"Salvation" artist Amanda Milke
http://amandamilke.wordpress.com/
Salvation Diary
Richard Joyce
After the Spanish-American War, when the United States War Department took over the chore of governing the Philippine Islands, it inherited a whole system for licensing narcotics addicts and supplying them with opium legally-a system established under Spanish rule…
For many years, Britain had been criticized for shipping opium grown in India into China; indeed, two ninteenth-century “opium wars” between Britain and China had been fought over this issue. Many Chinese saw opium from India as unfair cut-rate competition for their homegrown product. American missionaries in China complained that British opium was ruining the Chinese people; American traders similarly complained that the silver bullion China was trading for British opium could better be traded for other, perhaps American, products (some American traders also sent opium into China on a small scale. Some of New England’s world-renowned “china clippers” were in fact opium clippers). The agitation against British opium sales to China continued unabated after 1900. Thus the United States State Department saw a way not only to solve the War Department’s Philippine opium problem but also to please American missionaries and traders. President Theodore Roosevelt in 1906, at the request of Bishop Brent, called for an international opium conference, which was held at The Hague in 1911, and out of it came the first international opium agreement, The Hague Convention of 1912, aimed primarily at solving the opium problems of the Far East, especially China.
It was against this background that the Senate in 1914 considered the Harrison narcotic bill. The chief proponent of the measure was Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan, a man of deep prohibitionist and missionary convictions and sympathies. He urged that the law be promptly passed to fulfill United States obligations under the new international treaty.
The supporters of the Harrison bill said little in the Congressional debates (which lasted several days) about the evils of narcotics addiction in the United States. They talked more about the need to implement The Hague Convention of 1912. Even Senator Mann of Mann Act fame, spokesman for the bill in the Senate, talked about international obligations rather than domestic morality.
On its face, moreover, the Harrison bill did not appear to be a prohibition law at all. Its official title was “an Act to provide for the registration of, with collectors of internal revenue, and to impose a special tax upon all persons who produce, import, manufacture, compound, deal in, dispense, sell, distribute, or give away opium or coca leaves, their salts, derivatives, or preparations, and for other purposes.” The law specifically provided that manufactures, importers, pharmacists, and physicians prescribing narcotics should be licensed to do so, at a moderate fee. The patent-medicine manufacturers were exempted even from the licensing and tax provisions, provided that they limited themselves to “preparations and remedies which do not contain more than two grains of opium, or more than one-fourth of a grain of morphine, or more than one-eighth of a grain of heroin… in one avoirdupois ounce.” Far from appearing to be a prohibition law, the Harrison Narcotic Act on its face was merely a law for the orderly marketing of opium, morphine, heroin, and other drugs-in small quantities over the counter, and in larger quantities on a physician’s prescription. Indeed, the right of the physician to prescribe was spelled out in apparently unambiguous terms: “Nothing contained in this section shall apply… to the dispensing or distribution of any of the aforesaid drugs to a patient by a physician, dentist, or veterinary surgeon registered under this Act in the course of his professional practice only.” Registered physicians were required only to keep records of drugs dispensed or prescribed. It is unlikely that a single legislator realized in 1914 that the law Congress was passing would later be deemed a prohibition law.
The provision protecting physicians, however, contained a joker-hidden in the phrase, “in the course of his professional practice only.” After passage of the law, this clause was interpreted by law-enforcement officers to mean that a doctor could not prescribe opiates to an addict to maintain his addiction. Since addiction was not a disease, the argument went, an addict was not a patient, and opiates dispensed to or prescribed for him by a physician were therefore not being supplied “in the course of his professional practice.” Thus a law apparently intended to ensure the orderly marketing of narcotics was converted into a law prohibiting the supplying of narcotics to addicts, even on a physician’s prescription.
Many physicians were arrested under this interpretation, and some were convicted and imprisoned. Even those who escaped conviction had their careers ruined by the publicity. The medical profession quickly learned that to supply opiates to addicts was to court disaster.
-Edward M. Brecher, and the Editors of
Consumer Reports
Licit and Illicit Drugs
This book is for those that don’t yet know that it’s possible to get even one day, and for those whose story were told.
And my Mother
Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions?
Who hath babbling?
Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath redness of eyes?
