, presumably to get his possessions. At this time the Cisco truck parked in front with a load of supplies for the kitchen. Harold was walking in with an arm load when the janitor dude came back from upstairs. Harold saw him and stopped, told him he was sorry for what happened, and held out his hand to shake. Right in front of Major Foote, Clarence Orion, Maggie Harbottle, me and about twenty beneficiaries, the guy took a swing at Harold, grazing his forehead. Harold fell back, saying, "Did you see that! Did you see that! I want this guy arrested!" A bunch of the residents moved in to separate the two. Harold went into the kitchen, the janitor went outside, I went downstairs with the man from Water and Power to read the meter, and Robert Vasquez came down to eat lunch.
As I returned to the desk, the janitor came back in, looked at me and told me it was my fault too, that I had let it happen, and began to cus me out. I told him in a calm, clear, and loud voice, that he had the whole thing all wrong, and the best thing for him to do was to just leave. That of course infuriated him to no end, and it was at this juncture that he threatened me with bodily harm. This guy was pretty big, and awfully mad, but I was not particularly intimidated (not with the desk between us), which further infuriated him. He made a move as to come behind the desk and reduce me to a red and pulpy mass, at which time (I'm very happy to report) about 5 guys who had been sitting in the lobby taking this all in, moved in on him. The janitor thought better of beating me up, but continued to throw verbal abuse in my direction.
Mr Vasquez sat calmly in the dinning room, eating his taquitos, taking his time, at peace with himself and the world.
Meanwhile: "I'LL GET YOU! I'LL GET YOU! YOU WON'T SEE IT COMING! I'M NOT GONNA TELL YOU WHAT I'M GONNA DO! ONE DAY THOUGH MAN, ONE DAY!"
By this time I told Rockoff to call the police. I figured they were the only ones who could end this once and for all.
The janitor went back across the street to talk to Ed again. The police came and talked to the janitor. They made it clear to him that he was not to return to the residence.
Mr. Vasquez finished his meal and came to relieve me. "What's up?" he asked.
I waited for my counselor, Richard, to finish with his last client of the day so he could give me a ride to P.C.C. I did not feel like meeting this janitor person at any secluded bus stop. Not if I could easily avoid it.
I went to the college bookstore a purchased a schedule of the Fall classes. Then went to the counseling office to find out my score on the English placement exam I had taken a few weeks ago. It was 70. I guess that means (who can ever know for sure?) that I got 70 out of the 82 or 88 questions right (I can't remember which). Anyway, I was told that the score was high enough to allow me to enroll directly into English 101, college level English. A degree requirement.
Goody.
I met an acquaintance of mine at the orientation class. A heavy set guy, by the name of John. We went through the Vista Recovery Center's program together, an outpatient clinic, more than a year and a half ago. He had over two years sobriety. He worked for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory here in Pasadena, but lived in the San Fernando Valley.
It was good to see him, although slightly awkward.
We couldn't come up with many things to say to each other.
The two of us spent about 40 minutes being orientated along with 60 other would be students. We parted afterwards, wishing each other well.
I returned to the counseling building and made an appointment so be counseled on June 27th at noon thirty. I made it back to the residence in time for dinner.
Roger Collins accosted me as I was leaving the dinning room. He told me Robert had relieved him of his duties at the canteen. He wanted to bitch to me about it, but I was in no mood to listen to his crap, and just walked away.
I went to the lobby and wrote all of this down. I'm writing right now in fact. Jill is in the counseling room, looking beautiful as always. I have no time for her tonight though. In a few minutes I'm going to get my hair cut by Jeff Purcell. This no doubt will add to my overall stress level. Maybe to the max.
After that I plan on going to my room to relax. I'll probably be successful at it. I don't usually have trouble relaxing. I'll probably read or something. Watch a little TV.
Tomorrow I'll find out what the rest of my life is going to be like. Or at least one aspect of it.
Oh, the drama.
June 5th Wednesday Day 267
The day began just like any other, although I woke to classic rock and roll from my new alarm clock radio, rather than the television. The time was 5:03. I got out of bed promptly at 5:40. At the desk by 6:00.
Mr. Vasquez was up and about this morning, making a run to Smart and Final. He would normally do this on Friday, but we were expecting a visit from an unknown number of cadets from Territorial Headquarters tomorrow, some sort of seminar on how an A.R.C. operates, and we wished to make sure there were plenty of snacks on hand. Salvation Army cadets are known for their snacking vagaries.
And plumpishness. Robert made an announcement at devotions before he left. Today, finally, after a year's delay, the new towel policy would be put into effect. Robert was anticipating Colonel Allen accompanying the cadets, and today was ripe for implementing the Colonel's edict. My day went smoothly. Quite a contrast from yesterday. I spent most of it in the sample room, sampling. I tried not to think too much about what the afternoon had in store for me.
I talked to my counselor, Richard, probably for the last time. He feels it is time for him to find gainful employment, and will cease to be a volunteer counselor here. He had hinted, well, he down right asked Ed Reitz for a job as a counselor, but you know how that goes. Why would the Salvation Army hire somebody, and feel obligated to pay them actual money, when they can always find someone to do the same job for free? The only reason the Army's considering hiring me is that they're getting nervous with Mr. Vasquez getting so close to retirement, and they can't find someone dumb enough to do this job for nothing.
Not even me.
In our session Richard outlined his whole philosophy regarding chemical dependency counseling and recovery, which is very higher power orientated. He feels that his technique "really works," and should be taught in counseling schools. He may be right, who knows. I tend to believe that his approach, along with almost every other therapeutic tactic I've come across concerning addiction, will only work with some individuals... some of the time. Having a power greater than yourself working for you is fine. One of course, first needs to believe in a higher power, that the higher power can change your life for the better, and then be willing to let it.
Before all of that we need to want to get better. Really want it.
Richard told me that the reason he was voicing his beliefs on this last day was so they would not be forgotten incase he suddenly passed away from old age, or something. I told him he should write a book.
"When my higher power lets me know that's what I should do, then I'll do it."
"Maybe," I told him, "I'm unknowingly acting as the agent for your higher power, and through me, it's letting you know what you should do."
He smiled, and said, "Yes, you could be right. Maybe I should put it on paper."
I couldn't help but noticing the clock this afternoon. The time was approaching when I would leave for the Jackie Robinson Health Center to receive the results of my H.I.V. test. To say that I was a little bit apprehensive about going there would be an extreme understatement. I tried not to think too much about it. I would see what they had to say and take it from there.
I have a fair idea of what I'll do if I'm not infected. Continue here at the center, start school, meet new people, get married, raise a family, have a life, stuff like that. If I am infected then it's up for grabs.
At 2:15 I left the residence and walked across Fair Oaks Blvd., to the south west corner of the park, where the north bound bus stop lies. I brought the Dostoevsky book with me in case I felt like reading, but I would find I didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like doing much of anything, but just sat there at the stop watching the cars drive by. There must have been an antique car show around someplace because five or six 1940s style cars drove by where I was waiting. I could see the occupants, all smiling, and dressed in period garb.
It was sunny. I took my sunglasses off and let the warmth hit my face.
At one point, I admit, I entertained the idea of not going. Of leaving the bus stop and returning to the residence. Somehow, not being sure, not knowing if I was infected or not, seemed a whole lot better than the possibility of knowing for certain that I had the disease. One moment I still might have the future, in another, I won't. A lot of choices would end the moment someone at the health center said the word, "positive," looking at me not really knowing what more to say. I dreaded that moment. I pictured it over and over again. (I could go on and on transposing what I wrote back then, but as I edit this I'm realizing what a wienie I was, so I'll stop)
The 483 approached and forced me to solidify my resolve. I attempted to empty my mind of all thoughts and concerns. I tried to sit back and enjoy the experience of the bus ride, the experience of the people sitting around me, the changing scenery as the bus moved along it's route.
There were only two young women in the waiting room when I came in. This is the only time of the week when H.I.V. results are given, so we all knew what we were there for. They didn't seem concerned. I didn't either.
I gave the receptionist my patient ID number, then sat down slightly away from the others.
While watching "Nightline," last night I learned that on this day, ten years ago, the first known cases of AIDs were reported, the first Federal report documenting five homosexual males with a rare form of pneumonia. How bizarre that I should be here on this infamous anniversary, for this purpose.
Almost immediately the two young ladies were called into an inner office, one after another. A heavyset black lady, late 40s probably, in a floral print dress, looked at me from the other side of the reception desk. She gazed down at the piece of paper she was holding, and called my number. I got up and went through a door into the clinic's interior. The heavyset lady led me to a small, sparsely furnished office, and asked me to sit down. I closed the door behind me.
It's funny how fast things change.
By 3:15 I was standing outside the health center, intensely angry and afraid. In shock really, I had no clear idea on how to proceed from where I was at. The day had turned overcast as if to fit my mood. I could discern no sharp distinctions, no shadows, just a steady mottled gray haze prevailed, fuzzy, and soft like a pillow. I was positive that if I were to yell and scream, as it suddenly occurred to me to do, only a muffled cry would issue, baffled within the thick atmosphere around me. It was cold now too. I didn't remember it being this cool before I had got here, and dreaded the feeling it brought to my skin, like throwing a pail of cold water on my face. I was now fully aware of what was going on around me, which was the last thing I wanted at the moment.
I felt the need to move so I began walking, and if I was walking I might as well head south on Fair Oaks, back in the direction from which I had come, back towards the residence. I didn't consider that if I continued walking it would be a very long walk, but I did vaguely think about still being on duty, that I had a goodly part of my shift to finish. I would have all day tomorrow to work as well. And I remembered that the cadets would be there tomorrow, and Colonel Allen, and Major and Mrs. Johnson. I thought about the problems and hassles their presence would create, that would need to be dealt with and overcome.
I consciously put that out of my mind. I had other issues to keep myself occupied.
Like putting one foot in front of the other. While I was doing that I had time to consider other things, my life in particular. I kept going over certain scenes from the past, as if they were happening to me now. I felt good to fantasize being able to act differently, change results, have an alternative to the way everything had ended up. But those thoughts inevitably brought me back to the present, and to my... situation, like a rubber band that had reached the end of its elasticity, exploding back mercilessly upon its owner. I thought about what I was going to do now that there were no more alternatives, no more fantasies, no more God damn hope to draw strength from. No more safely putting off. No more nothing.
There was a house I passed to the left of me as I continued south. There were three children playing in the front yard. The yard had a waist high chain link fence around it to enclose its space. One of the children, a little girl, smiled at me as I passed.
I soon found myself on Colorado Blvd. Colorado and Fair Oaks being about the busiest intersection in Pasadena, there were many people there, many cars, many sounds. Not wishing to return to the routine of the residence just yet I walked into a place called The Thirty Fiver. A bar. I knew it was a bar before I walked in. I was aware of that.
It was rather dark inside the bar. I liked that. After a young man checked my ID, I sat at the counter and lit a cigarette. There were a few pretty girls present who turned their heads as I looked their way. A couple of guys playing pool on the establishments only table. A black guy was chatting up a slightly aged and wasted looking blonde, three stools down from me. She looked as if she would rather be somewhere else. She was holding a red rose in one hand, and a glass of beer in the other. She looked numb, and I could relate to that.
To own my place at the bar I ordered a shot of tequila and a glass of grapefruit juice. I didn't intend to drink the tequila, but it felt very familiar asking the bartender for it. The tiny glass just sat there in front of me, looking very innocent. Little ripples would appear on the surface of the liquid every time the loud rap music hit on a particularly stringent beat. I knew I couldn't drink it, that it would ruin me if I did. I tried to remember the many, many, important reasons why that drink wouldn't be good for me, but they didn't come into focus, did not fully materialize in my mind. I stopped trying to think of them for the time being, and resumed looking at the glass, finally taking a sip from the grapefruit juice.
A couple of excited yells came from the direction of the pool table. I looked over and saw a man and a woman congratulating the player making the impossible shot. The girl glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back and turned away.
I downed the contents of the shot glass in one gulp, and chased it down with half of what remained of the juice. It burned good, making my eyes water. I felt it in my gut, sizzling. I took a deep breath and could smell the bitter fumes coming from my own mouth.
And there it was. Funny how quickly things can change. One moment I had 267 full days without a sniff of booze, the next moment I had nothing, zip, nadda. All that time, all of those dreams wiped out with one swallow.
No one around me noticed the fantastic change that had just occurred. Everyone went on as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
Then something funny did happen. All of those real good reasons why I shouldn't have taken that drink popped crystal clear back into my mind.
And I noticed that I still had all of the problems that I had when I walked into this place. In fact, they'd just gotten a lot worse. Say goodbye to my new job. Say goodbye to the residence. I might as well not go back there as they'll surely know I've been drinking. If they couldn't smell it they could tell by the way I looked. I wouldn't be able to face them. Say goodbye to my new life.
Another trip to the Park.
And that's when I started feeling real bad.
And it came to me that another drink would help to deal with those real feelings, wouldn't it? Make me forget about how real bad I had just been, and about how I felt. That's why I had taken the first drink, to help make me feel better. Might as well have another one. The damage had been done. No point holding off now. No point at all.
And so I ordered and drank another glass of tequila. Now I had a water glass with some grapefruit juice and no tequila. So I bought a third.
Then another one.
And one after that.
And soon, quite soon, I didn't feel so bad anymore. Pretty soon I didn't feel anything anymore.
And that's how relapse works.
And then I woke up.
June 6 Thursday Day 268
"Someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes, and flowers ... in her haaaaaaiirr."
5:00AM. My new alarm clock gently serves the soothing tunes of Led Zeppelin's "Going to California." Time to go to work.
The H.I.V. virus lives!
But not in this god like body (extreme fantasy).
The test returned negative. Negative!
How good it feels to wake up. To breathe. To have a day to look forward to. I took pleasure in watching my fingers move, my cute little toes wiggle. Knowing (positively) that I may have a long (possibly somewhat normal) life to enjoy and make use of, and that I now have the opportunity to die of something safe, like lung cancer, a stroke, or heart disease.
I wonder what I would have done if my dream had been real, at least the part about the positive test results. I hope that I would have continued to carry on, gone back to work, finish my shift, retire to my room, and consider my options for a good long while. Counseling with a trained specialist most certainly would be in order. I'm sure as hell not above asking for help these days. Learning to carry on without the use of drugs or alcohol would be an extreme necessity, as it still is. Drinking would not help, it never does, not for alcoholics... not for anybody. I would just wind up back in the Park. Maybe instantly. I'd just be in the Park infected with H.I.V., instead of here at the residence where I may be able to do myself some good, and possibly help others as well. Suicide has never seriously been an option for me, no matter how bad things got. You have no choices left after you're dead.
Sometimes I think that's what life is all about. Striving for the freedom to choose. George Plick thinks so. Relationships, choices, and responsibilities. He says everything (for us human type individuals) revolves around those issues. I believe he may be right.
I have certainly gained massive respect and admiration for those who do cope, who carry on - while living under the shadow of H.I.V., or any other terminal illness. I believe there is nothing man cannot do within the bounds of known physics, whether it be bio- or astro. I know that one day science will lead us out from under the tyranny of AIDs, for that surely is our only hope.
In the meantime I shall carry on. I glory in self awareness, realizing that 99.9999999999... of the entire universe does not know that it even exists.
I'm a lucky guy.
June 7 Friday Day 269
Well, well, well.The cadets came yesterday, all fifty of them. Most of them fat. The food's good at Territorial Head Quarters, I hear.
Robert had gotten up early cleaning things as if on uppers. When he's like that (every Sunday morning before chapel) he can be a slight pain to be with. I stay away. I visited the warehouse while Robert and the janitors got busy, busy, busy. The Major and Mrs. Johnson were there nice and early as well, making sure everything was set for the cadets arrival.5:00AM. My new alarm clock gently serves the soothing tunes of Led Zeppelin's "Going to California." Time to go to work.
The H.I.V. virus lives!
But not in this god like body (extreme fantasy).
The test returned negative. Negative!
How good it feels to wake up. To breathe. To have a day to look forward to. I took pleasure in watching my fingers move, my cute little toes wiggle. Knowing (positively) that I may have a long (possibly somewhat normal) life to enjoy and make use of, and that I now have the opportunity to die of something safe, like lung cancer, a stroke, or heart disease.
I wonder what I would have done if my dream had been real, at least the part about the positive test results. I hope that I would have continued to carry on, gone back to work, finish my shift, retire to my room, and consider my options for a good long while. Counseling with a trained specialist most certainly would be in order. I'm sure as hell not above asking for help these days. Learning to carry on without the use of drugs or alcohol would be an extreme necessity, as it still is. Drinking would not help, it never does, not for alcoholics... not for anybody. I would just wind up back in the Park. Maybe instantly. I'd just be in the Park infected with H.I.V., instead of here at the residence where I may be able to do myself some good, and possibly help others as well. Suicide has never seriously been an option for me, no matter how bad things got. You have no choices left after you're dead.
Sometimes I think that's what life is all about. Striving for the freedom to choose. George Plick thinks so. Relationships, choices, and responsibilities. He says everything (for us human type individuals) revolves around those issues. I believe he may be right.
I have certainly gained massive respect and admiration for those who do cope, who carry on - while living under the shadow of H.I.V., or any other terminal illness. I believe there is nothing man cannot do within the bounds of known physics, whether it be bio- or astro. I know that one day science will lead us out from under the tyranny of AIDs, for that surely is our only hope.
In the meantime I shall carry on. I glory in self awareness, realizing that 99.9999999999... of the entire universe does not know that it even exists.
I'm a lucky guy.
June 7 Friday Day 269
Well, well, well.The cadets came yesterday, all fifty of them. Most of them fat. The food's good at Territorial Head Quarters, I hear.
Who arrived fifteen minutes late, had a little snack, were lectured about our rehabilitation program, ate lunch, got lectured some more, ate dinner, took a tour of the residence, the warehouse, the antique store, went to chapel, disrupted everyone's schedule- including their own, and left.
Goodbye!
See ya next year.
Colonel Allen was there with the cadets. This was the first time I'd met him. He could stand to lose a few pounds himself. He didn't look at our towels.
His wife is very nice. I'd met her before. She was the only one of the bunch who came to the desk to ask us how we were doing. We told her we were doing fine.
Robert took off after chapel. He later called to ask me if I could cover for him the next morning, as he wanted to spend the night in Upland. I told him I would be happy to switch shifts with him instead. He reluctantly agreed.
Since I had to get up early yet once again, Art Svensk was an hour late relieving me. He wouldn't have come in at all if Clarence Bliss hadn't called over to the Green Hotel and asked the landlady there to knock on Art's door.
"I forgot what day it was," he informed us when he finally got here.
That was the last time I would be working with Clarence on a full time basis. You could now say he was retired. His Social Security had begun to come in, and he would be moving to the Transition House. He bought himself a car (the Blissmobile).
"It's been good working with you, Rick."
"Well, you'll be around, won't you?" He may work for us once in a while as a volunteer. "I need your experience, strength, and hope."
He's a good man, Clarence is. I'll miss him.
And I wish him well.
This morning I made it to the desk by seven. I got all of the work done by nine, and goofed off until Robert relieved me at three thirty.
Tonight was the first Friday night I had off for over eight months. How did I spend it? By watching the Lakers lose horribly in the third game of the playoffs. They looked like a bunch of old men being beat up by a gang of street thugs.
I also read a few chapters from Vonnegut's "Jailbird," and "The Trial," by Kafka, books I had borrowed from the residence library today.
At midnight, while changing channels on my television, I happened across a new "In Concert 91." The featured groups included, Poison, Slaughter, and The Bullet Boys. Sounds like a recipe for genocide.
I went to sleep dreaming of David Bowie's Diamond Dogs.
June 8 Saturday Day 270
I slept in this morning, getting up at about eleven. I went to the restroom. Immediately, Roger Collins came in talking about his leg, describing in detail, his bandaging techniques. As soon as he left one of the janitors came in to mop the floor. I gave up, returned to my room and rested on my bed until after lunch.
At twelve o'clock, as a diversionary tactic, I laid down an oil slick near the restroom at the opposite side of the building. As soon as I saw the janitors head in that direction I slipped into the shower and finished before they had a chance to get me.
When I went downstairs Robert called me to the desk and asked me to take over for him while he went somewhere. So I began work a couple of hours early.
Just before dinner I was looking at the closed circuit T.V monitors at Dennis Smith out on the back loading dock. He had just finished washing his car and was sitting next to, what looked like, a young Chicana girl. As I watched he began smooching with her, which I found extremely entertaining, so I invited several of the guys who happened to have been sitting in the lobby to have a look. Pretty soon there were seven or eight of us watching Dennis and this eighteen year old make out. For a while there we thought Dennis was going to jump the poor girl, but I guess she knew how to handle herself... and Dennis... pretty well. As he came into dinner we applauded him, and offered our scores on a 1 to 10 scale on his feeble attempt at seduction.
Earlier today a parade was held in Washington D.C. in honor of our servicemen and women who served in the Persian Gulf conflict. There's been a lot of these parades lately. Victory Parades some call them. Military hardware is displayed in abundance; tanks, patriot missiles, anti-aircraft platforms, troop carriers, jet flybys, on and on. One would almost think they were in Red Square during the May Day celebration.
It is a good idea I believe to show our appreciation to our soldiers who leave home and family to risk their lives in the service of our country. I also believe we could show our appreciation in a more substantial manner: increased pay and benefits, better housing and schooling for our soldier's children, retirement benefits, and so on, rather than this glitzy and extremely temporary, almost vulgar display of our nation's ability to wage wars of mass destruction.
Blatant political propaganda.
And what did we win in this war? Am I wrong or is Saddam Hussein still in power? Has he even been reduced to the point where he can no longer pose a threat in that region of the world? How many lives were lost, and to what end? Are we regarded any differently in the Middle East?
I wonder just what was it that we won and why are we celebrating?
June 9 Sunday Day 271
I woke to Woody Allen in "Bananas," but the film was too silly to continue watching at 5:00AM., so I turned it off and went back to sleep.
I slept through the wake up call, early breakfast, late breakfast, fellowship of prayer, and damn near through chapel service, which would have been very embarrassing as I was scheduled to read the responsive reading section of the service.
But I made it, and once again my voice did not quiver.
Mrs. Johnson told me that I looked good behind the podium. Perhaps she was making a career suggestion.
Tom Rotsch and Michael Vallee decided to join Ron Collins and myself at the Sunday morning meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous at the American Legion headquarters of South Pasadena. Mr. Vasquez once again, ur... volunteered to drive us there (we outnumbered him).
I mentioned to Robert that George Washington had grown marijuana on his Mt. Vernon estate.
"Don't say that!" he exclaimed. "I'm so disillusioned. All my heros are tarnished."
The meeting proved to be very interesting (lots of pretty ladies). Tom is a genuinely nice person, who goes out of his way to meet people. He walks right up to those he has never met, says hello, introduces himself, volunteers to read portions of the Big Book, makes friends easily... all of which sickens me to no end.
I am a nice person also, but I'm not as blatantly obvious about it as Tom is. Besides, I'm rather shy at times, or feel awkward in social situations where I don't know anybody. That's one of the reasons, I suppose, that I have used drugs.
I have a mean streak, or temper, or hardness in me, which I believe excludes me from being a genuinely nice man. It's not too bad, but it's there. I'm not as friendly as I could be, I guess.
I do like children and small furry animals. Even big ones if they don't have teeth.
The meeting's speaker was very good. His name was Carl. A youngish individual. I will here quote three lines from his presentation (without his permission of course):
1. "Most of the time, back in high school, my grade point average equaled my blood alcohol level."
2. "My head would have killed my body long ago, except it needed it for transportation."
3. "My counselor asked me about my drug of choice... like what was it? I didn't know what she meant. I asked her, what was a drug of choice?
She said, 'For example, if someone brought you a tray with a quart of Jack Daniels, and ounce of coke, and an ounce of Thi-sticks on it, which would you choose?'
'All of them,' I told her.
She said, 'No, no, it doesn't work that way. You may only choose one. Which one would you choose?'
'Well I'd take the coke, I guess.'
She said, 'Well, maybe cocaine is your drug of choice.'
'But you don't understand," I told her. 'I'd take the coke, sell a few eight balls, buy a couple of sticks, and a case of Jack Daniels.'
We walked back to the residence. I went to the park and laid out in the sun just as a five song block of Led Zeppelin came on the radio. It was good for my soul.
I watched the fourth game of the NBA playoffs. I shouldn't have bothered. Chicago won by 15. The only way the Lakers could have beat them is if obstacles (trees, telephone poles, etc.) were placed on their side of the court to keep the Bulls from scoring.
Not a bad idea really.
A touching account of human relationships on "Star Trek, the Next Generation," tonight. A love affair between a woman and an android emphasized what can be meaningful between two people.
Really!
I read for most of the evening.
Hid out in my lonely room.
June 10 Monday Day 272
A wonderful, relaxing day. I got up at about eight and took my time in the shower. I was downstairs by nine.
It may not look like it but I spent practically the whole day writing. An hour in the morning, then I ran all of the urine that had piled up, which lasted until noon. Then to the park for an hour (my tan is coming along nicely). Back to the residence for a quick shower, more writing, dinner, "Star Trek, the Next Generation," (it's on every week now at six), more writing, then up to my room to read a bit before turning in.
I watched "Cheers," before drifting off, and "Nightline," (should victims, or the surviving families of victims, be allowed to be heard at the penalty phase of criminal trials. An item the Supreme Court will decide tomorrow), which topped off the evening well.
One entry in the continuing saga of Dennis Smith. He went on a work day pass to court in West L.A., and did not return for the 11:00PM curfew. He did not call.
A.W.O.L./A.C.O.
I doubt if they'll let him back in this time.
In the morning Mr. Pandolfi told me that Dennis had tried to come in at 1:00AM. It doesn't work that way and Dennis knows that.
I also found out that Dennis did some how make it back inside the building, and borrowed $20 from one of his roommates, George Estrada.
Curiouser and curiouser.
June 11 Tuesday Day 273
As I said, maybe we didn't do Dennis such a big favor by letting him back in. Maybe he had gotten off too easy, so easy that his mistake made no real impact on him.
Reuben Smith, on the other hand, seems to be taking things a bit more seriously since his brief departure and return.
That's good. Possibly his mishap was the "kick through the goal posts of life," that he needed.
He's still not talking to me very much. But it's not because I was the one who pointed the finger at him. He understands I believe, as do most of the guys around here, that it's my job. I think Reuben has a bad case of the "guilties," stemming from his relapse (and indeed, that is what it was, a relapse... Near Beer, or not). He thinks he let Harold down and feels ashamed because of it. This of course is one of the prominent aspects of relapse. Guilt and shame. And depression vast.
Reuben's slowly coming out of it though. All it takes is time. He'll be alright. All of us relapsers go through it. It helps to stay sober the next time around.
Dennis came in at about 9:30AM, carrying a small brown briefcase which contained his cassette tape collection. That's all he had left. He looked haggard and exhausted, sweating profusely. He asked if he could get a telephone number from his locker. I told him he could.
Dennis had relapsed. Big surprise. Rockoff told me that when Dennis had left here yesterday he had $300 on him, in cash. That's all gone. He apparently sold his car (I'm sure for far less than when what he paid for it) in order to buy more cocaine, then he came back here early in the morning looking to borrow more money.
In less than 18 hours he had gone through maybe $500, $600, or $700, depending on how much he got for his car. All of that money no doubt went up his nose, or into some hooker's back pocket. No more car, no more money, no more job, no more room and board, no more self respect.
And this is how relapse on cocaine works.
But this is no dream.
The dramatic speed and intensity of cocaine relapse is a very good reason to be glad not to be a cocaine addict. I'm glad. Very. I'm much happier being an alcoholic. Five to seven hundred dollars would have lasted me at least a week, maybe two in a cheap motel with cable television. Three or four gallons of wine a day, and maybe something to eat.
With alcohol you can draw out your misery so much longer.
In the end I'd be in exactly the same place Dennis is right now.
Dennis retrieved the telephone number he wanted, and made a call. I think he called his parents and told them what had happened.
When he finished he walked outside and sat on one of the benches in the front parking lot. I watched him from my office window. Some of the cooks, Tom Gibbs, Marvin Gardenhire, and Carlos Noble, came out and sat with him. I don't know what they said, although I'm sure they offered support. But having been in Dennis's position I know their kind intent offered little solace. Misery loves company, and Dennis was thoroughly alone now. The men who were talking to him still had a program, still had sober days behind them, still had hopes for the future. Dennis had none of those things. He may have even felt angry, or resentful towards them, missing what he had lost in such a short time, and what they still possessed. The only comfort Dennis had left was the cigarette he was smoking and that would only last for another three minutes. One tends to smoke fast when anxious and nervous.
To add insult to injury, the Major came over for lunch and noticed Dennis sitting. He asked me to go out and tell him to move on. He was not allowed to hang around.
Where did he go? Why to the Park, of course. He had just become a full fledged resident. You get to become a full fledged resident of the Park only when you have no where else to go.
After my shift, Rockoff and I walked to the thrift store to search for more clothes that might fit us, that didn't have holes in the pockets, or buttons missing. We had brand new clothing orders in our hands, courtesy of Clarence Orion. We saw Dennis sitting alone on one of the benches in the Park while passing the southeast corner of Fair Oaks. He was busy staring off into space.
Throughout the evening my thoughts returned to Dennis, as I avoided Jill, watched "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," and the evening news. Of all those who have left here I guess Dennis's departure has affected me the most.
I can see myself too easily in him.
There is nothing I can do for him, of course. I am powerless to help other people if they do not wish to help themselves. I thought about seeking him out in the Park, talk to him, maybe get him something to eat. I didn't do that though. Hanging out in the Park with a newly relapsed individual might not be such a good idea for me. Besides at the present time I doubt there would be much I could say to him that he'd want to hear.
All I can do is, well... wish him well.
June 12 Wednesday Day 274
Oh boy!
Nine months tomorrow! Nine months ago today I quit drinking, and nine months ago tomorrow I somewhat reluctantly walked into the office of the Pasadena Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Center looking like a turd.
I'll tell you this, I feel a lot better now than I did then! Smell a lot better too!
This will be a chip taking affair. But I shall have to work all day, so Rockoff and I decided to take our chips on Monday night. Kevin has over eleven months, but never picked up his nine month chip. He's lazier than I am.
Speaking of Rockoff, I keep finding him sitting on my office chair, leaning back, hands clasped behind his head, singing, "Lord It's Hard to be Humble... When Your Perfect in Every Way."
He's also trying to date my sister.
Rockoff is trying to date anything that moves.
I made the mistake of mentioning that my sister had just broken up with her boyfriend, and Kevin asked for her address so he could write to her. I gave it to him. She'll probably kill me or something for doing this, but Rockoff's a good guy, and maybe this will be the start of something big. Although the idea of Kevin as my borther-in-law is somewhat frightening, he's a hell of a lot better than any of the gentlemen (jerks) she's picked.
Women just don't know what's good for them.
Kevin is one of those rare, genuinely nice guys.
Not like me.
The Lakers, having won the first game of the playoffs, proceeded to lose the next four straight, tonight's game being the last of those four. Chicago thus won the NBA Championship for the first time in the franchise's history.
Dennis Smith came over to watch the game. We talked for a while in my office, where I found out he was now in Union Station, so at least he has a roof over his head, and is getting three meals a day. Union Station's only requirement of him is that he attend their three A.A. meetings a day. Other than that he's free to do whatever he wishes, so he came over to watch the game. Others who have left here do that occasionally. Curtis Carter, Ruben Perez (who's living on the streets now, in the Park). Robert, or the Major were not around to object to his presence, so I let him stay. We didn't talk all that much. He said he would be back tomorrow to go through his things, maybe I can get the full story of what happened then.
I think I'm falling in love with Kathy, the new counselor. She's so cute! I must remember to actually talk to this one.
I must have Ron Collins find out if she's married though. It doesn't pay to fall in love with married women.
After work I went to bed and slept.
Nine months tomorrow! Nine months ago today I quit drinking, and nine months ago tomorrow I somewhat reluctantly walked into the office of the Pasadena Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Center looking like a turd.
I'll tell you this, I feel a lot better now than I did then! Smell a lot better too!
This will be a chip taking affair. But I shall have to work all day, so Rockoff and I decided to take our chips on Monday night. Kevin has over eleven months, but never picked up his nine month chip. He's lazier than I am.
Speaking of Rockoff, I keep finding him sitting on my office chair, leaning back, hands clasped behind his head, singing, "Lord It's Hard to be Humble... When Your Perfect in Every Way."
He's also trying to date my sister.
Rockoff is trying to date anything that moves.
I made the mistake of mentioning that my sister had just broken up with her boyfriend, and Kevin asked for her address so he could write to her. I gave it to him. She'll probably kill me or something for doing this, but Rockoff's a good guy, and maybe this will be the start of something big. Although the idea of Kevin as my borther-in-law is somewhat frightening, he's a hell of a lot better than any of the gentlemen (jerks) she's picked.
Women just don't know what's good for them.
Kevin is one of those rare, genuinely nice guys.
Not like me.
The Lakers, having won the first game of the playoffs, proceeded to lose the next four straight, tonight's game being the last of those four. Chicago thus won the NBA Championship for the first time in the franchise's history.
Dennis Smith came over to watch the game. We talked for a while in my office, where I found out he was now in Union Station, so at least he has a roof over his head, and is getting three meals a day. Union Station's only requirement of him is that he attend their three A.A. meetings a day. Other than that he's free to do whatever he wishes, so he came over to watch the game. Others who have left here do that occasionally. Curtis Carter, Ruben Perez (who's living on the streets now, in the Park). Robert, or the Major were not around to object to his presence, so I let him stay. We didn't talk all that much. He said he would be back tomorrow to go through his things, maybe I can get the full story of what happened then.
I think I'm falling in love with Kathy, the new counselor. She's so cute! I must remember to actually talk to this one.
I must have Ron Collins find out if she's married though. It doesn't pay to fall in love with married women.
After work I went to bed and slept.
June 13 Thursday Day 275
Mr. Vasquez took off yesterday morning and hasn't been back since. This morning I found out that 20 or more Salvation Army command officers, the administrators of all of the Southern California A.R.C.s, are coming to visit us at 2:00, for an informal get together.
Now maybe Robert knew about this, and maybe he didn't. All I'm saying is that a lot of major social functions occur around here on his days off, and I get left holding the bag, having to make sure that the residence is neat and tidy, up to specifications, or the wrath of Johnson falls upon my sorry head.
No biggie though. The residence is almost in good shape, and ready for inspection everyday. All that it usually needs is a bit of polishing up.
Despite the fact that it was Schimmele's day off, and the rest of the janitor's were out sick, we did all right.
The officers began to drift in between 1:00 and 2:00. Major Engel (from Van Nuys) was the first to arrive. I recalled my last ("man to man") conversation I had with him, with me pleading my case, denying the two empty whiskey bottles found in my locker were mine, him not believing me, and him telling me I was terminated from the center. I thought about the relapse that transpired directly after that conversation, the month and a half in the Park, and jail, then my coming here.
He looked at me and I stared into his eyes. He turned away and went about his business.
Good old Capt. Strickland and his lovely wife were here as well. Her name is Pamala, and she is very nice. While at the Canoga Park A.R.C. I often wondered what kind of person she was really like, beyond the Salvation Army officer (and administrator's wife) facade. I wondered if she was happy, because she didn't seem that way at times. She appears to be the kind of woman I am often attracted to (possessing a quiet intelligence and grace, and very pretty). I hope one day I have the chance to find out more about her.
I'm not in love with Mrs. Strickland however. It doesn't pay to fall in love with married women. He's okay too, I guess. An idealist who refuses to let reality get in his way.
I'm not in love with him either.
After the last of the officers arrived coffee and donuts were served in the small dinning room, after which they migrated across the street to the warehouse. I thought that would be the last I would see of them, and I took off my dress shoes and put on my sneakers. However, they came bouncing back at 4:00, just as the men got off work. I made sure to stay behind the desk so my shoes would not be noticed.
Then they all went out to dinner, leaving me here. And Ron Collins. He had the privilege (got stuck) of babysitting two young boys, children of one of the visiting Captains. That kept him suitably busy.
I was kept suitably busy with Dennis Smith coming over to look at his stuff. We didn't have the time to sit and chat.
Kathy Simonson, the vocational counselor, came to talk to Rockoff. She's very sexy, and has great legs, but I believe she's married.
She kept giving me the eye anyway.
Richard Bennett, for reasons only known to him, could not be here for the Substance Abuse, so I canceled it.
I also canceled the A.A. panel, as they didn't show up either.
The only ones who did show up tonight were our trustworthy and reliable friends from Cocaine Anonymous. Four of our residents did not show for that meeting, however, so I wrote them up.
Business as usual on a Thursday night here at the Pasadena A.R.C.
June 14 Friday Day 276
I moseyed on down to the lobby by 1:35PM. I had indulged in sleep up until that point.
Robert Vasquez called me into his office to inform me that do to a cancellation my name had been drawn at random as a winner of a Dodger game ticket to be played this Sunday. Presumably this game would be played in Los Angeles. Kevin Rockoff and Ron Collins are also going. Russell Burke as well. It should be fun, but I must remember not to be tempted by baseball beer.
Robert and I also discussed the mysterious disappearance of two six packs of diet Shasta cola from the canteen during the chapel service last Wednesday.
Very Mysterious.
At work I handed out gratuity when the boys came home, did a lot of paperwork, issued six canteen cards to myself (part of my extra hours pay), which I would sell pocketing the proceeds (almost legal), gave new client orientation, argued with Raushemplat, and put up the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot.
Robert was checking the back of the building and caught a whiff of what smelled like marijuana. He espied two probable culprits who were sitting at the side of the residence near one of the standing ashtrays. Robert ordered me to collect urine samples from all of the occupants of dorm 43, where these two guys lived, which I did.
One of them had a cannabinoid level of 28.7, risen from 7.5 taken the last day of May. I had him come to the office to discuss this. He denied everything, but didn't make much of a fuss when I let him know he would have to leave, which indicated to me that he knew damn well he was guilty.
This was a guy we tested every week for opiates, who knew we would continue to do so, but smoked a joint anyway. Perhaps he thought we couldn't test him for cannabinoids as well.
We can.
I wish him well.
June 15 Saturday Day 277
I got up for breakfast this morning so I could talk to Robert about last night's urine tests and expulsions. After we finished eating I helped him take down the stupid bar in the thrift store parking lot. We saw the guy I had thrown out last night while doing it. He had spent the night sleeping on the sidewalk across the street, near the entrance to the warehouse. He used most of the morning telling his buddies who came out to smoke, how unfair it was, he being thrown out and all. He went away eventually, after he discovered no one really sympathized with him, or was going to give him any money.
I walked to the gas station to buy some cigarettes for myself (having forgotten all about quitting on the 7th) and Schimmele. Upon returning I went to my lonely room and took a nap.
Up in time for lunch of course (beef ribs). Clarence (The Flash) Bliss was chowing down, honoring us with his presence.
Just as the discussion concerning the formation of a new Salvation Army Bomb Squad was getting heated, I was called to the telephone.
My dear sweet sister was calling from Bullhead City to say hello. We had exchanged letters within the last week, and she had written that she wished to hear my voice. Wasn't that nice of her? These days I'm beginning to feel I can really become friends with her. I never was before. While drinking and drugging I was too preoccupied to be a friend to her. Too preoccupied to be a friend to my girlfriend, or my friends, or even my cat.
I was a preoccupied guy.
Busy.
Even though I'm still pretty busy these days I feel I'm more mentally and emotionally available to others now. I hope so.
Cheryl told me our Uncle Lester is very, very sick, and in the hospital. Cancer. Leukemia. It's not expected that he'll last much longer. It's so sad.
On a brighter note, I got to talk to my beautiful and precocious little niece, Keri Lynn. She assured me that she was being a good girl and not causing her mother any problems. She told me she was now in the second grade. How sweet.
"She told me she was a good girl," I told my sister when she came back on the line.
"Well, what did you expect her to say? Of Course she's going to tell you she's a good girl! But she's a brat."
"I can't imagine her lying to me." That's not entirely true. Actually, I can imagine it quite easily. My love for my darling niece is all encompassing, but fraught with little illusion. My niece is a blonde, blue-eyed, seven year old tiny devil person.
"Oh brother!" my sister replied.
My sister related to me a recent event involving Keri and the television program "911," hosted by Captain Kirk's alter ego, William Shatner. It seems that this is Keri's favorite program. She doesn't move a muscle while watching it. One morning, Keri (an early riser) took it upon herself to dial 911 on her mom's phone. My sister, who had been sleeping peacefully, was woke by several burly policemen wanting to know what the trouble was.
Isn't Keri adorable?! She's going to go a long way when she grows up. She's got spunk! I never would have done anything like that when I was her age. My mother would have knocked me into the next state.
June 16 Sunday Day 278
I woke at 6:30 to the soft, sweet melodies of early Jethro Tull wafting through my radio alarm clock.
After the song was over I got up and turned the radio off. I got up again at 8:00, showered and dressed for chapel.
Mr. Vasquez was seated on the front stage during the service. I had to nudge him awake as I passed by with the collection plate. He looked at me, reached into one jacket pocket, then another, to find a small manilla envelope which he dropped into my plate, muttering, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus."
All the men who were going to the Dodger game ate lunch at 11:00. Then we took off. Half of us went in Red Shield 4, and half in Ed Reitz's van.
By 1:00 we were seated high up along the first base line. Today was Old Timers Day, which meant that former Dodger players would come out and play a few innings against each other. Don Drysdale threw two pitches, Tommy Lasorda pitched an entire inning. Good fun.
I had myself a Dodger Dog and large coke. Very expensive.
As I later exclaimed to my fellow passengers on the way home, "We opened up a can of whoop ass on St. Louis!" The Cardinals lost 7 to 2.
Tom Rotsch was driving Red Shield 4, which I was in. As we passed Ed's van while exiting the parking lot, he called to us, "Well Tom, do you want to follow me back or take your chances on your own?"
"I think I'll be alright," Tom replied.
We made it back to the residence in twenty minutes. I waited around the parking lot for about an hour waiting for Ed to get back, smoking cigarettes, then went in for dinner.
While I was eating my late dinner in the canteen area the Sunday night bingo game commenced. I took this as a sign from God that it was meant for me to play. Lucky me, I won the final blackout game between mouthfuls. 5 big canteen cards! These I will later sell for enormous profit.
I kicked back in my room for the rest of the evening. I was a little tired and all from the game. I read from 3 different books while watching Burt Reynolds and Goldie Hawn in the Norman Jewsion film, "Best Friends." A very well written and realized work. Sad and funny all at the same time.
Just like real life.
June 17 Monday Day 279
My friend and ex-supervisor, Victor Johnson, did not make it back by curfew last night. This is not the first time that this has happened. Quite often he'll give us a call thirty minutes before curfew to tell us he's in some emergency room, in some hospital, presumably dying or something, and would not be able to make it in. We usually tell him okay, bring the paperwork in the morning and we'll take it from there. And he does. This time he had been on an overnight pass, and called to tell us he might be a few minutes late. A few minutes past curfew. Unfortunately for Victor, Mr. Vasquez was on duty, and when 11:00 came, the doors were closed and locked.
Mr. Vasquez can be very prompt when he wishes to be.
Victor was indeed late.
He was also A.W.O.L./A.C.O.
I wish him well.
Eugene White was A.W.O.L. as well.
I wish him well too.
I spent most of the day writing. I did get away to the park for an hour, to bask in the glorious rays of the noontime sun. Then back to my little desk in the library to write, write, write.
But I did take a break now and then. During one of them I sat outside in the front parking lot, on one of the benches they have out there, when Ed Reitz walked up carrying a small package.
"Hi Ed," I said as way of greeting.
"Hi Rick," he said as way of reply.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Fine, fine," Ed said.
"Good game yesterday," I said.
"Yes it was. Good for the Dodgers at least."
"I heard you had a little problem getting out of the parking lot yesterday," I began to giggle.
"That's one way of describing it," he said. I started to laugh.
"I was finished eating dinner, played a few games of bingo, and had time to read "Moby Dick, before you guys showed up." My laughter continued unabated.
"You think that's funny, do you?"
"Well... ha, ha, especially... he he he... when you consider that part... ha ha ha ha ha ha, about you asking Tom if he wanted to follow you or take a chance on his own... ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!...
He looked down at the package he held. "Some new assays came in from UPS today. The first part of that word comes easily to mind right now."
Robert Vasquez seemed to be suffering from some kind of throat infection. He couldn't talk above a whisper.
I teased him.
"Well," I said, "It's nice and peaceful around here tonight."
"What do you mean?" he croaked.
"Oh nothing... nothing."
Later I began to watch a television movie, "Seeds of Tragedy," concerning a shipment of cocaine. Sort of like the film, "The Yellow Rolls Royce," of the drug industry. The story depicted the lives and deaths of all those who came into contact with one particular shipment of cocaine, starting from the jungles of Peru, and ending, I presume, on the streets of some American city. I turned it off about half way through. Too many people were getting killed. Even women. For some reason I hate to see women getting killed, shot, or beat up. Not that I've ever seen a woman get killed, shot, or beat up. Not in real life anyway. I just don't particularly like to see it in movies, where it seems a disproportionate amount of women get terrorized. I don't even like to think about women in combat position in the military. I'm not saying they shouldn't be there, all I'm saying is that it gives me the creeps to think about it. I don't know why I feel that way. I guess I have some misbegotten beliefs that women are too good to get shot and killed. That they're above all of that nonsense, and when it happens to them it seems so unfair and sad.
Kurt Vonnegut feels the same way I believe.
Women should be excluded and protected from any forms of violence so they may freely continue with their sacred mission in life... befuddling the minds of men.
I don't seem to mind men getting blown away. It almost seems fitting.
I've read that most of, and the best assassins in the world are women. What better time to kill a man than when he's in bed asleep.
Anyway, I turned the movie off. I can't figure out why anyone would wish to get into a business where the chances of either getting killed, ripped off, or arrested, were so high.
The answer of course is money.
I strolled through the residence with Robert, a little after 10:00PM. I asked him if there was anything special I should know about before returning to work in the morning.
There wasn't.
We were in the basement looking at a wall where some unknown person had tried to bore a hole to crawl through into the baggage room, probably in an attempt to steal whatever they could find of value in there. Whoever it was had run into some boards embedded into the drywall thwarting their attempt.
"Have to have Pandolfi keep an eye out down here, "Robert whispered.
As we were walking out I noticed a big brown cockroach positioned near the exit door, sitting still, trying not to be noticed. I pointed it out to Robert, who looked at it a moment, then slowly inched the toe of his shoe toward the insect to see if it was alive. It was. It took off like a shot, scurrying this way and that. It first headed straight back toward Robert, who jumped up and down trying to stomp it, looking like he was dancing a jig. The bug made a right turn in my direction, at which time I started to jump to, although I was trying to get away from it.
Robert shouted, "Get it! Get it!"
So I stomped on the little critter, no doubt ruining any planes it may have had for the rest of the evening.
I don't like to kill things. Even bugs. But this was a case of self defense. It attacked.
As we rode the elevator to the first floor I reminisced about some Philippine cockroaches I have met. "You step on one of those suckers," I said, "and the damn thing is liable to kidnap you."
He said he had met some lizards in Vietnam that made sounds like singing birds.
Back in my room I watched a movie starring Mare Winningham. It was about a homeless mother on the streets with her young daughter.
A very good movie. It made me think about what life is really like for many, many people, right here in our own country. I felt ashamed as I watched it. That we allow homelessness in this, the richest country in the world.
It also reminded me, once again, of how close we all are to being back in the Park.
June 18 Tuesday Day 280
The great Cola Theft Mystery continues. Ed McNicols came to me at 1:00, and told me that when he went to Vons between 11:45 and 12:15, someone had entered the canteen and taken two six packs of Diet Shasta Cola. I considered making a locker search of the kitchen dorms in response, but decided to wait and let Robert handle it in whatever way he saw fit.
At 2:00 I informed him of the situation, and he choose to make a locker search of the kitchen dorms, along with the lockers of all of the other in-house workers.
I reasoned there may be a better than even chance that Mr. Vasquez would search my room as well, so I began to wonder if my room could stand an inspection. I began to feel somewhat anxious and angry at the unknown person who had stolen the sodas for necessitating my wondering if my room could stand an inspection. I knew there was no contraband in my room. Well, hardly any. I had a few old Playboy magazines I had found around the residence stashed under my mattress (awaiting the proper time for disposal), and a few cookie wrappers in my wastebasket, but those items were nothing anyone should get excited about if found. I remembered that my bed was not made though. I hate it when my bed's not made (most of the time), and somebody catches me not making it.
Then I remembered Van Nuys, and I began worrying about somebody framing me again. After all, the perpetrator had probably used a master key to enter the canteen and take the sodas. That person could just as easily stick those pilfered six packs in my room using the same key... stick them underneath a pile of clothes in my closet maybe.
This seemed rather unlikely though. I am loved by all.
It seemed unlikely in Van Nuys as well.
I continued to worry.
Robert asked me to come upstairs with him to help check the kitchen dorms.
As we ascended in the elevator he said, "Your bed could stand a little making."
"Yes sir. I realize that. I was a little late this morning." And that was that. No itinerant sodas in my room.
None in the kitchen dorms either. Or the rest of the private rooms. However, seven Shasta's were located in Jack Crossley's locker. It was known to us that Jack consumed large quantities of the stuff. He likes to pop open a can or two while sitting on the toilet. The discovery of the Shasta's did not prove that Jack was the culprit. Jack is an unlikely thief. But who knows? Maybe he was trying to get a little five finger discount on his soda stash.
Jack had broken house rules by having said sodas in his locker though, and has been told to watch his step.
For the time being the case is closed.
In my opinion a theft of this nature will probably not reoccur. Whoever took the sodas is now aware that we are aware of it, and will take appropriate cautionary measures to avoid detection or apprehension, even to the point of discontinuing their nefarious deeds.
We shall see.
I got a positive for cocaine in a urine sample from one of the guys who had gone out on pass last weekend.At 2:00 I informed him of the situation, and he choose to make a locker search of the kitchen dorms, along with the lockers of all of the other in-house workers.
I reasoned there may be a better than even chance that Mr. Vasquez would search my room as well, so I began to wonder if my room could stand an inspection. I began to feel somewhat anxious and angry at the unknown person who had stolen the sodas for necessitating my wondering if my room could stand an inspection. I knew there was no contraband in my room. Well, hardly any. I had a few old Playboy magazines I had found around the residence stashed under my mattress (awaiting the proper time for disposal), and a few cookie wrappers in my wastebasket, but those items were nothing anyone should get excited about if found. I remembered that my bed was not made though. I hate it when my bed's not made (most of the time), and somebody catches me not making it.
Then I remembered Van Nuys, and I began worrying about somebody framing me again. After all, the perpetrator had probably used a master key to enter the canteen and take the sodas. That person could just as easily stick those pilfered six packs in my room using the same key... stick them underneath a pile of clothes in my closet maybe.
This seemed rather unlikely though. I am loved by all.
It seemed unlikely in Van Nuys as well.
I continued to worry.
Robert asked me to come upstairs with him to help check the kitchen dorms.
As we ascended in the elevator he said, "Your bed could stand a little making."
"Yes sir. I realize that. I was a little late this morning." And that was that. No itinerant sodas in my room.
None in the kitchen dorms either. Or the rest of the private rooms. However, seven Shasta's were located in Jack Crossley's locker. It was known to us that Jack consumed large quantities of the stuff. He likes to pop open a can or two while sitting on the toilet. The discovery of the Shasta's did not prove that Jack was the culprit. Jack is an unlikely thief. But who knows? Maybe he was trying to get a little five finger discount on his soda stash.
Jack had broken house rules by having said sodas in his locker though, and has been told to watch his step.
For the time being the case is closed.
In my opinion a theft of this nature will probably not reoccur. Whoever took the sodas is now aware that we are aware of it, and will take appropriate cautionary measures to avoid detection or apprehension, even to the point of discontinuing their nefarious deeds.
We shall see.
A.C.O.
I wish him well.
I avoided Jill this afternoon, and spent most of the evening in my room reading another Whitney Strieber and James Kunetka novel. "Nature's End." A much more ambitious and detailed work than "Warday," concerning the Earth's environmental collapse in about 30 years.
I also watched "The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonzi," ("Curse you, Bonzi!"), a pretty good picture really, despite itself.
As I tried to sleep I kept thinking about the next two days, and the long hours that were required of me. I found this line of thought unprofitable, and began thinking about girls instead, soon falling blissfully asleep.
As I slept I dreamt of Puerto Rican guys with German accents chasing me through the dark streets.
June 19 Wednesday Day 281
Now that the Great New Towel Policy has been initiated, all of the washers and dryers are so busy I can't get my laundry done. Whenever a washer does by chance open up, one of the kitchen crew materializes out of nowhere and grabs it.
I am now forced to devise a new, secret, effective laundry strategy.
Once again Robert Vasquez managed to have the day off when visitors stopped by. This will be the third week in a row now. I suspect he's getting inside information.
Actually, we've known they were coming for quite a while. This week it was a group of thirty two young people, high school and college students, from the San Jose Youth Choir. Presumably they were from San Jose, California, the place of my birth. They were here to sing for us during our Wednesday mid-week chapel service.
They arrived in a big bus, fifteen minutes late. The bus was blue. I immediately invited them to dinner (baked chicken), and the seventeen young ladies went in to eat, while the guys set up their equipment in the chapel (another example of male servitude to the dominate female race). Suddenly I became hungry and followed the girls into the dinning room .
They put on great show, singing their little hearts out for about an hour. Afterwards the guys of the residence took the opportunity to talk and become acquainted with our visitors, which they had ample time to do as the choir's bus would not start, stranding them here for about an hour. Good old Jack DeWilde finally got it going, and our merry songsters were on their way, perchance to visit us again next year.
Kathy the counselor, my one true love, canceled her scheduled appearance this evening, with the explanation that she would be here tomorrow night instead. I was heartbroken (and crestfallen) regarding this disastrous turn of events, but was able to placate myself knowing she would soon be here.
I await.
June 20 Thursday Day 282
I read in the paper this morning that Pablo Escobar, drug lord, one of the founders of the Medellin Cartel of Colombia, responsible during the 1980s for supplying the United States with 80% of its black market cocaine, was surrounded yesterday in his home town of Envigado. He had been running from the law for the last seven years. He's a hard guy to find. If I had three billion dollars at my disposal, and the inclination, I'd be hard to find too.
The Colombian police, by accident, almost had him three years ago. They raided a ranch looking for someone else while Pablo was hiding there. He escaped, running away in his underwear.
But now he's being brought to justice. Now he's in jail.
His jail sits upon a hill overlooking his old neighborhood, where he grew up. He must have a lot of close friends close by. Pablo is now forced to spend all of his time in a 1,000 square foot cell, equipped with antechamber, a bedroom with a walk in closet, and a "breath taking view of the Medellin Valley below."
At his insistence he controlled the selection of 40 "guards" which are posted inside the "jail." It was agreed the army and police would stay off the ten acre, forested facility, keeping outside the electrified fence.
He surrendered because the president of Colombia, Caesar Gaviria, made him a good deal, one he couldn't pass up. Under the terms of the agreement Pablo will never have to come to the United States to answer for all of the crimes he has been accused of here. That is what big time Colombian drug lords fear the most, to be brought to the United States. Perhaps they feel we will be unsympathetic to their plight. They probably belive that we won't place them in a jail as nice as they get in Colombia. They think that we would put them someplace where they wouldn't see the light of day for the rest of their miserable lives.
I can't say as I blame them for feeling that way.
According to the agreement Pablo made with the president of Colombia the most he will be facing would be 15 years "imprisonment." That's the deal other Colombian traffickers will get if they turn themselves in. President Gaviria made this offer so he could put an end to the violence directed toward members of his government instigated by the lords of drugs because the government was hunting them and giving them a hard time.
Pablo will only be 56 when his sentence ends, when he becomes a free man once again, when he has paid for his alleged crimes.
His alleged crimes include the assassination of a Colombian Justice Minister, an Attorney General, a newspaper publisher, and three presidential candidates. He is also said to be responsible for bombings within his own country which have left hundreds of innocent people dead. A jet with 200 people on board exploded.
And let's not forget the untold misery and wasting of lives in all of the countries around the world where his product is sold and consumed.
Gaviria describes Pablo's "imprisonment" as a major victory in the war on drugs. The article I read indicated there would be little to hinder Pablo from going right on supervising drug smuggling operations from his "prison," and that Colombia's cocaine output is presently at an all time high.
If I were Pablo I would stay right where I was, even after the 15 year sentence. At least I wouldn't plan on making too many trips outside of the country. He might find himself the recipient of an invitation, one he would find hard to refuse, to come see Disneyworld.
June 21 Friday Day 283
Robert called me last night to tell me he was in Upland visiting his grandniece and would not be back for his morning shift. He asked (told) if I would mind trading shifts.
I handled it well. Once again I found myself behind the desk in the early morning hours. Having just completed two 17 hour shifts I gave myself a little break and slept in until 6:30. While in the shower, getting ready for work, I heard the Major's melodious voice over the P.A. system. He was calling for somebody, but I could not hear who it was he was calling for because of all of the water in my ears. It was unusual for him to be calling here so early and I wondered what had prompted him.
I had forgotten about the damn bar in the thrift store parking lot. No one had taken it down and the Major couldn't park his car. That's what had prompted him.
Rockoff went over and took it down. As he did the Major noticed that one side of the long steel bar (the bar being the parking lots only defense during the long, lonely night) was attached to its support post by a coat hanger. He felt this to be inadequate. I'm amazed he hadn't know about this before. Of course it had been like this since I've been here. The Major promptly commissioned Don Erwin to come up with a more secure system of locking up the parking lot at night. Until then we've been directed to replace the coat hanger with a second pad lock.
Whoopee!
Harold Eversley wanted me to show him how the ADx machine worked and how the testing was performed. Since Robert was not around, and it was Ed Reitz's day off, I didn't see any harm in doing so. I enjoyed it really, showing off my expertise. As it happened I had three samples to run, two of which were from kitchen personnel who had been on overnight passes. Rico was one.
All three samples were negative. They had as low a reading as one can get.
Harold seemed genuinely interested in the procedure, and thanked me for showing him. He took off while I stayed to perform some routine maintenance. Temperature check, pipette check, and a nice photo check. The temperature check kept failing on me though. This had never happened to me before, and it took me a while to figure out what to do. I prevailed. I eventually adjusted the air set temperature up a twidge, and got it to pass. End of problem.
Whoopee!
Jim Docken's sister called me at the desk. We chatted for awhile. She asked me if her brother was still here. She hadn't heard from him for over three months and was very worried. I told her to stop worrying, that Jim had hooked up with Eddie Acuna and Hobart Rodgers, and so had a couple of companions to get drunk, destitute, and unraveled with.
Just kidding. I didn't really tell her that. I don't usually give out information about our clients, or our former clients, over the phone. But she sounded very distraught, and after all she was Jim's sister. So I made my voice gentle, soft, soothing, as I explained to her that it was none of her damn business what Jim was doing if he didn't want her to know.
Just kidding. I didn't really say that to her either. I must be in some kind of funny mood right now as I write this. I don't know why.
I told her I had seen him about a month ago, which was true, I had seen him about a month ago. I told her he had looked okay, and that he was wandering around. She sounded a little relieved at this bit of news, that he had at least been seen, and that he was still alive. I could tell she knew what "wandering around" meant. She thanked me and hung up.
One thing I told was not true. Jim had not looked okay really. He looked kind of like how I did when I first came here.
Robert relieved me at 3:00. I changed clothes and had dinner (deep fried catfish), then retired to my room to watch "Tiny Toons," on T.V. I fell asleep while watching "Star Trek, the Next Generation." I read out of the Bible when I woke up, and watched a movie about the kidnaping of the President, then went back to sleep.
This was my big and rare Friday night off.
I experienced a vague feeling of dissatisfaction, and sleep was welcome.
June 22 Saturday Day 284
My sister wrote Rockoff a reply to his letter. It was a nice, long letter. About twenty times as long and more detailed than any she had ever written to me.
I'm jealous!
In her letter she chastised me for typing my letter to her. She thanked Kevin for writing in long hand. She poured her heart out to him, telling her whole life story, and her deepest secrets.
All I ever get is, "Hi. I'm fine. See ya later."
Oh well, maybe this is the beginning of a new friendship. That's always a good thing.
I slept in this morning. After I woke I read for a while, then went downstairs in search of the elusive donut, but none where to be found. I wrote for most of the afternoon instead. I continued on into the evening as I worked my last shift of the week.
For me reading and writing about all of these different drugs has been quite an experience. It's as if I were saying goodbye to old friends. It had been nice. We had some good times, but now it was time to move on.
So long drugs! It was nice knowing ya. Hope I never see you again.
Goodbye?
Yes... goodbye.
June 23 Sunday Day 285
At 4:00AM, I heard Alan Ladd, Barbara Stanwick, Rachel Ward (who I'm still madly in love with), Burt Lancaster, Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Carl Riener, Bette Davis, Lana Turner, Kirk Douglas, Fred MacMurry, James Cagney, Charles Laughton, Ray Milland, Steve Martin, Ava Gardener , Veronica Lake, Joan Crawford, and Vincent Price roaming around in my room.
It was that seedy detective movie, "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid," again. Having already seen it (and despite Rachel) I returned to sleep.
Last night Steve Miller left us. He had gone to Vons at about 9:20PM, and on his way out he asked Bill Raushemplat, who was working with me on the desk, if he wanted anything from the store. The Bottomless Pit asked Steve to bring him back a Nestles Crunch bar.
Steve came back at 9:45, passed the breath test, handed over a plastic bag with Bill's Crunch bar, and went upstairs. Bill meanwhile, found a receipt in the plastic bag for a pint of peppermint schnapps that had been purchased just fifteen minutes earlier. He showed me the receipt.
I finished up my writing for the evening, made my 10:00 rounds, then took a breath-a-lizer up to Steve's dorm, where I found him lying in bed reading a magazine. His test was positive of course. A.C.O./H.B.D. (Administrative Check Out/Had Been Drinking).
On his way out Steve asked Bill for a bite of the Nestles Crunch bar.
Bill said, "Here, take the whole fucking thing, man."
We alcoholic people foul up like that all of the time. I can't remember how many times Jan busted me for drinking when I shouldn't have been, all due to some stupid little mistake like that.
It's very embarrassing, believe me.
Steve didn't seem to harbor any bad feelings about it. He knew what he had done and accepted the consequences.
Most do.
He even offered to help me chase away three young hoodlums who were vandalizing one of the trucks in the As-Is Yard. I didn't need his help though. All I had to do was yell at them and they ran away.
I suggested to Wolf Panolfi, after he arrived, that we should aquire some guard dogs for the truck yard.
"We can't," he replied. "We'll get sued."
"Can you imagine," I quipped, "the stark, raving, terror, an unsuspecting vandal would experience once he caught first sight of the fast moving herd of thirty, to forty five starved and crazed killer Chihuahuas, leaping out of the gloomy night, headed straight for their jugular?"
"Chihuahuas," Wolf said, taking a deep breath, "mean bastards."
After chapel Robert gave Ron Collins and myself a ride to the Sunday morning A.A. meeting at the American Legion. Skip was there. He gets there early and helps set up the chairs.
Charity, one of our A.R.C. counselors, a young, beautiful black lady with two children, was there also. She had come to celebrate her sobriety birthday, an A.A. custom. Starting from the day of our last drink, we celebrate each sober year by taking a birthday cake at a meeting. Those celebrating the successful conclusion of 365 days of sobriety get to choose someone close to us to present the cake to them. A candle for each year is placed on top of the cake and lit, the presenter presents the cake to them, it is accepted, the celebrator blows out the candle (or candles) a brief speech is made by the celebrator in which they describe how they got through the year without taking a drink, and that's that.
After the last birthday is recognized the "Happy Birthday Song," is sang by all of those in attendance. All in all a very elaborate affair.
Charity was celebrating her fourth birthday. She told me my new haircut looked good, that it made me look very "yuppyish," and handsome. I told her that I couldn't agree with her. She said that as a friend of mine she had no reason to lie.
After she said that I of course fell madly in love with her.
She was nice enough to give us a ride back after the meeting. I went to the park for awhile, then returned to my room to watch half of the Marlon Brando movie, "The Appaloosa." About half way through half of that movie I went down to have dinner (leftovers).
I also watched a brand new episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation." A two parter. This episode concerned Klingon love affairs, and the return of Lt. Tasha Yar as a Romulin. Interesting.
Later in the evening I watched, "The Mission," with Jeremy Irons and Robert DeNiro. A very beautiful and very sad movie. The director, Roland Joffe ("The Killing Fields") seems partial to creating films concerning man's inhumanity to man.
I stayed up a while after the movie, watching the half hour shows that come on late at night on Sundays. "Cheers," "Monsters," "Tales From the Darkside," "etc, etc, etc."
For some reason I actually began to form coherent thoughts while watching these programs.
Very unusual.
June 24 Monday Day 286
I had planned to get up in time to have breakfast and go over to the Union Station Big Book Study meeting, and maybe see how Dennis was doing. And I do actually remember getting up at 5:30, walking around in a small circle, turning off my alarm clock, and then falling back into bed to wake again just before lunch time.
Fish patties.
While enjoying my fish I learned that Rico Montgomery had been A.W.O.L. last night. A.C.O. Well, that was to be expected I guess. Rico was always more interested in what was happening outside the center than inside. This was just a place to hang his hat, lift weights, and do his laundry.
I wish the hard-headed, stupid bastard well.
I also learned that Jim Docken had been re-admitted this morning. Later, at dinner, I would find him and tell him to call his sister and tell her he was alright.
And Matthew Moreth returned to us today as well. As a resident. Apparently he got into a fist fight with the foreman at the church where he worked and lost his job. He had told me the last time he came to visit that he had relapsed, started to drink again.
That's how it is around here. They come and they go. Come and go. All except me and Rockoff, Mr. Vasquez, Harold Eversley, Ed McNicols, and the infamous David Griffith. Also Gilbert Salinas, who has been here longer than anyone else... anyone. He's been here since December 17th, 1971, almost 20 years (all Gilbert cares about in life, it seems, is working, and taking the money he earns to the race track (horses). The A.R.C. seems to be a perfect platform for this type of lifestyle). And good old Jack Crossley.
Reuben Smith, smart ass that he is, gave me a nice red bound book with blank pages throughout. In his warped, perverted little mind he thought it humorous to give me such a book. I looked through it deciding I could use it as a notebook, then noticed some pages had been torn from the very front. I also noticed that whoever ripped out the pages did so in a hurry, for they had missed three whole pages of written notes, sort of diary like entries, as if indeed, the book had been intended to be used as a diary, or a devise to record the author's thoughts. This work had been abandoned early on, as only six or seven pages had been utilized, before half of those were torn out, probably right before the book had been given up for donation. For that's what it obviously was, a donation which Reuben had pilfered from across the street.
Well, well, well. I suddenly found myself faced with a moral dilemma. Should I, or should I not, read through those diary like written pages, unbidden and without the author's knowledge or permission. If I choose not to read them, no big deal. It could just be a book someone used to make a shopping list for the market, or a list of things to do. It would not be hard for me to simply rip out the pages with writing on them and just throw them away. Then again, those written notes could be something else altogether, something much more important than a shopping list. If I did read them I would effectively be eavesdropping upon another person's privacy the author may have imagined and craved for themselves thereby raping the fruits of their soul. I thought over all of the possibilities, considered all of the moral and ethical standards that I wished to apply within my own new life of sobriety, debated whether or not, if I were the author, how would I feel if someone read my work without asking me.
This turmoil of indecision I found myself in lasted almost 4 seconds.Fish patties.
While enjoying my fish I learned that Rico Montgomery had been A.W.O.L. last night. A.C.O. Well, that was to be expected I guess. Rico was always more interested in what was happening outside the center than inside. This was just a place to hang his hat, lift weights, and do his laundry.
I wish the hard-headed, stupid bastard well.
I also learned that Jim Docken had been re-admitted this morning. Later, at dinner, I would find him and tell him to call his sister and tell her he was alright.
And Matthew Moreth returned to us today as well. As a resident. Apparently he got into a fist fight with the foreman at the church where he worked and lost his job. He had told me the last time he came to visit that he had relapsed, started to drink again.
That's how it is around here. They come and they go. Come and go. All except me and Rockoff, Mr. Vasquez, Harold Eversley, Ed McNicols, and the infamous David Griffith. Also Gilbert Salinas, who has been here longer than anyone else... anyone. He's been here since December 17th, 1971, almost 20 years (all Gilbert cares about in life, it seems, is working, and taking the money he earns to the race track (horses). The A.R.C. seems to be a perfect platform for this type of lifestyle). And good old Jack Crossley.
Reuben Smith, smart ass that he is, gave me a nice red bound book with blank pages throughout. In his warped, perverted little mind he thought it humorous to give me such a book. I looked through it deciding I could use it as a notebook, then noticed some pages had been torn from the very front. I also noticed that whoever ripped out the pages did so in a hurry, for they had missed three whole pages of written notes, sort of diary like entries, as if indeed, the book had been intended to be used as a diary, or a devise to record the author's thoughts. This work had been abandoned early on, as only six or seven pages had been utilized, before half of those were torn out, probably right before the book had been given up for donation. For that's what it obviously was, a donation which Reuben had pilfered from across the street.
Well, well, well. I suddenly found myself faced with a moral dilemma. Should I, or should I not, read through those diary like written pages, unbidden and without the author's knowledge or permission. If I choose not to read them, no big deal. It could just be a book someone used to make a shopping list for the market, or a list of things to do. It would not be hard for me to simply rip out the pages with writing on them and just throw them away. Then again, those written notes could be something else altogether, something much more important than a shopping list. If I did read them I would effectively be eavesdropping upon another person's privacy the author may have imagined and craved for themselves thereby raping the fruits of their soul. I thought over all of the possibilities, considered all of the moral and ethical standards that I wished to apply within my own new life of sobriety, debated whether or not, if I were the author, how would I feel if someone read my work without asking me.
The writer was a thirty-nine year old mother and wife. The mother of two daughters, Anita and Alyson. Wife of "Papa Bear," Frank. She briefly outlined the trials and tribulations within her life, her concern over her daughters - Anita, who was spending most of the summer on the phone and who was so "boy crazy," and Alyson, who sounds like the older of the two, who "needs love and understanding so much these days. I hope God will give me the wisdom to be as good a mother as I possibly can to both my daughters." What a rare thing to hope for, not a car, not a house, not a vacation, but to be a good mother.
I most certainly have fallen in love with her (despite Papa Bear).
She talks about the wonderful relationship she seems to have with her husband. A rarity in itself. She ends with, "My days are lazy and happy lately. No wonder I'm ten pounds overweight. P. Bear sure doesn't seem to mind! I love him with all my heart."
She never once mentioned her own name.
So I'm glad I've had this unlikely opportunity to experience her existence.
And I do (Anita, Alyson, and P. Bear too) wish her well.
June 25 Tuesday Day 287
We found out Rico is in jail. One of the girls he uses called us up and asked if we could hold his bags and possessions until he got out.
The word is that he had warrants out on him up the ying yang, and that's a lot of warrants.
Last night I attended the first Relapse Prevention Seminar this center has held. Very exciting. It was run by Barbara Grothe. She's very nice. We discussed the definitions of addiction and alcoholism. If we can resist the tendency of some of the group's members to turn the seminar into some kind of a Bible study the class should be very beneficial.
Barbara asked me to be a co-facilitator at a second relapse prevention group. That would be interesting.
As I was sorting through the morning's paperwork in my office, Ernie Sens came up and congratulated me. I assumed he was talking about my becoming an employee. I thanked him.
Ed Reitz asked me into his office. He gave me a package of papers to fill out so I could become employed.
Becoming an employee makes me feel good. So good that I decided to once again poison myself with nicotine, carbon monoxide, dimethylnitrosamine, vinyl chloride, arsenic, polonium-210, lead-210, and insecticide residues.
What a rush!
After dinner I watched "Tiny Toons Adventures," a whole new generation of the old Warner Brothers cartoon characters, produced by Steven Spielberg (that guy is everywhere!). I like the theme song. It reminds me of where I'm living. "We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little loony!"
At 11:30 I switched to a program on PBS concerning the mind, how it works, and the mechanism of memory. Fascinating. I hope to learn much more about this subject.
I am grateful for the mysterious set of circumstances that have allowed my mind to evolve and exist. My personal picture window to the universe.
I slept and dreamt of God.
June 26 Wednesday Day 288
Life is wonderful!
Every time I entered the upstairs apartment to check my laundry I inadvertently woke Russell Burke as he... meditated, utilizing the Corpse (prone) position on the couch just outside the chapel.
As Russell's supervisor, he's not supposed to let me catch him meditating during working hours. Robert has threatened him time and again to send him back to the sorting room if he ever caught him... meditating again. Russell intuitively knows that he can safely ignore these constant threats, that they are meaningless. He knows Ernie Sens will have no part of him and will not allow him to return to the warehouse, where Russell has been known to vanish for various lengths of time. Indeed, Robert found Russell lying down just yesterday afternoon, flat out on his bed with blankets tucked up under his chin, and nothing came of it.
I know what he's doing.
I did put my foot down (a pitiful, ceremonious display of authority), as I retrieved my last load. I found Roger Collins (who was supposed to be helping Russell) and Russell both asleep on the two couches outside the chapel, at a forty-five degree angle to each other, their heads close together, beautiful, angelic smiles upon their fat faces. If I let this continue, I reasoned, the whole damn janitorial staff would soon be up there draped across the furniture.
Russell will be leaving us soon I'm afraid. His father is quite ill, and Russell is going back to New York to visit him.
Kathy came today. She actually talked to me a little while.
I love it when women actually talk to me. We talked about the relapse prevention seminar I went to last Monday night. She was supposed to have attended, but couldn't make it. She must have been busy or something. We also talked about our respective nieces. Her's is one year younger than mine.
She assured me she would be here Monday for the next relapse meeting.
And she left. I asked her to drive carefully, and she said that she would.
Isn't she wonderful!?
June 27 Thursday Day 289
I was fairly exhausted after experiencing the wonderfulness of Kathy. I didn't want to get up this morning, but trooper that I am I forced myself.
Some little, bald-headed, skinny guy was hogging the bathroom sink. "Good morning, Robert," I said as I stepped into the shower.
Robert was up early to get a head start on a trip to Upland to visit his grandniece... or so he says.
I was up early to work all day.
I did get a nice break in the routine though at around 8:00AM. That's when I left for a 9:30 appointment at P.C.C. I was to talk to one of the school's counselors. While driving home to pick up his daughter, Clarence Orion saw me, and gave me a ride to the college.
I waited about ten minutes for the counselor to arrive. When she got there she settled into her office a little bit, made a phone call, then asked me to come in.
Her name was Janice Dwyer, a very attractive, blonde lady, who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about her work, and very helpful. I did not fall in love with her, however. She was much too bubbly.
We discussed my past school record, my current working situation, how many hours I worked, the extinction of the dinosaurs, my scholastic interests, and so on. I let her know that I wished to continue working with alcoholics and drug addicts and pursue that type of career. But having been out of school for so long (over 15 years) I had planned to ease back into academia by taking just one class the first semester, probably English 1A. She agreed that was probably a good idea. She gave me some nice pointers on what to do when I came back to register. We discussed some alternate courses if English 1A was unavailable, and some alternate methods of attending classes, useful for working adults like myself, such as televised lectures, and so forth. I had her list me as a psychology major.
She gave me some more useful hints, then I thanked her, told her I was available for dating purposes if she ever wished to leave her slob husband, and went blissfully on my way.
Back at the residence it was the same old routine.
I read in the paper that Saddam Hussein is probably being naughty again. It appears that he's hiding away weapons, or the means of manufacturing weapons of mass destruction. Chemical, biological, and nuclear. At least that's what we're being told.
Again I ask, what did we gain in that war?
Oil.
Ed Reitz was to be on the radio tonight. He was going to be interviewed on one of the local Christian radio networks concerning our work here at the center. I borrowed (took) a radio from Reuben Smith so I could listen to the interview in my office, but just as Ed was to go on the air I was told that someone had stolen the freezer repairman's multi-meter, and I was required to go get one of Don Erwin's from the warehouse or else all of the food in the walk-in freezer would thaw.
Of course now I had to investigate the theft of the repairman's multi-meter. Considering the time and location of the theft there were only three possible suspects. Considering the names of the three possible suspects, Matthew Moreth's name shined the brightest as the most likely to be that of the evil doer.
I'm very fond of Matthew, but I've been told he'll steal your front teeth if he felt he could get away with it.
Whoever stole the multi-meter was very quick about hiding the evidence. I made a pretty thorough search inside and outside of all the possible, probable, and unlikely hiding places and didn't find a thing. I searched Matthew's locker and found a lot of unauthorized food items, but no multi-meter.
Later, I just came out and asked Matthew where he had put it.
"Ah, ah, ah- in n in in in th, th the the the pawnshop."
"Damn you're fast Matthew! Too fast for me."
Art Svensk let me know that this would probably be his last two nights here as our relief night watchman.
"I gave em my notice ya know."
He's retiring.
"What notice Art?"
"Gonna retire. Gave em my notice."
"So this is going to be your last weekend?"
"I'll talk to Robert about it in the morning."
"So this might not be your last weekend then?"
"I'll talk to Robert."
I went to bed feeling awfully tired, confused, and with a big headache.
June 28 Friday Day 290
At 7:45 I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming of Julia Roberts, when the San Gabriel Mountains decided to move about three feet closer to my lonely room. Or my room moved closer to the mountains, whichever you prefer.
After approximately 10,000 years of relative inactivity the Sierra Madre Fault slipped in a vertical fashion, raising the height of the mountains about two inches, producing a 6.0 earthquake which devastated my book collection that had been sitting peacefully on the top shelf of my closet. The epicenter was only twelve miles away, 8 miles due north of Monrovia, which lies a little east of Pasadena. The activity was centered 7 miles below the mountains.
I first felt a slow shaking, rolling motion, and then a much stronger jolt. It lasted 10 seconds. After I felt the shaking stop and I felt sure that the worst was over, I went back to sleep.
I've been through a lot of earthquakes.
The worst I've experienced was in January of 1971, the Sylmar Quake. Me and my little dachshund, Buttons, slept through that one too. I can't seem to get excited about earthquakes. I don't mind them. I even like them if there are frightened females around who need comforting.
This is not to say that earthquakes aren't bad news. There have been two fatalities as a direct result of this morning's trembler. At the moment damage is estimated as rather minor, only about ten million dollars or so. No doubt the small amount of damage can be attributed to the depth of the quake's epicenter.
Besides raising havoc with all of my books, which were scattered all over my bedroom floor, there were a few cracks found here and there throughout the residence. The fire sprinkler's seem to have shifted a tad, some pictures fell off the walls. No big deal.
When I woke up I put my books back where they belonged, then went to the bathroom. As I sat there meditating, the lights went out. No janitors though... that was a good thing. I went back to bed determined to get back to sleep, but soon decided I should probably go switch the power off on the ADx machine so that when the power did return to the building, no surge would harm the machine's delicate circuits. After I did that I wandered around the building looking for damage. I met Robert and Schimmele near the chapel doing the same thing.
"We just thought about coming down to check on you," Schimmele said.
"See if you had a heart attack, or something," Robert added.
"Well I'm glad to know I was way up there on your priorities."
The only man who had not been affected by the quake was Hugh Hogle, who we found still asleep in his room.
The warehouse employees were sent home, and the beneficiaries were sent to the residence due to the power outage. Everybody got the day off, except me.
The lights came back on at 9:30. I went back to my room and watched the news on TV. At eleven I had lunch (cheeseburgers). I found out that my friend Tom Rotsch, had narrowly escaped being hit by a falling light fixture during the quake.
"Something told me to make a move," he told me.
After lunch I returned to my room to sleep, dreaming of Priscilla Presley and Maryam'd Abo.
By the time I got to work everything had pretty much returned to normal. At least normal for this place. Gratuity had already been distributed so there wasn't really that much to do. As the evening wore on I began reading about certain comparisons between prescription, over-the-counter, and black market drugs.
Then after that, and after my shift ended, I returned to my room once again to fall blissfully asleep, dreaming of Heather Thomas and Karen Valentine.
Hey, I have no control over my dreams.
June 29 Saturday Day 291
I forgot to mention that I called my dear sweet mother yesterday, after the earthquake. I called to let her know I was alright, that I was not hurt.
She told me that she had just become aware of the quake by overhearing the police in Barstow, California, talking about it over their radio communication network. Apparently the quake was felt there. My mother has a police scanner that she listens to while she sits at her coffee table and watches TV. It's better than "911," "Cops," or "America's Most Wanted," she tells me, and should become the new national craze. She has the ability to listen in on the police of several different communities; Barstow, Needles, Kingman, Las Vegas, and of course her own local police calls in Bullhead, and across the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nevada.
She knows what's happening around town.
She was not worried about me, by the way. She knows what earthquakes are like. She was in the same house with me during the one in 1971. Besides, the television reports that soon reached Bullhead mentioned few casualties.
She also let me know that she and my sister, and my precious little niece would more than likely be in Pasadena on Sunday to pay me a visit.
I told her that would be nice, and that I would look forward to it.
Five guys left the residence yesterday. Two voluntarily, one was A.W.O.L., and two H.B.D.s. One of the H.B.D.s was a Peruvian fellow who was still on his 30 day restriction period, and had somehow smuggled a bottle in. He proceeded to get plastered and made threatening remarks to his roommates, which was why they turned him in most likely. I found him passed out on his bunk, so I took a passive breath-a-lizer reading, .13. I had to give him the boot. He could hardly walk, but after a couple attempts I got him out the front door. Maybe the cold night air would sober him up. He was still sitting on the bench in the parking lot when I went to bed at midnight.
I wish all five of those guys well.
Robert spent the night in Baldwin Park, and asked me to fill in for him in the morning for a little while. So I was up rather early today. After he relieved me at 8:15, I walked to the store to buy some cigarettes. Dennis Smith was in front of the residence when I returned. Robert had just told him he couldn't be hanging around the residence any longer, that the Major had given orders there shall be no visiting by former clients who had left on an A.C.O. basis. Dennis was pretty angry and upset about that, but soon calmed down. I made a date with him for Monday to see the new movie, "Naked Gun 2 1/2, The Smell of Fear," with Leslie Nielson. I told him I'd pay.
I went to my room and napped until lunchtime. I dreamed of Demi Moore.
After lunch I asked Robert if I could walk over to the Music Plus store and pick out the weekend's VCR movies. Surprisingly he said yes. Probably because he had already been over there and hadn't been able to find a parking space in the small lot they provide.
I picked two new releases. "Another 48 Hours," with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy, and "Predator 2," starring a big ugly monster from Jamaica.
Pretty exciting.
And action packed.
Beside the normal paperwork and activities of the evening shift, and having to put up with Bill Raushemplat's bitching, crying, complaining, and moaning about one thing or another, I had the night pretty much to myself. I got Jerry Schimmele to help me put a whole bunch of donated stuff into the warehouse where thieves couldn't get to it, and then read some more about over-the-counter drugs, demographics, and what is known as the Gray-market (trade of a commodity through distribution channels which, while legal, are unofficial, unauthorized, or unintended by the original manufacturer).
My friend Dennis Castle, unintentional co-killer of horses, and ex-roommate, came in tonight at a little past 10:00 and registered a .02 on the breath-a-lizer.
"I had a little wine with dinner," he told Raushemplat in a low voice.
I wish him well.She told me that she had just become aware of the quake by overhearing the police in Barstow, California, talking about it over their radio communication network. Apparently the quake was felt there. My mother has a police scanner that she listens to while she sits at her coffee table and watches TV. It's better than "911," "Cops," or "America's Most Wanted," she tells me, and should become the new national craze. She has the ability to listen in on the police of several different communities; Barstow, Needles, Kingman, Las Vegas, and of course her own local police calls in Bullhead, and across the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nevada.
She knows what's happening around town.
She was not worried about me, by the way. She knows what earthquakes are like. She was in the same house with me during the one in 1971. Besides, the television reports that soon reached Bullhead mentioned few casualties.
She also let me know that she and my sister, and my precious little niece would more than likely be in Pasadena on Sunday to pay me a visit.
I told her that would be nice, and that I would look forward to it.
Five guys left the residence yesterday. Two voluntarily, one was A.W.O.L., and two H.B.D.s. One of the H.B.D.s was a Peruvian fellow who was still on his 30 day restriction period, and had somehow smuggled a bottle in. He proceeded to get plastered and made threatening remarks to his roommates, which was why they turned him in most likely. I found him passed out on his bunk, so I took a passive breath-a-lizer reading, .13. I had to give him the boot. He could hardly walk, but after a couple attempts I got him out the front door. Maybe the cold night air would sober him up. He was still sitting on the bench in the parking lot when I went to bed at midnight.
I wish all five of those guys well.
Robert spent the night in Baldwin Park, and asked me to fill in for him in the morning for a little while. So I was up rather early today. After he relieved me at 8:15, I walked to the store to buy some cigarettes. Dennis Smith was in front of the residence when I returned. Robert had just told him he couldn't be hanging around the residence any longer, that the Major had given orders there shall be no visiting by former clients who had left on an A.C.O. basis. Dennis was pretty angry and upset about that, but soon calmed down. I made a date with him for Monday to see the new movie, "Naked Gun 2 1/2, The Smell of Fear," with Leslie Nielson. I told him I'd pay.
I went to my room and napped until lunchtime. I dreamed of Demi Moore.
After lunch I asked Robert if I could walk over to the Music Plus store and pick out the weekend's VCR movies. Surprisingly he said yes. Probably because he had already been over there and hadn't been able to find a parking space in the small lot they provide.
I picked two new releases. "Another 48 Hours," with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy, and "Predator 2," starring a big ugly monster from Jamaica.
Pretty exciting.
And action packed.
Beside the normal paperwork and activities of the evening shift, and having to put up with Bill Raushemplat's bitching, crying, complaining, and moaning about one thing or another, I had the night pretty much to myself. I got Jerry Schimmele to help me put a whole bunch of donated stuff into the warehouse where thieves couldn't get to it, and then read some more about over-the-counter drugs, demographics, and what is known as the Gray-market (trade of a commodity through distribution channels which, while legal, are unofficial, unauthorized, or unintended by the original manufacturer).