They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine…
At the last, it biteth like a serpent, and stingth like an adder.
Proverbs 23
Imagine a terrible disease striking America, a disease of unknown cause. Suppose that this disease is so harmful to the nervous system that eighteen million people go insane for periods lasting from a few hours to weeks or months, with the madness recurring and getting worse over periods ranging from fifteen to thirty years. If untreated, the victims go permanently insane, or die. They commit suicide at a rate up to seventy-five times higher than that of the general population. Imagine that those afflicted by the disease itself and the other illnesses it causes already occupy more than half the hospital beds in the United States on any given day, and that last year the illness killed nearly 100,000 Americans. Suppose further that those out of hospital, during their spells of insanity, commit acts so destructive that the material and spiritual lives of whole families are in jeopardy, leaving many millions of other people cruelly affected. Work in business, industry and professions is faulty, sabotaged or left undone. Finally, imagine that this disease so alters its victim’s judgment, so brainwashes them, that they cannot see that they are sick at all: Their view of life has become so distorted that they try with all their might to go on being ill.
This dread disease is already among us. It has been with us for centuries. It is, of course, alcoholism.
Now me thinks on a sudden I am wakened
As if it were out of a dream, I have had a raving fit, a phantastical fit,
Ranged up and down, in and out, I have insulted over most kind of men,
Abused some, offended others, wronged myself:
And now being recovered and perceiving mine error;
Cry “Solvite me!” pardon that whixh is past.
-Richard Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy
The Salvation Army is a branch of the Protestant faith founded by William and Catherine Booth (although in official literature Catherine is never mentioned as a co-founder) in 1865, in East London, England. It is evangelical in nature, and its clergy assumes the use of a military structure, its leaders known as “Officers,” and their seniority and position within the organization denoted by their respective rank, General being the highest (whose duties are analogous to those of the Pope for the Catholic Church), down through Commissioner to Lieutenant. The church’s laity are labeled “Soldiers.”
When the average person thinks of the Salvation Army, Christmas kettles and temperance movements may come to mind. Any officer though, when asked, will say that the Army’s real mission is to “reach people with the Gospel of Christ expressed in word and action.” This the Army accomplishes with much enthusiasm and vigor, expanding forcefully from its humble beginnings, to today’s membership of over 3 million worldwide, serving in over 90 countries, participating in a wide variety of social programs, ranging from disaster relief, to locating missing persons, providing care for the infirm, and maintaining drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers for indigent men and women in many urban and rural locations around the globe.
The following account transpires within one of those drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, while I attempt to describe the people, events, and my own state of mind, within a set period of time. I regard the Salvation Army itself, with much affection and gratitude, for the real chance it provided to me, and those addicts who come to it seeking help… to find for themselves a new and wonderful way of life.
I also feel nothing but love and respect for all those mentioned herein, officers, staff, beneficiaries, and civilians alike, myself included, no matter what silly things we may do.
Richard Joyce
July 1994
The Park
The disheveled man sat at the picnic table, seemingly lost in thought, while in actuality his mind attempted to sift through the thick fog of a self induced stupor. He shifted slightly, letting his gaze fall around different areas throughout the Park that he found himself in. How did I get here, he wondered. How do I get out?
Staring at the monstrous and majestic Castle Green, thirty yards directly in front of him, thoughts of fairies and goblins entered his consciousness, only to be displaced with sweet, sad remembrances of the innocent times when he had first read the Tolkien stories, filled with elves and orcs, radiant princesses and gallant kings, and of an evil so great it defied description.
The man gathered his filthy trench coat closer about to protect him from the oncoming coldness of the night. It’s funny how cold it gets here at night when each day reaches over one hundred degrees, he thought. Nothing he could do about it, of course, but live with it. It was getting late, his bottle was almost empty, as was the Park itself. He’d have to leave soon, or the police would come and hassle him, something he was tired of and avoided if possible.
He closed the thick paperback book in front of him and placed it in one of his coat pockets, then looked around again. Bright lights shinning up from where Raymond met Colorado Boulevard, lots of pretty people walking around over there, even on a Wednesday night. People with things to do and places to go. Behind him was the stillness of the vast Park, empty now, or almost empty, he thought, feeling the same way, feeling lost and old and sickened. Little pools of light fell on various areas, over the asphalt pathways that meandered through the Park, like capillaries delivering precious blood to oxygen-starved extremities. He couldn’t see anybody moving, but he knew they were probably out there, in the many dark shadows that overwhelmed the little pools of light that shined on the asphalt pathways. There were people out there, all right, people like himself, who didn’t have things to do or places to go. People who’s main concern and occupation was to escape the present at any cost, to temporarily slip into some other reality, to a nicer place, a softer place, a place where no harm will dare come, and truth never concedes to bitter corruption. A reality that should be but never is. A child’s dream.
The people of the Park used different means to reach the reality they desired; sex, drugs, violence, sometimes preying on luckless victims who happened over the border of this lonely place. The man at the picnic table avoided all of them, or tried to. Sometimes the people of the Park gathered amongst themselves to generate some sense of humanity, to share joy and laughter, to feel needed and highly regarded by others even when the others were just as miserable as they were. Sometimes they would boldly ask the man to join with them, but he would always politely refuse preferring to wallow, and take shelter within his own substantial misery, braving life on his own, and distantly praising himself and thinking himself better for doing so. Sometimes they came to him unexpectedly while he was sitting at his table (for he thought of it at times as being his table), talking in different but familiar languages, or brutal and coarse dialects of his own, wanting him to join with them in their false gaiety, in their melancholy songs, or sharing their point of view. The man would just acknowledge their presence with a thin smile, denoting neither partisanship nor superiority. It wouldn’t be prudent to offend these people. Most times they would continue to carry on, leaving the man to himself.
It was strange, he thought, desiring to be left alone when the only thing he could really feel was heart rendering loneliness and alienation.
The man drew a long breath and turned his back on the dry, green, evacuated lawns of the Park, and summoned his attention to the lackluster present, to the bottle resting in the inside pocket of his coat. He took it out, placing it between his knees, looking around for cruising police cars. Out of another coat pocket he extracted a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Red, hard pack. He took out one and lit it, inhaling deeply, placing the pack back in his pocket. Reaching down into his lap, he unscrewed the bottle cap, and took a final look around. All was clear. He hurriedly brought the mouth of the bottle to his lips and drained the last of the light brown rum in two swallows. He suppressed a slight urge to cough by gasping once or twice, then took two quick drags from the cigarette. Now that the bottle was no longer useful to him he had no reason to keep the incriminating evidence of his activities about, and so, with some nostalgia, dumped it into a nearby trash container.
He finished his cigarette, then stood up, stretching as he did so. He had been sitting for a long time.
Walking across Raymond Avenue, he passed the big yellow, Rider Rental trucks, and continued over the large, empty parking lot to Arroyo Parkway. He glanced at the Mobil gas station while waiting for the traffic light to change, noticing the scarcity of customers and being somewhat more at ease because of it.
Dinnertime.
Stopping inside the door of the small convenience shop attached to the gas station, the man looked over the refrigerated food section, giving it his most assiduous attention. He placed himself between the glass door and the Iranian looking gentleman behind the counter , attending to the cash register. It was now past ten o’clock, and there were no others in the store, but the cashier had seen the man many times before and didn’t pay any particular attention to him.
It was easy to make the play. The man simply grabbed two Monterey Chicken and Cheese burritos, transferring them to the microwave oven in the corner, popping them both in, still keeping himself between the merchandise and the cashier. While waiting for the food to heat, the man casually looked at the many medicinal items available for sale nearby, trying to look inconspicuous and small. A woman entered and paid for gasoline, and while the cashiers attention was sure to be elsewhere, the man quickly opened the oven and placed one of the warm burritos in the over large front pocket of his trench coat. He then wrapped the other in a paper napkin and went to the register, waiting for his turn to pay.
The criminal mastermind left the store quickly, not wanting to stay overly long at the scene of the crime. Crossing the street and walking back past the lot, he opened one of the small plastic packages and began to eat the warm food, the only food he would have this day. It tasted good to him, and he ate fast. Coming up to the unattended rental trucks, he sat on the tailgate of one and finished his dinner. It didn’t take long. He lit another cigarette, the day’s last, and sat and thought, looking around occasionally. He was silent for there was nobody to talk to. A patrol car passed, heading north on Raymond, but the officers had their attention focused into the Park and they did not notice him. He remained motionless until they were gone.