My friend Dennis Castle, unintentional co-killer of horses, and ex-roommate, came in tonight at a little past 10:00 and registered a .02 on the breath-a-lizer.
"I had a little wine with dinner," he told Raushemplat in a low voice.
June 30 Sunday Day 292
I was very tired this morning. I didn't want to get up. But there were things happening today that I was looking forward to, which is rare, so I put a cheery smile on my sleepy face and started my day.
Chapel went well. All of us ushers managed to keep from stumbling over each other.
Ed Reitz sang a song. Over the months I've grown very fond of Ed, but I must say, while singing his face looks like one of those animated robots you can find in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.
Nothing wrong with that of course.
After the service Robert pulled me over toward Mrs. Johnson and asked her about a painting which had been in the upstairs apartment which I wished to purchase. At the same time, Ed came up and congratulated me on becoming an employee tomorrow. Suddenly I found myself the center of attention and conversation, and felt very popular. Mrs. Johnson said I could have the painting, and asked about my mom and sister. I thanked Ed, and told him his song was lovely.
That was stretching it a bit, but one must be tactful.
Robert drove me and Ron Collins to our Sunday morning meeting. The speaker was a nice black lady who told us of her life and her experiences with alcohol. She had almost twenty years of sobriety, and was fun to listen to. I'm afraid I fell in love with her. Along with all of the pretty girls who were sitting in the row in front of us. Particularly the brunette with great legs who wore glasses. I especially fell in love with her. Really. I must have a thing for brunettes with great legs who wear glasses.
As well as blondes, with or without the glasses.
And redheads, lets not forget those.
My mom and sister and Keri arrived directly at 3:00. Keri was the first in the door, and I picked her up and gave her a big hug. She is so, so beautiful. Blonde and blue-eyed, with a quick bright smile. In the past she has been somewhat shy towards me, probably because I haven't been around all that much. But not so today. She gave me hugs back, and demanded kisses.
My other two relatives were a different matter. Oh my mom was her usual sociable self, but my sister seemed rather sullen. She hadn't gotten much sleep on the drive over, maybe that was why. She'd been up since 4:00AM. In any case, all she had to say was that I was getting fat and developing a bald spot on the back of my head. She came five hundred miles to tell me that.
Whenever I need such verbal abuse all I have to do is come to work to get it.
She did seem impressed with the upstairs apartment (I told her it was my room).
Keri was fascinated with everything, and wanted to go exploring. My mom and Cheryl put a leash on her.
When I look at Keri I see the future. She will undoubtedly create tons of problems and misery for my poor sister in the years to come. She is already a difficult child, very obstinate, but very smart and clever, and as I've said, very pretty. She has manifested a clear rebellious nature at a very early age, always claiming her independence. She will be magnificent when and if she matures.
Dear Keri: one day you will read this and understand what I am saying. Please try and remember your Uncle Rick fondly. I am human, and make the mistakes that humans make, as you, yourself will make. I'll always forgive yours. Try and forgive mine. I'll try and help you if I can. If you wish me to try. I love you with all of my heart.
She presented me with a picture that she had drawn herself with crayons. Barbie holding a panda bear. Barbie has blue hair in this picture. My little niece probably did not know this but whenever I see pictures of Barbie with blue hair I get tremendously horny. I don't know why.
I shall tape the picture to the inside of the door to my lonely room.
We all had dinner here together (left over turkey and chicken patties), then my family left at about 4:30.
I felt a little weird after they took off. Like there was nothing I could ever do to show them I was alright. That I was worthy of their love. Family can make us alcoholic people feel that way sometimes. It all takes time I guess.
One must be patient.
I watched a rerun of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," then went down and got a seat for the Sunday night VCR movie, "Predator 2." a very good action packed movie starring Danny Glover. A good sequel. Lots of gratuitous violence.
I went to bed and to sleep early tonight. Tomorrow would be another fun day, and besides, there was nothing but reruns on "Monsters."
I had strange dreams. Dreams that I was back in school, in a high school setting, rather than college, and that I was drinking again. Drinking before each class and trying to hide it.
Horrible dreams.
I guess they never go away.
But the thing is... they're only dreams.
July 1 Monday Day 293
Several good things happened today.
The first and most important of course is that I woke up. Because I was able to do that I have a whole world of possibilities another day of existence and awareness brings to me.
But how do I know I really exist? Or that anything exists outside of myself... a solipsistic dilemma. What if this is all a dream, and the dreams I fancy I'm having while sleeping is the true reality?
Oh let's not get into that now shall we!
The second good thing (I think) that happened is that I am no longer a beneficiary of the Salvation Army. I am now an employee of the Salvation Army, hired to do the same job I've been doing all along.
This change was painless. I did not feel it occur. It just happened. Sort of how it feels to get another day older.
Other than that, it being my day off there wasn't much of anything of particular importance that I needed to be doing, so I played it cool, kept my wits about me, and went to the movies.
"The Naked Gun, Part 2 1/2 - The Smell of Fear," was hilarious. The scene with Zsa Zsa Gabor, near the beginning, was worth the price of admission alone. I'm very afraid that the guy who reviewed the film for the L.A. Times must have been suffering from a slight case of head up his assedness the day he saw the movie.
The cast was great, it was well written, it even had a little trivia puzzle for Twilight Zone fans near the end. Wonderful!
But I admit, I'm a sucker for these kinds of movies.
I wrote when I got back to the residence. Had a little dinner, then went up to my lonely room to watch "Tiny Toons Adventures."
About half way through a "Star Trek, the Next Generation," rerun, I went down to the small dinning room for the relapse prevention workshop. I had put on a new shirt before hand so I would look nice. I even ironed it, something I am wrought to do. I wasn't trying to look good for the other guys in the seminar. Oh no, I could care less about them. Nor was I trying to impress Barbara, who I consider a great friend of mine, a dear lady I am very fond of.
But Kathy was coming, and I wished to make a favorable impression.
She stuck her head in the door five minutes before we started. Appearing shy and awkward, she placed herself in an empty chair in the far corner away from the rest of us. She intrigued me. In this day and age, when flashy clothes and make up seem to be the going thing, Kathy preferred simple clothes, jeans and a pullover sweater, looking unpretentious, with clean dark hair surrounding a pretty, unmade up face.
Or maybe she's just a slob, I'm not sure. If I were to make a guess at her age I would say late 20s, or 30.
The thing I find most engaging about her is her obvious sincerity while attempting to help others and herself. I know she has about three years of sobriety. I can't think of a better thing for a young sober person to do rather than learn about their own disease, helping yourself by doing so, and at the same time trying to help others who suffer from the same affliction.
I guess I'm trying to do that also.
She counsels Ron Collins, and he tells me that she is a very good counselor, and has been extremely helpful to him. Ron needs all of the help he can get. I know Kathy inquires about her other clients quite often, especially when they are not around when she comes to talk to them. She wonders and worries about them.
All in all it appears she is a very neat lady.
I must watch myself. She is exactly the kind of girl I could fall in love with. I mean REALLY fall in love with.
She's probably married... or worse, has a boyfriend. And it would just be my luck to fall in love with an unaccessible person, like somebody else's girl. She would no doubt spurn my affections, and I hate when that happens... having my affections spurned. I would surely be crushed, instantly relapse, and fall forever into the eternal pits of Hell!
So be it.
We talked a little after the meeting. She seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. That's a start. She hadn't known that I was a graduate of this program. I found out that she has both the 4th and 5th of July off from her daytime job.
Fat lot of good I can do with that information!
I told her I would see her next Wednesday as she walked off to counsel Ron Cooper.
Lovely girl.
I went back to my lonely room and read for awhile. I watched a program about our biological clocks on PBS, and how important to get a lot of sleep and all. I almost fell asleep half way through it. I was a little tired.
But later that night, after I had finished watching "Nightline," and had turned off the TV, I had trouble getting to sleep.
I was thinking of Kathy, and all of the marvelous talks we would have in the future.
July 2 Tuesday Day 294
When I dropped off the morning paperwork Ed Reitz pulled me into his office to fill out a few more forms conducive to my being an employee. We went upstairs to see Pattie Orion, Clarence's wife and the office manager and personnel person. She told me about some company rules and regulations.
Then I turned in my old badge to Clarence, the man in charge of badges. My old badge had a green stripe in the upper right hand corner denoting my status as a beneficiary, a client of the Salvation Army, and the picture on that badge was of course taken on my first day here at the center, just after I had checked out of the Park hotel, while I was still busy looking like a diseased fur trapper.
Clarence was going to give me a shiny new badge with a red stripe in the upper right hand corner. The red stripe meant I was an employee. He was going to take a new picture of me also, something he normally does not do in cases such as these. He said he was doing it only because he figured the only thing my old picture was good for was scaring cockroaches and stray mice to death.
I'm afraid that Bill Raushemplat is no longer on the desk with us. I guess I kinda pushed him over the edge, and he exploded and went boom.
It had been coming for a long time. Poor Bill has some kind of evil demon inside of him which makes him intensely angry at... well, just about everything. Nothing suits him. He doesn't like the food, and complains bitterly to the cooks everyday. He doesn't like his hours, he doesn't like his job. People call here on the phone and he hangs up on them. He has hung up on Ed Reitz twice. He gets into arguments with the drivers, he gets into arguments with the clients, he gets into arguments with the counselors, he argues with me and Mr. Vasquez. He is without a doubt the most difficult person I have ever had to work with in my entire life. His attitude precludes his popularity around here, to say the least.
And the sad thing about it is as far as he's concerned he's the one who is being constantly wronged, continuously persecuted, and meticulously interfered with. In his mind he's a little angel who is being attacked from every direction. He thinks he's doing a great job, and does not understand, and gets very offended by the fact that we do not feel he has earned, and never give him, any extra, extra work canteen cards each week.
This man is seriously deluded. When I or anyone else tries to talk with him about why he is so angry, all we can get from him is, "I hate this place." Sounds like Scott Feeney. But Bill means it.
He plans to leave here on the 19th of July and go back to Miami where, "everything will be much better." That's where Bill comes from, Miami. Unfortunately he is taking himself with him, and I expect he'll have the same problems there as he has had here.
The origen of his hate and anger lie within himself, and no change of scenery will bring a change to that.
Anyway, I had to put Bill on the Saturday work list for ignoring my request that he tuck in his shirt while in the dining room (as per house rules). He disregarded my instruction, thereby giving me a symbolic "fuck you, you can't tell me what to do." I don't like symbolic "fuck you's," and gave him the Saturday work tour.
When he found out about it later in the afternoon he made such a ruckus in the lobby, shouting at both myself and Robert, that Robert fired him right then and there. Bill stormed off. He gave everyone dirty looks for the rest of the evening.
Such is life.
I saw Jill tonight for the first time in three weeks. I had been avoiding her because she makes me slightly nervous. I always act like an idiot when I'm around her. It's not that she intimidates me, or at least I don't think she does. Maybe she reminds me too much of Debbie. But why would that bother me? Debbie didn't intimidate me either. At least I don't think she did. I don't know. I really don't know. I'm confused. Women are a major mystery to me. Jill did not appear to have missed me, not that I really thought that she would. She seemed pleasant enough this evening, exchanging teasing remarks with me and Robert about this week's color of her fingernails. She is always beautiful.
As per Ed Reitz's instructions, I invited her to next Sunday's employee picnic. Maybe she'll go.
I was laying on my bed, near 11:00, just before a rerun of "Cheers," was to begin, when someone knocked on my door. It was Bill Raushemplat.
"I know I lost my job, but I just wanted to apologize... but I hate this fucking place! I hate this fucking place!"
July 3 Wednesday Day 295
Poor old Bill Raushemplat was sent over to the warehouse this morning. For some reason he thought he would get his old, nice, cushy job back in the phone room. But they were fed up with him there as well, and he wound up on the dock unloading trucks. His attitude was such that after only forty-five minutes his fellow dock workers needed to be restrained from dismembering him. So a wise Bill Richardson (dock foreman) removed him from that work station, and gave him over to Charles Parsons to work in the sorting room. After five minutes there Raushemplat went to Ed Reitz's office and complained bitterly about his roommate, Luis Rublacava. Bill demanded to be moved to another dorm stating irreconcilable differences. Ed listened to him patiently, sent him on his way, then phoned me and told me to keep him in the same dorm for the time being. Bill went from Ed's office, down the hall to Clarence Orion's office and began to give Clarence a hard time. Bill claimed he wasn't feeling well and demanded a bed rest pass. Clarence, mainly to get Bill out of his hair, gave it to him. So Bill came back to the residence where he stayed mostly in his dorm, grumbling at all who came near.
My day was rather peaceful in the morning, maddeningly hectic in the afternoon, and satisfyingly calm in the evening. Kathy came tonight. I must say I don't know how to approach this girl, or even if I should. Maybe that would be the worst thing possible for our respective recoveries. Maybe I think too much. I do find myself genuinely drawn to her. She keeps giving me little glances. Of course I wouldn't know that unless I was giving her glances of my own. After she wished all of the guys hanging out in the lobby a "safe and sane and sober" holiday, I wished her a good weekend and cautioned her to drive safely. She then left.
Darrell Sipp looked at me and said, "I think she has a thing for you. A small thing, but a thing." What an odd statement for him to make.
I just happened to be strolling outside as Kathy was pulling out of the parking lot. She waved at me. I waved back.
Later I went upstairs to the bathroom in the sample room to have a cigarette. I remembered that I had seen Kathy standing outside earlier talking to Ron Collins. She was smoking a cigarette. Hummm. Maybe I won't quit for a while after all.
July 4 Thursday Day 296
The Fourth of July! Independence Day!
Last year I was at the Van Nuys center getting ready to be framed and tossed out, and beginning my last relapse. This year I'm nice and sober again, and looking forward to a sixteen hour shift of joy and happiness.My day was rather peaceful in the morning, maddeningly hectic in the afternoon, and satisfyingly calm in the evening. Kathy came tonight. I must say I don't know how to approach this girl, or even if I should. Maybe that would be the worst thing possible for our respective recoveries. Maybe I think too much. I do find myself genuinely drawn to her. She keeps giving me little glances. Of course I wouldn't know that unless I was giving her glances of my own. After she wished all of the guys hanging out in the lobby a "safe and sane and sober" holiday, I wished her a good weekend and cautioned her to drive safely. She then left.
Darrell Sipp looked at me and said, "I think she has a thing for you. A small thing, but a thing." What an odd statement for him to make.
I just happened to be strolling outside as Kathy was pulling out of the parking lot. She waved at me. I waved back.
Later I went upstairs to the bathroom in the sample room to have a cigarette. I remembered that I had seen Kathy standing outside earlier talking to Ron Collins. She was smoking a cigarette. Hummm. Maybe I won't quit for a while after all.
July 4 Thursday Day 296
The Fourth of July! Independence Day!
The day turned out alright really. Much more relaxed than yesterday. In the morning I had some business with the trailer in the thrift store parking lot. Then paperwork. Schimmele and I walked over to Music Plus where I rented the video, "Born on the Fourth of July." And later we gave away six door prizes, one every hour from 9:00AM to 2:00PM. At 10:00 Mr. Pandolfi picked my room number out of the barrel, and I won. It was in no way fixed. I won fair and square. Really. I was meant to have that Irish Spring deodorant.
Most of the day was spent reading articles out of old issues of Omni magazine. And eating. The buffet was laid out from 12:30 to 4:00.
Yum yum.
Most of the guys who stayed near the residence today laid around, catching up on sleep, playing pool, doing laundry. Some faithfully watched the famous July 4th Twilight Zone marathon on channel five. I must admit, I checked in on a few episodes.
A family from Demark, Copenhagen actually, were staying with us in the upstairs apartment. They would be with us most of this month. A man with his wife, and two young sons. All blonde. They seem like nice people. I don't know what their connection with the Salvation Army is, or if they're here on some sort of business. They don't seem to be. They've been seeing the sights; Disneyland, Universal Studios, Magic Mountain, places like that.
At about 9:00PM, when it got dark outside, I gave them a call up in their apartment and told them (I'm quite fluent in Danish) that if they looked out of their balcony window they might be able to catch a glimpse of a very unusual sight. Indeed, a very American sight.
Up above the Rose Bowl, directly north of the residence, the multicolored skyrockets exploded and exploded.
July 5 Friday Day 296
I got up early, took a quick shower, and with Marvin Gardenhire, went to see the new release, "Terminator 2, Judgment Day." The movie stars Linda Hamilton, Arnie Schwarzenegger, and special effects. Like "Predator 2," this is a faithful sequel, and very good, very action packed. The director, James Cameron, wrote and directed the first Terminator movie as well as this one, so you might say it was a labor of love. I enjoyed both films equally well, which says something about expanded budgets for making movies, and the real importance of story and characterization. The first film cost less than 15 million dollars to produce, while the sequel, it is rumored, cost between 80 and 100 million. The cost of the sequel is what most film producers would consider a tremendous success if their own films generated anything close to that amount in revenue.
Going to the movies was a pleasant way to spend this hot and smoggy morning in any case.
After the film we returned to the residence, and I got ready for my afternoon shift.
I wrote in the lobby before work, and continued to write throughout the somewhat busy evening. Roger Collins is now on the desk (imagine my joy), replacing Bill Raushemplat. I spent some time showing him the various ropes.
George Staub was expected tonight for a brief visit. He was scheduled to stay overnight in the small apartment.
Later, after going to bed, I would sleep and dream of Natalie Wood and Jill St. John fighting over me.
July 6 Saturday Day 298
George Staub came in last night at about 9:00. He looks the same. He acts the same. He didn't remember my name. He kept stealing glances at my identification badge to find out what my name was so it wouldn't appear as if he had forgotten it. He needn't have bothered. He could never remember my name even when he was still working here.
He seems alright. He works for the Salvation Army in Phoenix now. He says it's hot there. I have little trouble believing him. He also says there is less of a traffic problem in Phoenix that there is here in LA. I have even less trouble believing that. Anywhere has less of a traffic problem than Los Angeles. He says he and his lovely wife eat a lot of popcorn for dinner, and that eating popcorn saves them a lot of time in the evenings.
I suppose it would.
He asked me how I was doing, then went to bed. He said we would talk later.
He always says that. He used to say to me, "You and I should have a little talk," when he was our program director. We never did. I'm sure he was sincere when saying that, and that he really did wish to talk with me. He just never got around to it.
George was long gone, and well on his way back to Arizona when I got up this morning.
So much for George.
Bye, bye.
I came down and had a little salad for lunch. Then I talked to Robert. He wanted me to go get the weekend movies again. Tom Rotsch went with me. I picked "Chinatown," and it's sequel, "The Two Jakes." I have not seen the sequel, so I will show it tomorrow night so I can watch it.
I went to the park and laid out in the sun for an hour or so. I listened to good Led Zeppelin music on the radio.
My shift went so smoothly I had the time to finish reading the Licit and Illicit Drug book from Consumers Union.
I highly recommend it.
July 7 Sunday Day 299
David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash. They woke woke me up at 6:30 in the morning singing about helplessly hoping.
Noisy bastards!
I got out of bed with great expectations, for this was the day of the great employee picnic. I showered then dressed in my picnic clothes, for I had surreptitiously gotten the word that all of us picnic goers would not be required to attend chapel.
So I was all happy and everything, like a kid let out of school an hour early.
My happiness was short lived. I had just returned from an 8:30 trip to the store to buy cigarettes, when Mr. Vasquez announced that the Major wanted all of us picnic goers to attend chapel. This meant several things. First it meant that I would have to change clothes in a hurry as chapel would be starting in half an hour. Second, since us residence picnic goers were the ones bringing the picnic supplies; food, games, sodas, etc., the festivities would not be able to start until we got there, and a scheduled 10:00 picnic would now probably not begin until noon. Third, and most important, I would have to sit through another hour long chapel service.
I must admit I was a little ticked off when Robert told me this. I dislike abrupt changes in the plan. I calmed down quickly enough. Just one more disappointment to deal with in this veal of tears. Nothing to drink over.
Chapel got out fifteen minutes early in any case. Then Tom Rotsch, Richard Hendrickson, and myself, with the help of Harold Eversley and Joe Brown, packed up Red Shield 12 with picnic goodies, and were on our way.
The picnic was to be held at the Santa Fe Dam Recreational facility, in Irwindale. And we almost made it there before we realized we had forgotten the two thirty gallon containers of ice, and all of the water. We turned around and went back to the residence, picked up those items of necessity, then turned our direction once again toward the dam.
It's a lovely park. It has a lake and everything. The lake is about a mile long and a couple of hundred yards wide, which sail and paddle boats made use of, floating around at a leisurely pace, gliding effortlessly across the calm surface.
Our picnic area had been reserved a head of time, which was a good thing because the park was very crowded on this Sunday afternoon. There was high cloud cover to give us some relief from the hot, July sun, so all in all it was very nice.
I didn't know most of the people there. It wasn't because I was a new employee. It was rather for the fact that the girls in the front office or the warehouse didn't show up, neither did the truck drivers, or the guys from the Transition House, except for Charles Parsons, all of whom I came into contact with on a regular basis. Most of the people who did show up were employed at the various stores the Salvation Army maintains in the San Gabriel Valley, and whom I didn't know from beans, and would usually never have occasion to meet. So this was an exciting opportunity to get to know everybody, and make myself known. It's too bad that I'm so shy and all, and socially inept.
Ed Reitz and his lovely family helped to break the ice by immediately involving a bunch of helpless victims in a water balloon toss, myself included. I even won the damn thing! Me and my partner, Dan Jones, the former resident, now warehouse janitor. We were the ones with the last intact balloon.
Very exciting!
Chow time after the toss. I made a big pig of myself by having two burgers and a hot dog. They were good.
The Major and Mrs. Johnson showed up eventually, with our Danish guests. They ate and then took off. The Major is prone to skin cancer, it seems, and cannot stand around in the sun for very long.
Later we played a little volleyball. Again I found myself on the winning team. We trashed Ed Reitz thoroughly.
Poor, poor Ed.
Tom Rotsch, enthusiastic fellow that he is, made a flying dive into the lake (fully clothed) going after the ball.
I almost damn near won the egg toss as well, but I gave my partner, Tom, a short throw, and the egg squished in his hands. Harold Eversley, and his beautiful ladyfriend, Ellie, held on to become the winners.
After the picnic everyone began to leave in small groups until the same bunch of people who had loaded the truck got stuck with the job of loading it back up again with leftover picnic trash and garbage. After we finished all of this loading, we left.
I got back just in time for "Star Trek, the Next Generation," but it was another rerun, and I soon fell asleep, tired out from the day's activities.
Kevin Rockoff woke me up an hour later by knocking on my door. He needed me to come down to the desk because the breath-a-lizer was acting up. He thought it needed a new battery. It had given Keith Kinsler a reading of 8.80, which would have meant that (1) that Keith was dead, and (2) his body had been floating in a vat of alcohol for the last three weeks. Kevin had been right, the breath-a-lizer did need a new battery. It began to work just fine after we put one in. Good enough to bust old Keith, who it turns out had in fact been drinking. He registered a .07. Keith said, "Bullshit!" He said he didn't believe the device was working properly. I blew in it myself and showed him the .00 reading, then had him blow again.
He went upstairs to pack his bags.
I got a front row seat for the Sunday Night VCR Movie, "The Two Jakes," the sequel to "Chinatown." Jack Nicholson starred in "Chinatown," of course, and starred in and directed "The Two Jakes." I was very impressed. usually sequels appear about a year or two after the original, maybe four or five, as to capitalize on the success of the first film. In this instance there had been fifteen years between the making of Roman Polanski's stylish detective drama, and "The Two Jakes." I got a little nostalgic thinking about it. Both films are period pieces, set in Los Angeles, before and after World War II respectively. And both were saturated with atmosphere, which made it easy to become nostalgic. As Nicholson's character, J.J. Getties, found himself looking into his own past toward the events first introduced in "Chinatown," I found myself thinking and remembering what my life had been like since I first saw that movie in the mid-seventies. I saw how Nicholson had changed, and saw how I had changed (Boy, Jack sure has gotten a lot older (and fatter). I remembered the supporting characters in the sequel who had also appeared in the first film (boy, they've gotten a lot older too). I wonder what it must have been like to have all of those people after so many years get back together once again for this project. What it must have felt like to take up where the first story left off. I wondered how much the actors lives had become intrinsically involved with the lives of their film characters, who had lived and changed just as they had. How odd it must have felt.
And I knew that by remembering my life, then and now, that watching those movies at two different and distinct periods of my life, these films have certainly become a part of me, a part of my make up, my existence. My fate has in some small way been influenced by the creation of Robert Towne, mixed inexorably with the fate of Jake Getties, Noah Cross, and the tragedy of the Malway women.
That's the beauty of film I guess. You never know what will happen and how they'll make you feel.
July 8 Monday Day 300
Wendy, the beautiful blonde counselor who comes here on Monday mornings, gave me a great big, gorgeous, unsolicited, smile this morning as I sat in the lobby reading the business section of the L.A. Times.
Wow! She's never done that before. She's been working here for as long as I've been around and she usually acts very shy and will hardly say hello. But I guess she must think I'm okay now, since I've been helping her get her clients from the warehouse when they are slow in showing up.
That smile was sure worth any effort I put out. It brightened my whole day.
Considering it was raining outside that was quite an accomplishment.
I stayed in the lobby (hoping for another smile?), and wrote. After lunch I helped Robert with the massive amount of urine that we had collected over the weekend. One complication after another kept me there until dinner time.
We discussed the different stages of recovery in our relapse prevention workshop. We also talked about the brain's capacity to sustain damage, which fortunately for all of us present is considerable.
I watched an interesting program concerning the Actor's Workshop In New York City. Then on Nightline, a show focusing on a famine in Ethiopia, and how the relief supplies have been diverted by corrupt local officials.
I really could not bare to watch this program for very long. The rapid interchange of images illustrating scenes of mass starvation, fly blown bodies, and sun baked graves, sprinkled with new car, beer, and bubble gum commercials was just too much.
I turned it off and thought for awhile, then went to bed.
July 9 Tuesday Day 301
Three hundred days! Sixty five, or there abouts to go.
Back to work this morning.
Oh boy!
Clarence Orion and Ed Reitz both asked me if I had been an employee while at the Van Nuys Center. I hadn't been of course. I was only there a mere forty five days. The day before they threw me out I was offered a job as an assistant dispatcher which could have turned into an payroll job, but that's as far as it went. The next day Major Engels gave me the boot for something I didn't do, and I made my way to the Americana Theater in Panorama City (a movie theater I'd gone to throughout my teens) to watch "Die Hard 2," and suck down a bottle of tequila.
I wonder why they asked that question.? Oh well, both of them said it wasn't important.
I wrote in the morning, and went about my daily routine without difficulty. In the afternoon I found time to re-read some excerpts from James Mills, "The Underground Empire," a fascinating expose of the world of the international drug trafficker. I highly recommend this book, and will talk about again later this week.
Just as I got off work one of the maintenance people ran a snake through a drain somewhere which generated the most foul smelling stink that permeated throughout the entire building. I hid away in my lonely room until the air cleared.
After "Star Trek, the Next Generation," I retired to the canteen for a cool cheeseburger. Jill was there, talking with Luis Rublacava. We did not converse.
I returned upstairs after my cheeseburger to watch the 8:00 channel 5 movie, "Critters 2, the Main Course." This of course is the sequel to "Critters," both films concerning the hair brained antics of a brood of carnivorous alien, ex-con, porcupine balls, that roll around and eat people. This film gave me a feeling of nostalgia actually. I thought back when I first saw "Critters." Many of the original cast members from the first film were in the sequel, and I couldn't help but think about how much their life had changed (and if they were aware of the change) since the making of the first film. How they must have felt coming back to it once again. I felt that somehow my fate was intermingled...
Oh shit, the first time I viewed "Critters," I was sitting in my apartment drunk, and high on pot. I don't even remember it... except that it was silly.
Like the sequel.
I turned off the T.V. after watching "Nightline," and thought about Kathy. Perhaps I'd have a chance to talk to her tomorrow.
Back to work this morning.
Oh boy!
Clarence Orion and Ed Reitz both asked me if I had been an employee while at the Van Nuys Center. I hadn't been of course. I was only there a mere forty five days. The day before they threw me out I was offered a job as an assistant dispatcher which could have turned into an payroll job, but that's as far as it went. The next day Major Engels gave me the boot for something I didn't do, and I made my way to the Americana Theater in Panorama City (a movie theater I'd gone to throughout my teens) to watch "Die Hard 2," and suck down a bottle of tequila.
I wonder why they asked that question.? Oh well, both of them said it wasn't important.
I wrote in the morning, and went about my daily routine without difficulty. In the afternoon I found time to re-read some excerpts from James Mills, "The Underground Empire," a fascinating expose of the world of the international drug trafficker. I highly recommend this book, and will talk about again later this week.
Just as I got off work one of the maintenance people ran a snake through a drain somewhere which generated the most foul smelling stink that permeated throughout the entire building. I hid away in my lonely room until the air cleared.
After "Star Trek, the Next Generation," I retired to the canteen for a cool cheeseburger. Jill was there, talking with Luis Rublacava. We did not converse.
I returned upstairs after my cheeseburger to watch the 8:00 channel 5 movie, "Critters 2, the Main Course." This of course is the sequel to "Critters," both films concerning the hair brained antics of a brood of carnivorous alien, ex-con, porcupine balls, that roll around and eat people. This film gave me a feeling of nostalgia actually. I thought back when I first saw "Critters." Many of the original cast members from the first film were in the sequel, and I couldn't help but think about how much their life had changed (and if they were aware of the change) since the making of the first film. How they must have felt coming back to it once again. I felt that somehow my fate was intermingled...
Oh shit, the first time I viewed "Critters," I was sitting in my apartment drunk, and high on pot. I don't even remember it... except that it was silly.
Like the sequel.
I turned off the T.V. after watching "Nightline," and thought about Kathy. Perhaps I'd have a chance to talk to her tomorrow.
July 10 Wednesday Day 302
Gerald Schimmele has now taken over as the first floor janitor for Russell Burke who has gone back east to visit his ailing father.
While Jerry was vacuuming the elevator this morning he let the automatic door close on him while he continued to work in the small space, never once anticipating Curtis Carter summoning the elevator from the basement, making it descended, with Jerry still in it, and a vacuum cleaner still very much attached to the first floor.
Actually those vacuum cleaner electrical cords stretch quite a bit before parting with a noticeable "TWAAANNNGGGG!"
Dennis Smith came by to pick up his stuff. I hadn't seen him for awhile and was beginning to worry about him. He is at Grandview, a small, residential recovery home. Very intensive program I hear. He seems happy about it, that's the main thing.
Andre Laws just got kicked out of there, Dennis told me.
I did get to talk to Kathy. I must admit I got a bit nervous thinking about her coming tonight, preoccupied you might say. I forgot to place the flowers on the chapel alter, and to open the bathrooms on the third floor for the evening services... among other things.
She looked very pretty wearing a blue blouse with white pants. When she first arrived we said hello, and everything. I wanted to tell her how nice I thought she looked, but Rockoff kept interrupting me. He would continue to do that for the rest of the night.
I found out that today was her 3 year sobriety anniversary. 3 years ago today she quit drinking. She must be an alcoholic (like me) because she said, "Three years without a drink."
Then she ran off to consul Ron Cooper. I didn't get to say all that much really. I waited around the desk all night (making both of my desk men a little crazy) waiting for her to finish with her three clients so I could have the opportunity to speak further with her. She spends a lot of time with each of her clients, a sure sign of a caring, sincere, inexperienced counselor.
Just as I began to think I wouldn't get a chance to talk to her again, and getting really depressed about it, she finished with her last client, documented her sessions in the counseling books, and prepared to leave. She smiled at me and said goodbye on the way out, and I figured I better say something then and there or else it would be another week with no progress made. Another long week before seeing her again.
"Alright, see you next week," I said. "Both Rons (Collins and Cooper) tell me you've been very helpful to them (that's true. They have told me that), so you're very appreciated around here." That's true too.
"Oh really," she smiled. "That's good to hear. I wasn't really sure. Rod Trujillo seems to have been avoiding me." Ron Trujillo's an idiot.
I congratulated her again on her 3 years, and said her anniversary reminded me I had 300 days today. She asked what day it was that I got sober, and about my employment here. I let her know that it was my intention to continue working in the drug rehabilitation field, so my job here was beneficial in that regard. She asked if I had ever thought about taking some drug education classes, and I told her that indeed, I had, that I would be starting at P.C.C. in September. She told me about some of the course offerings at Glendale Community College, showing me some of the school pamphlets she happened to have with her. Our conversation progressed from there.
We talked for about ten minutes. Well, she did most of the talking really. To be frank, I could hardly get a word in edgewise. But I was glad to listen, and I discovered some interesting things about her.
She's about as religious as I am, which is to say, not very much. She was hesitant to begin counseling here due to her preconceived ideas of the spiritual aspect of the program. She didn't want to get Christianed out. She has since reconsidered. She now knows that we don't overdo it. That we're not a bunch of monks (far from it). She does believe in God, in a higher power. She says she's "all for it" (God and all), but doesn't feel the need to demonstrate it all over the place.
She began drug counseling school when she was only two months sober, and never really intended to become a counselor. She likes coming to the center. She just got a good job she likes, working for Warner Brothers, the movie studio. She doesn't think she wants to stop working there.
I found her thoroughly fascinating.
I was being interrupted all the time I was talking to her. Guys kept coming in and I would have to breath test them. Kevin Rockoff asked me for change. "Later," I told him.
When I did leave I reminded her to drive carefully, and that I would see her again next week.
She got cornered by a new client with red hair on the way to her car. He kept her in conversation for a while. I waved to her when she finally drove off.
She waved back.
July 11 Thursday Day 303
Close to 10:30 this morning the new moon became aligned with the Earth and the Sun. The moon was in the middle. It also crossed the Earth's orbital plane. thus blocking the Sun's light, and casting the Moon's shadow upon that portion of the Earth's surface that happened to be facing the Sun at the time. This happens every once in a while. Nothing to get worried about.
Today's solar eclipse would not cause a period of total darkness here in Pasadena. That would only happen on the big island of Hawaii, parts of Baja California, Central America, and Brazil. The Moon would only partially block the Sun's light here, about 68% I believe. The Sun would still be able to leak some out to us.
I walked out front at 10:45, put on my sunglasses and looked at the eclipse for about thirty minutes. Sure enough the Moon appeared as a black disk against the Sun, making the Sun appear as a crescent.
I first noticed I was blind when I attempted to reenter the residence on my way to eat lunch (hot turkey sandwiches).
I walked into several walls, and continued to bump into things well into the night.
July 12 Friday Day 304
This morning I received my first paycheck in almost two years. One hundred and fifty cold, hard, smackaroos, and some change. This for one week's work. I also get room and board.
Robert gave me a ride to the Bank of America on Colorado Blvd. That's where the Salvation Army does it's banking, so there would be no problem for me to cash my pay check there. Robert banks there as well. Indeed, he had intended to deposit his own check, but after arriving in the bank's parking lot he remembered he had neglected to bring it with him.
He left me there (Abandoned. He had other pressing engagements), and I cashed my check and walked back to the residence.
After lunch (cheeseburgers) I wrote for an hour, then went to the park to lie in the sun and listen to classic rock and roll.
I took my second shower of the day when I returned, then got ready for work.
Which went well. Work that is. After the usual Friday afternoon madness, after new client orientation, and after I put up the stupid bar in the thrift store parking lot, I read from James Mills, "The Underground Empire," and the extraordinary organization, "Centac," who's sole mission was to destroy drug trafficking organizations from the top down using RICO laws directed against criminal conspiracies. Fascinating.
July 13 Saturday Day 305
Last night was Art Svensk's last as our relief night watchman. He will be going into full retirement as of 8:00 this morning.
"They're out there, you know," Art told me as he came in last night.
"Who's out there, Art?"
"Crazy people. They're out there."
That's why Art's retiring. Because of all of the crazy people who are out there. Or at least that's one of the reasons.
What Art is concerned about, why he's worried about the crazy people, he's afraid of getting mugged as he walks here to work from the Green Hotel. I can't say as I blame him.
I shook his hand and told him it had been a pleasure working with him (which was true. People like Art make life interesting). I wished him luck, and told him I'd see him at the movies.
I slept until lunch today. At lunch I sat with George Estrada. Originally from El Salvador, George is an athletic young man in his middle thirties. He has a wife and two children. He had worked as a life guard for several years, he told me. He was suited for the job. He ran daily, worked out regularly, and had in fact been a finishing runner in the L.A. Marathon for several years.
He said he had snorted cocaine on occasion, but didn't seem to have any problems controlling its use.
Until crack came along.
Once George began to smoke crack he became hopelessly addicted and within two months his drug use adversely affected every aspect of his life; family, work, career ambitions... everything. None of those things mattered to him anymore. The only thing of importance in his life became the procuring of another rock to smoke.
An honest person by nature, George explained to his boss why he had been missing so much work, telling him of his addiction. Fortunately, his boss is a member of the Pasadena Tabernacle Band, and he introduced George to the A.R.C. George didn't like it here at first. He didn't like being told what to do all of the time, so he left after only a few days, telling himself that he would kick the crack habit on his own. After a week or two he came back, a little more motivated to do well, and has been here for almost six months.
George is getting ready to graduate, and looking forward to going to school to learn a new trade. He wants to become an underwater welder.
We do have a few success stories around here.
I wish him well.
After lunch I went to the park for an hour, then came back. I took a nice shower, got dressed, then walked to Music Plus to pick up the weekend's video blockbusters. "Dick Tracy," and "Kindergarten Cop."
Then I began my last shift of the week.
Richard Bennet popped in for a while. As I was talking to him I realized I had ten months clean and sober (except for nicotine, caffeine, and cholesterol) today.
Ten months.
Wow.
Tom Rotsch seems to have a family very similar to my own. He went to see his two kids today, and after he returned he told me how his little girl cutely let him know that his breath stinks, while his son told him he was going bald.
He loves his children and smiled at the memory.
I'm afraid that I must report that I've been a little devious lately. Since Kathy has told me that she's helping her clients work through the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, I have told both Ron Collins and Ron Cooper (her clients) that I would also be willing to help them if they should have any questions concerning the Steps when she is not around. Of course, it is true that I'm willing to help anybody if I can. But the idea of my completely altruistic offer getting back to Kathy, and thus creating a favorable impression, did have certain appealing overtones.
I'm so bad.
So here I am now. In real time it is 11:02PM and 36 seconds. I'm sitting in my office writing this. Kevin Rockoff and Roger Collins are both behind the desk reading. Roger's on duty, Kevin's just hanging out. It's been a quiet shift. I've spent most of the evening reading a Dean Koontz novel, "Night Chills." Pretty soon Wolf Pandolfi will lumber in, and my shift will come to an end. I'll go up to my lonely room and watch two episodes of "The New Twilight Zone," then maybe "The Outer Limits," on channel seven. After that I'll sleep. But before I finally do that I'll do what I've found myself doing almost every night lately. I'll think about Kathy.
And I'll be very relaxed and sleep very well.
July 14 Sunday Day 306
I was once again called upon to deliver the responsive reading section during the morning's chapel service. My voice did not quiver.
I was a little tired though. I had gotten plenty of sleep last night, at least six hours, so I didn't know what my problem was.
I was looking forward to going to the A.A. meeting this morning with Ron Collins, mainly because I had missed it last week due to the picnic. Robert gave us a ride and it was awfully good to be there. Skip greeted us, and the meeting was a good one. It didn't hurt to have so many pretty ladies around (especially the bespectacled brunette).
Girls. I like girls... or women. I don't know why. I'm so glad they share the planet with us men. I wouldn't want to be a girl, but I'm glad they're here.
Men are so boring.
Ron and I passed by the tiny restaurant, Los Tacos, on our way back. I treated him to a couple of soft tacos, and I had some enchiladas. It's so nice to be able to buy things. It certainly provides a different perspective.
I spent another hour in the park. The radio people played the entire side 2 of Led Zeppelin's "The Houses of the Holy." Very good.
Dinner, then a repeat episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," after which I secured a seat for the Sunday night VCR movie, "Kindergarten Cop."
I didn't quite know what to make of this film, which seemed just a vehicle to throw Arnold Schwarzenegger in amongst a plethora of little kids to see how he reacts. Oddly enough, those scenes were brief and ineffective. A little action, a few hard sought after laughs... all in all it was somewhat engaging.
I spent most of the rest of the evening up in my lonely room, reading, and watching silly things on television.
I turned off the T.V. early and went to bed. Tomorrow it would be time to move on in the Steps, and that would require a long bus ride so I wanted to get up nice and early.
I dreamt of Barbara Eden and Mother Teresa.
July 15 Monday Day 307
I couldn't get out of bed until 9:00. I just couldn't.
By the time I showered and dressed it was 9:20. I noticed that the counseling room was occupied, and correctly surmised that the beautiful and noble Wendy was in there counseling away. I decided to wait a while and see if I could get another smile from her before I started out on my big bus trip to the San Fernando Valley. There were three other guys sitting there with me. Scott Feeney, Kevin Rockoff, and James Goodwin. They were waiting for the same thing. Smiles.
She came out about a half an hour later. She had been counseling Hugh Hogle. She looked at the four of us sitting there looking at her, took a deep breath, and favored us with a big smile.
After receiving their portions of Wendy's smile, the other three guys got up and left. I was about to do the same when Wendy let me know that it was cold in the counseling room. She did this by saying, "Gosh, I'm going to have to get Robert to turn up the heat." I let her know that I could do that for her (I'm so helpful). Robert wasn't around anyway.
I soon left. I walked up to Colorado Blvd. and caught the 181 west, all the way to Hollywood and Highland, in Hollywood. I walked around for a while when I got there, looking for a place to buy some cigarettes. I bought the smokes and returned to the bus stop just as the 420 pulled up. As luck would have it, this was just the bus I needed. It took me into Van Nuys, where I got off at the corner of Van Nuys Blvd., and Vanowen. I had to wait there for the 163 to take me a little further west.
This was the first time I'd been back to the valley for about a year. This is where I grew up, where I had lived for most of my life. And standing at the corner of Van Nuys and Vanowen I considered myself very fortunate to be living in Pasadena now. Van Nuys seemed like the middle of a busy beehive. In the twenty or so minutes I stood waiting for the bus, at least 4 emergency vehicles, blaring their sirens, passed by me. One of the vehicles was a hazardous waste truck. I'd never seen one of those before. Thousands of people continuously walked the hot, dusty streets, heedless of each other, deeply considering their individual journeys. Refuge and trash spilled into the street gutters.
Watching it all I felt a very real desire to forget about what had brought me there, turn around and head back to the relative tranquility of Pasadena.
In all fairness this particular corner, or actually all of Van Nuys Blvd., is usually very, very busy and congested. This is the downtown of the San Fernando Valley.
But it wasn't only the sights and sounds which had invaded my psyche. Everything I looked at, here and on the bus ride that brought me here, triggered a barrage of memories; some good, some bad, some pleasant, some vehemently embarrassing. Some quite frightful. In fact this barrage, the weight of those memories from my past, a past for the most part closely associated with heavy drinking and the use of drugs, the stupid, extremely selfish behavior also associated with drinking and the use of drugs, paralyzed me. I was on overload, and it was difficult for me to move.
I found this feeling particularly uncomfortable and was anxious to get back to my new home in Pasadena, a place with a clean future.By the time I showered and dressed it was 9:20. I noticed that the counseling room was occupied, and correctly surmised that the beautiful and noble Wendy was in there counseling away. I decided to wait a while and see if I could get another smile from her before I started out on my big bus trip to the San Fernando Valley. There were three other guys sitting there with me. Scott Feeney, Kevin Rockoff, and James Goodwin. They were waiting for the same thing. Smiles.
She came out about a half an hour later. She had been counseling Hugh Hogle. She looked at the four of us sitting there looking at her, took a deep breath, and favored us with a big smile.
After receiving their portions of Wendy's smile, the other three guys got up and left. I was about to do the same when Wendy let me know that it was cold in the counseling room. She did this by saying, "Gosh, I'm going to have to get Robert to turn up the heat." I let her know that I could do that for her (I'm so helpful). Robert wasn't around anyway.
I soon left. I walked up to Colorado Blvd. and caught the 181 west, all the way to Hollywood and Highland, in Hollywood. I walked around for a while when I got there, looking for a place to buy some cigarettes. I bought the smokes and returned to the bus stop just as the 420 pulled up. As luck would have it, this was just the bus I needed. It took me into Van Nuys, where I got off at the corner of Van Nuys Blvd., and Vanowen. I had to wait there for the 163 to take me a little further west.
This was the first time I'd been back to the valley for about a year. This is where I grew up, where I had lived for most of my life. And standing at the corner of Van Nuys and Vanowen I considered myself very fortunate to be living in Pasadena now. Van Nuys seemed like the middle of a busy beehive. In the twenty or so minutes I stood waiting for the bus, at least 4 emergency vehicles, blaring their sirens, passed by me. One of the vehicles was a hazardous waste truck. I'd never seen one of those before. Thousands of people continuously walked the hot, dusty streets, heedless of each other, deeply considering their individual journeys. Refuge and trash spilled into the street gutters.
Watching it all I felt a very real desire to forget about what had brought me there, turn around and head back to the relative tranquility of Pasadena.
In all fairness this particular corner, or actually all of Van Nuys Blvd., is usually very, very busy and congested. This is the downtown of the San Fernando Valley.
But it wasn't only the sights and sounds which had invaded my psyche. Everything I looked at, here and on the bus ride that brought me here, triggered a barrage of memories; some good, some bad, some pleasant, some vehemently embarrassing. Some quite frightful. In fact this barrage, the weight of those memories from my past, a past for the most part closely associated with heavy drinking and the use of drugs, the stupid, extremely selfish behavior also associated with drinking and the use of drugs, paralyzed me. I was on overload, and it was difficult for me to move.
So I read a little Dostoevsky (always a quick picker upper) to clear my mind before continuing on my journey.
I had come to this place to make a start on my 9th Step. Step 9 of the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. I would not finish all of my 9th Step today. Not by a long shot. But I would make a good start.
This is what Step 9 is all about: "Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others." Pretty nifty, isn't it?
I was here to pay back some money to my ex-sponsor, Jeff Weeks. Forty dollars. When I last relapsed he paid for a night in a motel for me when I had no where else to go. I wanted to pay him back, thank him, and in that way make a beginning on my 9th Step. It will be a very long time before I get anywhere close to finishing this Step. It's a doosey! But the program requires that I make a start, and I will, and I'll do a little at a time until I feel I'm finished with my past, then all of the amends I'll ever have to worry about will be due to my inevitable future indiscretions.
The benefits of this simple Step are vast. Some of it has a lot to do with relieving guilt.
Step 8: "Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all," I had pretty much taken care of during the writing of my 4th Step, which contains a list of all those I have harmed (that I could remember). It also contained a list of all of my creditors, again, all that I could recall. I'm sure I'll remember more as times goes by.
I am perfectly willing to make amends to those I have harmed. I am also willing to pay back any and all money I owe to others. I'm just not able to do so at this time.
Which is okay.
Little by little, I shall pay back the credit card company, the phone company, Circuit City and Zales, my mother, an untold number of doctors and hospitals, and the Los Angeles Public Library.
And today I pay back Jeff.
I had forgotten the name of the street where I should have got off the bus. I wound up jumping the gun and disembarking two blocks prematurely. They were very large blocks, so after a nice long, hot, and sweaty walk, I eventually found Jeff's old apartment building. I say old, because I learned from the apartment's manager that Jeff had moved out a week and a half earlier. He had moved in with his brother in Sam Dimas, which of course, was relatively close to where I started out from in Pasadena. The manager did have Jeff's forwarding address, so my trip was not wasted. I will mail the money to him in a money order. End of story.
Next case.
I purchased a nice dry chicken sandwich from 7-Eleven, which I consumed while waiting for the old 163 to take me back from whence I came. RTD was pretty good to me today. I only had to wait more than five minutes once before a bus arrived.
I returned by the exact same route, once again experiencing a deadening nostalgia brought about by the once familiar buildings and locals.
Old ghosts.
I felt quite relieved upon returning to the residence. It was good to be back where I felt I belonged. It was nice to now have a place where I feel I belong, where I'm safe. And as luck would have it, I got back just in time for dinner (little meatball things).
Robert wanted me to fill in for him a while, so he could make another of his journeys. This gave me the opportunity to catch up on some office paperwork, and get some personal writing done.
In my relapse prevention workshop we once again discussed what stage of recovery we thought ourselves to be in. There were only a couple of the participants who said they were in the early stages of recovery and not kidding themselves. We also talked about what relapse is (how appropriate), and some of the common misconceptions attributed to that process. Going over this material again and again, I think I'm achieving a gut feeling towards this subject, internalizing it, if you will. I feel that any repetition of behavior that was once associated with an addicts previous lifestyle could very easily lead to the beginning of the relapse process. It's critical to be willing to change everything in order to maintain the primary goal of staying sober and learning how to live effectively without the use of drugs or alcohol.
I talked with Reuben Smith after the meeting. We sat outside on the benches in the parking lot, enjoying the warm summer dusk. Reuben's having a bit of a hard time right now. He's worried about going insane. He tends to bash himself in the face while asleep, and doesn't like doing it. He's seeing a psychologist. I told him it wouldn't get him anywhere by worrying all of the time, or by freaking out about it. I tried to encourage him, letting him know that he was attempting to deal with the problem and doing everything he reasonably could about it. Reuben's pretty jumpy though. I hope he's alright.
Barbara came out and talked to me too. We talked about school and stuff. She's a neat lady.
The PBS show, "American Masters," outlined the career of Neil Simon. I watched it, fascinated. Here is a man who painted his whole life in his plays and has become the most successful playwright in history while doing it.
What a wonderful way to spend one's time.
July 16 Tuesday Day 308
Up nice and early to start the work week. A fairly normal morning, I wrote, took over the paperwork, finished waking up, and got some toilet bowl cleaner, toilet paper, and large plastic bags from warehouse supply. I admitted two clients, terminated one (Garth Schimmele, Jerry's son, who has left to serve a 16 month jail sentence for some drug related offense). Ron Collins and Scott Feeney made the transition from clients to employees. And I had a heck of a lot of urine to run. A heck of a lot. All in all, I kept pretty busy.
Soon my work day was over. I went up to my lonely room and read from a book that Bill Rausemplat had given me concerning the story of Led Zeppelin, my favorite band of the late 60s/through the 70s.
A crazy bunch of guys, let me tell you.
I watched "Tiny Toon Adventures," then went downstairs to the lobby to see what Jill was wearing today. Some orange and red floral print thing that matched well her lustrous hair. Ron Collins and I were sitting next to each other, when Ron told her, "You look absolutely phenomenal today."
I shook my head in agreement, adding, "More phenomenal than usual."
She commented on my superb tan, saying that it looked like I'd been out in the sun.
"My morning paper route," I explained.
I was a bit rakish this afternoon, I must admit. It's the Irish in me. As I opened a door for Jill, she asked what I was doing here on my night off.
"Sitting in the lobby and looking at all of the beautiful counselors."
"Oh, go on with your flattery." She loved it.
"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my entire life."
"Oh, really?" she replied with an air of skepticism.
"You doubt my sincerity?"
"Hmmmmm."
"It's okay. Many women do when I tell them that."
I don't usually give a whole lot of compliments to beautiful women. They already know they look good. And I have found from experience that they don't really care for compliments, they don't mean much to them unless the words of praise come from someone they themselves care for, in one way or another. So Jill seemed rather surprised by the way I was speaking to her. I was in a good mood I guess.
She loved it though.
Not wanting to overexpose myself to this lady I returned to my lonely room and watched a PBS program on the origen of birds.
When I woke up, and odd Stephen King movie for T.V. was on, entitled, "The Golden Years." I love Stephen King, but this show was just one more example of how to take a simple and exciting idea, and draw it out to the point that it's as much fun to watch as a wet mop (My God, they've actually made this into a mini series!).
I learned a little more about the problems the U.S.S.R. is currently facing while watching "Nightline." So many problems in this world. I see a new one each night on "Nightline."
If most of us weren't buffered by the illusions of our daily life we would all most certainly go stark raving mad.
July 17 Wednesday Day 309
Then again, sometimes life is really wonderful.
Kathy and I had a really good talk tonight. At first I thought we wouldn't be able to because she came in complaining of a migraine headache, and she told my desk men she wanted to keep her sessions as short as possible. But like most counselors I've known, once she got started she couldn't stop, and once again she was the last counselor to leave.
Isn't she wonderful!
As she was leaving the building, and because I just happened to be hanging around the front door, I walked with her outside to her car and we fell into deep conversation. I even got to say a few words this time. She really opened up, telling me all manner of things. "I don't even know why I'm telling this to you," she said. But I'm so glad she feels comfortable talking to me.
She is going through a stressful period in her life right now, which, she believes, is causing her headaches. I will not relate what she said, what she told me, as it really was quite personal. Those are her secrets to divulge to whomever she chooses. But I was definitely affected by what she told me. And by her.
I will say this: she's thirty two, divorced, and when she first met me she thought I was too serious. She doesn't like authority figures, she says (I have a hard time thinking of myself as an authority figure, an awfully hard time).
But now... she thinks I'm alright.
July 18 Thursday Day 310
I went to bed last night thinking about Kathy. I woke up thinking about her. I felt good all morning - wonderful in fact, remembering our conversation, despite the serious implications of some of what she told me . I was happy just because she was willing to tell me these things.
I was the recipient of some good natured ribbing by the guys who witnessed me giving my undivided attention to Kathy. Darrell Sipp threw his arms back over his shoulders in a parody of passionate lust, making smacking, kissing sounds.
A real jokester, that Darrell.
I'll tell you this though. When I saw some of the pain radiating through Kathy's pretty eyes as she related what was troubling her I very much felt like taking her into my arms.
As my day wore on, and the reality of my daily routine began to influence me, my effervescent glow dissipated somewhat (I hate it when that happens). I got through the day without experiencing many problems. No more problems than usual. Over all, Thursdays are easy for me. The Major only comes over for lunch, and Ed Reitz is hard to find even when you're looking for him. So I'm pretty much left to myself, to do as I will on these, my long days, Wednesdays and Thursdays, 6:00AM to 11:00PM. I make sure everything that needs to be done is done. That way the rest of the time is mine, and I read and write with a clear conscious.
And read and write is what I did. I wrote in the morning, as is my custom, and read in the afternoon and evening. I read all about Led Zeppelin.
One good line I heard as the C.A. panel let out, from an older black gentleman, apparently a former resident. He was talking to a couple of men as they walked out the front door.
"Don't it tell you something that when you first get here, and go downstairs to the clinic, all they have is a bunch of chiropractors looking you over. They know you've been pretty hard on yourselves."
He was referring to the way we alcoholics and drug addicted individuals beat ourselves up, in every way, while in the midst of our addictions.
From 4:00 until 11:00 I performed my number 1 job, the job they hired me to do; calmly, and hopefully with some humor and fairness, sat for a hundred painfully new and gloriously sober- babies.
I wish each and everyone of them well.
July 19 Friday Day 311
I got up early, or at least early for a Friday morning. I still felt so warm and good reminiscing about the conversation I had with Kathy that I didn't want to waste a lot of time sleeping while feeling so wonderful and alive.
What a sappy guy I am.
I smoked an unauthorized cigarette while meditating on the toilet. Then showered and shaved, not necessarily in that order.
I dressed and went downstairs to the lobby to write for a while. I also thought about what I could do for the rest of the day until 3:30, when I went to work. I considered going to the movies and seeing, "Dutch," a new film starring Ed O'Neill, the actor who plays Al Bundy on "Married with Children." Instead, I talked Marvin Gardenhire and Reuben Smith into seeing "The Naked Gun 2 1/2, the Smell of Fear." Second time for me.
By the time I got back to the residence I had an hour before starting work. I read a couple of pages from the Bible, about three Psalms worth, then laid down, closed my eyes and rested until 3:15, or so.
At work I was surprised to receive another week's gratuity since I had already gotten my first paycheck. I accepted it greedily as my last tax free $20 I'll be seeing for a while.
Hopefully.
After putting up the stupid bar in the thrift store parking lot I had time to write. I continued copying excerpts from "The Underground Empire," book.
I spent the rest of the evening doing this, and was going to include them in this text... but decided not to, so there's not much else to write about today.
July 20 Saturday Day 312
I slept in late, getting up just before lunch. The sky above Pasadena had been overcast and murky for the last couple of days and this trend continued on into today, so I opted to forego the park, and hung around the residence and continued writing. I wrote for most of the afternoon and throughout my shift. After finishing I read some more about the history of the rock group Led Zeppelin, kept an eye on Roger Collins to make sure he did his job, thought a lot about Kathy, then when my shift was over, went to my room to watch a rerun of "The Outer Limits."
Then I went to sleep.
And dreamt of Kathy.
July 26 Friday Day 318
Payday.
I got up early to go and cash my big paycheck. I haven't had so much money in my pocket since a year ago last May. On the way back I walked through the mall and browsed inside one of the book stores that they have there. I found copies of the very same books Kathy said she would loan to me. I looked for others with a similar subject matter, thinking a book like that might be a nice gift for her.
Women like gifts.
So does everyone else.
I remembered that she had told me she had an extensive library though, so I thought better of buying her something in fear that she might already have it.
Oh well, my feeble attempt to purchase her affections can wait awhile.
I had a nice lunch (cheeseburgers), then went to the park for about an hour.
When I returned Jeff Pursell gave me a haircut. Not that I wanted one, but Robert had begun to call me "hippie boy," being his little way of telling me it was time to get my hair shortened.
After all, I must set an example to others.
Or so I've been told.
After that I went to work. I didn't feel like working. I felt much more like sitting up in my room and daydream of Kathy. But being the responsible alcoholic that I am I went to the desk and fulfilled my duties.
Not feeling like working ensured that my shift would be unusually hectic. Which it was. Everybody wanted something from me all at the same time. But I handled it. With apparent ease I might add.
Robert was busy washing his new car in the As-Is Yard. Hugh Hogle came back from Venice Beach with Reuben Smith and Harold Eversley, and was badly sun burned. He looks like a great big tomato, and said he didn't feel very well. And Kevin Rockoff says he doesn't like his new job, and may be coming back to us.
Good. He's my best desk man.
How selfish of me.
When things calmed down a bit I had time to take notes from the "Underground Empire," book, which will not be transposed here.
Read the book if you want to find out about it.
I highly recommend it.
July 27 Saturday Day 319
Last night was pretty bad for me. I felt kind of jumpy, and not too good. Like something was out of place. I sure didn't feel like working, but I've already said that.
My friend Darrell Sipp didn't have a very good night either. Certainly worse than mine. He was walking back from a friend's house, somewhere north of Colorado Blvd., when he was set upon (mugged) and badly pummeled by a group of young men looking for money. After taking a kick to the crotch and a few punches to the head, he escaped all of his attackers and made it back to the residence just before the midnight curfew. He gasped for breath and his face was very swollen. He felt he should go to the hospital, so I dropped him off at Huntington Memorial.
I saw him at lunch today and he seemed okay. He has a couple of lose teeth though.
A reminder of how hostile it can be out there.
Art's crazy people.
July 28 Sunday Day 320
For a while last night I thought that Rockoff might have run off with his American Indian girlfriend and gone A.W.O.L. His was the only key left in our key box when curfew time came. As you may remember, that is the primary way we determine if someone is in the building, by the presence or absence of their locker key. If we at the desk have the key, the person it belongs to is not usually in the building. Or vice versa.
So I went to have a look in Kevin's dorm, 41, bed A. There he was, all cuddled up with his favorite teddy. Apparently he had forgotten to sign in and pick up his key when he returned from his amorous outing. For doing so he shall be severely beaten today, in order to assist him in remembering proper residence procedures.
Some gentlemen have tried to take advantage of the fact that we do not take roll call, or make a head count just after curfew. We find that it is really unnecessary to perform that laborious task. One man attempted to pull this trick just last night. He took off without leaving his key and stayed out for the night, no doubt believing we would assume he was here simply because we did not have his key. And he was right, we did assume that. It was his own roommates who unintentionally busted him this morning by asking us why he had not returned to his dorm the night before, thus alerting us at the desk of his absence. They'll say, "What happened to so and so last night?" or, "Was so and so AWOL last night? He didn't come back." "Can I change over to so and so's bed? It's empty."
Then we'll say something like, "Soooo, he wasn't in his dorm last night, was he? Thanks for letting us know." Then they'll turn away looking like they ratted out their mom.I got up early to go and cash my big paycheck. I haven't had so much money in my pocket since a year ago last May. On the way back I walked through the mall and browsed inside one of the book stores that they have there. I found copies of the very same books Kathy said she would loan to me. I looked for others with a similar subject matter, thinking a book like that might be a nice gift for her.
Women like gifts.
So does everyone else.
I remembered that she had told me she had an extensive library though, so I thought better of buying her something in fear that she might already have it.
Oh well, my feeble attempt to purchase her affections can wait awhile.
I had a nice lunch (cheeseburgers), then went to the park for about an hour.
When I returned Jeff Pursell gave me a haircut. Not that I wanted one, but Robert had begun to call me "hippie boy," being his little way of telling me it was time to get my hair shortened.
After all, I must set an example to others.
Or so I've been told.
After that I went to work. I didn't feel like working. I felt much more like sitting up in my room and daydream of Kathy. But being the responsible alcoholic that I am I went to the desk and fulfilled my duties.
Not feeling like working ensured that my shift would be unusually hectic. Which it was. Everybody wanted something from me all at the same time. But I handled it. With apparent ease I might add.
Robert was busy washing his new car in the As-Is Yard. Hugh Hogle came back from Venice Beach with Reuben Smith and Harold Eversley, and was badly sun burned. He looks like a great big tomato, and said he didn't feel very well. And Kevin Rockoff says he doesn't like his new job, and may be coming back to us.
Good. He's my best desk man.
How selfish of me.
When things calmed down a bit I had time to take notes from the "Underground Empire," book, which will not be transposed here.
Read the book if you want to find out about it.
I highly recommend it.
July 27 Saturday Day 319
Last night was pretty bad for me. I felt kind of jumpy, and not too good. Like something was out of place. I sure didn't feel like working, but I've already said that.
My friend Darrell Sipp didn't have a very good night either. Certainly worse than mine. He was walking back from a friend's house, somewhere north of Colorado Blvd., when he was set upon (mugged) and badly pummeled by a group of young men looking for money. After taking a kick to the crotch and a few punches to the head, he escaped all of his attackers and made it back to the residence just before the midnight curfew. He gasped for breath and his face was very swollen. He felt he should go to the hospital, so I dropped him off at Huntington Memorial.
I saw him at lunch today and he seemed okay. He has a couple of lose teeth though.
A reminder of how hostile it can be out there.
Art's crazy people.
July 28 Sunday Day 320
For a while last night I thought that Rockoff might have run off with his American Indian girlfriend and gone A.W.O.L. His was the only key left in our key box when curfew time came. As you may remember, that is the primary way we determine if someone is in the building, by the presence or absence of their locker key. If we at the desk have the key, the person it belongs to is not usually in the building. Or vice versa.
So I went to have a look in Kevin's dorm, 41, bed A. There he was, all cuddled up with his favorite teddy. Apparently he had forgotten to sign in and pick up his key when he returned from his amorous outing. For doing so he shall be severely beaten today, in order to assist him in remembering proper residence procedures.
Some gentlemen have tried to take advantage of the fact that we do not take roll call, or make a head count just after curfew. We find that it is really unnecessary to perform that laborious task. One man attempted to pull this trick just last night. He took off without leaving his key and stayed out for the night, no doubt believing we would assume he was here simply because we did not have his key. And he was right, we did assume that. It was his own roommates who unintentionally busted him this morning by asking us why he had not returned to his dorm the night before, thus alerting us at the desk of his absence. They'll say, "What happened to so and so last night?" or, "Was so and so AWOL last night? He didn't come back." "Can I change over to so and so's bed? It's empty."
Works every time.
Sometimes a person pulling this maneuver actually remembers to come back in the morning acting as if he had been here all night. They are the picture of innocence. We get their keys from them, their I.D. badges, and send them out into the world.
And we wish them well.
Clarence Orion went on vacation this week, so he dumped all of his usual Sunday chapel duties onto Robert, who attempted to dump them onto me. But I would have none of it. I feel kind of silly, or phony actually, going up to the pulpit and doing stuff for their services when I'm not even a Christian and all. But I do help out sometimes. I have nothing against the Christian Church (except those Spanish Inquisition guys. No one expects them), I'm just not a member.
I don't know that much about it really, the Christian Church that is. I should look into it further.
I have nothing if not an open mind.
Most of the time.
Anyway, Robert got stuck leading a singing session, plus the testimonials, plus the announcements and offering. As usual, I ushered.
"You did a wonderful job sir," I told Robert after the service. "And your voice is lovely."
He glared.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Joyce."
Ron Collins and I attended our Sunday morning A.A. meeting. Ron pointed out that there were an amazing amount of pretty ladies around, some sitting right behind us. I ignored his excited chatter. Since I've now found Kathy, other pretty girls mean nothing to me.
This Sunday's speaker, and elderly gentleman with 45 years of sobriety (you have to be elderly to have 45 years of sobriety), talked non-stop at an even and constant pace for fifty minutes straight. But damned if I can remember anything he said. The monotonous twill of his voice disallowed any possible attempt to comprehend his speech.
I enjoyed the meeting in any case. I just like being there.
It's a good place for me to be.
On our way back we stopped at Los Tacos again and partook of some super burritos.
Yummy!
Ron paid.
Great!
He has received his first paycheck you see.
It is beginning to act like summer here in Pasadena, with the temperatures reaching well into the 90s. I sat (baked) in the bright sun for an hour, listening to rock and roll. Reuben Smith was doing the very same thing only a few yards away from me. He had gotten there before I had. He was lying face up with his sunglasses on, so now he looks like a racoon again.
I call him "Racoon Head."
When evening came I watched the Sunday night V.C.R. movie. "The Untouchables," having nothing better to do, being bored with reading and writing. Later, I read a little anyway, about the life of Jesus Christ.
At 9:30 I walked down to Vons to buy some shampoo and toothpaste. I also picked up some snack food, and salsa and chips. I would have an unauthorized pig out in my room.
Then I watched, "Monsters," and went to bed.
I had a good full day, and I had enjoyed it, but I was just marking time. waiting.
Waiting for Wednesday to come around again.
July 29 Monday Day 321
I went to the dentist today. Of my own free will. I even had to actually pay for it.
Since I have so much extra cash now, being a big time employee of the Salvation Army, I decided to have my upper front tooth fixed. A tiny corner of it had broken off, a remnant of my second to last relapse, when a sidewalk somehow reared up and hit me in the face. Since a year ago last May I've lived with a hole in my mouth, which I've self consciously tried to hide with the tip of my tongue whenever I smile, After today I hope to have my smile back, which should help to improve my overall self esteem.
And make me a much better kisser.
So I went to Dr. Campbell, the friendly credit dentist, and after the financial agreements were agreed upon, and the X-rays taken, Dr. Zu, (a distant relative of Dr. Campbell no doubt) went to work.
Oh, what a lovely experience. This time the doctor (masked as usual) took a hammer and chisel to my poor little defenseless mouth. No soft and gentle taps were applied either, these were great, long, sweeping, slams that jolted my entire body to and fro. I felt certain that at any moment his aim would vary and my life would be no more.
Then came the drill.
Next they shoved some purple plastic stuff in my mouth that I was required to bite down on while waiting for it to harden.
After a while he pried open my mouth, took it out and looked at it.
"Let's do another one," he said with evil glee.
After a couple of hours they "affixed" (I love that word) a temporary cap over the stump of my broken tooth. This shall serve me until the permanent cap is ready. They warned me that the temporary cap may fall out... and that I should not swallow it.
I'll try my best.
Now I can smile again. My smile looks very nice, I must say.
I just can't chew anymore. My bottom front tooth jams into the cap, not allowing my teeth to close.
And so it goes (Vonnegut).
I was in great pain for the rest of the day. I really don't want to talk about it.
July 30 Tuesday Day 322
My tooth felt a little better this morning. My gums are not as sore, so I guess I can continue this narrative.
Rico Montgomery came by, just after lunch, to pick up his stuff. He was released from County Jail this morning at 5:30. He looks alright. Imprisonment seems to agree with him. Apparently he'll be living with his girlfriend for awhile, at least until she gets tired of his jive bullshit.
Rico told me he saw Ben Driscoll while there in jail. Ben doesn't talk all that much, so Rico never found out why Ben had been incarcerated. Rico did say that Ben seemed to be coping pretty well, doing a lot of sweeping in the jail. Ben likes to sweep.
But then again, who doesn't?
Reuben Smith has been acting peculiar the last couple of days. More peculiar than normal. He's acting all sullen and uncommunicative, which is odd for Reuben. When Richard Bennett called him down for counseling, Reuben, who had been sleeping, came to the desk, looked at Richard and said, "That's all you wanted me for?" as he abruptly turned around and walked back upstairs. Reuben can be rude at times (most of the time), but this was exceptional. He's told others that he's sick. He won't tell me what's going on. I hope he's alright.
I spent the last part of my shift getting ready for the big Pacific Oaks College graduation ceremony being held this evening in our chapel. I made sure Schimmele and his crew got the chapel in order, and I made some signs which pointed out the way to the chapel and atrium, where a reception would be held for the graduates. I placed these signs in strategic locations, ensuring them being seen by the hundred and sixty expected guests.
I just happened to be in the lobby when Jill came in. She made a rare, early appearance, and was actually here at 5:45 for her 5:45 group counseling tonight, which accentuated her shinning sumptuous features, her pert but elegant nose, the lustrous fall of her eyelash, her crimson lips, her delicate earlobes and her come hither eyes framed in a cascade of exuberant red tresses. I did not see, or was affected by the vital, flowing way in which she crossed the room, her statuesque full figure, her shapely long legs. Her fresh, clean smell mixed perfectly with a slight whisper of the erotic scent of her perfume. I saw none of that, nor did I notice the firmness of her ample breasts, her slim waist, the swell of her hips, the little mole on the right side of her neck, the adorable birthmark on the inside of her left knee. Her magnificent smile. Her lilting voice as she sighed, "Hello Richard."
She calls me Richard. Some do.
Her presence meant nothing to me, so I left the lobby and went upstairs to take a cold shower, after which I retreated to my lonely room, to read, and watch mindless made for T.V. movies for the rest of the evening.
I did manage to finish the Nan Robertson book, "Getting Better." A remarkable achievement, the book I mean. I definitely recommend this book to anyone who thinks they may have a drinking problem and are considering treatment, or joining Alcoholics Anonymous. Rarely have I seen the process of recovery depicted in such realistic and compassionate detail. Everything one needs to start the recovery ball rolling is in this book.
Except the desire to stop drinking.
Some current events are just screaming for attention today. It appears that the intense air bombardment of Iraq during the Persian Gulf War still left Saddam Hussein with viable nuclear weapon producing capabilites. We're told he'd been trying to hide them from the United Nation's inspectors in violation of the peace agreement. He's being obstinate. Very obstreperous in an obsequious manner. And now President Bush is talking tough, and we may find ourselves beginning the war all over again.
Terrific.
Some very well may ask, "Why did we stop the war before making sure Hussein was removed from power and could never be a threat in the region again?" Good question! One the President may find difficult to answer during next year's election (don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Bush I haven't particularly cared for any president since Garfield)
Yesterday it was reported that Hussein may still have chemical weapons as well.
He isn't letting us see those either.
Last week, what astronomers belive may be a planet with about 10 times the mass of Earth, a little less than the planet Uranus in our own solar system, may be revolving around a pulsar at 20,000 to 30,000 light years from Earth. It's located somewhere in the direction of the Milky Way's galactic center, in the constellation Sagittarius. This would seem an unlikely place for a planet to form considering a pulsar, or neutron star, itself is believed to be the remanent of a supernova, one of the most energetic and destructive events known in the universe. Certainly life would not be possible on a planet so close to a high synchrotron radiation source such as a pulsar. But if it is a planet, and it was able to form in such a hostile environment, then the likelihood of planet formation in other solar systems in general, throughout the cosmos, increases dramatically.
This would correspondingly increase the possibility that life would develop elsewhere in the universe.
And that would be a wonderful thing.
July 31 Wednesday Day 323
Kathy was here tonight. About the only thing I managed to do was to discover that she spells her name like this: C A T H Y. Short for... Cathy.
Jesus, I don't know how two sober people get together. It all seemed so easy when I was half sloshed. .
For one thing, I wasn't really in the greatest of moods. Tonight being the last Wednesday of the month, it was Birthday Night, which meant a bit more work for me, and having to spend time in direct contact with the Major. He being the boss, it's alway wise to spend as much time away from him as possible.
For another thing, that red headed guy I'd been seeing talking to Cathy in the parking lot a few weeks back, he told me he had been to the same Jackie Robinson Center that I had gone to, and this afternoon discovered that he was H.I.V. positive. I identified with the feeling he must have been experiencing and let me tell you, it was not pleasant.
And I can never talk to Cathy alone. There's always about ten guys hanging around who have nothing better to do than stand around and watch Cathy as I try to have a conversation. Most of them are not above busting into it whenever possible.
Jesus, I think I'm going nuts. Really!
We did talk a little though. She brought me a couple of books by John Bradshaw. She thought I might like to read them. I will. We also talked about family relationships for awhile. Real exciting.
Her clients are giving her a hard time, she tells me. My ex-friend, Ron Collins, walked out on her during counseling. Another of her clients just doesn't want to stop drinking, and another just avoided her all together. The poor girl can't understand why some (most) of the men here are so unmotivated. These guys are expert, big time game players, and Cathy can't quite comprehend that. I'm sure she's hurt when she doesn't seem to get through to them.
Oh well, some progress was made I guess. For my cause at least. She now knows that I was adopted at the crisp age of four days old, that I witnessed my father's fatal heart attack, that my mom is coming to visit Sunday, (I talked to her yesterday), and that I have Sundays and Mondays off.
I still haven't the faintest idea of what she feels about me. If she truly likes me, or is just making polite conversation to this idiot who won't stop talking to her. She's not giving me a clue.
Women! I swear! I'm seriously considering becoming a monk. And I believe I'm getting a headache to boot.
Then she was gone with the wind. Poof! Just like that. For a whole week. Another week of stewing in the juices of my own making, for roughly 160 hours, or so. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Next week! Next week I swear, so help me God, I will ask her out! Sink or swim, I need to know if my preoccupation will amount to anything. Will we become lovers, friends, acquaintances, or will she crush me altogether with a single negative response, my love remaining unrequited, dooming me to eternal loneliness and desperation.
By golly, I sure hope it's not the crushing part. I really do.
I will however find out one way or another.
Or will I chicken out at the last minute? Freezing up like the wimpy, whoosie kind of guy I secretly know myself to be.
Who knows?
Oh Jesus! Where's a good monastery?
July 26 Friday Day 318
Payday.
I got up early to go and cash my big paycheck. I haven't had so much money in my pocket since a year ago last May. On the way back I walked through the mall and browsed inside one of the book stores that they have there. I found copies of the very same books Kathy said she would loan to me. I looked for others with a similar subject matter, thinking a book like that might be a nice gift for her.
Women like gifts.
So does everyone else.
I remembered that she had told me she had an extensive library though, so I thought better of buying her something in fear that she might already have it.
Oh well, my feeble attempt to purchase her affections can wait awhile.
I had a nice lunch (cheeseburgers), then went to the park for about an hour.
When I returned Jeff Pursell gave me a haircut. Not that I wanted one, but Robert had begun to call me "hippie boy," being his little way of telling me it was time to get my hair shortened.
After all, I must set an example to others.
Or so I've been told.
After that I went to work. I didn't feel like working. I felt much more like sitting up in my room and daydream of Kathy. But being the responsible alcoholic that I am I went to the desk and fulfilled my duties.
Not feeling like working ensured that my shift would be unusually hectic. Which it was. Everybody wanted something from me all at the same time. But I handled it. With apparent ease I might add.
Robert was busy washing his new car in the As-Is Yard. Hugh Hogle came back from Venice Beach with Reuben Smith and Harold Eversley, and was badly sun burned. He looks like a great big tomato, and said he didn't feel very well. And Kevin Rockoff says he doesn't like his new job, and may be coming back to us.
Good. He's my best desk man.
How selfish of me.
When things calmed down a bit I had time to take notes from the "Underground Empire," book, which will not be transposed here.
Read the book if you want to find out about it.
I highly recommend it.
July 27 Saturday Day 319
Last night was pretty bad for me. I felt kind of jumpy, and not too good. Like something was out of place. I sure didn't feel like working, but I've already said that.
My friend Darrell Sipp didn't have a very good night either. Certainly worse than mine. He was walking back from a friend's house, somewhere north of Colorado Blvd., when he was set upon (mugged) and badly pummeled by a group of young men looking for money. After taking a kick to the crotch and a few punches to the head, he escaped all of his attackers and made it back to the residence just before the midnight curfew. He gasped for breath and his face was very swollen. He felt he should go to the hospital, so I dropped him off at Huntington Memorial.
I saw him at lunch today and he seemed okay. He has a couple of lose teeth though.I got up early to go and cash my big paycheck. I haven't had so much money in my pocket since a year ago last May. On the way back I walked through the mall and browsed inside one of the book stores that they have there. I found copies of the very same books Kathy said she would loan to me. I looked for others with a similar subject matter, thinking a book like that might be a nice gift for her.
Women like gifts.
So does everyone else.
I remembered that she had told me she had an extensive library though, so I thought better of buying her something in fear that she might already have it.
Oh well, my feeble attempt to purchase her affections can wait awhile.
I had a nice lunch (cheeseburgers), then went to the park for about an hour.
When I returned Jeff Pursell gave me a haircut. Not that I wanted one, but Robert had begun to call me "hippie boy," being his little way of telling me it was time to get my hair shortened.
After all, I must set an example to others.
Or so I've been told.
After that I went to work. I didn't feel like working. I felt much more like sitting up in my room and daydream of Kathy. But being the responsible alcoholic that I am I went to the desk and fulfilled my duties.
Not feeling like working ensured that my shift would be unusually hectic. Which it was. Everybody wanted something from me all at the same time. But I handled it. With apparent ease I might add.
Robert was busy washing his new car in the As-Is Yard. Hugh Hogle came back from Venice Beach with Reuben Smith and Harold Eversley, and was badly sun burned. He looks like a great big tomato, and said he didn't feel very well. And Kevin Rockoff says he doesn't like his new job, and may be coming back to us.
Good. He's my best desk man.
How selfish of me.
When things calmed down a bit I had time to take notes from the "Underground Empire," book, which will not be transposed here.
Read the book if you want to find out about it.
I highly recommend it.
July 27 Saturday Day 319
Last night was pretty bad for me. I felt kind of jumpy, and not too good. Like something was out of place. I sure didn't feel like working, but I've already said that.
My friend Darrell Sipp didn't have a very good night either. Certainly worse than mine. He was walking back from a friend's house, somewhere north of Colorado Blvd., when he was set upon (mugged) and badly pummeled by a group of young men looking for money. After taking a kick to the crotch and a few punches to the head, he escaped all of his attackers and made it back to the residence just before the midnight curfew. He gasped for breath and his face was very swollen. He felt he should go to the hospital, so I dropped him off at Huntington Memorial.
A reminder of how hostile it can be out there.
Art's crazy people.
July 28 Sunday Day 320
For a while last night I thought that Rockoff might have run off with his American Indian girlfriend and gone A.W.O.L. His was the only key left in our key box when curfew time came. As you may remember, that is the primary way we determine if someone is in the building, by the presence or absence of their locker key. If we at the desk have the key, the person it belongs to is not usually in the building. Or vice versa.
So I went to have a look in Kevin's dorm, 41, bed A. There he was, all cuddled up with his favorite teddy. Apparently he had forgotten to sign in and pick up his key when he returned from his amorous outing. For doing so he shall be severely beaten today in order to assist him in remembering proper residence procedures.
Some gentlemen have tried to take advantage of the fact that we do not take roll call, or make a head count just after curfew. We find that it is really unnecessary to perform that laborious task. One man attempted to pull this trick just last night. He took off without leaving his key and stayed out for the night, no doubt believing we would assume he was here simply because we did not have his key. And he was right, we did assume that. It was his own roommates who unintentionally busted him this morning by asking us why he had not returned to his dorm the night before, thus alerting us at the desk of his absence. They'll say, "What happened to so and so last night?" or, "Was so and so AWOL last night? He didn't come back." "Can I change over to so and so's bed? It's empty."
Then we'll say something like, "Soooo, he wasn't in his dorm last night, was he? Thanks for letting us know." Then they'll turn away looking like they ratted out their mom.
Works every time.
Sometimes a person pulling this maneuver actually remembers to come back in the morning acting as if he had been here all night. They are the picture of innocence. We get their keys from them, their I.D. badges, and send them out into the world.
And we wish them well.
Clarence Orion went on vacation this week, so he dumped all of his usual Sunday chapel duties onto Robert, who attempted to dump them onto me. But I would have none of it. I feel kind of silly, or phony actually, going up to the pulpit and doing stuff for their services when I'm not even a Christian and all. But I do help out sometimes. I have nothing against the Christian Church (except those Spanish Inquisition guys. No one expects them), I'm just not a member.
I don't know that much about it really, the Christian Church that is. I should look into it further.
I have nothing if not an open mind.
Most of the time.
Anyway, Robert got stuck leading a singing session, plus the testimonials, plus the announcements and offering. As usual, I ushered.
"You did a wonderful job sir," I told Robert after the service. "And your voice is lovely."
He glared.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Joyce."
Ron Collins and I attended our Sunday morning A.A. meeting. Ron pointed out that there were an amazing amount of pretty ladies around, some sitting right behind us. I ignored his excited chatter. Since I've now found Kathy, other pretty girls mean nothing to me.
This Sunday's speaker, and elderly gentleman with 45 years of sobriety (you have to be elderly to have 45 years of sobriety), talked non-stop at an even and constant pace for fifty minutes straight. But damned if I can remember anything he said. The monotonous twill of his voice disallowed any possible attempt to comprehend his speech.
I enjoyed the meeting in any case. I just like being there.
It's a good place for me to be.
On our way back we stopped at Los Tacos again and partook of some super burritos.
Yummy!
Ron paid.
Great!
He has received his first paycheck you see.
It is beginning to act like summer here in Pasadena, with the temperatures reaching well into the 90s. I sat (baked) in the bright sun for an hour, listening to rock and roll. Reuben Smith was doing the very same thing only a few yards away from me. He had gotten there before I had. He was lying face up with his sunglasses on, so now he looks like a racoon again.
I call him "Racoon Head."
When evening came I watched the Sunday night V.C.R. movie. "The Untouchables," having nothing better to do, being bored with reading and writing. Later, I read a little anyway, about the life of Jesus Christ.
At 9:30 I walked down to Vons to buy some shampoo and toothpaste. I also picked up some snack food, and salsa and chips. I would have an unauthorized pig out in my room.
Then I watched, "Monsters," and went to bed.
I had a good full day, and I had enjoyed it, but I was just marking time. waiting.
Waiting for Wednesday to come around again.
July 29 Monday Day 321
I went to the dentist today. Of my own free will. I even had to actually pay for it.
Since I have so much extra cash now, being a big time employee of the Salvation Army, I decided to have my upper front tooth fixed. A tiny corner of it had broken off, a remnant of my second to last relapse, when a sidewalk somehow reared up and hit me in the face. Since a year ago last May I've lived with a hole in my mouth, which I've self consciously tried to hide with the tip of my tongue whenever I smile, After today I hope to have my smile back, which should help to improve my overall self esteem.
And make me a much better kisser.
So I went to Dr. Campbell, the friendly credit dentist, and after the financial agreements were agreed upon, and the X-rays taken, Dr. Zu, (a distant relative of Dr. Campbell no doubt) went to work.
Oh, what a lovely experience. This time the doctor (masked as usual) took a hammer and chisel to my poor little defenseless mouth. No soft and gentle taps were applied either, these were great, long, sweeping, slams that jolted my entire body to and fro. I felt certain that at any moment his aim would vary and my life would be no more.
Then came the drill.
Next they shoved some purple plastic stuff in my mouth that I was required to bite down on while waiting for it to harden.
After a while he pried open my mouth, took it out and looked at it.
"Let's do another one," he said with evil glee.
After a couple of hours they "affixed" (I love that word) a temporary cap over the stump of my broken tooth. This shall serve me until the permanent cap is ready. They warned me that the temporary cap may fall out... and that I should not swallow it.
I'll try my best.
Now I can smile again. My smile looks very nice, I must say.
I just can't chew anymore. My bottom front tooth jams into the cap, not allowing my teeth to close.
And so it goes (Vonnegut).
I was in great pain for the rest of the day. I really don't want to talk about it.
July 30 Tuesday Day 322
My tooth felt a little better this morning. My gums are not as sore, so I guess I can continue this narrative.
Rico Montgomery came by, just after lunch, to pick up his stuff. He was released from County Jail this morning at 5:30. He looks alright. Imprisonment seems to agree with him. Apparently he'll be living with his girlfriend for awhile, at least until she gets tired of his jive bullshit.
Rico told me he saw Ben Driscoll while there in jail. Ben doesn't talk all that much, so Rico never found out why Ben had been incarcerated. Rico did say that Ben seemed to be coping pretty well, doing a lot of sweeping in the jail. Ben likes to sweep.
But then again, who doesn't?
Reuben Smith has been acting peculiar the last couple of days. More peculiar than normal. He's acting all sullen and uncommunicative, which is odd for Reuben. When Richard Bennett called him down for counseling, Reuben, who had been sleeping, came to the desk, looked at Richard and said, "That's all you wanted me for?" as he abruptly turned around and walked back upstairs. Reuben can be rude at times (most of the time), but this was exceptional. He's told others that he's sick. He won't tell me what's going on. I hope he's alright.
I spent the last part of my shift getting ready for the big Pacific Oaks College graduation ceremony being held this evening in our chapel. I made sure Schimmele and his crew got the chapel in order, and I made some signs which pointed out the way to the chapel and atrium, where a reception would be held for the graduates. I placed these signs in strategic locations, ensuring them being seen by the hundred and sixty expected guests.
I just happened to be in the lobby when Jill came in. She made a rare, early appearance, and was actually here at 5:45 for her 5:45 group counseling tonight, which accentuated her shinning sumptuous features, her pert but elegant nose, the lustrous fall of her eyelash, her crimson lips, her delicate earlobes and her come hither eyes framed in a cascade of exuberant red tresses. I did not see, or was affected by the vital, flowing way in which she crossed the room, her statuesque full figure, her shapely long legs. He fresh, clean smell mixed perfectly with a slight whisper of the erotic scent of her perfume. I saw none of that, nor did I notice the firmness of her ample breasts, her slim waist, the swell of her hips, the little mole on the right side of her neck, the adorable birthmark on the inside of her left knee. Her magnificent smile. Her lilting voice as she sighed, "Hello Richard."
She calls me Richard. Some do.
Her presence meant nothing to me, so I left the lobby and went upstairs to take a cold shower, after which I retreated to my lonely room, to read, and watch mindless made for T.V. movies for the rest of the evening.
I did manage to finish the Nan Robertson book, "Getting Better." A remarkable achievement, the book I mean. I definitely recommend this book to anyone who thinks they may have a drinking problem and are considering treatment, or joining Alcoholics Anonymous. Rarely have I seen the process of recovery depicted in such realistic and compassionate detail. Everything one needs to start the recovery ball rolling is in this book.
Except the desire to stop drinking.
Some current events are just screaming for attention today. It appears that the intense air bombardment of Iraq during the Persian Gulf War still left Saddam Hussein with viable nuclear weapon producing capabilites. We're told he'd been trying to hide them from the United Nation's inspectors in violation of the peace agreement. He's being obstinate. Very obstreperous in an obsequious manner. And now President Bush is talking tough, and we may find ourselves beginning the war all over again.
Terrific.
Some very well may ask, "Why did we stop the war before making sure Hussein was removed from power and could never be a threat in the region again?" Good question! One the President may find difficult to answer during next year's election (don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Bush I haven't particularly cared for any president since Garfield)
Yesterday it was reported that Hussein may still have chemical weapons as well.
He isn't letting us see those either.
Last week, what astronomers belive may be a planet with about 10 times the mass of Earth, a little less than the planet Uranus in our own solar system, may be revolving around a pulsar at 20,000 to 30,000 light years from Earth. It's located somewhere in the direction of the Milky Way's galactic center, in the constellation Sagittarius. This would seem an unlikely place for a planet to form considering a pulsar, or neutron star, itself is believed to be the remanent of a supernova, one of the most energetic and destructive events known in the universe. Certainly life would not be possible on a planet so close to a high synchrotron radiation source such as a pulsar. But if it is a planet, and it was able to form in such a hostile environment, then the likelihood of planet formation in other solar systems in general, throughout the cosmos, increases dramatically.
This would correspondingly increase the possibility that life would develop elsewhere in the universe.
And that would be a wonderful thing.
July 31 Wednesday Day 323
Kathy was here tonight. About the only thing I managed to do was to discover that she spells her name like this: C A T H Y. Short for... Cathy.
Jesus, I don't know how two sober people get together. It all seemed so easy when I was half sloshed. .
For one thing, I wasn't really in the greatest of moods. Tonight being the last Wednesday of the month, it was Birthday Night, which meant a bit more work for me, and having to spend time in direct contact with the Major. He being the boss, it's alway wise to spend as much time away from him as possible.
For another thing, that red headed guy I'd been seeing talking to Cathy in the parking lot a few weeks back, he told me he had been to the same Jackie Robinson Center that I had gone to, and this afternoon discovered that he was H.I.V. positive. I identified with the feeling he must have been experiencing and let me tell you, it was not pleasant.
And I can never talk to Cathy alone. There's always about ten guys hanging around who have nothing better to do than stand around and watch Cathy as I try to have a conversation. Most of them are not above busting into it whenever possible.
Jesus, I think I'm going nuts. Really!
We did talk a little though. She brought me a couple of books by John Bradshaw. She thought I might like to read them. I will. We also talked about family relationships for awhile. Real exciting.
Her clients are giving her a hard time, she tells me. My ex-friend, Ron Collins, walked out on her during counseling. Another of her clients just doesn't want to stop drinking, and another just avoided her all together. The poor girl can't understand why some (most) of the men here are so unmotivated. These guys are expert, big time game players, and Cathy can't quite comprehend that. I'm sure she's hurt when she doesn't seem to get through to them.
Oh well, some progress was made I guess. For my cause at least. She now knows that I was adopted at the crisp age of four days old, that I witnessed my father's fatal heart attack, that my mom is coming to visit Sunday, (I talked to her yesterday), and that I have Sundays and Mondays off.
I still haven't the faintest idea of what she feels about me. If she truly likes me, or is just making polite conversation to this idiot who won't stop talking to her. She's not giving me a clue.
Women! I swear! I'm seriously considering becoming a monk. And I believe I'm getting a headache to boot.
Then she was gone with the wind. Poof! Just like that. For a whole week. Another week of stewing in the juices of my own making, for roughly 160 hours, or so. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Next week! Next week I swear, so help me God, I will ask her out! Sink or swim, I need to know if my preoccupation will amount to anything. Will we become lovers, friends, acquaintances, or will she crush me altogether with a single negative response, my love remaining unrequited, dooming me to eternal loneliness and desperation.
By golly, I sure hope it's not the crushing part. I really do.
I will however find out one way or another.
Or will I chicken out at the last minute? Freezing up like the wimpy, whoosie kind of guy I secretly know myself to be.
Who knows?
Oh Jesus! Where's a good monastery?
August 1 Thursday Day 324
Well, well, well, another long day. I have decided to carry on at the Adult Rehabilitation Center of the Salvation Army here in Pasadena, instead of moving to Japan, where I've discovered there are a lot of monasteries.
Probably a wise decision on my part. Monasticism could very well just be another form of escape for me. Another way to hide my deep feelings.
Our visitors from Denmark left for home today. Nice people (freeloaders).
Mrs. Johnson gave me a box of stuffed animals and costume jewelery she got for free from Avon, to give to the Danish people as going away presents. I imagine they were intended for the children. They left some of this fabulous booty in the apartment after vacating, and I confiscated a stuffed lion, necklace, and ankle bracelet, to give to my mother on Sunday, who in turn would give it to my beautiful, but precocious young niece, Keri.
I'm sure Mrs. Johnson would approve if I were to tell her.
Fat chance of that.
A couple of suspicious looking fellows have been hanging around the thrift store just before closing time, making the ladies who work there nervous. I took Anthony Bullock with me and went over there to see what was up. We only saw one guy hanging around, sitting in a blue Impala actually. I decided to call the police, but as I dialed the car drove off. The police said they were too busy molesting poor homeless people in the park to be bothered, so I told the girls if the guy came back to give me a call.
I spent most of the evening reading one of the books Cathy had lent to me. Very interesting material concerning family systems. Bradshaw describes the "courting phase," of a relationship, the "falling, or being in love phase," as "being out of your mind." I would have to say that is fairly accurate.
I had the unique opportunity to call Major and Mrs. Johnson at home when I knew they would be sleeping. Delta Airlines had called here at the residence to let us know Mrs. Johnson's 8:30AM flight had been canceled. Despite being woken, Mrs. Johnson (Jenny) was awfully glad I passed that little tidbit of info along.
And when I retired for the evening I thought about Cathy again, as I had found myself doing through a good portion of the day.
Why do I feel so much like a teenager thinking about his first date?
Probably a wise decision on my part. Monasticism could very well just be another form of escape for me. Another way to hide my deep feelings.
Our visitors from Denmark left for home today. Nice people (freeloaders).
Mrs. Johnson gave me a box of stuffed animals and costume jewelery she got for free from Avon, to give to the Danish people as going away presents. I imagine they were intended for the children. They left some of this fabulous booty in the apartment after vacating, and I confiscated a stuffed lion, necklace, and ankle bracelet, to give to my mother on Sunday, who in turn would give it to my beautiful, but precocious young niece, Keri.
I'm sure Mrs. Johnson would approve if I were to tell her.
Fat chance of that.
A couple of suspicious looking fellows have been hanging around the thrift store just before closing time, making the ladies who work there nervous. I took Anthony Bullock with me and went over there to see what was up. We only saw one guy hanging around, sitting in a blue Impala actually. I decided to call the police, but as I dialed the car drove off. The police said they were too busy molesting poor homeless people in the park to be bothered, so I told the girls if the guy came back to give me a call.
I spent most of the evening reading one of the books Cathy had lent to me. Very interesting material concerning family systems. Bradshaw describes the "courting phase," of a relationship, the "falling, or being in love phase," as "being out of your mind." I would have to say that is fairly accurate.
I had the unique opportunity to call Major and Mrs. Johnson at home when I knew they would be sleeping. Delta Airlines had called here at the residence to let us know Mrs. Johnson's 8:30AM flight had been canceled. Despite being woken, Mrs. Johnson (Jenny) was awfully glad I passed that little tidbit of info along.
And when I retired for the evening I thought about Cathy again, as I had found myself doing through a good portion of the day.
Why do I feel so much like a teenager thinking about his first date?
August 2 Friday Day 325
Come to think of it, my first date's name was Cathy. She was 14 years old and a model. A 14 year old model for God's sake. I used to write her letters and mail them "Special Delivery." That was fine until she wrote one back mailed the same way and my mom almost had two heart attacks thinking someone in the family had kicked the bucket.
This morning I got up at about nine and sat for a while thinking about what I would do until I began my big shift at 3:30.
I took a shower. It was the best shower I ever had.
After I dried off, I stole Reuben Smith away from Harold Eversley ("It's alright. You can have him," Harold exclaimed), and took him with me to see "Hot Shots," a new comedy starring Charlie Sheen, with Lloyd Bridges as the Admiral. It was ostensively about Navel fighter pilots.
ADMIRAL: "Why I've flown one hundred and ninety four missions... shot down every time. Come to think of it, I've never landed an airplane."
It was a fun hour and a half.
When I returned to the residence I worked out for a while, then went to work.
After the Friday afternoon madness abated somewhat, I was able to get back to the Bradshaw book on the family. Very interesting and valid stuff. Very real issues affecting each and every one of us. I'm glad that I've read this because my own research has primarily dealt with alcoholism and chemical dependency, not the etiology of possible causes of addictive behavior. "The disease behind the disease," as Bradshaw states.
Don't get me wrong. I still consider chemical addiction to be a "primary disease" which treatment must be first provided (abstinence) before any work regarding underlying conditions be attempted.
One other very interesting thing about reading this particular book is that Cathy has highlighted it much of it with a yellow felt pen. Either these passages held some kind of clinical interest for her, or they pertained to her personally, which I believe the latter to be the case from talking to her and knowing something about her.
Reading this has been very insightful.
August 3 Saturday Day 326
One year ago today Major Engels of the Van Nuys ARC searched through what he thought was my locker and found two empty half pint bottles of Seagram Seven (only maniacs drink Seagram Seven) that were not mine. He then had me terminated from that center and program.
Thus began my last (I hope) great relapse episode, from which I stumbled upon the shores of the Pasadena ARC a month and a half later.
This morning, immediately after prying myself from the steadfast jaws of Morpheus, I walked back to the Park from whence I came. This time though, instead of bringing a fifth of Bacardi (only desperate tequila drinkers drink Bacardi), I had my blanket and headphones. I had my cigarettes and book as well. That much had changed. When I once lived in the Park I spent my days drinking, smoking and reading.
I laid down on my flat and well muscled stomack (fantasy), propped myself on my elbows, and read from "The Family." I did this for the next twenty six minutes, until my poor elbows couldn't take it anymore. I then flattened out for four minutes, before flopping over for the next thirty, on my well chiseled back, while listening to Foreigner, Jethro Tull, and the Beatles.
I began work a little early. Got some writing done, taking care of the usual Saturday afternoon chores and paperwork.
Anthony Rutherford came into my office, tossed a five dollar bill on my desk and asked, "Can I have two canteen cards, Richard?"
"Well, let's see Anthony." I opened my cash drawer and looked inside. "Sorry. I don't have change. All I've got right now is one dollar bill and four quarters. You want three cards?"
"No." He took back the five dollar bill, rummaged through his pants pocket and pulled out a one. "Gimme one card then."
I gave him a card and took the dollar bill.
"Hey Anthony! Now I've got change. You want two cards?"
"You do? Gimme two cards."
I took his five and gave him back the dollar he had just given me, plus the dollar bill and quarters from the cash drawer, plus two more canteen cards. Anthony walked away from my office a happy and fulfilled man.
Things like this happen to me all of the time.
Ron Collins came into the office a little later and wanted to talk. He was depressed because he had just been talking to a lady friend of his named Patricia on the phone, which reminded him that he had no material possessions and couldn't go out on dates and have sex. He feels that because of his advancing age he'll never find any happiness, and that life has passed him by. I told him that he was doing what he needed to be doing right now, and if he was patient, things would surely get much better. He didn't want to hear any of that. He got mad at me because I refused to feel sorry for him.
Such is life.
August 4 Sunday Day 327
I sat in the third pew from the front during this mornings chapel service. A good spot for an usher. One can make it up to the podium and grab a collection pan real easy from there.
After I had seated myself I happened to glance at the service's program. I must confess I had not taken a look at it until that very moment, which accounted quite well for the feeling of utter horror and helplessness which fell upon me as I read my name printed next to the responsive reading section. I quickly opened the Salvation Army Songbook and found the portion I was supposed to read. I went over the section once, noticed I had to say the word "iniquities" about three times, and one "hyssop." No problem.
I did make a smooth entrance onto the stage, but I muttered the last line, and after finishing the usual one colum section I uttered the customary closing phrase, "May God add a blessing to the reading of his word," and walked off without realizing two paragraphs still remained unread at the top of the next colum. I had not finished the piece.
Many were happy to point this out to me as I regained my seat.
Life goes on. I did not drink over it.
Ron and I, along with my old roommate, Brian Montique, went to the Sunday speaker meeting at the American Legion building in South Pasadena. Skip was there. Ron was asked to recite the opening prayer, which he accomplished with distinction.
He's no longer mad at me he says. In fact, he thanked me for talking straight with him.
Friends are supposed to do stuff like that.
I did not go to the park this afternoon, even though it was nice and sunny. My mother and Jeanette came to visit me instead.
Jeanette is a lovely lady who I had not seen in over a year. A friend of my mothers, I first met her in a hospital room in St. Joseph's Medical Center in Burbank. I was kind of detoxifying at the time, that's why I was there in the hospital. I hadn't a clue as to who this short, smiling, little lady was, but she soon let me know, and gave me a carton of cigarettes, which I badly needed, and which made her alright in my book. At a time when I was very confused, scared, and anxious, she was reassuring, bright, and supportive. Her own son is a substance abuser, and at one time had gone through the very same ward that I was in. She and her husband Dick continued to visit me throughout my 28 day stay in St. Joseph's. They, my sister, and my close friend, Bobbie, were my only visitors while I was there. They supplied me with toilet articles, cigarettes, and other things I needed such as friendship and love.
They also saw me relapse a few times after I had checked out of the hospital. Once Jeanette and Bobbie came to visit me while I was busy isolating in my little bachelor apartment in North Hollywood. I was shit-faced, had in fact just finished setting my couch on fire, and was doing myself absolutely no good. I could hardly talk. It must have been very painful for them to see me that way, so they followed my mother's example and left me to my misery.
Which was probably a good thing. My transformation into a recovering sober guy was not pretty.
The last time I had seen Jeanette was a very brief occurrence in a motel hallway during my second to last relapse, after I had been unceremoniously thrown out of the Canoga Park A.R.C. She had come to my motel room, per my mother's instructions, to give me a new set of clothes to replace the torn, soiled ones I had been wearing. She knocked on the door, I opened it, she handed me the clothes. I did not invite her in. The room was filthy and I was naked. I had not let the maid come in since I had been there, nearly two weeks.
So it was good to see her today, me in my brand new, reasonable healthy state of mind. She was all bright, smiling, and inquisitive. She's always like that! I like her. I can relate to this woman. She is very caring and generous, we get along well, and I love her very much.
I gave Jeanette and my mother a tour of the residence. I also gave my mom a plastic bag filled with presents to take back to my beautiful and precocious little niece. Then we went to lunch. Rockoff happened to be sitting in the lobby as we were walking out, looking lost and vulnerable like a puppy, so I invited him along.
We went to Mijares, just west of the residence on Pasadena Ave. A stylish Mexican restaurant. I had enchiladas, Rockoff a burrito, quesadillas for my mom and Jeanette.
The ladies got it into their pretty little heads that I desperately needed a printer to go along with the computer I have up in my room. So after they dropped me and Kevin off at the residence they headed off to the Home Club to shop.
Typical female behavior.
Left to myself I went to my lonely room and read until I fell asleep. I slept right through, "Star Trek, the Next Generation," but got up in time to catch "Edward Scissorhands," tonight's VCR movie. A wonderful fairy tale film, done in pastel, directed by Tim Burton, of "Beetlejuice" and "Batman" fame. It was the kind of movie I couldn't wait to end because of the slow progression of the story in parts, and sometimes the outrageousness was just too hard to take. But when it was over I immediately wished to see it again. A beautiful and haunting musical score, and a cameo with Vincent Price in his last theatrical release before his death. Johnny Depp as Edward was perfect.
After the movie I walked to Vons and bought some devil food cakes, which I accidentally brought up to me room and greedily consumed. While I was consuming them I watched a stupid James Bond movie, one with Roger Moore, which dutifully put me back to sleep.
August 5 Monday Day 328
I kept waking in the middle of the night, for at least twelve times. I got up, went to the bathroom where I had an unauthorized cigarette, then returned to bed.
I made it to the lobby by ten to write a little. Wendy was there, counseling away, lovely as ever. I asked her how her weekend had been and if she had watched any football (exhibition games began last Saturday). She said, "Short and no."
After a cool lunch of Polish sausages, I continued to write until one o'clock. Then I put away my "The Mind" book, changed my clothes and worked out a little. Afterwards I went to the park for an hour or so. A good sunny day with a gentle breeze.
I ate some nice vegetables at dinner time. I was sitting with Barbara Grothe, Ron Collins, and Kevin Rockoff. Ron immediately began to tell Barbara the same sad story he told me in my office last Saturday. Barbara reacted pretty much the same way I had, by telling him that if he was patient things will come his way. Ron still wants everything on his own terms. "There's got to be a payoff," he said. We suggested personal growth and satisfaction as a payoff. Ron wants something a bit more material. Something that has weight and takes up space, like money or a new Cadillac. Barbara surmised that Ron's longing for instant gratification will probably cause him some misery. Ron agreed.
I don't understand this type of attitude, but I see an awful lot of it around here. Everywhere really. I don't let it bother me. Ron is a reasonably intelligent man who must realize the consequences of his actions, and who just doesn't care to do anything that can actually help him. He likes to complain and moan, and expects things to be given to him just because he's a nice guy who is getting a bit older.
There's not a whole lot you can do for people like this except leave them to their fate.
I was like that a lot when I was drinking, but never when sober.
Reuben Smith kept driving poor Carlos Noble crazy during relapse prevention by making annoying sucking noises while continuously tossing his juggling balls back and forth. Carlos couldn't take it and had to leave.
I hope he doesn't relapse.
August 6 Tuesday Day 329
I put Roger Collins on the Saturday work list. I enjoyed doing it.
During his shift last night Roger put up Wednesday's schedule on the bulletin board instead of Tuesday's, realized his mistake and refused to correct it, saying, "Oh Kevin will fix it in the morning."
He also screwed up the radio log, which in itself is not very surprising considering Roger had also turned the radio off, effectively eliminating the possibility of communication between the residence and any part of the outside world.
I do not believe Roger has his heart in his work.
After my big morning shift was over I worked out for a little while, the snoozed for a bit.
At 5:30 I was down in the lobby attempting to read John Bardshaw's "Healing the Shame that Binds You." Interesting book. This is the second book that Cathy has lent to me, and I was trying to finish reading it before she came tomorrow night. But Robert was hiding somewhere, as usual, and everybody and their brother kept asking me to stop what I was doing and sell them canteen cards.
Jill made it here by 6:05 for her 5:45 group counseling session. Charity was here also. She told me she was very sleepy because of all the meatloaf we fed to her at dinnertime and wanted to leave before seeing her last two clients.
It had too much sodium glutamate, she said.
I spent the rest of the evening practicing to myself what I would say to Cathy tomorrow night. August 7 Wednesday Day 330
Overall, I believe today was rather sad.
A couple of very nice things did happen though. First let me point these out.
My counselor, Richard Purdy, dropped in this morning. He has shaved his beard. He is now beardless. He also can't seem to find a job. "Resumes are everywhere," he tells me. He did have one offer, to counsel adolescents, but refused the position on the grounds that he'd "wind up killing most of them within the first half hour."
So he asked Ed Reitz if he could come back here and counsel once a week, and Ed, being the lazy scum that he is, said sure.
Ed even had the nerve to state that he needed more counselors to help take the load off of him. My God! The man can never be found when you need him, he constantly combines his Monday's and Wednesday's 6:30 and 7:30 group counseling sessions into one so he can take off early, or lets Barbara take them so he can split altogether, or just out and out cancels them! Lately he's been showing AIDs videos in his groups. We've had about three combined AIDs videos within the last month. Learning about AIDs is fine, of course, except that learning about AIDs is not the reason why we came here.
Ever since his sister-in-law came to this country from the Philippines, Ed's been acting like a madman.
The second good thing that happened today was that lovely lady Jeanette came by and dropped the printer off that she and my mom got into their lovely heads that I needed.
Panasonic!
Oh boy!
She also brought with her about 2,500 sheets of special computer paper. Now I am forced to learn how to use all of this stuff.
On to the sad part of this day.
My good friend Tom Rotsch, one of those genuinely nice men, took about all he could from his supervisor, Frank Corona, and walked off the job, going over to the park to cool off. In the forty or so minutes that he was gone, Ernie Sens called and told me, "As of twelve noon, Tom Rotsch has been terminated. His behavior is intolerable." Tom came back to my office and I had to tell him that he'd been fired. He appeared to take it well. He certainly was not mad at me. I let him know I would look after the beautiful doll house he had been working on for months, which was intended for his little girl. A 3 foot by 2 foot handmade structure, that stood a good 2 feet high. He had almost finished putting the shingles of the redwood roof on. I would make sure nothing happened to it, or his other possessions.
The third to last thing he said to me was, "I really feel like punching that Mexican drunk out," and the second to last thing he said was, "But I will not drink or use over it."A couple of very nice things did happen though. First let me point these out.
My counselor, Richard Purdy, dropped in this morning. He has shaved his beard. He is now beardless. He also can't seem to find a job. "Resumes are everywhere," he tells me. He did have one offer, to counsel adolescents, but refused the position on the grounds that he'd "wind up killing most of them within the first half hour."
So he asked Ed Reitz if he could come back here and counsel once a week, and Ed, being the lazy scum that he is, said sure.
Ed even had the nerve to state that he needed more counselors to help take the load off of him. My God! The man can never be found when you need him, he constantly combines his Monday's and Wednesday's 6:30 and 7:30 group counseling sessions into one so he can take off early, or lets Barbara take them so he can split altogether, or just out and out cancels them! Lately he's been showing AIDs videos in his groups. We've had about three combined AIDs videos within the last month. Learning about AIDs is fine, of course, except that learning about AIDs is not the reason why we came here.
Ever since his sister-in-law came to this country from the Philippines, Ed's been acting like a madman.
The second good thing that happened today was that lovely lady Jeanette came by and dropped the printer off that she and my mom got into their lovely heads that I needed.
Panasonic!
Oh boy!
She also brought with her about 2,500 sheets of special computer paper. Now I am forced to learn how to use all of this stuff.
On to the sad part of this day.
My good friend Tom Rotsch, one of those genuinely nice men, took about all he could from his supervisor, Frank Corona, and walked off the job, going over to the park to cool off. In the forty or so minutes that he was gone, Ernie Sens called and told me, "As of twelve noon, Tom Rotsch has been terminated. His behavior is intolerable." Tom came back to my office and I had to tell him that he'd been fired. He appeared to take it well. He certainly was not mad at me. I let him know I would look after the beautiful doll house he had been working on for months, which was intended for his little girl. A 3 foot by 2 foot handmade structure, that stood a good 2 feet high. He had almost finished putting the shingles of the redwood roof on. I would make sure nothing happened to it, or his other possessions.
The last thing he said to me was, "Rick, hold my guitar and books for me. I just punched Frank out." He had to repeat that statement because after he said it the first time, I said, "Whaaaatt?!"
He then took off as fast as he could, before the police got here.
See what I mean about clients becoming drivers. Tom, like Dennis before him, didn't even want to be a driver in the first place. He was perfectly content to keep working in the Carpenter's Shop. But Frank and Ernie wooed him away with a lot of "we really need yous," and "please help us outs." A bunch of crap! They needed him so much they gave him the boot the first time he told them what he thought of their feverish slave tactics.
Tom had been planning to begin Trade School next month, and be our night relief man on Thursdays and Fridays, then work nightcrawler on the weekends. . Now that's all shot to hell.
And the second sad thing that happened today... maybe not sad, but very frustrating. Or maybe it is very sad.
Cathy. I didn't get a chance to talk to her hardly at all. She took forever with her clients, counseling them I suppose, and didn't finish until 10:30, and then I only had the chance to return her two books and thank her for their use. She had brought some John Bradshaw video tapes she lent to me. We discussed the books a little bit, and then she was off. She seemed to be in a hurry, not like someone who was interested in talking or getting to know someone else. More like I was one of her clients.
I guess she did have to go to work in the morning, and it was late.
Women!
As I said, she terminated the conversation and drove off, waving as she left.
I don't know, I just don't know. Maybe she's not the one.
She's awfully cute though.
Awfully.
I'll tell you two things; I'm not going to spend another week mooning over this little girl, and I'm not going to spend another week worrying about it.
Life goes on.
And one day, maybe, if it is my fate, I will find the one for me.
If I stay sober.
After Cathy left, one of the guys came up and told me that he had seen my friend Tom Rotsch standing on a street corner nearby, looking very dazed, and quite confused.
I wish him well.
August 8 Thursday Day 331
This morning I felt really good, better than I had in weeks. Liberated from the nagging feeling of enslavement by my emotional involvement with Cathy. I still adore her, but now realize that my desire to get next to her was changing me into something I'm not. I was becoming subtly manipulating (with no results!), and I'd really rather not be that way (especially with no results). If Cathy has a part in my life, well that would be fantastic (she's so cute!). But if she doesn't, she won't. I'm not going to kill myself worrying about it anymore.
I wish her well.
I wish myself well too.
Kevin Rockoff told me that as he was asking Michael Vallee and Charles Parsons for a clothes washer replacement for the residence, he smelled alcohol on Parson's breath. I passed this information on to Clarence Orion, but nothing will come of it.
Harold Eversley moved out of the residence today. He moved into a one bedroom apartment with his beautiful Ellie. He will still be working here as the head cook.
As he begins his perilous journey known as domestication, I wish him well.
Something seems to be wrong with good old Don Erwin. A paramedic unit needed to pick him up from the Transition House to an emergency room. No one knows why, or what happened. Clarence Bliss said, "If you ask me it's alcohol poisoning!"
I took two hours in the afternoon to watch a couple of John Bradshaw PBS sessions of "The Family," which were companion pieces to one of the books I had just finished reading. Cathy had lent these to me.
A curious idea came to me while I watched these videos. What if I had drank and used drugs not to anesthetize myself, but to actually expel the feelings I could not express while sober? A frantic attempt at release.
Probably a little of both. No answer is simple in this world.
Marvin Gardenhire, my friend and canteen relief person, managed to get something in his eye, so I drove him to the USC Medical Center. While he was there I analyzed a sample of his urine, along with four others, and found his to be laced with high levels of cocaine metabolites. So were some of the others, but they were brand new members of the program and were rather expected to be dirty, not like an old program graduate like Marvin. His last test before this one, done on July 4th, indicated a level of 0.01, barely there. Today's sample was that of a man doing a back flip into a swimming pool filled with the white powder.
Poor Marvin. I shall miss him.
Do I sound callus?
Maybe I'm getting to sound that way... to be that way a little.
But I definitely feel that the sooner Marvin faces up to the fact that he has relapsed the better it will be for him. The faster it will be that he can stop lying to himself and begin to deal with his addiction again.
Denial is a killer.
August 9 Friday Day 332
I slept in until about nine, then went downstairs to the lobby to write.
After getting dressed of course.
After lunch (cheeseburgers) I quarantined the small T.V. room and watched the last half of "The Family" tape Cathy had lent to me. Very interesting stuff. I have seen the process Bradshaw describes in which alcoholics and drug addicts jump straight from using those substances into a rigid religious or spiritual structure or program, giving up all responsibility for their own recovery, letting "God" fix them, thusly substituting one addiction for another. These desperate folks tend to ignore any aspect of the A.A. 12 Step program (despite the fact that A.A. has a huge spiritual component installed within it), cutting off a valuable source of help and placing limits on one's own chances of successfully recovering from their primary addiction.
After two hours of watching the tape my lunch had finished digesting so I went down to the weight room and worked out vigorously. Then I showered, read some from the "Book of Proverbs," and went to work.
The usual Friday afternoon madness ensued, and when it was over, at six o'clock I presented new client orientation to four men. Three of them had recently been here before. I dismissed them. Tracy Alexander was one of them, which means he was back for those of you readers who may have been worried about him.
Now I had just one person to explain the house rules to. His name was Ted. Robert Vasquez came in during the middle of my speech, so poor Ted got the rules from both of us.
About thirty minutes later the police came and took Ted away for child support violations.
Such is life.
I spent much of the evening reading a novel that Charity had lent to me. "The Present Darkness," by Frank E. Peretti. Adequately written, a very Christian oriented work, depicting lots of foul demons battling beautiful angels. Based on a true story she told me.
I will finish reading it since Charity lent it to me and thought I might like it.
Charity is such a nice person. I like her a lot.
After work I watched two more hours of Bradshaw. This time from the "Homecoming" series, in which he demonstrates some of his techniques to bring out hidden and repressed feelings caused by abuse within family systems.
One thing bothers me while I watch these tapes. One item that doesn't seem to be addressed, something of particular interest to me... what happens when a person begins to get better, begins to heal and gets in touch with all of the aspects of their past hurt, shame, and pain? After they are on the road to recovery, their addictions arrested, how do they come to terms with, how does anyone learn to live in and be accepted by a still very sick, very dysfunctional and greatly disturbed world?
August 10 Saturday Day 333
The first thing I did today was breathe. The second was to wake up. Then I got dressed. After that I walked around the block to the thrift store a bought a nightstand with three drawers for my new printer to sit on, considering the laws of gravity and all. With my cool employee discount it came to only $6.75. Very nice.
I carried it back to the residence and settled it where I wanted it, right at the foot of my bed on the west wall. I placed the printer on top of it and plugged it in. Several little lights began to shine from the control panel, a good sign. I patched the parallel feed line from the printer to the word processor (computer). It continued to sit there quietly.
Now all I have to do is read the instruction booklet and find out how all of this stuff works.
But that can wait until tomorrow.
I went to the lobby to write until lunchtime. Then I grabbed my blanket, radio, sunglasses, and the book Charity had lent to me and went to the park.
I felt very good today. Ever since last Thursday when I made up my mind to stop pursuing Cathy, stop demanding that she perform to some desperate fantasy of mine, I have felt... released.
And that felt rather good. I liked everything today!
Except for the things I didn't like.
It was nice in the park. Hot and sunny. Reuben Smith came out and sat down next to me after I had been there 37 minutes. I knew that it had been 37 minutes because Reuben asked me how long I had been there.
"Thirty seven minutes," I told Reuben.
He rolled out his little orange blanket and laid down and we talked for a while. Abruptly he said, "I'm going to tune you out now, Richard," and put on his Walkman radio headphones. I followed suit, and tuned him out as well.
I discovered that Reuben does not turn over when he lies out in the sun. He allows his chest (if you can call it that, it sort of looks like a shallow depression in a road) to tan deeply while his back remains completely white. This, coupled with the fact that he still wears his sunglasses while sun bathing has the overall effect of making him look decidedly odd.
At work, I read during most of my shift. I did sneak into the small TV room a couple of times to see parts of the Saturday night V.C.R. movie, "The Punisher," with Dolf (Dolf) Lundgren. One of Robert's picks. Stupid movie , but with lots of gratuitous violence.
One of Cathy's clients, Ray Trujillo, came back close to midnight and blew a .03. I wish him well.
After midnight when my shift was over, I retired to the small T.V. room and tried to watch two more hours of the Bradshaw tapes. They're very good really, and I recommend them to anybody who's ever been in a family. Maybe the reason I've felt so good for the last couple of days is because I've been finding out so much about families, my own included, and about myself as well.
I fell asleep a little more than three quarters through the first tape. When the static noise from the T.V. woke me I went to my room and to bed.
I had weird sex dreams.
August 11 Sunday Day 334
The days are getting hot, like they were in the Park a year ago. I was there this time last year. The nights were warm and it will be chilly, if not down right cold by the time morning comes.
All I had to look forward to a year ago was a lot of loneliness and uncertainty. The lot of the homeless. Today I have all sorts of good and interesting things to do.
But before I could get to those things there was chapel to contend with. I had no responsive reading to worry about this week at least. Just passing around the collection plate at the appropriate time.
It went smoothly.
Lots of pretty girls at the Sunday morning A.A. meeting at the American Legion building in South Pasadena, which always makes this gathering very... intriguing. Devon, the Newport Beach suffer girl, and Angie, the quiet brunette who starts us off on the "Happy Birthday" song each week (Birthday Songleading Chairperson), are Ron's and my favorites. Especially Angie.
The girls from Casa de los Amigos did not show up though, which was just as well since about half of our folding chairs seemed to be missing.
Are these two events connected somehow? Who knows for sure? One can only speculate.
Skip was kind of glad the Casa girls were not around. "Those Casa girls sure absorb a lot of sound," he said. He could hear better when they weren't there, he said.
Ron and I had an enjoyable walk back, telling each other stories about how stupid and fucked up we were when we used to drink alcohol. We laughed about it. Most people overhearing us, I believe, would think us sick, or at least very sad.
I went to the park for an hour. Reuben Smith came by after a while. He did not sit next to me today because the grass was too hard where I was, he said. We left together though, deciding it was getting too cloudy.
Damn water vapor.
I took a shower, then watched a great episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation."
I think this show should be mandatory for all recovering people.
I wrote in the lobby afterwards. Since Robert had picked the week's V.C.R. movie I felt no pressure to save myself a seat, or even attend.
I played with my new printer for much of the rest of the evening. I had gone to Vons earlier and bought some shoe polish, so I polished my shoes as well.
I haven't the faintest idea of how my new printer is supposed to work. I did discover the self test mode, after which being engaged the printer head went crazy and gave me a full page of every character the printer prints, in four different styles.
Very exciting.
About the dumbest Arnold Schartzennagger movie yet to be made was on T.V. I watched part of it of course. "Commando." 80 million guys shooting straight at Arnie and he never got even a nick.
Movie magic.
I read after the movie ended, until I felt tired. When I began to feel tired I turned out the lights and rolled over on my stomach.
I wondered what Cathy was doing at that moment, and I wanted her next to me.
August 12 Monday Day 335
Lots of things to do today, so I dragged myself out of bed at 7:00, and by 7:36 I was sitting in the small T.V. room watching Part 5 and 6 of the "Homecoming," series, starring John Bradshaw. How to champion your inner child, and how to relieve a lot of repressed negative emotions and feel better about yourself. About halfway through the first hour long segment, Richard Hendrickson, the night crawler driver, came in and began to watch the video with me. At this time the T.V. picture went all to hell. All we could make out was what appeared to be John Bradshaw, or someone who sounded like him, walking back and forth in the midst of an intense snowstorm. I adjusted the tracking mechanism on the V.C.R., which did not help at all, so we figured, Richard and I, that either the tape itself was defective, or the V.C.R. heads needed to be cleaned. Having resolved this question to our mutual satisfaction, we sat back and absorbed what information the tape had to offer in it's audio spectrum.
Several others who happened, as chance would have it, to walk in on us hoping to to use the room to view morning cartoons, or "Leave it to Beaver," were openly bewildered by the sight of Richard and I steadfastly watching a moving fuzzball while being lectured about "having our needs met," "multi-generational dysfunctionality," and the discovery of one's own penis.
After the tape, I worked out for thirty minutes, made a phone call to my dentist, and discovered that the permanent front tooth that had been made for me was indeed ready. I made an appointment for later in the day. I had some nice lunch, then wrote until it was time to go.
This was the easiest visit to the dentist I have ever had. No face numbing injections into the gums, no biting probes or whirling drills. The dentist just came in and said, "Hello, how are you? How's the weather outside? Are you ready for your new tooth? " He then reached into my mouth, grabbed the temporary cap, yanked it out, shoved the new permanent cap into my upper gum, shoved a mirror into my face, and asked, "How does it look?"
It looked pretty good actually. A lot better than a chipped tooth. Or no tooth at all. The clean white color of the new crown didn't quite blend in with the other coffee and nicotine stained teeth, but maybe they would learn from it. Overall I was very happy. I can smile now without having to stick my tongue up the front of my mouth, like some love struck cow. After a year and a half that feels pretty good.
On the way out I asked how much it would cost to have all of my teeth bleached. This process would brighten my remaining choppers.
$300 total. I told them I'd get back to them.
On my way back I stopped at the mall. Roger Collins wanted me to pick up a new battery for his watch (Roger will be returning to the canteen this week. His obsequious behavior at the desk has been just too much), and I needed a new belt. All of the belts I get from the thrift store seem to disintegrate once exposed to fresh air. I got the battery, found a belt at the Broadway for $21.00 ($21.00 for a single strap of cowhide with little holes in it), then made a pass through the two book stores to see what was what.
Tom Clancy had a new book out. Being the thrifty (cheap) individual that I am, I'll wait for the paperback to come.
I browsed through the Psychology Section and came across a copy of Frankel's "A Search for Meaning." I bought it as a gift for Cathy, a thank you for turning me on to John Bradshaw. That's what I wrote on the inside cover, "For Cathy, Thanks for turning me on to Bradshaw." I hope she hasn't already read it.
Upon returning to the residence I wrote and snoozed for a while, waiting for the Relapse Prevention Workshop. I was awfully hungry, but was not supposed to eat until later in the evening so my new tooth could anchor itself properly in it's new home.
Barbara had the nerve to abandon us last Friday and take a two week vacation. She's gone to Montana of all places, to visit some property she and her husband own.Several others who happened, as chance would have it, to walk in on us hoping to to use the room to view morning cartoons, or "Leave it to Beaver," were openly bewildered by the sight of Richard and I steadfastly watching a moving fuzzball while being lectured about "having our needs met," "multi-generational dysfunctionality," and the discovery of one's own penis.
After the tape, I worked out for thirty minutes, made a phone call to my dentist, and discovered that the permanent front tooth that had been made for me was indeed ready. I made an appointment for later in the day. I had some nice lunch, then wrote until it was time to go.
This was the easiest visit to the dentist I have ever had. No face numbing injections into the gums, no biting probes or whirling drills. The dentist just came in and said, "Hello, how are you? How's the weather outside? Are you ready for your new tooth? " He then reached into my mouth, grabbed the temporary cap, yanked it out, shoved the new permanent cap into my upper gum, shoved a mirror into my face, and asked, "How does it look?"
It looked pretty good actually. A lot better than a chipped tooth. Or no tooth at all. The clean white color of the new crown didn't quite blend in with the other coffee and nicotine stained teeth, but maybe they would learn from it. Overall I was very happy. I can smile now without having to stick my tongue up the front of my mouth, like some love struck cow. After a year and a half that feels pretty good.
On the way out I asked how much it would cost to have all of my teeth bleached. This process would brighten my remaining choppers.
$300 total. I told them I'd get back to them.
On my way back I stopped at the mall. Roger Collins wanted me to pick up a new battery for his watch (Roger will be returning to the canteen this week. His obsequious behavior at the desk has been just too much), and I needed a new belt. All of the belts I get from the thrift store seem to disintegrate once exposed to fresh air. I got the battery, found a belt at the Broadway for $21.00 ($21.00 for a single strap of cowhide with little holes in it), then made a pass through the two book stores to see what was what.
Tom Clancy had a new book out. Being the thrifty (cheap) individual that I am, I'll wait for the paperback to come.
I browsed through the Psychology Section and came across a copy of Frankel's "A Search for Meaning." I bought it as a gift for Cathy, a thank you for turning me on to John Bradshaw. That's what I wrote on the inside cover, "For Cathy, Thanks for turning me on to Bradshaw." I hope she hasn't already read it.
Upon returning to the residence I wrote and snoozed for a while, waiting for the Relapse Prevention Workshop. I was awfully hungry, but was not supposed to eat until later in the evening so my new tooth could anchor itself properly in it's new home.
That's the problem with owning property. You always have to go visit it.
Anyway, while she is gone Carlos and I were delegated to oversee the relapse group. When I called the meeting together, Reuben Smith told me that he made made an arrangement with Barbara excusing him from the meetings. I strongly suggested that he attend, not that I didn't trust his word... well, I guess that was it exactly, I didn't trust his word. We're well aware of Reuben's penchant for utilizing untruths to his own advantage.
I was a little nervous, this being the first meeting, or group I was directly responsible for. But things went fairly smoothly and rolled right along for the entire hour. Reuben was even (although slightly coerced into it) awakened from his stubborn silence and made some substantial contributions to the discussion. All in all I was rather pleased.
Later in my lonely room I broke down and began reading the actual instructions for my new word processor and printer.
It was if a veil had been lifted.
August 13 Tuesday Day 336
Eleven months down, one to go!
And then on to the rest of my life.
One day at a time of course.
It feels great to have eleven months sober. Something about the number eleven. It has a regal quality about it. Eleven. "I have eleven months today!" Sounds pretty good doesn't it? "How are you, sir?" "Why fine, thank you. I have eleven months today."
They didn't give me the day off or anything because of it. You have to get malaria or something before you get a day off around here.
So I got up at 5:30 and went to work. I wrote quite a bit in the early morning, up until 9:30. Then I found some time to get some actual desk work done.
One's priorities must be in order.
Ben Driscoll came back into the program today. Don't ask me why they didn't refer him to another facility that might really help him rather than take him back in here. Good worker I suppose.
Major Johnson reminded me, while I was over at the front office harassing the bookkeeper for more canteen cards, that we were expecting approximately twenty five visitors for tomorrow's chapel service. A big time gospel singer guy, Andre Crouch, had consented to perform for us, and I had to make sure he and his entourage were fed, and had time to set up. No problem.
Columbus Davis would stop being our laundryman and replace Roger Collins at the desk. Gary Christensen would take over in the laundry.
At 1:00PM Gary told me that he was missing 30 towels. According to out new towel policy established by Major Allen, no one should have a towel in their locker during working hours. I gathered the locker keys and made a little inspection, finding 35 lockers with towels in them.
Some with more than one towel.
Pretty exciting stuff, I admit.
When I got off work, and after watching "Tiny Toons Adventures," and because Charity was here, I went to the lobby to continue reading the book that she had lent to me. She would know by this action that I was really reading it. She noticed this and sat down next to me and we discussed the book. I told her that generally I did not think the book was particularly fair to Eastern religions and philosophies, that they were in fact, depicted as being evil. She said that some of them were evil. After discussing all of the battles the demons and angels were involved with in the book, and how each entity had the ability to influence mortal men, she told me that demons were real, that she had in fact seen one while in the act of being delivered. I assume she meant while in the act of being converted, or saved in the Christian sense. I wasn't about to argue with someone who's seen demons.
Charity is a singer. She's going to sing tomorrow night too.
Jill came in at 6:00 for her 5:45 group counseling session. I did not have the time to stay and chat, since "Star Trek, the Next Generation," was about to begin.
I read and watched television up in my lonely room for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and I needed my rest.
I did have one, very nice, coconut covered donut to help celebrate my eleven month anniversary. One and a half really. Not exactly on my diet, but...
August 14 Wednesday Day 337
We're being attacked by the possums again. They're everywhere.
Andre Crouch, the big time gospel singer who was supposed to have performed with Charity and her singing brothers and sisters at chapel, couldn't make it because his flight from Norway had been delayed. Charity and her siblings put on a marvelous show in his absence. They sang their little gospel hearts out, God bless'em. . It was thoroughly appreciated.
I watched the last of the tapes that Cathy had lent to me. More John Bradshaw of course. I now feel I've reached my saturation point with Mr. Bradshaw. He can be a little grating.
I did learn quite a bit from them, and I was glad Cathy had lent them to me. I even came across some unique pickup lines, such as, "Oh baby, I want to get into your boundaries," and "Let's bond."
Speaking of Cathy, in accordance with my new found sense of freedom and independence, I had planned to be courteous and friendly this evening. I would give her the book I had bought for her, but not go out of my way to be ingratiating. Just act normally, enjoy her presence and the presence of everybody else around here, like I usually do. But because of Ron Collins being asleep when Cathy was ready to talk to him, I somehow wound up taking his place, and Cathy and I, finally, had a nice long sit down conversation. We talked about the program at the center mostly, how the residence operates, and my small part in it. I found out that she likes to run, and has in fact finished three marathons. I myself cannot stand running, but do it sometimes because I'm told it's good for me.
We talked for a good thirty minutes, and would have talked longer if Robert hadn't chose that time to return from one of his many and varied outings, yelling and screaming, "Where's my desk crew? Has everybody abandoned their post?" (apparently Jack Crossley had stepped out for a moment) So I left the lovely Cathy in order to placate my disgruntled boss.
After he was settled down and briefed, Cathy was ready to leave, so naturally I offered to escort her to her car. We talked some more out there in the parking lot. She told me that she had had a veterinary emergency the other night. Her unfixed female cat had gone into heat and was viciously attacked by her neutered male cat.
She gave me two more books to read, then it was time for her to go home.
"Well... I guess I'll see you next week," she said looking up at me from car window. She hesitated, and looked (radiant) kind of expectant.
If this wasn't an opening I don't know what was.
"What do you do on Sundays?" I asked.
"I have my home group to go to, in the mornings."
"Because I was wondering if you'd like, maybe we could get together. Ah I like you a lot and would like to talk to you some more."
"Well, how about in the afternoon."
"That would be great."
I asked her to give me a call sometime Friday or Saturday night while I was working to make the final arrangements.
I asked her to drive safely before she left. We smiled at each other, and then she was off.
I was very happy.
I don't remember dreaming that night, but when I woke up in the morning, I felt very, very good.
August 15 Thursday Day 338
All I really wanted to do today was to get through it as quickly as possible. The sooner the day ended the sooner I would be able to talk to Cathy Friday or Saturday night. And I wanted to talk to her very much.
I must say my mind was a little preoccupied with thoughts of her throughout the day. Whenever I wasn't doing anything at all, or while attempting to use my last three surviving neurons to figure out canteen cards, janitorial supplies, or measuring the softness of the ice cream served in the canteen, my thoughts always returned to her and our last conversation. I thought about what we could do on Sunday, and what I would say to her when she called.
So much for detachment.
What if she tells me that she forgot all about her usual Sunday afternoon hair washing ritual and can't make it?
Bullshit! She's just not that kind of girl. If she didn't want to go out with me she wouldn't have accepted my invitation.
Our own minds sometimes make us worry needlessly.
See how weird men are.
Of course women aren't any better.
I managed to get through another seventeen hour shift. It got rather tiresome getting on into the evening.
Richard Bennett came into my office complaining to me about Ed Reitz (both of these guys really crack me up), and about how he feels an increase of racial tension in the house.
I see no indication of this.
That doesn't mean it's not there.
I had people complaining about the temperature in their dorms, either too hot or too cold. A maintenance problem. I had people complaining about having to get haircuts. I had people complaining about Roger being back in the canteen taking his bloody sweet time serving food. I had people complaining about whatever they could find to complain about.
But I handled it with cool efficiency and dispatch. All part of the job.
I was very happy to see eleven o'clock come around.
Eddie Gillespie, theological magician and emissary, poet, man of leisure, and my friend, has consented to be our night security relief person. He appears out of nowhere near curfew time on Thursday and Friday nights, and then, his mission completed the following morning, he disappears back into the mists of time from whence he came. He doesn't have an address, and no one knows where he lives. Quite odd for a security person, admittedly. I am also required to breath-a-lize him at the beginning of each shift... another unusual requirement. But I'm glad he's here, and I'm glad he's okay.
Ed McNicol did not return from a two day pass. I had to A.C.O. him. Many of us here think the possums got him and took him away to Possum Land (more than likely he's all drunk in his brother's apartment in the Green Hotel).
And as I was laying in bed thinking again about how wonderful Cathy is (this is getting really sickening, isn't it), I realized something about our last conversation together.
I got to talk!
August 16 Friday Day 339
Ed McNicol managed to escape "by the skin of my teeth," from the cavernous den of the red eyed, malignant King of the Possums. "There were millions of them," he said. "As far as the eye could see."
Ed told me his story. On his way back from visiting his brother at the infamous Green Hotel, he was waylaid by three shifty looking possums dressed as fandango dancers. They systematically dragged him underneath the ground and held him captive, waiting to be sacrificed to the Great Possum God Rudolfo.
Being a fair possum, and one who liked to gamble now and then, the King of Possums offered Ed one chance of reprieve. All Ed had to do was answer the secret question.
"Ask me!" Ed gasped.
"What is the average flying velocity of the swallow during its annual summer migration?"
"What? The European or the African swallow?"
"Ahhh, well now, I'm not sure..." the ugly beast sat hard in thought. Nothing like this had never happened before, and during the ensuing melee that transpired while trying to straighten the matter out, Ed ducked out the back door and skedaddled back on to the residence.
We still had to take two dollars from his gratuity for coming back late from pass, no matter how ingenious his explanation. We chastised him harshly too.
After listening to Ed's story, witnessing the several long and shallow scratches along his arms and face that he offered as proof of his ordeal ("Possum love bites," Ed claims), I did a little writing, then went to the park.
While there I began yet another book that Cathy had lent to me. "Under the Influence," by Dr. James R. Milan and Katherine Ketcham. I learned from this book that my alcoholic nature is probably due to "a liver enzyme malfunction which results in a buildup of actaldehyde throughout the body. In the brain these large amounts of actaldehyde interact with brain amines to create the isoquinolines. These mischievous substances may trigger the alcoholic's need to drink more and more alcohol to counter the painful effects of the progressive buildup of actaldehyde.
"Heredity is clearly implicated."
Well that's good to know! I'm certainly glad that I didn't have anything to do with it.
Clearly there are other factors besides those found within the biological sciences that create a predisposition toward alcoholism and drug addiction. There are many factors involved with the psychological, sociological, and environmental composition of the addict, as well as the physiological contributions to the etiology of the disease. But a generally well understood physical predisposition toward alcohol addiction should help to alleviate much of the guilt and shame we alcoholics suffer as a direct result of societies misunderstanding of this complicated condition.
The main point of all this being we didn't ask to be this way.
During my shift, after the Friday afternoon madness, I finished reading Charity's book and continued reading Cathy's while waiting desperately for her to call. Cathy that is. I thought to myself many things; about how awkward and fumbling my invitation to her was, and how she must think I'm a raving looney. But most of all, why didn't I ask for her number instead of having her call me?
Women don't like to call guys you know. A girl told me that once.
By ten o'clock she hadn't called, so all of my hopes and dreams rested on tomorrow night. Kevin Rockoff and I ordered a Domino's pizza with mushrooms and extra cheese, consumed it with relish, finished our shift, then retired for the evening.
Possums filled my dreams.
August 17 Saturday Day 340
I woke up at eight. I heard people cleaning outside of my room. I couldn't go back to sleep so I arose.
I took my notebook and went to the lobby to try to write, but for some reason it was very difficult to do so. My head seemed to be filled with fog, and people kept coming to me and asking me questions.
Tom Rotsch came in to pick up his doll house from the hobby shop. It's really a big doll house, the second largest I've ever seen (old "Get Smart" joke). He came with a friend to take it to Richard Bennet's.
Tom seems to be doing fine. He told me that he had one rough day (tempted to use cocaine), but got through it, and has maintained his sobriety. That is tremendous news! He's been doing some freelance carpentry work, so he's making a little money, and his friends are being supportive.
Thank God! I was really worried about him.
After lunch I finished writing for a while and walked over to Music Plus to pick up the weekend's videos. "Misery," and "The Freshman," with Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick. Both had come out during the week. Both very good, but only if you like movies about shadowy Mafia figures, crazy farm ladies, and Komodo dragons (Burt Parks singing "Maggie's Farm" is classic!)
I just had time to make it to the park before my afternoon shift. A little Stevie Nicks (I'm secretly in love with her you know), and my absolute favorite Beatles (John Lennon) song, "Hide Your Love," came through my Mickey Mouse headphones.
After a quick shower I went with steady determination to work. The first order of business was to alert our new desk man, Columbus Davis, of my impending telephone call from Cathy. I told him that if I wasn't at the desk when she called to frantically page me, send troops out after me, fire skyrockets, do something, but get me to the telephone or else I'd have to shoot him.
So after dinner I went upstairs to have a nice unauthorized cigarette and brush my teeth. When I returned to the desk Columbus told me I'd have to shoot him.
"Why?" I asked.
"She called, and I told her to hang on, and Hendrickson wanted to key to four, and before I could call you, I checked and she had hung up." He was terrified.
But what choice did I have? I shot him three time with my father's German luger. Nine Millimeter.
After the body was taken to U.S.C. Medical I sat in my office and pondered this curious state of affairs. Why hadn't I gotten her phone number to begin with? Isn't that how it's normally done? And why hadn't she called back?
I continued to puzzle over this until about eight o'clock, when Cathy called and told me this had been her first attempt. I immediately signaled Rockoff to call U.S.C. and give Columbus the message that it was alright for him to come back... after he healed. Then I talked to Cathy for about fifteen minutes.I took my notebook and went to the lobby to try to write, but for some reason it was very difficult to do so. My head seemed to be filled with fog, and people kept coming to me and asking me questions.
Tom Rotsch came in to pick up his doll house from the hobby shop. It's really a big doll house, the second largest I've ever seen (old "Get Smart" joke). He came with a friend to take it to Richard Bennet's.
Tom seems to be doing fine. He told me that he had one rough day (tempted to use cocaine), but got through it, and has maintained his sobriety. That is tremendous news! He's been doing some freelance carpentry work, so he's making a little money, and his friends are being supportive.
Thank God! I was really worried about him.
After lunch I finished writing for a while and walked over to Music Plus to pick up the weekend's videos. "Misery," and "The Freshman," with Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick. Both had come out during the week. Both very good, but only if you like movies about shadowy Mafia figures, crazy farm ladies, and Komodo dragons (Burt Parks singing "Maggie's Farm" is classic!)
I just had time to make it to the park before my afternoon shift. A little Stevie Nicks (I'm secretly in love with her you know), and my absolute favorite Beatles (John Lennon) song, "Hide Your Love," came through my Mickey Mouse headphones.
After a quick shower I went with steady determination to work. The first order of business was to alert our new desk man, Columbus Davis, of my impending telephone call from Cathy. I told him that if I wasn't at the desk when she called to frantically page me, send troops out after me, fire skyrockets, do something, but get me to the telephone or else I'd have to shoot him.
So after dinner I went upstairs to have a nice unauthorized cigarette and brush my teeth. When I returned to the desk Columbus told me I'd have to shoot him.
"Why?" I asked.
"She called, and I told her to hang on, and Hendrickson wanted to key to four, and before I could call you, I checked and she had hung up." He was terrified.
But what choice did I have? I shot him three time with my father's German luger. Nine Millimeter.
After the body was taken to U.S.C. Medical I sat in my office and pondered this curious state of affairs. Why hadn't I gotten her phone number to begin with? Isn't that how it's normally done? And why hadn't she called back?
She was still having cat problems. Upon bringing her female cat (Spotty) back from the vets (after having been fixed), the cat instantly began fighting again with the male cat (Pee Wee). Ever since Thursday she's had to separate the two and this has caused her great consternation. From my own experience this type of behavior is unusual for cats who have previously been "buddy-buddy" for three years. Cathy's own veterinarian was of no help, telling her she may have to give one of them up. Cathy didn't want to hear that, and she's naturally upset (she hasn't been sleeping well). She's continuing to hope that time will rectify the situation.
I offered to postpone our date until things got somewhat normalized, but she said that she'd done about all that she could do, and staying in all day wouldn't help her much.
Such wisdom! And she's so cute too!
So tomorrow's on. I suggested some places we could go to, and we came up with the idea of visiting a botanical garden in Glendale, close to her home. She said she's been wanting to go there for a long time. I suggested dinner afterwards.
I wished her luck with her cats. She said she'd pick me up at two. Then we said good night.
I got through the rest of the evening as fast as possible. Columbus didn't make it back before curfew, so I A.W.O.L./A.C.O.ed him, poor bastard.
I dreamt of possums again.
August 18 Sunday Day 341
Wow! What a day!
It began ordinarily enough. My alarm went off exactly at 8:00, and I woke to some off the wall rock song I'd never heard before. I also heard Robert Vasquez rummaging around in the bathroom (he always hums when he's rummaging), so I stayed put in bed until I heard him clear out ten minutes later.
I showered and dressed.
Chapel went very smoothly. The Major is on vacation for a whole month, so everyone felt relaxed and cool. Clarence Orion, just returning from his own vacation, sang "Down by the Old Rugged Cross." His voice has a nice, low, soothing quality about it.
Cathy was to pick me up at two, so my options for the morning were open. I debated whether to go to the Sunday Morning A.A. meeting speaker meeting with Ron as I normally do. I'd have about half an hour before Cathy arrived. Or I could spend the morning fucking off, and be thoroughly prepared for my big date.
I did neither. Instead of going to the meeting, I had good old Robert drop me off at the mall so I could do a little shopping.
I bought a new shirt, being dissatisfied with all of the others I already owned. Then I hit one of the two bookstores they have at the mall and looked for a book about cats, hoping it would give me and Cathy a clue to Spotty's bizarre behavior. I found one that might be of some help and bought it. Then I walked back to the residence.
After taking a little nap I dressed casually, donning my brand new shirt. At 2:00 I was standing in the parking lot with my cat book and sport coat looking rather suave, and ready to go. She arrived a few minutes later, and we were off.
"Oh how sweet," she said, when I showed her the book. We drove into Glendale, to the Decano Gardens, an arboretum she had wanted to check out. The day was sunny and warm. I began to sweat a little while walking up and down the hilly terrain. She's a marathon runner and in great shape, and did not perspire. However, she told me she was out of shape, but it looked great to me.
And we talked. Walking through the sun drenched gardens we discovered each other. Usually on a first date (unless I've had a few) I feel kind of awkward, not knowing what to say and generally making a fool of myself. But not today. She is a great talker (as I've previously expressed), and she helped me along, putting me at ease. We talked about how I got where I was, and we talked about how she got where she was. I loved listening to her. She was very honest and direct, and the story of her recovery, of some dysfunctional relationships she's been involved in, and her alcoholism, to me appeared nothing short of heroic. I admired her as a beautiful woman, and a a human being. I didn't believe I'd met anyone quite like her.
Recovery is wonderful. Good things do happen.
And of course, how could I have not been in love with her ("It's so easy to fall in...)
I didn't tell her that though. Women don't like to be told that your in love with them on the first date. A woman told me that once.
We left the gardens and drove to her house to check on her cats. She lived in a lovely little guest house, nestled in the foothills of north Glendale, near the border of La Canada and Tujunga. It was a single room with space for a king sized bed and bookshelves in one area, a small living room branching out to the side containing a sofa, coffee table, and television. An adequate kitchen, bathroom, enclosed yard.
And two cats.
Spotty and Pee Wee.
Spotty (the trouble maker) was in her carrying case as we came in (not that she had any choice in the matter. She had been locked up in there all day). Pee Wee, a big calico, was prowling around.
Cathy was truly worried. The fighting between the cats had made her very nervous, making her lose sleep.
"Do you think I should let Spotty out?" she asked me. "I mean, maybe by your being here, it will be a distraction and they'll be too worried about you to fight with each other."
I told her that she'd have to let Spotty out sometime, then prayed that they didn't instantly attack me.
Spotty, a white female with black spots, crept out of her cage, crossed the room and sniffed at Pee Wee. Pee Wee gave a short hiss, then both of them ducked underneath the bed.
"That's the closest they've gotten together since she came back from the vets." Cathy was cautiously pleased.
The cats behaved themselves for the rest of the evening, not once trying to tear themselves apart.
Or me.
Thank God!
Soon we went to dinner, discovering a quaint little Mexican place nearby. A couple seated to our left began to burglarize our conversation, raving about what a great restaurant it was, and the quality of the food, and on and on. When the man began reminiscing upon certain wines he liked, Cathy and I both cut him off then continued our pleasant conversation. She wimped out and ordered an enchilada verde, while I, always the bold explorer, tried something I'd never had before, an enchilada mole (an enchilada with a very spicy chocolate sauce), which was very interesting at first (it sucked), but soon tasted, and looked like, pond mud.
Afterwards we returned to her house and watched some T.V., while continuing to talk. She asked me if I needed to get back to the residence soon.
"God no!" I told her. "It's nice to get away from there."
"I imagine it must be," she said.
I mentioned that for the last eleven months I had not taken a single overnight pass.
"Are you going to keep trying for a record?" she asked, and smiled.
"No," I answered. Then I reached over and kissed her. She kissed me back. I liked it, so I kissed her again. She kissed me back again. I continued kissing her (what used to be commonly known as making out), and she continued kissing me back, for at least eight or nine pages of frantic (and frenzied) kissing.
Then we played Scrabble for the rest of the evening (not really, but our respective mothers may one day read this).
She was so cute! And loving. She's was very warm and cuddly too! I felt so good to hold her.
We slept next to each other all that night, sometimes holding tightly to each other, sometimes not. I never felt so wonderful.
It made me forget all about the news we had seen on the television right before we went to bed.
On the other side of the world, Mikhail Gorbachev, probably the most important and influential figure in world affairs of the century, had been disposed in a bloodless coup as the chief of state of the U.S.S.R.
The hardliners have the country again.
August 19 Monday Day 342
On her way to work Cathy dropped me off at the corner of Glendale Blvd. and Broadway. Two minutes later I was picked up by the 181 and taken to Pasadena.
I was a little tired. I checked in with Robert when I got to the residence, to let him know I was still alive.
"I had you down as A.W.O.L. there for a while, Joyce. Then I remembered you're an employee."
I had a nice cup of coffee with Mr. Schimmele and the rest of the janitors before going upstairs to my room.
I tried to sleep, but it would not come to me. My mind was in overdrive. I relived the events of the previous day, over and over again, and was constantly preoccupied with what I would say to Cathy when I called her that night. I suffered fantasies of a delusional nature for the rest of the day... what our next date would be like, how our life would be like together, how many kids we would have, where we would retire, things like that.
I couldn't stop thinking about that kind of stuff. My mind was abuzz.
I was insane.
And can you blame me? There I was, this awfully lonely, very nice ( although not genuinely) and deserving fellow, who has been starved for affection for like the last two years or more, and then I met this girl who proceeds to turn my life upside down with her charming and penetrating wonderfulness.
What a sap!
My mind would not let me stop thinking about her though. So I got out of bed and went to the movies. I saw "Terminator 2," again, to get my head back into reality.
I couldn't sit still, and left about half way through the film. I was in a sad state for the rest of the afternoon. My head was in a cloud of anxiety and low key panic. I had no appetite. I did not eat all day, just chugging coffee and smoking a lot of cigarettes.
I hardly said a word during relapse prevention. All I could think about was Cathy and the call I would be making to her as soon as the meeting was over. I prayed that during the day her two cats had not slaughtered each other, and she had not returned to her home to only find flying fur, blood, and claws, thus spoiling her mood (what a selfish asshole I am).
When the meeting finally ended (ironically our topic had to do with recognizing relapse warning signs, such as, relying too much on others, breakdowns in daily discipline and routine) I walked over to the train station on the far side of the park for some privacy, and called her.
She let me have it right between the eyes.
Oh, our conversation was gentle and low key enough. I first asked her about her cats. They were still alive, but there was some fear that Spotty may be sick. The kitty was acting depressed. I told her to call the vet if it kept up. She asked me about my day, and I honestly related what had happened and my state of mind, expecting that she would enjoy the fact that I continuously thought about her (what a fool!)
But she was silent. And when she began speaking again her words came slowly and were well chosen. Essentially, she told me to get lost. That she had enjoyed our time together, and was glad I spent the night with her, but my attitude and voice must have set off some feminine alarm in her cute little head, and she began talking about her past relationships problems, and that she was just beginning to learn about being herself, and being independent, and that she felt that maybe for the first time worthwhile and comfortable in her own skin and did not wish to compulsively jump into some "relationship" and risk becoming enmeshed, and losing herself once again.
She told me we should continue to date. What she wanted was to act slowly and responsibly on a "one day at a time" basis, and see how things worked out.
You could tell how madly infatuated and swept off her feet she was by me.
But I found myself agreeing with her. My head cleared up instantly and at once I felt a hell of a lot better. What I could not understand was why I had not thought this out for myself, why I had instantly leaned toward mindless meshing and confused chaotic entanglement.
Because I was so lonely. What a sap.
Obviously I needed this lovely brunette short person with great legs, this thirty two year old woman of the world, to show me functional reality and how it worked. I'm glad she did, because I wasn't liking myself while thinking obsessively about her. I disliked not being able to keep my mind on what was going on during relapse prevention.
So thank you Cathy H. Thank you for setting me straight. Thank you for giving me back to myself.
And back to my loneliness.
Poor, poor, pitiful me.
Someday, somewhere, if it's God's will, I will find the one.
August 20 Tuesday Day 343
This morning I woke up feeling sick and insecure. So I went to work and began wielding perceived personal power unmercifully, which cheered me up right away. I A.C.O.ed twelve guys, put thirty on the Saturday work list, and threatened to write nasty notes to the mothers of sixty seven men.
No, not really. The men probably wouldn't mind being thrown out of here too much, but if I started writing notes to mothers they'd turn on me.
I plowed through the morning shift. Got everything done, and done well. So by the time my shift ended I wasn't feeling insecure anymore. Just sick. Kind of depressed, and not wanting to do anything. I get that way sometimes.
I was tired of watching mindless television, tired about hearing about Gorbachev (I voted for him you know) and the coup (which seems to be falling apart rapidly), tired of reading. I didn't even go down to see what Jill was wearing when she came in at 6:05 for her 5:45 group counseling meeting.
I did get hungry though. After "Star Trek, the Next Generation," I went to the canteen and consumed a cheeseburger. I happened to linger by the desk long enough for Jill to finish her session and come out. What a knockout! Absolutely mind boggling. And of course, she's a very nice person. I like her. I wish I could get to know her. I've known her for eleven months and haven't a clue what's beneath that cool facade.
Tonight she had a smile for me, which I needed desperately.
It's nice to have such a lovely, strange, tardy, and wonderful woman in my life.
I'm a fool for them.
I returned to my room to catch, "Halloween II," on television, starring Donald Pleasense, of all people. This film also helped to cheer me up. There's nothing like a good slasher movie to top off the evening.
August 21 Wednesday Day 344
Clyde Foster has returned to us, making it his third time here. It's good to have him. Let's hope that he can stick it out and accomplish whatever goals he might have.
Kevin Rockoff went and got himself a job as a security guard. He starts tomorrow at 10:00AM. Tomorrow's his birthday. He'll be 33.
Happy birthday Kevin!
He tells me that he's going to marry his mail order Indian princess January 10th.
Good for him.
I attended a safety meeting in the afternoon. Ernie Sens was there, along with Clarence Orion, his wife Pattie (the Major's secretary), Frank Corona, Charles Parsons, Bill Richardson, and Dennis Cunningham. We talked about safety. We decided to become earthquake prepared, to have fire drills and a building evacuation plan in case of emergencies. We also decided to send me, Frank, Clarence, and Charles, to a Red Cross CPR class. We're going to learn CPR and other life saving procedures. Maybe we'll be able to save someone's life and become heros.
I had a headache. I took some Extra Strength Tylenol tablets. The headache went away.
I walked outside to smoke a cigarette after chapel and talked to Marvin Smith. I asked him how it was going. He said slow. He is our bailer. His job is to bail up all the clothes that the Salvation Army collects but cannot resell. Cardboard boxes too.
Marvin told me that it was the slowest day he'd ever had.
"Really," I said. "Just think. Of all the days I could have picked to ask you how it was going, I picked this one, the slowest day you've ever had. What are the chances of that happening?"
"Yeah, in eight months..."
"Eight months! That's almost like... two hundred and fifty days, isn't it? What are the odds? It must be something like two hundred and fifty to one, Marvin. And I beat the odds! We beat the odds Marvin. You and I, because I certainly couldn't have done it without you..."
On and on.
The coup in the U.S.S.R. has been smashed. Civil resistance, world opinion and scrutiny, and no clear plan of what to do with the power once it was acquired, doomed the attempt to failure almost from the very beginning. That country has a rough road ahead. I wish Mr. Gorbachev well.
And Cathy came tonight, and was still very upset about Spotty. The kitty may have a fever.
Cathy tells me, she herself, has not slept well for two weeks, and hasn't had much of an appetite. I gave her the benefit of my vast storehouse of veterinary knowledge, cautioned her to take care of herself first and generally tried to reassure that everything would be okay. That, along with the cat book I had given to her previously was about all I could do. I can't solve her problems for her, nor anybody else's, but I hope I can be of assistance if she wants me to be.
Then I sent her on her way.
Then I made sure everything was nice and tidy in the residence before we put the place to rest for the night. I counted money, organized counselor's lists, adjusted ledgers, locked doors, and put out the dog. After everyone was in I performed my last nightly chore, going through all the dorms, I tucked everyone in nice and tight, offered a comforting word if needed, listened to problems, and told an occasional bedtime story until the men's eyes drooped shut and they drifted off into gentle slumber.
Then I made my way to my lonely room, undressed, did two thousand butt naked push and sit ups... then I too dozed.Kevin Rockoff went and got himself a job as a security guard. He starts tomorrow at 10:00AM. Tomorrow's his birthday. He'll be 33.
Happy birthday Kevin!
He tells me that he's going to marry his mail order Indian princess January 10th.
Good for him.
I attended a safety meeting in the afternoon. Ernie Sens was there, along with Clarence Orion, his wife Pattie (the Major's secretary), Frank Corona, Charles Parsons, Bill Richardson, and Dennis Cunningham. We talked about safety. We decided to become earthquake prepared, to have fire drills and a building evacuation plan in case of emergencies. We also decided to send me, Frank, Clarence, and Charles, to a Red Cross CPR class. We're going to learn CPR and other life saving procedures. Maybe we'll be able to save someone's life and become heros.
I had a headache. I took some Extra Strength Tylenol tablets. The headache went away.
I walked outside to smoke a cigarette after chapel and talked to Marvin Smith. I asked him how it was going. He said slow. He is our bailer. His job is to bail up all the clothes that the Salvation Army collects but cannot resell. Cardboard boxes too.
Marvin told me that it was the slowest day he'd ever had.
"Really," I said. "Just think. Of all the days I could have picked to ask you how it was going, I picked this one, the slowest day you've ever had. What are the chances of that happening?"
"Yeah, in eight months..."
"Eight months! That's almost like... two hundred and fifty days, isn't it? What are the odds? It must be something like two hundred and fifty to one, Marvin. And I beat the odds! We beat the odds Marvin. You and I, because I certainly couldn't have done it without you..."
On and on.
The coup in the U.S.S.R. has been smashed. Civil resistance, world opinion and scrutiny, and no clear plan of what to do with the power once it was acquired, doomed the attempt to failure almost from the very beginning. That country has a rough road ahead. I wish Mr. Gorbachev well.
And Cathy came tonight, and was still very upset about Spotty. The kitty may have a fever.
Cathy tells me, she herself, has not slept well for two weeks, and hasn't had much of an appetite. I gave her the benefit of my vast storehouse of veterinary knowledge, cautioned her to take care of herself first and generally tried to reassure that everything would be okay. That, along with the cat book I had given to her previously was about all I could do. I can't solve her problems for her, nor anybody else's, but I hope I can be of assistance if she wants me to be.
Then I sent her on her way.
Then I made sure everything was nice and tidy in the residence before we put the place to rest for the night. I counted money, organized counselor's lists, adjusted ledgers, locked doors, and put out the dog. After everyone was in I performed my last nightly chore, going through all the dorms, I tucked everyone in nice and tight, offered a comforting word if needed, listened to problems, and told an occasional bedtime story until the men's eyes drooped shut and they drifted off into gentle slumber.
Tomorrow we would do it all again.
August 22 Thursday Day 345
Today, we did it all again.
And did it well.
August 23 Friday Day 346
Cathy gave me a call last night. I have a note to prove it.
At 9:30PM, I came to my office from the sample room, where I had began a batch of urine tests. I was there to finish up some paper work.
I found a note on my desk which said this, "Cathy 920 RKC." I asked myself what the "RKC" might mean. I said, "What the fuck does 920 RKC mean? Was Cathy maliciously marauded by 920 cases of renegade Royal Krown Cola?"
I asked Jack Crossley, the duty desk man, if he had taken the message.
"Uaaaah... no," was his considered reply.
I showed him the little piece of paper with the message scrawled on it, and asked him who had put it on my desk.
"Uaaaah... not me."
"Well Jack, this wasn't here when I left my office. That tells me that someone put it there, probably a human being in close proximity to our present location. They placed this piece of paper on my desk, after taking a message from this phone here, or the one on my desk. Now who do you think this person might be? Have any idea at all Jack?"
After several minutes I was able to wrangle from Jack that Roger Collins had briefly watched the desk while Jack used the restroom. I went in search of Roger and eventually found him out front smoking a cigarette.
"Did you take a message for me, Roger?"
"Yes."
"Well, what did she say? Did she say anything?"
"No. No message."
"Well, what does 920 RKC mean, Roger?"
"She called at nine twenty, and just asked if you would call her back. I put my initials there so you would know who took the call."
"What's your middle name? Kevin?"
"Yes."
"Thanks Roger."
I called Cathy from up in the sample room. She just wanted to tell me she had taken Spotty to the vet, and that the cat had been given an injection of antibiotics and seemed to be feeling better now. Spotty and Pee Wee are friends once again, and Cathy is relieved.
I too, was very relieved.
We talked endlessly (twenty minutes) about this and that. She gave me some useful pointer regarding the school registration process I would be going through. She asked me to give her a call sometime.
This morning I got up early, collected my paycheck from Robert, then caught a ride with Harold Eversley and Joe Brown to the bank.
When I got back (returned), I found Robert in one of the small T.V. rooms taking a driver's safety test from the video machine. He had just started (began) when I walked in, thereby giving me the rare opportunity to distract him.
The test is given (administered) to all employees who may, for one reason or another, come to use one of the Salvation Army's vehicles. There are 33 filmed driving episodes, each with a potential hazard that the test taker must identify, and then choose the most correct response to avoid injury or accident (one out of four possible answers). A correct answer scores 3 points, the least desirable response gets you a big fat 0. It is necessary to get as many numerical points as possible, hopefully gaining enough points to pass the test. One must pay strict attention to the recorded driving scenes or one will miss important clues and potential hazards.
Robert's comment when the first scene appeared: "I can't see anything!"
I had taken the test two days ago, scoring a 74 out of a possible 99.
Robert, when finished, somehow managed a 104.
Really!
Robert would have other problems associated with driving this day. Last night his new car overheated. He has determined that the thermostat was responsible, and made arrangements to replace it.
As I was leaving for PCC to register for class, Robert called me over to make a deal. He would drive his car over to the Mobile station to have his thermostat replaced, and I would follow him in Red Shield 15, pick him up, and he would then take me to school.
It sounded like a good plan to me, and probably would have worked out just fine if he hadn't locked his keys inside of his car.
Upon discovering this fact, he said, "Well I'll be go to hell!"
He took me to PCC using Red Shield 15, and then went to El Monte to buy more bus tokens for the center. Later he had one of our many car door technicians open his car with a Slim Jim so he could retrieve his keys.
Further into the evening he would lock himself out of his room.
I got to (arrived) at school fifteen minutes early. I found the class I wanted was still available, and was happy about that. I smiled mischievously.
At two o'clock I got in line and registered. It took about thirty minutes of mostly waiting around to complete the procedure, and cost me $26.50, but other than that, the whole ordeal was relatively harmless.
I'll be going to school on Tuesday afternoons, from four until seven.
I got a free photo I.D. too.
I returned (got back) to the residence in time to start work at 3:30 (three thirty).
John Swisher had got a visit from the paramedics while I was away. He would be on bed rest for the entire weekend.
He is the new As-Is Yard supervisor, and has a tendency to work too hard in the hot sun, and into such a frenzy that he tends to collapse quite often.
He's nuts.
I also talked to Ernie Sens at dinner. We discussed the upcoming CPR class I would be taking.
"You know," he said, "those dummies they use are really sophisticated now. You start giving them artificial respiration for fifteen minutes and you begin to get emotionally involved. As they start breathing on their own... you really want those dummies to make it."
I spent most of my shift reading and writing. I thought about how much I wanted to give Cathy unnecessary artificial respiration.
It had been a good day. I had enjoyed every minute of it and felt fine.
August 24 Saturday Day 347
I continued to feel good this morning. I woke up and yawned. I reached over and grabbed my copy of Vonnegut's "Jailbird," and read two chapters, read a couple from the Book of Luke, thumbed through "Co dependent No More," a book Cathy had lent to me, then got up and took a nice shower.
I wrote downstairs for a while in the lobby, until lunchtime (chicken patties), then went to the park for an hour and roasted while listening to vintage Elton John.
After a second shower, I slid down to the canteen and got myself a nice cup of coffee and continued to write until it was time to go to work.
There wasn't too much to do when I got there. I fiddled around mostly. Robert Vasquez was roaming around, so I kept myself looking like I was actually doing something worthwhile and constructive.
Robert seems to spend more time in the residence on his days off than when he's working.
Or is just my imagination?
At eight o'clock I called Cathy's number. I wanted to say hello (pitifully force myself into her life), see how Spotty and Pee Wee were doing, and tell her of my registration experiences. However she was not at home. I talked to her answering machine instead. Her answering machine sounds suspiciously like Cathy.
I copied down some passages from Nan Robertson's, "Getting Better," then started another Whitney Strieber novel, "Majestic."
There had been some kind of Jazz festival during the day, up on Colorado and Fair Oaks. It continued on into the evening as well. I had not checked it out because I did not wish to become part of the crowd today, but a lot of our guys did. A couple of them got a little too festive and blew positive on the breath-a-lizer. One of them told me, "I swear Rick, all I was doing was kissing this girl. Her alcohol flooded breath must have been inducted into my lungs!"
I wished them well.
August 25 Sunday Day 348
Another wonderful day. My God, I'm glad I don't drink anymore!
Cathy did not return my call so I had no plans for the day. Regular Sunday routine for me
During collection in chapel, Clyde Foster, who was helping me with the middle section, kept passing his plate down the same isle I was working. What would happen was the two plates would collide in the center and stop, which took an inordinate amount of time (while the confusion abated) for the process to resume.
For some reason this happens almost every Sunday.
Ron Collins wimped out like a little snot (as did I last week), and did not go with me to the Sunday morning A.A. speaker meeting at the American Legion building in South Pasadena. I did though, and had a very good time.
During the coffee break a girl by the name of Gary sat next to me, and we talked about how nice it was to be sober. She's a cocktail waitress.
Women seem to sense my natural strength and sexual prowess, and flock to me (fantasy).
A retired judge of the state Supreme Court was our guest speaker. He now works part time as the announcer at Dodger and Rams games. He related that while still a Municipal Court judge and attending a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, he was approached by a woman wanting her court card signed (a verification of attedance at a 12 Step meeting mandated by a court). He told the lady that he would be happy to, but he was not the meeting's secretary.
"No, but you're the bastard that sent me here!"
When she returned to his court he discovered that she had been to exactly twice the meetings he had stipulated she attend.
"Why did you go to this many meetings?" he asked her.
"Because of you!" she replied. "I started to like the meetings so much that I resented the fact that you made me go to them. So I went on my own!"
After the meeting I walked to the residence with Brian Montique, then went to the park for an hour.
After dinner I took in the sights and sounds of Colorado Blvd> on a Sunday evening. There were many women giving me the old eye (extreme fantasy).
I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out how my word processor worked. I managed to make a file, and named it "Sal." The file consisted of the first three sentences of this memoir.
Near eleven, thoroughly exhausted and confused, I went to bed.
August 26 Monday Day 349
For some reason I woke up thoroughly confused. This is a natural state for us recovering alcoholics and drug addicted individuals, and should be expected.
I shook my head several times, in a vigorous fashion, and became oriented once again.
A little while later I got up, went to the bathroom and smoked an unauthorized cigarette. I changed into my yellow swim trunks and went to the weight room to lift and pull on heavy objects with lots of density for about thirty minutes.
After I finished I returned to my room and changed into street clothes, then wrote in the lobby.
Wendy came in, looking fresh and beautiful, with long, flowing blonde hair (how many blondes are there in the world, do you think?). We talked a little about school registration and Shakespeare (and not necessarily in that order), then she got sucked into the counseling vortex.
As I headed upstairs to put my notebook away I heard Robert bawling out Roger Collins, accusing him of smoking in the bathroom because he had found my cigarette butt in the toilet. Apparently it had survived the flush.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" Roger exclaimed.
Later Robert informed me that he would be on the lookout for any unauthorized smoking in the bathrooms.
I told him, "If I find'em... Bam! Out they go! Won't even give 'em time to pack their bags. All these smokers should go downtown to Seventh Street and Towne (Skid Row), where they belong!"
"Good man," he mused. "Of course they'll probably let them back in the next day. But that's neither here nor there... it's our job to kick them out."
After lunch (chicken nuggets again), instead of going to the park, I went to the movies. "Dead Again," had just been released, and I thought it might be worthwhile.
It was. I thought I knew who the killer was from the first scene, but the writer threw a curve at the last minute and it turned out to be someone else. The film explored reincarnation, a subject I have a lot of problems with, but what the hell, it was a very well made film, a triumph for Kevin Branagh, it's star and director. The black and white footage was very stylish, and the opening scene was particularly effective.
The female lead wasn't too bad either, who ever she was. Wonderful actress, she may be British. She had the kind of face (a beautiful one at that) that looks familiar even though you're sure you've never seen her before. Very interesting.
I may have fell in love with her... secretly.
I think I'm positive of it.
Later on I caught a ride with Harold Eversley to the mall. Harold had given me a tip that Miller's Outpost was having a sale. Indeed, I found a shirt I liked for $20. I bought it, and walked back to the residence.
At dinner, the cooks brought out a little birthday cake for Jerry Schimmele. He was fifty eight years old. I had bought him a card the day before. "I'm not giving you a funny birthday card," the printing on the front proclaimed. On the inside it said, "The fact that I'm giving you a card at all is funny enough."
Jerry is a good and reliable friend and therefore open to as much abuse as I can muster.
I included a ten dollar bill within the card because I'm such a nice guy and all.
But not genuinely.
I was all set to watch another exciting episode of Steven Spielberg's "Tiny Toon Adventures," when I noticed that it had been preempted by a stupid Dodger baseball game.
The Dodgers probably lost. I didn't watch it to find out. I played with my word processor some more, and got it to do some more tricks.
Barbara was now back from her two week vacation in Montana. She said it rained almost the entire time she was there. Now she was free to return to her relapse prevention duties.
We discussed using other mind altering chemicals besides the ones we normally like to abuse, as a precursor to total relapse. Wanting too much, and omnipotence, were also labeled as slippery behaviors or attitudes.
I spent the rest of the evening playing with my word processor again, and my printer. I managed to print a short letter to my mother, thanking her for getting me the device, while demonstrating its various abilities.
Getting it to work was quite simple really. Like most things in life, all one has to do is read the instructions.
It's finding the right instructions that's the hard part.
August 27 Tuesday Day 350
Robert had taken his car in to have it fixed. The mechanics over at the Mobil station (the same station where I purchased my morning coffee, and later in the evening my dinner, when I lived in the Park) are "Saddam Hussein's cousins." according to him. They replaced his thermostat. Then everything was "A okay," and in tip top condition, they assured.
As soon as Robert returned with the car it began to leak water.
"What causes that?" he asked. "Is that normal?"
"My car did that once," I answered. "Just before it blew up."
So this morning he took it back to Mobile station again, and was told he may need a new water pump.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he says.
I returned to work. I had a wonderful day until 1:30, when I thought I'd be very efficient and get some urine samples analyzed before my shift ended in an hour.
The ADx machine gave me a lot of false results, wouldn't read the bar code instructions correctly, and was generally mind fucking me. I over reacted by getting intensely angry at the rest of the world, and was in a rather gruff mood for the remainder of the afternoon.
After work I exercised, then napped, after which I felt much better.
Jill came in at 6:05 for her 5:45 group counseling session. I made sure I was down in the lobby when she arrived to see what she was wearing.
Her blue dress. My favorite.
I spent a good deal of the evening playing with my word processor and discovering the various printing styles available to me through the printer. I composed another short letter to my mom, and printed it six times, each using a different format, and mailing them all for her inspection.
After I finished I printed the first page of this book. It looked very nice. Clean and clear.
As I read it I remembered all too well what it felt like on that morning a hundred years ago. I didn't care for that feeling.
Writing this is going to be harder than I thought.
August 28 Wednesday Day 351
Wolf Pandolfi knocked on my door at 3:30, waking me up. After fumbling my way to the door and opening, he told me that someone had broken into the thrift store, and one of us had to go over there and watch the place until reinforcements arrived in the morning.
This is how I started what turned out to be a very long and miserable day.
I really don't want to talk about it. One reason why I don't want to talk about it is because I don't understand women. Not one little part of them (except that their air breathing mammals, similar to me, but only in a physical sense). And because of that I find myself left angry and confused.
The reason of course is Cathy. She came tonight, and hardly said a word to me. After she had finished for the evening, I gave her back her copy of "Under the Influence," and thanked her for it, and offered her a copy of one of my favorite works of non-fiction, "The Dragons of Eden," by good old Carl Sagan. She almost bit my head off in her refusal, stating something about how I didn't understand how little time she had to read with her busy schedule and all.As soon as Robert returned with the car it began to leak water.
"What causes that?" he asked. "Is that normal?"
"My car did that once," I answered. "Just before it blew up."
So this morning he took it back to Mobile station again, and was told he may need a new water pump.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he says.
I returned to work. I had a wonderful day until 1:30, when I thought I'd be very efficient and get some urine samples analyzed before my shift ended in an hour.
The ADx machine gave me a lot of false results, wouldn't read the bar code instructions correctly, and was generally mind fucking me. I over reacted by getting intensely angry at the rest of the world, and was in a rather gruff mood for the remainder of the afternoon.
After work I exercised, then napped, after which I felt much better.
Jill came in at 6:05 for her 5:45 group counseling session. I made sure I was down in the lobby when she arrived to see what she was wearing.
Her blue dress. My favorite.
I spent a good deal of the evening playing with my word processor and discovering the various printing styles available to me through the printer. I composed another short letter to my mom, and printed it six times, each using a different format, and mailing them all for her inspection.
After I finished I printed the first page of this book. It looked very nice. Clean and clear.
As I read it I remembered all too well what it felt like on that morning a hundred years ago. I didn't care for that feeling.
Writing this is going to be harder than I thought.
August 28 Wednesday Day 351
Wolf Pandolfi knocked on my door at 3:30, waking me up. After fumbling my way to the door and opening, he told me that someone had broken into the thrift store, and one of us had to go over there and watch the place until reinforcements arrived in the morning.
This is how I started what turned out to be a very long and miserable day.
I really don't want to talk about it. One reason why I don't want to talk about it is because I don't understand women. Not one little part of them (except that their air breathing mammals, similar to me, but only in a physical sense). And because of that I find myself left angry and confused.
I was shocked by her vehemence, and angered, and decided to distance myself from her by making my usual ten o'clock rounds early. While I was gone she completed her paperwork, got in her car and drove away.
Very strange.
All I ever gotten from this girl are mixed signals. One moment she wants me to call her, and when I do she doesn't answer her phone or return my messages.
Women!
I swear I will NEVER, EVER, go out, or try to get close to another FEMALE again.
NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!
I hope I've made myself sufficiently clear on this matter.
August 29 Thursday Day 352
Well, well, well.
Today was probably the worst day I've had since I've been here.
I woke in a foul mood, still trying to figure out what I had done to Cathy to offend her.
Not being able to remember anything specifically I attempted to figure out women in general.
Hopeless task.
Even when one knows the secret of feminine allure and love, one still does not know all the answers.
Far from it.
I had a nice long work day to look forward to, which cheered me immeasurably. Seventeen hours of fun and joy.
The thought of work... or even working, does not usually bother me, but today I did not feel like doing a damn thing. And when you don't feel like doing anything and you've got seventeen hours not to do it in- - it gets pretty depressing.
Even so I forced myself to write for a little while in the morning. I got that done at least. Then I resumed The Whitney Strieber novel, "Majestic," but couldn't keep from thinking about Cathy.
I was occupied by those thoughts all morning, and I couldn't concentrate on any other subject for very long, and I had no real interest in running the Pasadena Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center.
But I didn't drink and I didn't commit suicide or anything, which is a very big step for me (I usually drink and commit suicide during abandonment episodes). I thought about drinking, I'll admit that. I thought about walking away, chucking the whole place, going over to Vons and getting a bottle, going straight to the Park (because if I drank, I'd wind up there anyway), and try and forget all of my horrendous problems.
I considered it for about thirty seconds and discovered that I just didn't have any problems except for this one, none that I didn't have to drink over anyway. If I did want a bunch of problems, BIG PROBLEMS, the fastest way for me to get them would be by taking a drink.
I was tired from lack of sleep and in a confused mental state, so I napped after lunch. When I woke a couple of hours later I felt much better, but still had Cathy on my mind. I decided to do something about it. I'm an adult after all. I should be able to verbally communicate to this lady how I felt. The thought of continuing throughout the day, through next week, without getting this straightened out was intolerable.
So I called her and left a message on her answering machine. I was honest, telling her that if she didn't wish to see me she didn't have to. I just did not want any bad feeling between us, any animosity. I told her I would tear up her telephone number and never call her again (ah, the drama!). Then I told her I hoped her cats were okay, and that I thought they were good cats. I hung up then.
A message designed to administer guilt and demand sympathy if I ever heard one.
Of course her damned answering machine cut me off about half way through my plaintive plea for attention.
Things continued to go bad for me. Roger Collins had gone to his weekly doctor's appointment at U.S.C. County Hospital, to have his leg scraped (pretty sickening image, I agree). Ed Reitz had taken him there. When Roger called to be picked up shortly after lunch, Ed had gone to a Lion's Club meeting, making him unavailable, and there were no other vehicles around. The problem of getting Roger back from the hospital was put off and eventually forgotten, all of us kind of hoping Roger would fend for himself.
Later, at around 4:30 or so, I noticed that the canteen had not opened, which meant that Roger had not returned. Roger later claimed that it was impossible for him to walk the relatively short distance to the nearest bus stop, so he just sat there, waiting for someone to come and pick him up. Left to his own devices he would gladly sit there all night just for the change in routine, allowing him to miss working in the canteen as well.
Ed and I decided to go and get him. We drove to the entrance of the outpatient clinic where Ed had left him. He was no where to be found. We assumed he had tired of waiting and hobbled to the bus stop.
We were wrong.
As if timed, upon returning to the residence Roger called and said he was waiting at the emergency room exit. I told him to get on a bus and get back here or I would kill him. Ed said, why not let Curtis Carter, who had just been hired as a driver the day before, drive over to get Roger. Curtis said, sure, he'd go, but he wasn't sure how to get there. I got volunteered to show him, and once again found myself at the imposing and bleak medical facility.
The ride there was very interesting. I actually feared for my life. Curtis could not seem to keep the large van in any one particular lane while on the freeway. Other cars nearby, fearful that the lumbering van might careen into them, busily honked at us. I thought that if I wound up dying during this trip, Cathy would feel bad about spurning me.
We made it though. Roger was there, insipid as usual. We returned to the residence, and Roger took his sweet time opening the canteen.
Jack Crossley, who had been left in charge of everything while I was away, looked dazed, shocked, and confused after trying to get three different 12 Step meetings started at the same time (AA, CA, and Overcomers Outreach (a Christian AA program)). I gave him a hand when I got back, and together we managed to salvage the evening.
After the meetings and the canteen closed, and things in general had died down a little, I went to the sample room to run some tests. Actually I wanted to use the phone in there, as Cathy had called earlier and I wanted to call her back.
She explained why she had appeared angry the night before. She said she had wanted to explain yesterday, but she couldn't find me.
It had something to do with some kind of medical condition she experiences at times. About 12 times a year. I didn't really understand.
For getting so excited about the whole situation I felt like a stupid, insecure, little turd (women will do that to you).
But Cathy is a wonderful girl and made me feel a lot better by explaining to me some things about lack of communication and misconstrued signals. She said she would never intentionally do anything to hurt me, and her reasonableness was at once uplifting and captivating. She had been having a very hectic week herself, and had been dealing with a lot of issues. I listened quietly to what she had to say.
Things were back to normal between us... she wouldn't let me get a word in.
So we're friends again and I feel a hundred per cent better. She's a genuinely decent lady.
And so cute!
I reached my bed a half hour after midnight with the knowledge I would now sleep well.
August 30 Friday Day 353
For about thirty minutes at least. Eddie Gillespie, Bard of the Streets, knocked on my door at 1:10 in the morning. He told me the thrift store had been broken into again.
Some silly man had been observed by a passing motorist throwing a rock through the store's glass door. The motorist subsequently called the police.
I nice thing for the motorist to do.
Meanwhile the burglar helped himself to a portable television set, which he took across Del Mar Blvd., and hid in some bushes. He then returned to the store and began to browse through the men's clothing section. That was what he was doing when the police arrived (who had been at the park harassing homeless people) and arrested him.
Just as the police escorted this individual to jail, Eddie appeared from around the corner and was informed of what happened. Then Eddie came and told me.
I in turn got dressed and informed Mr. Vasquez.
"Aawh shit!" he exposed.
I told him I'd stay up and keep an eye on the residence while Gillespie stayed at the store. Robert said I didn't have to stay up, but didn't put up much of an argument when I reminded him that someone had to stay awake in the building as a fire watch and to wake the cooks for breakfast.
He told me he'd relieve me at 4:00.
I walked over to the store to survey the damage. The police had returned the stolen T.V. I plugged it in and began watching Steve McQueen in Henrik Ibsen's "Enemy of the People," a play I had once acted in back in high school.
Eddie went back to the residence to eat his dinner.
As I ate a Three Musketeers Bar, the picture on the television screen snapped into another dimension, making the actor's faces look like pastel dummies.
The hapless burglar would not have gotten much for the set I'm afraid.
When Eddie returned we rigged a large table to the hole in the thrift store's front door and tied it in place. I then went back to the residence.
I went to the canteen and turned on the T.V. they have in there, to catch the last of "Enemy of the People," and made myself some scrambled eggs and a hamburger in the microwave.
After eating, and the movie ended, I sat behind the desk and read until it was time to wake the cooks, drivers,and desk people.
They didn't want to get up.
At 6:15 (my 4:00 relief person did not materialize) I went back to bed and slept until noon.
I woke tired and hungry. I showered, dressed, and walked to Laos Tacos to dine on some tequitos and enchiladas.
Upon returning to the residence I wrote until it was time to work yet again.
Nothing much to do on my shift. Robert had gotten the gratuity early and had paid the men at lunchtime, so I fiddled around, reading and writing for most of the night. At about this time, half way around the world, communism was drawing a last breath in Russia.
I spent a lot of time trying to get the ADx machine to work properly, but it wouldn't cooperate. It kept trying to pretend there were no samples inside when there were.
It was in denial.
After my shift, after midnight, I read for awhile about aliens, then slept.
I had strange dreams of wild rides at Disneyland.
August 31 Saturday Day 354
Nobody broke into the store last night so I had a fairly normal night's sleep. Besides, I told Eddie to wake Robert up if anything happened.
I slept late, until 10:00AM. Then I smoked an unauthorized cigarette in the bathroom, then read in my room until lunchtime (chicken fried steaks).
Robert requested that I go get the weekend's V.C.R. movies, so I dutifully walked over to the Music Plus and picked out "King Ralph," because Ed Reitz told me it would be a good movie to get, it being a nice comedy and all, starring John Goodman and Peter O'Toole. For myself, and anybody who cared to watch with me, I got David Lynch's "Wild at Heart," with Nicholas Cage and Laura Dern. Ever since "Easerhead," I've been a Lynch fan.
Robert looked at the "Heart" tape upon my return, and said, "Don't get anymore porno, Joyce."
I went to the park for an hour, listening to the radio, and reading about co-dependency.
Back at the residence, after a shower, I wrote until my shift began.
Then wrote some more. Then I did all of the paperwork that needed to be done., then finished the "Majestic" novel. Whitney Strieber certainly seems to be sure this planet is being visited by an intelligent something. Maybe he's right, who knows?"
But probably not.
I allowed Curtis Cater, the week's duty driver, to go out with his girlfriend, so I drove six of the guys to an outside A.A. meeting. This was the first time I had done this. I think I'll do it more often as it was fun driving around Pasadena on a Saturday night. Lots of people walking around Colorado Blvd.
After picking up these same guys after the meeting, I made my rounds, locked everything up, then wrote in the office. In fact, that's what I'm doing right now. In real time it's now 10:49PM and 33 seconds, by my watch, which for this book is the only time that matters. As soon as I finish writing this I will go outside to have a cigarette and shorten my life about a month. After that I will come back inside and read some more about co-dependency. Near midnight, when Wolf Pandolfi comes, I may have to throw some people out of the program. I don't know yet, I hope not. It all depends on everyone getting back in time and if they're sober when they get here. At midnight, Wolf and I will lock the doors and turn off the lights, and shoo everyone upstairs. Then I will watch "King Ralph," in the small T.V. room. I will invite Columbus Davis to watch it with me, but he will refuse, saying he has to get up early. That's true, he does have to get up early. He has tomorrow's morning shift to contend with. So I will end up watching the video alone. After one hour and thirty six minutes, plus five minutes or so for another cigarette, I will close up the T.V. room and return the tape to the office. Then I will say goodnight to Wolf who will be dozing behind the desk. I will then go upstairs to my lonely room, undress, set my alarm clock for 8:00, get into bed and go to sleep.
My first dream will be of Cathy. Later I'll dream about Cal Tiki, the giant, immortal blob monster.
Such is life.
September 1 Sunday Day 355
So... we're back to September.
What an odd month. Very hot during the day, nice at night. I don't believe I've done anything significant in September... until now. 354 complete days without a drink of booze, fix of heroin, snort of cocaine, whiff of marijuana, or the introduction of any mind altering chemical in any way, shape, or form.
Except for nicotine and caffeine of course. Maybe next year. Perhaps having my teeth bleached on the 9th will provide a motivating factor to quit smoking.
I still have a few days before the year's up. Today began at 8:00. After my alarm sounded I heard Robert and Roger in the bathroom getting ready for chapel. They had both been awake for hours, but they each independently decided that right at the time I woke and needed to get washed and dressed would be a good time to hog the washing facilities.
Scum, both of them.
At 8:15 exactly they left and I moved in. I kicked out a janitor, then had the place to myself.
I sat next to Schimmele in chapel. After the service began I noticed that Kevin Rockoff was not present. He must have been in bed, tired from his all night job guarding a dairy. I shook Schimmele's hand while saying, "Congratulations, you're now an usher."
Much to his eventual regret he did such a fine job that Clarence Orion decided to make him permanent.
Ron Collins wimped out and did not go with me and Brian Montique to the Sunday A.A. meeting. He wanted to watch football instead.
Ron told me last night that he didn't think he would be seeing his counselor Cathy anymore. As an employee he doesn't have to.
I think I know why Ron doesn't want to see her, but I'm not allowed to tell. I'm not even allowed to let on that I know. It would embarrass him and I don't want to do that.
I like Ron, and he's my friend, but I worry about him sometimes.
The A.A. meeting was a good one with a fine speaker. Skip was there for me to talk to during the breaks. I've been showing up long enough that I can't help but meet others as well.
I went to the park for an hour. I listened to songs 364, 363, 362, and 361 of the KLSX Top 1000 Labor Day Weekend Countdown, while reading some more about co-dependency.
One guy in the park set up a PA system and played Christian religious propaganda and music as loud as he could. He danced around as he did this. He had a lot of nerve invading my space in a public place like that. I felt as a non-smoker must feel in a movie theater surrounded by a bunch of kids smoking their brains out. Finally the police came over from the other side of the park, where they had been busy harassing some poor homeless people, and told this dancing idiot to turn the music down.
When the police went away he turned it back up again.
I ate dinner back at the residence. A big meatball sort of thing with yams and green beans. It was good. I hadn't eaten all day, so I was hungry. At the time a block of warm cement would have tasted good. I poured blue cheese dressing over it to spice things up a bit.
I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation." A repeat episode dealing with the question of what it is that we find love in others, what is important to us? Is it the exterior, or the person that they really are?
I think it's both, and in varying degrees.
I then fell asleep for awhile, but got up in time to get a good seat for the Sunday night V.C.R. movie, "Wild at Heart," a delightful film from David Lynch... his version of "The Wizard of Oz." Laura Dern was perfect. Nicholas cage was funny, and William DeFoe... frightening.
Some might say the movie was sick and deranged, as is David Lynch.
They might be right.
He is also one of the most original and inventive filmmakers around.
Still, there's no denying the man is disturbed.
After the movie I returned to my lonely room and played with my word processor and printer. I got it to print all I had to say in about half the space I used to.
Nifty, but hard to read.
After I got tired of that I ate some unauthorized tortilla chips and salsa, then got into bed and watched a rerun of "M.A.S.H.," while reading Arthur C. Clarke. I soon slept.
I dreamt of alien wearing black rubber gloves.What an odd month. Very hot during the day, nice at night. I don't believe I've done anything significant in September... until now. 354 complete days without a drink of booze, fix of heroin, snort of cocaine, whiff of marijuana, or the introduction of any mind altering chemical in any way, shape, or form.
Except for nicotine and caffeine of course. Maybe next year. Perhaps having my teeth bleached on the 9th will provide a motivating factor to quit smoking.
I still have a few days before the year's up. Today began at 8:00. After my alarm sounded I heard Robert and Roger in the bathroom getting ready for chapel. They had both been awake for hours, but they each independently decided that right at the time I woke and needed to get washed and dressed would be a good time to hog the washing facilities.
Scum, both of them.
At 8:15 exactly they left and I moved in. I kicked out a janitor, then had the place to myself.
I sat next to Schimmele in chapel. After the service began I noticed that Kevin Rockoff was not present. He must have been in bed, tired from his all night job guarding a dairy. I shook Schimmele's hand while saying, "Congratulations, you're now an usher."
Much to his eventual regret he did such a fine job that Clarence Orion decided to make him permanent.
Ron Collins wimped out and did not go with me and Brian Montique to the Sunday A.A. meeting. He wanted to watch football instead.
Ron told me last night that he didn't think he would be seeing his counselor Cathy anymore. As an employee he doesn't have to.
I think I know why Ron doesn't want to see her, but I'm not allowed to tell. I'm not even allowed to let on that I know. It would embarrass him and I don't want to do that.
I like Ron, and he's my friend, but I worry about him sometimes.
The A.A. meeting was a good one with a fine speaker. Skip was there for me to talk to during the breaks. I've been showing up long enough that I can't help but meet others as well.
I went to the park for an hour. I listened to songs 364, 363, 362, and 361 of the KLSX Top 1000 Labor Day Weekend Countdown, while reading some more about co-dependency.
One guy in the park set up a PA system and played Christian religious propaganda and music as loud as he could. He danced around as he did this. He had a lot of nerve invading my space in a public place like that. I felt as a non-smoker must feel in a movie theater surrounded by a bunch of kids smoking their brains out. Finally the police came over from the other side of the park, where they had been busy harassing some poor homeless people, and told this dancing idiot to turn the music down.
When the police went away he turned it back up again.
I ate dinner back at the residence. A big meatball sort of thing with yams and green beans. It was good. I hadn't eaten all day, so I was hungry. At the time a block of warm cement would have tasted good. I poured blue cheese dressing over it to spice things up a bit.
I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation." A repeat episode dealing with the question of what it is that we find love in others, what is important to us? Is it the exterior, or the person that they really are?
I think it's both, and in varying degrees.
I then fell asleep for awhile, but got up in time to get a good seat for the Sunday night V.C.R. movie, "Wild at Heart," a delightful film from David Lynch... his version of "The Wizard of Oz." Laura Dern was perfect. Nicholas cage was funny, and William DeFoe... frightening.
Some might say the movie was sick and deranged, as is David Lynch.
They might be right.
He is also one of the most original and inventive filmmakers around.
Still, there's no denying the man is disturbed.
After the movie I returned to my lonely room and played with my word processor and printer. I got it to print all I had to say in about half the space I used to.
Nifty, but hard to read.
After I got tired of that I ate some unauthorized tortilla chips and salsa, then got into bed and watched a rerun of "M.A.S.H.," while reading Arthur C. Clarke. I soon slept.
September 2 Monday Day 356
Labor Day! Oh Boy!
I was so excited about it that I made an unconscious decision to celebrate by sleeping in until noon. I didn't wake until Robert announced over the P.A. system that a special holiday V.C.R. movie, "Dancing with Wolves," would be shown at 1:00.
I would have attended, but the idea of watching Kevin Costner dashing around in the midst of a herd of mechanical buffaloes didn't seem to appeal to me.
After a nice shower I went down and had lunch instead. Very tasty luncheon meat sandwiches, with a piece of baked chicken, and corn-on-the-cob.
I smoked a cigarette outside in the parking lot, then went back to my lonely room and turned on my word processor and printer. I would continue to play with these two devices for most of the evening (very exciting), and actually write the sequence just before Day 1 starts, at the beginning of this book. I wrote it directly into the processor, without first forming it in long hand.
I felt exhilarated seeing it in print.
The word processor gets the page numbers all mixed up though. I'll have to check into that.
At 5:30, I was standing in the parking lot talking to Schimmele, when Tommy Bommarito walked up and said hello. He looked a little weather worn, but otherwise fine. His job these days is to stand near freeway exits or entrances while holding a sign proclaiming he was a homeless person who needed food or cash donations... preferably cash. His sign also lets the passing folks know that he is diabetic.
He tells me that he pulls in about forty five dollars a day, tax free. A lot more than I make. He let me know some of the trade secrets, like the need to look ragged, so people will believe that you're actually homeless, but not to ragged, or they will be afraid to come near you and pass you right by.
Tommy's not even really homeless. He lives in a sober living house not too far from the center.
He told me that he sees Reuben Perez every once in a while. Reuben's not doing as well as Tommy is. Reuben lives in an abandoned house close to where Tommy lives.
Reuben of course is also diabetic, just like Tommy, but Reuben doesn't seem to be taking care of himself. He's a physical wreck, Tommy told me, skinnier than he is, and that's very thin. One of Reuben's arms is paralyzed. He refuses to seek help.
For most of us the road is a rough one until we seek help. Even after that it's still rough for a time.
Tommy soon left to catch a bus, and I returned to my lonely room to watch a repeat episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation." Capt. Picard got laid in this one.
Good for him.
September 3 Tuesday Day 357
Good old Jim Docken and Hobart Rodgers took off again this morning. They got the itch and had to hit the streets one more time. They left Eddie Acuna behind this time, thank God. They must have thought he would have slowed them down.
Or Eddie's gaining some sense.
My friend Carlos Noble became an employee a week or so ago. He's the dock foreman now. The same position he held when I first met him in Canoga park almost two years ago. He should do well. He's experienced, and is familiar with the in-house politics of the Salvation Army.
At least he's not a driver, though I've seen an awful lot of dock foremen come and go.
Wayne Dubois, on the other hand, became a driver, or had become a driver, because he was fired today for refusing to pick up a doner's select garbage, telling the doner he didn't have the time and he'd have to schedule another pick up. I guess he was in a hurry to get somewhere. The doner was rather upset over this turn of events (quite often doners will take time off work, or their busy lifestyle activities, in order to be home when the truck arrives to pick up their trash), and called our dispatch office and filed a complaint. Now Wayne is a beneficiary again.
Reuben Smith's tan is fading. At least that's what I keep telling him him. It drives him crazy.
I call him snowball.
I had a good morning while working. Got everything ship-shape in the office, then wrote a lot.
I exercised in the weight room after work, then watched an interview of a KGB officer on PBS in my lonely room.
I sat with Richard Bennet at dinner. He said I looked much happier then I had for the last couple of weeks. He had been worried about me. I let him know I had been a little preoccupied lately, but that I was alright now.
Ups and downs. Our lives are filled with ups and downs. The trick in life is to try to keep the amplitude down to a minimum.
I told Richard that I felt fine and that I had good things to look forward to. School was coming up soon, and a year's sobriety the next week. I told him I had already memorized what I would say when I took my cake for 1 year.
"You'll forget it," he said. "You'll be lucky to get out, 'Keep coming back!'"
I watched "Star Trek, the Next Generation," and then read. At 8:00 "Nova," came on channel 28, the PBS channel. The show involved the 1989 Neptune (and it's cool moon (about 35 degrees above absolute zero) Triton) flyby of the Voyager 2 spacecraft. The program was narrated by Patrick Stewart, who of course plays Capt. Picard on "Star Trek, the Next Generation." You know, the guy who got laid yesterday.
I read some more, and munched unauthorized tortilla chips.
At 11:00, Part 3 of "The Mind," series came on channel 28 again. It discussed how aging affects the mental processes, and how each of us (human type people) are affected differently by growing older. Alzheimer's disease was mentioned.
I thought about my grandmother.
I think I could suffer anything except losing my mind. It's the only thing I think with!
Use it or lose it I guess.
If I were to lose my mind, would I know, would I realize that it was happening?
Have I lost my mind already?
Am I now totally insane without realizing that this is the case?
I must consider this.
September 4 Wednesday Day 358
A good day. Lots of things done. Like my laundry. Got that out of the way for another week. Very important.
I spent my morning (because it is mine) taking care of the usual paperwork, writing, securing janitorial supplies, and sitting with the man from Abbott Laboratories, who had come to service the ADx machine. We'd been having some problems with it. In the end he replaced a lamp and told me that everything would be okay now. Or hunky dory. I had no way of testing his supposition however, because Abbott had been late shipping us the reagent chemicals we need to operate the machine. In the mean time I'm up to my ears in what is getting to be some very stale urine.
I did my laundry, as I've said, in the afternoon. I also exercised, read from the Bible and the co-dependency book that Cathy had lent to me. I also searched about half of the lockers looking for errant towels. Found some too.
Counselor Charity made a rare appearance tonight at chapel. Barbara was there to. And after chapel... Cathy.
She was a tad upset that Ron Collins had excused himself from her caseload so abruptly. She told me she felt kind of abandoned. Well, that's Ron for you, the Heartbreak Kid. Ed Reitz gave her a whole bunch of new clients to help ease her abandonment crisis. A white supremacist, a young black man who considers himself that upon which the universe pivots (how absurd, when in actuality I am the center of said universe), another man who was in need of a Big Book, and her regular, Ron Cooper. She was kept nice and busy.
After she was finished we had a nice talk. Then she left. We waved to each other as she drove off.
September 5 Thursday Day 359
In difference to Mr. Steinbeck's contention that Thursday's are sweet, in my opinion, these particular days of the week, which come around with sickening regularity, suck. Almost nothing good ever happens to me on Thursdays.
Wednesdays aren't all that hot either, but at least Cathy comes to complicate my life and confuse me.
At least there's that!
Just after lunch I had to break up a fight between two of my desk men, Columbus Davis and Gene Mance. They were calling each other "nigger," and stuff like that (it's probably a good thing that they're both black). Ridicules. I never did find out what it was about.
Just as things settled down I noticed a civilian standing at the desk. I asked him if I could help him, and he told me he was our next door neighbor. He said that every time his wife opened her kitchen door to let some air in, our gardener, Don Robinson, would sit down a few feet away, smoke cigarettes and stare at her. He told me it was getting to be annoying. I could belive that.
I went with him outside and around the building, and sure enough, there was Don, squatting against the side of the residence, smoking, and looking right into the lady's kitchen. I chased him away, directing him to not use that particular spot for a smoke break anymore.
The ADx guy came out again. After running some controls he told me the machine was fixed... again. After he left I ran some samples using the cocaine assays, and got the same "Insufficient Reagent" message I had gotten before. This time from a brand new pack of reagents, so I had to call the Abbott customer service center in Dallas to have the technician come out again.
Meanwhile, the urine accumulates and ripens.
We had to clamp down a bit on all of the contraband coming in the front door when the boys come home from work. They're taking advantage of the fact that Corona and Parsons are letting them have underwear for personal use, and bringing it over directly from the warehouse to the residence. Today when they came back I had Columbus confiscate all of the T-shirts the guys carried in. We discovered that they were not only bringing back underwear, but various types of white polo shirts with collars, white T-shirts with printed pictures and lettering, and numerous other items as well that couldn't quite qualify as undies.
Naughty boys.
I had taken Roger Collins to and from the hospital before lunch so he would be ready to open the canteen at 4:00. At 5:15 he came to tell me he couldn't walk on his foot and wouldn't be able to work. Roger is a pain in the ass. Ed McNicol was not around, so I had Jack Crossley work in the canteen.
Jack did a good job really.
Ed Reitz came over after dinner to tell Anthony Rutherford that he had one week to make arrangements to move out. Anthony, at any given time, has half of the house ready to kill him. Anthony has a certain disdain for social interaction.
The evening's meetings went well. About fifty guys crowded into the small T.V. room for the CA panel when two sharp looking ladies showed up as the speakers.
Later I ran cannabinoid tests on all of my urine samples to at least get something done with all of the yellow fluid. Cocaine remains the only test giving me problems.
Richard Bennet left late after finishing his counseling sessions. "Each one took a long time tonight," he let me know.
"You mean they actually had some issues and problems they're trying to deal with?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I hate that when that happens."
He smiled, and said, "So do I."
I went to the canteen near curfew time and... er... borrowed forever, two eggrolls from the leftover late dinners, heated them in the microwave and consumed them
And at 10:48P.M. exactly, I drank my last cup of coffee.
I'm giving it up.
After Eddie Gillespie came to relieve me I went to my room and switched on channel 28. I watched Part 5 of "The Mind," concerning pain and healing. My feet began to hurt while watching it, so I turned it off and went to sleep.
September 6 Friday Day 360
I had set my alarm for 5:30. When it sounded I got up and turned it off, went back to bed and got up three hours later.
When I did finally get up I walked into my semi-private bathroom and smoked an unauthorized cigarette while contemplating my next move.
I returned to my room and donned my swim trunks. Looking awfully sexy, I made my way to the basement and exercised for about half an hour, then returned upstairs to take an unauthorized shower.
After lunch (beans and franks), I asked my friend, Jerry Schimmele, if he would like to take a walk with me to the mall that they have here in Pasadena. It being his day off, he agreed.
We didn't go to the mall at first. It was being circled by too many helicopters, so we decided to go to the Bank of America in order to cash my massive paycheck.
At the mall, Jerry went to buy our weekly Lotto tickets, while I explored Miller's Outpost in search of jeans. I found two pair that I liked. Although they were on sale I wound up paying more than fifty dollars for them. I shouldn't complain. They'd cost a lot more if I were in Moscow, if I could get them at all.
Jerry didn't want to buy anything, and I didn't want to spend anymore money, so we left the mall and began our journey back to the residence.
We met three hungry Mountain Trolls on the way, whom we had to trick into open sunlight to get by, where they turned to stone.
Stupid trolls.
We passed Joe Leberthon in the park, as well. He was sitting down in the soft grass with his girlfriend. We did not see her face. It was buried in his lap.
Joe said this to us,"Hey Jerry, I bought some speed from your son." He smiled after saying that.
Jerry replied with perfect grandeur, "Sure. Probably some hookers too!"
Jerry's son, Garth Schimmele, had at one time been a whore monger.
We walked on.
I was writing in the dining room, and drinking from a glass of ice water, when Ron Cooper came up to me.
"Rick, I've got an idea for you," he said. "I know you're a bachelor and all. What about Cathy?"
"What about her?"
"She's a real nice girl. And I don't think she's been with anyone for three years. I kind of noticed some eye contact between you two last Wednesday, and thought you should get together."When I did finally get up I walked into my semi-private bathroom and smoked an unauthorized cigarette while contemplating my next move.
I returned to my room and donned my swim trunks. Looking awfully sexy, I made my way to the basement and exercised for about half an hour, then returned upstairs to take an unauthorized shower.
After lunch (beans and franks), I asked my friend, Jerry Schimmele, if he would like to take a walk with me to the mall that they have here in Pasadena. It being his day off, he agreed.
We didn't go to the mall at first. It was being circled by too many helicopters, so we decided to go to the Bank of America in order to cash my massive paycheck.
At the mall, Jerry went to buy our weekly Lotto tickets, while I explored Miller's Outpost in search of jeans. I found two pair that I liked. Although they were on sale I wound up paying more than fifty dollars for them. I shouldn't complain. They'd cost a lot more if I were in Moscow, if I could get them at all.
Jerry didn't want to buy anything, and I didn't want to spend anymore money, so we left the mall and began our journey back to the residence.
We met three hungry Mountain Trolls on the way, whom we had to trick into open sunlight to get by, where they turned to stone.
Stupid trolls.
We passed Joe Leberthon in the park, as well. He was sitting down in the soft grass with his girlfriend. We did not see her face. It was buried in his lap.
Joe said this to us,"Hey Jerry, I bought some speed from your son." He smiled after saying that.
Jerry replied with perfect grandeur, "Sure. Probably some hookers too!"
Jerry's son, Garth Schimmele, had at one time been a whore monger.
We walked on.
I was writing in the dining room, and drinking from a glass of ice water, when Ron Cooper came up to me.
"Rick, I've got an idea for you," he said. "I know you're a bachelor and all. What about Cathy?"
"What about her?"
"You do?"
"Sure. She's a really together person, and she's real cute! I'd go after her myself, except she's my counselor and all. I'd kind of like just to have her as a good friend. Know what I mean?"
"Oh yes."
"So what do you think? About Cathy I mean."
"I think she's a wonderful girl. I like her very much."
"I knew it! Now that I know how you feel, I'll try to put in a good word for you."
"You will?"
"Sure. She's real nice. The two of you would be good together."
"You think she likes me?"
"Yeah. Don't worry. I'll fix it up for you."
"Well, thanks Ron. I really appreciate that."
"No problem."
I went upstairs to put my notebook away. I sat on my bed a moment thinking, and then to the desk to start my shift.
September 7 Saturday Day 361
Upon awaking I read a little, beginning my day slow and easy. I read from Luke, and then some of Vonnegut's "Jailbird," novel, and some from "Imperial Earth," by Arthur C Clarke. At 9:30 I dressed and went downstairs.
I had talked to my mother last night, learning that my Uncle Lester seems to be improving... eating more and gaining some weight. Tough old bastard. I was also told that my beautiful little niece has gotten into trouble again at school (my niece is nothing if not consistent). My mother said she would drive up Thursday afternoon.
Very good.
Things are going rather well right now. I'm quite happy.
I wrote until lunch time, and after I ate I went to the park to lie in the sun. An hour and a half this time.
Upon returning, I had just enough time to shower and dress before going to work.
I walked to Music Plus in the evening to get the weekend's movies. "The Rookie," with Clint Eastwood and Charlie Sheen, and "Goodfellas," a Martin Scorsese film, staring Robert DeNiro and Joe Pesci. I played the Eastwood movie tonight for the boys.
Kevin Rockoff will be leaving the residence on Monday. He'll be moving in with Wolf Pandolfi, sharing living expenses. He seems to be doing well in his new job. Good for him.
I wish him well.
Hobart Rodgers has been seen staggering around the local area recently. Jim Dockens can't be far away. Apparently they've been boozing it up pretty good down at the park south of the residence (not my park), getting sick really fast.
I wish them well too.
I drove the guys to the Alano Club A.A. meeting, then brought them back when it was over. That's my job. I get paid for it.
Still, it was nice to get out of the residence and drive around.
Along the way I stopped at Vons and bought some microwave popcorn.
After my ten o'clock rounds I sat in the office and browsed through the "American Red Cross Standard First Aid Workbook." I would need to know all of the information that was in there by September 21st, in order to pass my American Red Cross Standard First Aid class. Tonight I learned all about emergency action principles and rescue breathing. Important things to know if you have asthma and find yourself in an emergency.
I then wrote for about an hour.
Just before midnight (the Witching Hour) I fixed myself an unauthorized egg and cheese sandwich on an English muffin in the canteen. I then ate it. It was good.
After midnight I returned to the canteen and popped my microwave popcorn. I also grabbed a diet coke, then retired to the small T.V. room and watched "The Rookie," a typical Eastwood/Sheen film, with lots of gratuitous sex and violence.
After the film I said goodnight to Wolf, then went to bed.
I dreamt of the fungus monsters on Mushroom Island.
September 8 Sunday Day 362
Up at 8:00 for chapel where things went reasonably well. Not too much fumbling around with the collection plate. I changed clothes afterwards. They were unlikely to change themselves.
Then off to the American Legion building in South Pasadena. Ron Collins was absent yet once again due to a 10:00 Rams game. Robert drove Brian Montique and myself, plus Art Dean and Jim Shelton, who needed a lift to the Transition House.
Jill, Robert tells me, has moved to a different location, and hasn't given anybody her new address, so it would be little use to cruise her neighborhood in hopes of espying her, or making licentious bird noises outside her windows.
At the meeting I sat next to a man named Jack. An older gentleman who I had first met at last week's meeting. A very open and friendly person. He told me that if we drink long enough alcohol adversely affects us in three distinct ways.
"First," he said, "it affects our memory. Then... I forgot the other two."
He introduced me to the day's speaker, an Irish Catholic person, who used humor extensively throughout his talk, making that forty five minute period very enjoyable.
I walked back part way with Skip Fennel. We parted ways at the liquor store at Fair Oaks and California, where I purchased seven dollars worth of Super Lotto tickets. I can do that now because I am an employed person and receive massive paychecks.
By the time I got out of the store Brian Montique, Richard Reyes, and Scott Cremer came walking up. I joined them.
We chatted as we walked back to the residence. Somehow we got onto the topic of relationships.
"Man, these guys be hunting that pussy all the damn time!" Cremer exclaimed. "How can you get sober like that? I made a promise to myself that I would not get into any kind of relationship for at least six months."
"Shuusssch! Did you hear that?" I asked.
"What, Joyce?"
"The sound of the entire world's female population sighing with relief."
"That's very true," Scott thoughtfully replied. "I've wrecked some real emotional havoc in my day."
Haven't we all.
I changed into my sexy swim trunks back at the residence, then walked to the park to lie in the hazy sun for one and a quarter hours listening to some classic C.C.R. on classic radio.
At 5:00 I viewed a repeat episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation." while reading parts of the Bible, the Clark book, and the co-dependency book.
Then I made my way to the small T.V. room to grab a seat for the evening's V.C.R. movie, "Goodfellas." A remarkable effort of Scorcese's.The film was disturbing when one realizes that it was based on a true story, and that some of the people depicted really did live that way (and continue to do so), which really is no way to live at all. All of the people in the film either wound up dead, in prison, or in some witness protection program totally dependent on the tender mercies of the United States government.
I felt like walking after the movie. I walked down an almost empty Fair Oaks Blvd. to the Los Tacos shop. There, I ordered three tequitos with guacamole to go. When they were ready I took them and ate them while continuing on to the Vons supermarket, where I purchased some multi-vitamins. Nine bucks for almost a whole year's supply. Not bad.
I also attempted to buy another Super Lotto ticket from the Super Lotto machine they have there, but it wouldn't accept my money.
It just was not meant to be.
When I returned to the residence I went up to my lonely room and read of the life of Jesus Christ in a historical context, which upon reflection, is probably the only way we should look upon the life of Jesus Christ, or anybody! I read about him while watching a repeat episode of "Cheers." After "Cheers," was an episode of the show "Monsters," that I had not seen before, and which starred Juliet Mills. I fell asleep half way through.
I woke briefly at 2:00AM, and flicked off the T.V., then knocked out again.
September 9 Monday Day 363
Rosh Hashanah, the Hebrew year 5752 begins today.
To celebrate I got up early and had breakfast (scrambled eggs and ham) with Robert. We each jovially swapped old Rosh Hashanah stories.
Afterwards I returned upstairs to my bed, exhausted from my celebratory efforts, and slept for a little while.
At 8:00 I got up, slapped myself awake, changed into my sexy swim trunks and hitched a ride on the elevator down to the basement and exercised for twenty six minutes, then hit the showers.
Soon I was in the lobby, writing my little heart out. Wendy came out from the counseling room once or twice, but had no smiles for me this morning.
Women are like that. Sometimes they smile, and sometimes they don't.
I wrote there in the lobby until 10:30, then I put my pen and notebook away, and dashed off to the bus stop to catch the 256 north. I departed the bus directly in front of the office of Dr. Campbell, the credit dentist.
Being basically very vain I had come to get my teeth bleached. I hoped that by bleaching my teeth most of them would get as white as my shining new front cap. I was unaware of how the bleaching process worked, or how much pain to expect once I was strapped into the dreaded chair of torture.
I soon realized I had little to worry about. They took impressions of my upper and lower arches, then sent me on my way telling me to come back next week. The most painful procedure they administered was to relieve me of a one hundred dollar bill.
The Pasadena mall was my next stop. I needed to buy a new shirt to wear on Friday night. Well... I didn't need to, I wanted to. And I did, I bought one. A nice light blue one. Very nice. On sale too!
I stopped by the warehouse record store to check out their Jethro Tull collection. I was not impressed.
Finally, I treated myself to a "Maxi-Steak" sandwich, just for the pure sweat hell of it.
I walked through the park on my way back to the residence, and wrote again, in the lobby. Wendy was still there much to my surprise and delight.
And before she left for the day, she gave me a nice smile and asked how I was. I told her that I was fine. We talked about school briefly, and "Romeo and Juliet."
In tonight's repeat episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation," Tasha Yar and Mr. Data both got laid. To each other!
Good for them.
Seems to be a lot of sex going on on board the Enterprise lately.
I finished the co-dependency book that Cathy had lent to me. The author, Melodie Beattie, has a lot of valuable things to say within it, and she says them quite well. I'm very glad that I read it.
At 10:58PM I had my last drag off of my last cigarette. I'm finally going to give them up for good.
Really!
At 11:00, I changed the channel on my television to 28, and turned down the volume. Then I snuggled into bed nice and cozy, and watched Part 6 of "The Mind." The episode dealt with depression.
At midnight I was so depressed because I had quit smoking I had to roll over and go to sleep.
I dreamt of riding the range in Marlboro Country.
September 10 Tuesday Day 364
Russell "Hoops" Burke is back! My spiritual guru. The first thing he said to me was, "Hi! Hello. How ya doing?"
Russell had been in New York visiting his Father "Hoops Sr.", and stepmother. His father is very ill.
"My dad has about a week to live," Russell told me. "I left before the funeral. Naw, I didn't want to stay for that. My step mom, she wanted me to stay, but I didn't wanta. She understood though."
Russell has his old job back in the residence... mainly due to Ernie Sens not wanting him in the warehouse.
"He'll wander off and fall into the compactor," Ernie says.
After having greeted Russell I spent most of the morning taking care of normal business; writing, and studying from the "American Red Cross Standard First Aid" book.
After Robert left for the weekly gratuity board meeting, I changed clothes and worked out in the basement, then showered, dressed in some nice street clothes and was back at the desk by the time he got back at 2:30.
I hung around the desk talking to Robert until it was time for me to go to school.
This would be the first time I have attended a college class in over fifteen years.
It all went rather well actually.
There were mostly young people in the class, of course, but I did not feel particularly out of place. Emotionally we were all about the same age.
The teacher, a man maybe a little older than I am, took roll, then asked how many present were not registered for the class. About half the room raised their hands. He asked if those individuals who had just finished raising their hands would go out into the hall with him so they could discuss their future. He was merciless. Only two out of the twenty or so that had left with him returned to audit and participate in the class.
Our assignment for the day was to compose a five paragraph essay; consisting of an introductory paragraph, three sustaining paragraphs, and a closing paragraph. We were to fill in this sentence, "I believe _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, is the biggest problem facing America today." Then continue the essay.
It was hard. When you haven't been to school in fifteen years you kind of get rusty thinking up whole paragraphs and all.
I endured and wrote about the American drug policies.
After I turned in my paper I began the real hard part of my school day... battling the mob at the book store. I was lucky to get out of there in one piece.
For two paperback books, "The Bedford Handbook for Writers," by Diana hacker, and "The Dolphin Reader," an anthology compiled by Douglas Hunt, which probably could be found in any retail book store for $9 apiece, cost me over $45, so I was both roughed up by the crowd and skinned by the cashier.
I got back to the residence earlier than I had expected due to the short duration of my first class. Jill was still there and waiting for me. Well, not actually waiting for me, but she was still there, as beautiful as ever. I told her that I was now a student. She said, "Congratulations," and then began talking to someone else. I feel that if I were to tell Jill that I had just won the Nobel Peace Prize, she'd say, "Very good, Richard... Jack would you see if Miguel Wisenthorpe is ready for counseling."
I went to the canteen and had a piece of leftover pizza.Russell had been in New York visiting his Father "Hoops Sr.", and stepmother. His father is very ill.
"My dad has about a week to live," Russell told me. "I left before the funeral. Naw, I didn't want to stay for that. My step mom, she wanted me to stay, but I didn't wanta. She understood though."
Russell has his old job back in the residence... mainly due to Ernie Sens not wanting him in the warehouse.
"He'll wander off and fall into the compactor," Ernie says.
After having greeted Russell I spent most of the morning taking care of normal business; writing, and studying from the "American Red Cross Standard First Aid" book.
After Robert left for the weekly gratuity board meeting, I changed clothes and worked out in the basement, then showered, dressed in some nice street clothes and was back at the desk by the time he got back at 2:30.
I hung around the desk talking to Robert until it was time for me to go to school.
This would be the first time I have attended a college class in over fifteen years.
It all went rather well actually.
There were mostly young people in the class, of course, but I did not feel particularly out of place. Emotionally we were all about the same age.
The teacher, a man maybe a little older than I am, took roll, then asked how many present were not registered for the class. About half the room raised their hands. He asked if those individuals who had just finished raising their hands would go out into the hall with him so they could discuss their future. He was merciless. Only two out of the twenty or so that had left with him returned to audit and participate in the class.
Our assignment for the day was to compose a five paragraph essay; consisting of an introductory paragraph, three sustaining paragraphs, and a closing paragraph. We were to fill in this sentence, "I believe _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, is the biggest problem facing America today." Then continue the essay.
It was hard. When you haven't been to school in fifteen years you kind of get rusty thinking up whole paragraphs and all.
I endured and wrote about the American drug policies.
After I turned in my paper I began the real hard part of my school day... battling the mob at the book store. I was lucky to get out of there in one piece.
For two paperback books, "The Bedford Handbook for Writers," by Diana hacker, and "The Dolphin Reader," an anthology compiled by Douglas Hunt, which probably could be found in any retail book store for $9 apiece, cost me over $45, so I was both roughed up by the crowd and skinned by the cashier.
I got back to the residence earlier than I had expected due to the short duration of my first class. Jill was still there and waiting for me. Well, not actually waiting for me, but she was still there, as beautiful as ever. I told her that I was now a student. She said, "Congratulations," and then began talking to someone else. I feel that if I were to tell Jill that I had just won the Nobel Peace Prize, she'd say, "Very good, Richard... Jack would you see if Miguel Wisenthorpe is ready for counseling."
Always a glutton for punishment, I would talk to Jill again later. I would say this to her, "Thank you Jill. Friday night I will receive my cake for staying sober for an entire year, and I hold you, and your timely group counseling sessions directly responsible."
This got me a great big gorgeous smile, and a "Thank you, Richard. Maybe you could advertise for me."
At 8:00, about ten of us piled into Red Shield 4 and drove into South Pasadena to the St. James Church. This was the old A.A. speaker meeting I used to attend on occasions, six or seven months ago. I went there tonight because I had been told last Friday that I must arrange my birthday cake for next Friday at this meeting. When I found the cake person for this Tuesday night meeting, he told me that what I had been told was a bunch of hoowie, and that all I had to do was tell the Friday night cake person before the meeting started that I would be taking a cake that night.
Smells like a classic runaround to me.
I'm not going to worry about it. Whatever happens happens.
I stayed for the meeting even though I was awfully tired. And like most times when I don't feel like staying at a meeting I find that I'm really glad that I did.
A lady who had eight years sobriety was the five minute speaker. She began to cry as soon as she reached the podium. She kept saying over and over what a rough time she was having and how this was the only place she had to go to.
My heart went out to her of course. This was just another example of how life's problems still exist even after we stop drinking and using drugs.
She will pull through.
I will pull through any problems I come to face... and life will go on.
September 11 Wednesday Day 365
Cathy gave me a call near 8:00 this morning, which was a pleasant surprise. However, the reason she called was not so pleasant.
She told me she would not be able to come in tonight. Her sick car had finally died on her. Her ex-brother-in-law would be able to fix it after she got off work, so she would not be in.
Also her cats are trying to kill each other once again. This is causing her to lose sleep, so she's having a pretty hard time of it right now.
Robert, sensing that this was the only time I'd have to talk to Cathy this week, promptly walked into the office where I was speaking to her and demanded attention. Today was one of his days off. Robert usually spends a total of five minutes in the office on his days off. Five minutes in forty eight hours. It is a tribute to Robert Vasquez that he would pick the only five minutes that I am likely to be in a private telephone conversation within those forty eight hours to come in and ruin it. The man is uncanny.
Uncanny.
By the time Robert, with some sprinkling of mercy, departed , and I got back to Cathy, she said, "Well, I have to go now. I do want to be there when you take your cake. Try and save me a seat. Bye." Click.
I did tell her that I would miss her tonight. She didn't respond.
Oh, I don't know. Every time I think about her now, I get tired.
I spent most of the morning writing. Near 1:00 I went upstairs to my room and changed into my swim trunks. On my way to the basement the elevator stopped at the first floor and Roger Shriver, one of our janitors, and Kevin Rockoff entered. I felt a little silly standing there in nothing but my trunks. Neither of them made any comments though. Instead, Kevin looked at me and calmly told me that our V.C.R. had been stolen again.
"What?!"
"It's missing. And Gene Mance had Schimmele watch the desk for him while he took off carrying a big box."
This is the story. Mance, my daytime desk man, asked Jerry to sit at the desk for him (not an uncommon practice), while unbeknownst to Jerry, he used the V.C.R. key to unlock the V.C.R. box protecting the V.C.R. from theft, and disconnected it from the wall plug and T.V. Curtis Carter walked in on him while he was doing this, but didn't think anything of it, Mance being a desk man and all, a position of some authority and responsibility. Curtis had been looking for me, and continued his search. Meanwhile, Mance locked the box back up, returned the key, then went to the kitchen and and asked our newest cook, Keith Davis, if there were any boxes around. Keith told him to look outside in the alley, which Mance did. He found a suitable container, went back to the T.V. room, slid the V.C.R. out from the back of the wooden box, placed it in the box he had found in the alley, found a pillow and placed that on top of the box with the V.C.R. in it, took it and walked right past a smiling and affable Schimmele, out of the residence, disappearing down Fair Oaks Blvd.
Curtis saw him leave, and thinking something may be up he checked the V.C.R. box and found it empty.
When I returned to the desk (after putting my clothes back on) I checked out the situation (Schimmele was sitting in a daze, muttering, "I let him walk right past me... I let him walk right past me") and tried to call my supervisor, Dr. Ed Reitz. Ed wasn't around, so I left word to have him call me as soon as he returned. I called Ernie Sens and told him what happened, and that we'd need a new V.C.R. and desk man. After he finished chuckling he let me know that shouldn't be a problem.
Soon Ed called, and I told him what happened. He instructed me to call the police and file a report. I called the police and they said they would send someone over. Kevin and I checked Mance's locker. It was packed full.
The whole thing didn't make much sense. Mance's clothes alone seemed to be worth more than what he would get for the V.C.R. Nothing else made any sense either. This guy didn't seem to care at all about covering his tracks, and was seen fooling around with the stolen item just before it was stolen. He left his work station one hour before his shift was due to end, walking casually down the street in full view of at least a dozen Salvation Army personnel while carrying a suspicious looking large box with a pillow on top!
The police came. The same cop who was here when Noah was stolen. We told him what happened and showed him Mance's picture from our files. The policeman took some notes and left.
Nothing more to do about it. Ken Hockett had expressed a desire to come to the desk and seemed like a good candidate. I asked Ernie about it, and he agreed. End of case.
I read from the "Writer's Handbook" in the afternoon, and got things ready for chapel.
At chapel, I was to read the responsive scripture. I had practiced the section earlier and was having a bit of trouble pronouncing the word "propitiation." A ridicules word. For the first time I sat with Clarence Orion, Ed Reitz, Frank Corona, and Ron Collins, behind the podium facing the congregation.
I felt kinda silly up there.
I managed the responsive reading quite well, and after the service I set up the chapel's anti-room for Barbara's new Wednesday night relapse prevention workshop. Then I went downstairs to my semi private bathroom and smoked an unauthorized cigarette (I started smoking again at about eight o'clock last night).
As I entered the elevator to return to the desk my name was called over the loud speaker.
"Richard Joyce to the front desk immediately! Richard Joyce to the front desk immediately!" is what it said.
As the elevator door opened I saw Mr. Mance standing by the desk, still donned in his dress white shirt and black trousers (desk apparel). His tie was undone. I approached the desk wearing a bland expression, and Rockoff explained that Gene had come for his personal possessions.
"Okay," I said. "I'll go get them."
I took the elevator to the basement. In the baggage room I placed Gene's clothes into a wheeled bin, but hesitated before bringing them up. Ed Reitz had disappeared somewhere in his van right after chapel, but was expected back within twenty minutes. I returned to the desk, found Mance outside smoking a cigarette with the man who had driven him here, and told him he'd have to wait until Ed got back before I could release his belongings. I walked away before he could say anything. I didn't feel like listening to any of his bullshit and arguing with him. Gene is an older black man with an ugly temperament (he'd been forced on us at the desk by the "Powers That Be and Don't Know Any Better"). I'd seen him go off on Columbus Davis a week ago for no reason, and just didn't want to deal with any violent crap. Not if I could help it.
I went to my office and debated whether or not to call the police again. Gene made up my mind for me by coming in and saying, "I don't know what all this waiting's about, Rick, but I gotta ride, and he's gotta... oh, here's Ed now." He'd seen Ed drive up through my office window. Mance went out to meet him.
I was thinking to myself that this guy must either have a tremendous amount of nerve to come back here and demand his clothes when he and I both knew he ripped off the V.C.R., or was just immensely stupid, severely demon possessed, desperate, or all of the above. Any of which could also make him dangerous.
I called the police. They told me someone would be out right away. Mance was looking at me through the window as I talked to them. He didn't look too happy.
He came back to my office with Ed. Ed said, "This man wants to pick up his clothes. Do we have them?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Okay," Ed said. "Give them to him."
"Alright."
As I passed Gene he asked me who had packed his stuff. I told him Rockoff had. Gene seemed satisfied (everyone trusts Rockoff for some reason, probably that baby face of his, and that genuine niceness I've mentioned. Interestingly enough, Kevin's ex wife called his fiance today, all the way from New York. She was trying to cause a little trouble. She told Rockoff's new love that she (his ex) was currently pregnant with Kevin's baby, which was a rather peculiar thing for her to say considering Kevin's been right here with me for at least the last eleven months), but still grumbled, "Everything better be there too."
I went back to the basement. Ed followed me a minute later and I told him I had called the police. He approved, then left. I waited ten minutes, then took Mance's stuff up to the lobby.
The police were there. Ed, Mance, and a lovely short policewoman were just going into a counseling room as I wheeled up with the clothes.
"So all my stuff is here?" Mance asked. I nodded yes.
While the situation was being discussed in the counseling room, Gene's friend took his clothes and put them in his car. After he finished, and much to my horror, he drove off! I immediately worried about the center's legal position, and Mance's reaction when he found out I had let someone else take his clothes without his permission. I did not believe the police could arrest Gene without catching him in possession of the stolen V.C.R., and he would be wanting his clothes.
I needn't have worried. After ten minutes a handcuffed Gene Mance came out on the arm of the lovely police lady, followed by Dr. Ed Reitz. As Mance passed, Kevin and I let him know that his buddy had taken his things. He seemed happy about that, so everything was cool.
The police promptly took him away.
Ed told me that while the three of them were talking the word came over the officer's radio that Gene had four outstanding warrants out on him, hence the arrest. Three for theft, one for assault on a police officer.
End of story.
I don't know if I wish this guy well. He seemed to be basically a mean and selfish individual, and I just don't understand men like that.
Women either.
Wanting to get out of the residence for a while I drove some of the guys to an outside A.A. meeting at the Woman's Club in South Pasadena. I had attended a couple of meetings at the Woman's Club, but had never driven there. After taking a wrong turn and innately driving through some mountainous back roads for fifteen minutes (with eight or nine men each shouting different and wrong directions to me, some intentionally just because they liked the ride), we found the club, and I dropped them off.
Back at the residence, I talked to Cathy's answering machine for awhile. I asked it how it was doing, and I told it to let Cathy know that Barbara would give her a ride Friday night if she needed one.
Back at the Woman's Club to pick up my charges, a man walked up to my driver's window and began staring at me. Usually I would find this rather annoying, as I did this time... at first.
Dennis Smith looked at me with a great big smile on his big face. I rolled down the window and we shook hands. He was still at the Grandview recovery home, and I am still at the Salvation Army. I told him about getting my cake on Friday, and he congratulated me.
"Wow! This is great," I said. "You've popped up just in time to make the end of the book."
He laughed. "You're still writing it?"
"Sure. It ends Friday night."
"Can I read it then?"
"No. After I put it through the word processor, then you can read it. Maybe I can still help you to get laid."
We said goodbye and I drove off. He looked good, and it was good to see him.
September 12 Thursday Day 366 1 year
Well... it appears that I have made it. That we have made it, dear readers.
One year... not a whole lot of time really. A whole world of time for me.
The day started early. Four thirty in the morning. I was making my first trip to pick up the morning's donuts at Tastee's and Honeyglaze. Richard Hendrickson navigated while I drove. It was fun. We listened to the news program they have on the radio while we drove. We heard about the police shooting a mentally disturbed (whatever that means) person nine times in the back, even while the man was lying face down on the ground.
The man died.
Such is life.
When we got back to the residence we each had breakfast (SOS), then went our respective ways. I went upstairs to my bathroom and brushed my teeth, I then walked across the hall to my room and put on a tie. At the desk, in my office, I began to write. I would continue to write, off and on, throughout the day and night, finally finishing up at around 10:00PM, before I went on my rounds and after I got back from the park.
At 3:15 in the afternoon, Red Shield 4 became available and I scooted over to USC General Hospital to pick up Roger Collins. I was very tired by this time, but still had the hardest part of the day before me.
It was Richard Bennet's night to go to Skid Row and talk to the people there, and he asked me if I would lead his substance abuse class in his absence. I backed off. I told him I would do it next month, and I will if he asks. I sat in on the A.A. panel for about half of it, listening to a young Jewish woman tell her tale of woe and terror involving the Bohemia of San Francisco.
Everyone has a tale of woe and terror. We need to listen to them.
Robert returned from his day off visit with his family in Upland just as the panel let out. Rockoff (the little scuzz) hurled himself into the parking lot so he could be the first to give him the news of the Mance affair, thereby robbing me of the chance of monitoring Robert's initial reaction. He and I talked about it in our office for awhile, among other things. I mentioned that I had one year of sobriety today, and he congratulated me. He told me how difficult it was for him his first year, a one day at a time type of theme, and I realized once again how hard and different it is for all of us.
After Robert and I finished talking I put on my jacket and told my new desk man, Ken Hackett, that I was going to check the trailer, and that I'd be back in a bit.
I slowly walked from the residence, east on Waverly, then north on Fair Oaks. I crossed the southwest corner of Fair Oaks and Del Mar to the northeast corner, which is the southeast corner of the Park, my destination. I choose a diagonal path across the length of the Park, passing the lawn bowling greens, up until I had walked almost to the opposite corner from the one I had entered. There was a picnic table there. I sat and lit a cigarette. I looked around the empty and dark block long expanse of trees and grass punctuated here and there with pools of light spilling from strategically located lamp posts located along the asphalt paths. There were a few people about. Some talking, hidden in shades of darkness, others behind me on Raymond Ave., walking up the paved sidewalk to the lights and noise of Colorado Blvd. Only one man walked as I did, almost aimlessly along the various walkways within the Park itself. He was taking his time, looking around.
Not much had changed in the Park since I had last sat here, since I had taken my last drink at this spot one year ago. There were now three picnic tables instead of two. That's about it. It still felt lonely and empty.
But I didn't feel that way. In the last year I'd come to at least like myself, this new person I've become. Or at least I have begun to know this new person, which drugs and alcohol had masked so well. I can learn to like him. I definitely feel like a participant in life now, rather than just a spectator. That I can make choices that really matter, that I can maybe help others like myself, while helping myself at the same time. That I can now be good to myself, and that I matter.
I've never felt that way before. It's a good feeling. I recommend it. It's a feeling I'd like to keep, and I can make the decision to do that now as well. I care about a lot of people now, all of the guys who have came to the center, all of the different counselors and staff, all of the men and women who have come and gone these last twelve months, and a lot of those people care about me, and that feels... real, real, nice.
The Green Hotel to the north of me, with its great parapets and lighted windows, still reminds me of a huge castle out of some fairy tale. What secrets it must hold.
I hope I have shared well most of mine.
And I wonder what the next year will bring.
Another donut run this morning. I was up at 4:30 and ready to go by 5:00. This time I was navigating for our newest duty driver, Vernon Gearring. As we traveled through the early morning inky blackness, Vernon told me how he'd gotten to the A.R.C. Another story of drug addiction crushing a promising career opportunity in sports. The Denver Broncos had been interested, but... shit happens.
I switched shifts with Robert today so I could have the night off. Tonight I would receive my cake for one year of sobriety.
The day shift went remarkably well. Not much for me to do, and no supervisors to deal with. With Major Johnson on vacation, Ed Reitz, Clarence Orion, and Ernie Sens were rather difficult to locate, even when there was reason to look for them.
So I wrote all morning, taking breaks anytime some problem came up or needed attending to.
After work I went to my lonely room and relaxed for an hour or so. I was a little tired from getting up early for the last four days, and staying up late at night. Things like that tend to tire me. When I got up and started moving around again I felt fine, like I'd slept for six hours. Bright, refreshed and sassy.
While taking a nice shower, I practiced the speech I would make later in the evening after I took my cake. I had known basically what it was I was going to say for about two weeks now, and I had been delicately refining and editing it for that period of time. Tonight was show time though, the real thing, opening night, and I didn't want to get nervous at the podium and fall flat on my face. Not with my mom there (she had driven in from Bullhead yesterday, and was staying at Jeanette's house in Van Nuys), not with Cathy there, and not with the guys from the residence there. So what I wound up doing was put a lot of unnecessary pressure on myself, because none of those people would mind or wouldn't understand if all I managed to get out was, "My name is Rick, and I'm an alcoholic," and walked back to my seat. But I had more to say than that and I wanted to say it right, so I ran through the short speech twice while in the shower, and once while dressing. By the time I got my clothes on I had it down pretty good. I realized it would be quite harder doing it in a room filled with real people rather than alone in my room, but I'd done all that I could to prepare, and left it at that.
I walked out front, onto the parking lot they have out there, and smoked a cigarette... I don't know why. I looked around, but no one was doing anything of interest. I felt a little awkward because it suddenly seemed that my new shirt was too big for me, but nobody else noticed and I soon forgot about it.I switched shifts with Robert today so I could have the night off. Tonight I would receive my cake for one year of sobriety.
The day shift went remarkably well. Not much for me to do, and no supervisors to deal with. With Major Johnson on vacation, Ed Reitz, Clarence Orion, and Ernie Sens were rather difficult to locate, even when there was reason to look for them.
So I wrote all morning, taking breaks anytime some problem came up or needed attending to.
After work I went to my lonely room and relaxed for an hour or so. I was a little tired from getting up early for the last four days, and staying up late at night. Things like that tend to tire me. When I got up and started moving around again I felt fine, like I'd slept for six hours. Bright, refreshed and sassy.
While taking a nice shower, I practiced the speech I would make later in the evening after I took my cake. I had known basically what it was I was going to say for about two weeks now, and I had been delicately refining and editing it for that period of time. Tonight was show time though, the real thing, opening night, and I didn't want to get nervous at the podium and fall flat on my face. Not with my mom there (she had driven in from Bullhead yesterday, and was staying at Jeanette's house in Van Nuys), not with Cathy there, and not with the guys from the residence there. So what I wound up doing was put a lot of unnecessary pressure on myself, because none of those people would mind or wouldn't understand if all I managed to get out was, "My name is Rick, and I'm an alcoholic," and walked back to my seat. But I had more to say than that and I wanted to say it right, so I ran through the short speech twice while in the shower, and once while dressing. By the time I got my clothes on I had it down pretty good. I realized it would be quite harder doing it in a room filled with real people rather than alone in my room, but I'd done all that I could to prepare, and left it at that.
Close to 6:00 now, I went to the basement, to the video game area, and sat in an empty chair right behind Marvin Smith and Roger Collins, who were busy using the two television sets. Roger was playing "Starfinder," and Marvin was watching "Highway to Heaven." I didn't say anything to them, I just sat there, watching the backs of the two men, and smiled benignly whenever they looked back over their shoulders to see what I was up to. They were trying to figure out why I was sitting there, why I wasn't saying anything, and why I kept smiling at them every time they looked at me. Their degree of tension mounted steadily. I was playing a game with them though they did not know it. One thing that was in my favor was that all three of us knew that for as long as I sat there no unauthorized cigarettes could be smoked because the assistant manager was right behind them watching their every move. I knew that they had been smoking down here. The little six once styrofoam cup half filled with water that they had been using as an ash tray was in plain sight.
They knew that I knew.
I was slowly driving them insane.
My strategy soon paid off. Roger was the first to crack. Turning off his Nentendo game and clutching his walking stick, he meandered off toward the rear of the bowling alley. By the time he was ten feet away, I jumped into his vacant seat and smiled more broadly at Marvin, unnerving him. Marvin, correctly figuring I wasn't going anywhere soon, made his exit moments later.
I am now used to this insociable reaction to my presence, to this form of ostracism. It no longer bothers me. Smiles disappear as I walk down crowded hallways, and conversations dim until I have safely moved past. It's no big thing anymore. Besides, this influence I have over others has helped me, as it was now when I needed as little distraction as possible.
I took a few minutes to find the video chess cartridge. It was hidden away in a drawer and looked as if no one had used it for awhile. I popped it into the video game machine, turned on the T.V., and was set to do battle.
If this were a work of fiction I'd be tempted to write that I beat this infernal machine just to keep things up beat. I will honestly report, however, that I gave the device a good game, one move away from checkmating my opponent for half the duration, until at the end, it defeated me soundly.
The pox on it!
After cursing vigorously, I got out of my chair and walked to the atrium. I stood by Noah's empty cage for a minute or two, then returned upstairs.
I was hungry by now. I had a cheeseburger with an egg at the canteen. I was splurging. I sat next to Ron Collins (who was eating a burger of his own, although eggless) and Gilbert Salinas. Ron would be coming with me to tonight's meeting. He would freeload a ride with my mother, myself, and Jeanette. He would see Cathy there, whom he had been trying to avoid. Cathy would confront him and chastise him with much enthusiasm, due to his attempts to avoid her (it never pays to avoid women). They would part with a hug.
I was in the lobby at 7:20, when my mom and Jeanette came walking in the front door. I greeted them and gave each a hug. They had presents for me. I like presents. My mom gave me a video tape she had made from whatever old home movies she could come across. I assumed I was in there somewhere as a small child. I was an alcoholic even then, but didn't know it. It would be a big surprise for me.
My mom also gave me a present from my sister. A calendar for 1992. One of those little square jobs with a different sheet of paper for each day of the year. After the day was over, or just before you went to bed (which ever came first), you were supposed to tear off the top sheet and the next day's piece of paper would be all ready for the next day. On this particular calendar, each sheet of paper representing one of the 365 days of the year, had a word printed on it, with that words spelling, pronunciation, definition, and an example of use in a sentence. This type of calender was supposed to help one with their vocabulary, which is important for people interested in writing things... like me. How thoughtful of my sister, and the good folks at Webster, the dictionary people, who made the calender in the first place.
My sister also sent a letter letting me know how proud she was of me.
Jeanette gave me a book. "Even Eagles Need a Push," by David McNally. This is what was written on the inside jacket:
This book is about success, your happiness, your work, and your dreams.
It is about your power to create what you want for your life.
It is about discovering a true sense of purpose, the contribution that only you can bring to the world.
It is about integrity, dignity, and the value of being true to yourself.
It is about courage, determination, and commitment.
It is about love and appreciation.
Who wants to read about crap like that? No, no, no, just kidding.
It was a very appropriate gift to give to an alcoholic person celebrating staying sober for an entire year. I'm looking forward to reading it.
After putting my gifts in my room, we collected Ron Collins and proceeded to the St. James Church in South Pasadena in Jeanette's car.
We arrived about fifty five minutes early. Barbara Grothe and her husband were already there. We sat next to them. Whenever we decided to get up and move around we would use sobriety chips (30 day, 60 day, 90 day, 6 months, and beginners chip) to mark our seats.
The church was fairly empty when we first got there, but soon filled, and would eventually get to be a standing room only crowd of anywhere from 100 to 150 sober alcoholics. Except for my mom, Barbara and her husband, and Jeanette, who (as far as I know) are not of the alcoholic persuasion.
Besides Ron Collins, some other of my friends came as well. Ron Cooper, John Jimenez, Hugh Hogle, and Tom Rotsch. Even Joe Leberthon was there, the slug. Robert dropped off a van full of guys from the residence, although he himself did not stay. At 8:20 I walked out to the parking lot to see if anybody else I knew had shown up, and to smoke a cigarette. Cathy came out of nowhere, smiling at me, and looking beautiful in s sleek black pants outfit. We hugged each other and I would get a couple of kisses before the night was finished.
I took her inside and showed her where we were sitting, and introduced her to my mom and Jeanette. We then went out to talk to her before the meeting began. She had a gift for me too. A Hazelden meditation book, entitled, "Night Light," which offered a different thought or idea to meditate upon each day of the year. It was very nice.
She's still having problems with her cats, but her car seems to be fixed now. Tomorrow, her day off, she will wake at five and drive to San Pedro (the "Pearl of the Pacific") and run in a half marathon. I told her she was half crazy. She agreed.
All too soon it was time to go in. Cathy and I took our seats. Cathy to my left, my mother on my right. What a nice seat I had, right between my two favorite ladies.
The meeting was called to order. Steve, the meeting's secretary, greeted everyone there, and the show started. Robin read the opening prayer, Todd, a portion of chapter 5 from the book "Alcoholics Anonymous," and Gary the Twelve Traditions.
When they finished Steve returned to the microphone and said, "It is our custom to celebrate birthdays at this meeting, and for every three hundred and sixty five days of consecutive sobriety a birthday cake is given. If you wish to take a cake, please see me at the beginning of the meeting. We also give out medallions with your name and the date of you last drink engraved on them." He held up a plastic bag of unclaimed medallions to prove that this was true. "The medallions will be ready to pick up one week after you take your cake. We ask that those celebrating their birthday to please make their comments brief, due to the number of cakes being given out tonight."
I looked at Cathy and said, "There goes half of my speech."
"Our first birthday tonight," Steve continued, "is for one year. The date of this gentleman's last drink was September eleventh, nineteen ninety. It is for Ray D., and Ed will give him his cake."
At once the room was filled with applause. A bikerish looking young man, wearing black leather pants and vest came to the podium, followed by an older fellow (Ed presumably), conservatively dressed, with thin and graying hair. A lady seated the right of the podium lit the single candle atop a large formidable looking and colorfully decorated birthday cake, and handed it to the older man, who in turn presented it to Ray. Ed held it until Ray blew out the candle, and then set it down on the table in front of the cake lady, who would prepare it for the next cake taker.
This is what Ray had to say:
"My name is Ray, and I'm an alcoholic."
Everyone in the room said, "Hi Ray."
"It feels great to make one year. I'm here. I'm fine. He shrugged, "Thanks a lot."
Simple and to the point.
Then he sat down while everybody clapped.
Steve got back up. "Our next birthday is also for one year. The date of this gentleman's last drink was September twelfth, nineteen ninety...." I nudged my mom and said, "That's us." She was a little nervous too.
Steve continued, "It is for Rick J., and his cake will be given to him by his mom, Susie."
Everyone clapped as my mother and I threaded our way up to the podium. The cake lady lit the candle and passed the cake to my mom, who held it up to me. With some difficulty I managed to blow the damn thing out, and everyone applauded again. My mother set the cake down and moved to the side. I moved up to the microphone and bent forward to speak.
This is what I said:
"My name is Rick, and I'm an alcoholic." It was good that I had the presence of mind to remember to say this. Us alcoholics when addressing the audience at A.A. meetings are heckled mercilessly if we forget to.
I looked out at the crowd. "There's so many peeeoople here! There's not this many people here on Tuesday nights." the group responded to my meek tone with a good laugh, as I had hoped. I felt more at ease and continued.
"One year ago I was a homeless person, destitute, dirty, with nowhere to go and not knowing what to do. I then entered the Pasadena Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Center. Like a typical alcoholic... I've now taken over the place..." another laugh, "and am employed by the Army as an assistant Residence Manager."
"I have a lot of friends here tonight. A lot of guys from the center. I didn't have any friends a year ago. Today I hope to have friends and to keep them because we can do that in recovery... have lasting friendships."
I looked at my mother. "And mom, this night is for you as much as it is for me, for this is the only kind of amends that I can make to you that has any real meaning, to help make up for all of the crap I've put you through. Thank you for being here."
"Thank all of you for being here," addressing the audience again. "And now that I've got my year... I'm going to Disneyland!" This got the biggest laugh (what a ham). My mother and I made our way back to our seats. Cathy gave me a big hug.
Two other people, a woman with seven years, and a man with seventeen (show offs), also took their cakes. I tried to listen to what they said, but I was too busy reveling in the afterglow of my achievement, and the relaxed feeling that came upon me now that my part in the proceedings were finished.
Most of those there told me they liked what I had to say. People I knew, and some I didn't, told me this on that evening, and for a couple of days to come.
The following is what I would have liked to have said, given the time. This is what I practiced in the shower:
"My name is Rick, and I'm an alcoholic..."
"My name is Rick, and I'm an alcoholic (Hi Rick!).
A counselor friend of mine who I work with told me that once I got up here I'd forget everything I had come to say. He said I'd be lucky to get out, 'Keep coming back!'
Now at least I've got that over with.
One year ago and a day I was a homeless person. I was broke and destitute. Dirty and smelly, with no clear idea of how to turn things around. I lived in Central Park, and I was drinking a fifth of Bacardi light every day. If you remember we were in a middle of a heat wave last September. My major activity during the day was to follow the sun, or rather, to keep under the shade as the sun passed overhead. In the morning I'd be on the west side of the Park drinking a cup of coffee, and by the late afternoon I'd be on the east side finishing off my bottle. Usually around ten or eleven in the morning, I'd make it to the Vons supermarket and shoplift the booze and a couple of packs of cigarettes. If I could I'd also get a book to read to help pass the time. I was reading Tom Clancy as I recall. And that was all I needed. I would spend the rest of the day trying to keep in the shade, drinking, smoking, and reading. I was very lonely because homeless people don't talk to each other very much. No one else will either. Those who do talk to you, you can't trust. I was also very scared.
I had lived there a little over a month when it came to me that I couldn't spend my life doing this sort of thing... I didn't see much of a future in it. So I went to the Salvation Army.
During my first week there I came to realize I could never, under any circumstances, safely take another drink for the rest of my life. If I did, I would surely wind up back in the Park, sicker than I was before.
Having come to that realization, I set about doing everything I could to arm myself against taking that first drink. I attended the lectures the Sally provided, the meetings and panels from H&I. I talked to counselors, mine and others, who may have had something I could learn. I went to outside A.A. meetings, probably not as many as I could of, but I'm not perfect and don't pretend to be. I wrote an account of everyday I stayed sober. And I read books about our disease of alcoholism and chemical dependency, and of recovery. A lot of books.
And I went to work. The second day I was in the Salvation Army I was put on the front desk in the residence, and I've stayed there to this day. From that location I could view the program from a unique perspective; the client's view of what was happening-- of what it was like to go through a program, working all day, and attending mandatory meetings at night, the fatigue, the anxiety, the pain, and the hope. I could see the program from the staff's point of view, the economic necessity, the business that as a by product helps to create new lives, and can also destroy them, the illusion of substance, the politics, the meager power plays, the egocentricities. I looked at all of this stuff, and said, "So what? We're all human. Everybody makes mistakes, and everybody has victories." What it came down to was we were there to help each other stay sober.
At my position on the desk I saw all the successes and all the failures. Too little success and far too much failure. But that is part of the nature of our disease and of recovery. For a lot of us repeated relapse is required before we come to the point where we just can't take the misery, and a significant period of abstinence is our only viable option. And after we're abstinent for a while, sobered up for a while, hopefully we can begin to learn that it's not enough. That not drinking is only the first part of the answer. That we have to reeducate ourselves and learn how to live and feel, because we don't know anything about that when we first stop drinking. We may think we do, but we don't.
And that is what I've tried to do. Find out for the first time how to live and feel. Some would say to grow up. And I'm still very much learning... as we all are. I can now say that I know that it is possible to live and have fun without drinking and using drugs. To live a life that has meaning. To do anything I set my sights on, achieve any goal. All I have to do is not drink.
My job has helped me to stay sober. Writing has been therapeutic and has helped me stay sober. Counselors or sponsors have helped me to stay sober. The program, and you people have helped me to stay sober. And those that have failed, that couldn't make it this time around and relapsed, those that I've had to dismiss from the residence I work in, have all helped me to stay sober.
Many things have helped.
And life is wonderful today. I try not to create too many problems for myself. This may seem kind of boring to some, and maybe it is, but right now that's just the way it needs to be. If problems equate to excitement, then my life has already been exciting enough.
One of the many benefits that we find in recovery is that we can meet a lot of people and make new friends. Many of my friends are here tonight. Friends that I hope to keep for a long time. We brought over a van full of guys from the center, a few of them expressed a desire to see me get this cake. To see that it really can happen. In their lives as well as mine.
Thank you for coming gentleman.
My friends Ron Collins and Ron Cooper are here. R and R. My good friend Tom Rotsch, my good friend Hugh Hogle. My friends Scott Cremer and Richard Reyes. My counselor friends Barbara and Cathy. Thank you so much for being here. I can't tell you how much it means to me. Cathy, although not my own counselor, nevertheless, has taught me so much about myself, about other people, and of life, all in a very short time.
Thank you. I will never forget and will always be grateful.
I feel as though I had just won an Academy Award.
There are two people who are not here that I must mention. Mr. Robert Vasquez, my boss, my mentor, and good friend. From his example I have learned a great deal. How to cope, and how to act, and how to live life on life's terms with clarity and purpose, and how to have fun while doing it. Important lessons indeed.
And Ms Bobbie Yenour. My friend for as long as I can remember. My childhood guardian. My big sister, my aunt, my cousin, or whatever. A very close friend of the family. She, along with my new friend Jeanette, stuck with my through some difficult times I had during earlier attempts at recovery. Bobbie, after I had failed again, first got into contact with an officer of the Salvation Army, who subsequently called me while I was in a lonely, little motel room in Bullhead City, Arizona, which led the way for my introduction into that organization.
To both of these people I owe a great deal.
Two very special ladies are here. Hi Jeanette. This little lady walked into my hospital room when I was in detox. I looked like hell, with tubes and things running into my arms. I had never seen her before and didn't know who she was. She said, "Hi! My name's Jeanette, and I'm a friend of your mothers!" She would continue to visit me through that twenty eight day program, making sure I had toiletries and cigarettes. She even paid my rent one time, so I could have to have a place to go to safely relapse, because unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. And Jeanette saw that too. Along with Bobbie. I imagine it was quite horrible to witness. She would soon start to do what my mother had learned to do through Al-Alon. To let me wallow in my pain and degradation.
Dear Jeanette, I'm so glad you are here tonight. You have seen me at my worst, and tonight at my best. Everything that has happened to us before was necessary to get us where we are now. Tonight is a form of amends that I can make to you. To show you that you did not waste your time, and to prove to myself that I am worthwhile.
And the greatest amends that I can make tonight is to the person I've hurt the most. My mother. She has driven here from Bullhead City to be with us. She came to give me my cake. On October 31st, 1955, Halloween, she brought into her home a four day old alcoholic baby (adoption is so much worse than marriage; you can't divorce your kid). She has suffered much because of me. I'm not saying it was all my fault, I can't take credit for that, but a large part of it was. I didn't wake up one morning thinking it would be fun to become an alcoholic and make my mother's life miserable. I can accept blame for not understanding that help was available when it was offered, even when it is within the nature of the disease to resist treatment. I accept full responsibility after understanding the liklihood of my being an alcoholic and what the consequences of that condition were, and my repeated refusal to do anything about it, thereby continuing to hurt many people for a long period of time.
For that, and for many other things, mother, I am truly sorry. I love you, and I never maliciously tried to hurt you, but I have done so sometimes out of ignorance and compulsion. I'm afraid I was very cruel.
I could pay you back the money I owe you. Indeed, I must attempt to do so as part of my recovery program. But that will mean little to you. So I make this amends, my mother; to tell you again I am truly sorry for the pain and misery I have caused to be yours. The countless nights you have lost sleep worrying about me. For the heartaches and frustration, for the crushed dreams, for the hopelessness. For this I apologize. And I give you this year. The year in which your son has finally grown. This year far exceeds any other attempt to effectively deal with my disease. This year much has happened and much has been gained, but it's only a start. Just as each morning is a start of a new day, the fight continues. Fortunately for the winner the prize is great. I have now begun to live mom. To have a life. And that, I know, is what you always wanted for me, that would ease your mind the most. This is my amends to you.
Thanks for being you and sticking with me.
Life is wonderful and exciting. It can also be a miserable bitch. The choice is ours.
I opt for the wonderful exciting part. I've had my share of the other.
And now that I've got my one full year of sobriety, now that I know there is life without alcohol and drugs, now that I can finally take the responsibility to add meaning to my existence... where will I go now?
I'M GOING TO..." On and on.
That's what I felt like saying, and that's what I really meant.
But time did not permit.
The meeting's speaker was a lady from Palm Springs, and I'm sure she was a very good speaker, and had lots of interesting things to say, but I must admit I had trouble listening to her. I was feeling so good that my mind was in a jumble. Folks sitting nearby congratulated me and shook my hand. A slice of birthday cake suddenly appeared over my right shoulder and I grabbed it and took a cursory bite or two. Soon the meeting ended, and "A Vision for You," was recited.
As one everyone stood, arranging themselves in a circle while holding hands (Cathy on one side of me, my mom on the other), then spoke the words of the Lord's Prayer.
Then the meeting was done.
As we made our way outside, Cathy rushed over to Ron Collins who was still trying to avoid her. They chatted for a while, shook hands, then she returned to me. In the parking lot my mother, Jeanette, Cathy and I talked. My mom and Jeanette were thoroughly impressed with this talkative young lady. She soon dismissed herself, saying she would be running a half marathon tomorrow morning in San Pedro, and needed to get to bed.
Jeanette drove us back to the residence. Ron said goodbye to her and my mother. I said goodbye. At the last moment my mom wanted to take my picture (moms are like that sometimes). She took it, than as she was about to get back into the car she looked at me and said, "Do you know what happened on this night twenty four years ago?"
I had no idea and told her so.
"Your father passed away."
I had forgotten on what day of the year he had died. My mother's own father passed away almost one year to the day before my father did.
Too much death for us poor humans to bare.
My mom and I hugged and kissed and said we loved each other. Then she got into the car.
Jeanette started to back out of the parking lot. She stopped, rolled down her window and motioned for me to come near.
"Is Cathy your girlfriend?" she asked.
Women are so nosy and sex crazy. That's all they ever think about.
"Well..." I answered.
"Well, she's a girl, and she's your friend, right?"
"Yeah. Exactly."
"She's wonderful."
I agreed with her. Cathy is a wonderful girl, and I wish only good things for her.
Cathy and I would never go out again. We would hardly ever speak. It seemed to be the way she wanted it. When we did bump into each other we would smile and say hello, then quickly go about our business.
I survived. As a matter of fact I flourished.
Jeanette backed her car into our parking lot curb planter.
"Watch out for that curb there, Jeanette."
"Now you tell me."
Then they were gone.
Almost immediately Robert "Hang'em High" Vasquez drove up in Red Shield 4.
"Joyce!" he yelled through the cab window. The men who had been at the meeting piled out. "Just the man I wanted to see. You always seem to be at the right place at the right time. It's positively uncanny! Is your mother still here?"
"No sir. She just left."
"Good. make my rounds for me please. I have to pick up Montgomery from County Hospital."
"All right."
"I'll be back," then he too was gone.
I walked into the residence and went through the place, making sure everything was safe and secure. I noticed that the kitchen was open and asked Columbus Davis, the duty desk man, about it. He directed me to Keith Davis in the canteen.
I walked in there and saw a bunch of guys standing around one of the tables. Keith Davis, the new cook, had made a birthday cake in my honor. It was a rather large pan cake that had been turned upside down for some reason. Icing on the bottom. The men gave a weak chorus of the "Happy Birthday" song, then I sliced the cake and everyone enjoyed a piece. It was lemon and yummy.
After a while I went up to my lonely room and got lonely. I was also suffering from a mild adrenaline rush. I looked at the present my mom and Cathy had given to me. I opened up the book of nighttime meditations and sought out the day's entry. This is what was written there, by Amy E. Dean:
The cure for grief is motion
-Elbert Hubbard
Anniversaries of death, separation, and losses are difficult times. We can be feeling fine one month and then suddenly feel tremendous sadness, pain, and anger during the next. A quick look at our calendars may reveal a reason for our feelings, for we may have experienced something particularly trying at the time.
It's okay to relive an event and our feelings about it, as long as we don't wallow in the past or try to use the event as a reason for all our present difficulties. Grieving is a process that can proceed only when we are in motion.
How do we get in motion? We can imagine we are sitting in a small room of horrible-smelling cigar smoke. We can sit there and feel uncomfortable or even nauseous, or we can leave the room. That's how we get in motion- by simply getting up and moving.
Tonight I can move out of my chair of painful memories. I can think of ways to get in motion and cure these sad feelings. Then I can relax and have a peaceful night's sleep.
I thought about my dad a few moments, then got up and left the residence.
I walked through the park, up to Colorado Blvd., and lost myself in the sights and sounds, the hustle and bustle of the people of the street. I would meet a couple who had attended tonight's meeting. They recognized me and asked me when I would go to Disneyland. I told them I didn't quite know. In a week or so maybe.
Eventually I would return to the residence, go to my room and have a peaceful night's sleep. In the morning I would start a new day.
But before I entered into blissful sleep, I will peek out under the covers and let my dear readers know that we have successfully reached the end of this tale. For now at least. Perhaps I'll write and we'll meet again. I hope to continue to like myself, and hope to love myself (whatever that means) and keep on doing good things for me. I will go to school and learn unfamiliar things. I will also learn from the people I meet. I will try to help other alcoholics and drug addicted people. I will stay alone for a while, but at last find a nice girl and have a wonderful life with her for a time. A life filled with meaning.
It's very simple.
All I have to do is not drink.
And you, dear readers? Thank you for your patience and hardy endurance. I will think of you often.
And always... wish you well.
The End
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