He finished his smoke and began inspecting the trucks nearby, finding one unlocked. He didn’t know why the Ryder Rental daytime attendants usually left one or two of their trucks unlocked. A passive attempt to keep homeless people from breaking in perhaps.
He rose the sliding door, then looked back at the Park a last time.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he whispered, then dove inside, closing the heavy door behind him.
September 13, 1990 Thursday Day 1
September, an odd month. I don’t believe I’ve ever done anything significant in September.
I woke up. I didn’t want to move, but my back ached so I shifted slightly. The floor was hard and I was cold. I looked around the empty truck interior and noticed it had begun to get lighter outside. I could see the early morning light from the crack where the sliding panel door came down near the truck bed floor. I looked at my watch, six o’clock. I still had about an hour and a half before I had to get going, if I got going. I thought about what I had to do today, then turned over on my side and tried to go back to sleep, to reach the escape it would give to me. My brain, my mind, my thinking began to race as it often did at such times. A paradox of intention. I considered not going in today. Put it off, wait until Monday, and again on Tuesday. Always putting it off until tomorrow. Yesterday I had finally mustered enough… something, to call, and had talked to an intake counselor--Clarence. He had told me to come in at eight.
So that was it.
The pros and cons of finally leaving the Park went through my mind. If I stayed, I wouldn’t have to go to work, or any A.A. meetings. And I wouldn’t have to face the fear of possibly being turned away. I wouldn’t know what I would do if that happened.
If I got off my butt and went I just might get my life together.
Inaction is so attractive when your depressed, but I did have some other things to consider.
If I stayed in the Park it would be harder to do what I wanted to do, which was to drink rum and smoke cigarettes. Each day I stayed out here I became dirtier and dirtier. Not being a very good homeless person, an amateur really, I didn’t know where to take a shower or get my clothes washed. I hadn’t done either since last Saturday night at Ed’s apartment. My shirt was grimy; I looked bad, eyes glazed, a beard growing. I had broken my disposable razor somehow, and was unable to shave. And I stank, no doubt about it. Being so downtrodden made it increasingly difficult for me to shoplift rum and cigarettes, which I needed on a daily basis to help pass the time in the Park. One must look clean and prosperous in order to be a good thief. The way I looked, I might as well have had a sign around my neck saying, “Homeless, shoplifting person-please arrest me!” And the thought of getting caught and going to jail, once again, was not appealing. I had already been to jail twice within the last month, and jail, although providing a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in, was very, very boring. Very.
Besides, you meet nothing but riff-raff in places like that.
Obviously, if I had to resort to shoplifting, I didn’t have much money. I don’t particularly enjoy stealing things, and would rather pay for them when I can. But I needed the booze, and I needed the cigarettes, and an occasional book to read. These were everyday expenses that would not go away, and I couldn’t afford them, so I stole. The little money I did have I used to feed myself at night, after polishing off the rum. I had been eating at least one meal everyday, so far, so I wasn’t too sick, and felt relatively okay. But I only had one dollar and some pocket change left, with no real prospects of getting any more money, so getting food over the upcoming weekend would become harder. I could eat in a restaurant, and leave without paying, again, but as I’ve mentioned, the worse I looked, the harder it is to do stuff like that.
If I stayed in the Park until Monday, I’d probably have to explain why I hadn’t come in to the Army today, like I said I would. That would be a count against me, and I couldn’t afford too many counts against me.
I knew I had to get out of the truck soon. The attendants might come, lock me in and drive off to Milwaukee. That’s the chance one takes when one sleeps in Ryder Rental trucks.
Not that I have anything against Milwaukee. I don’t. I’ve never been there. Laverne and Shirley seemed to like it well enough.
Not able to get back to sleep, at seven-thirty I rolled out of the empty truck and shook the night from my body. It was cold now, but soon the sun’s heat would be searing. I looked at my reflection in one of the truck’s side view mirrors, and tried to comb my hair. I looked terrible. I then made my way across the railroad tracks, and Raymond Avenue, to the Mobile station, and used the unisex restroom they keep open for the public. The toilet was working this morning, which eased my mood a bit. I bought a cup of coffee from the station’s store, then continued east, on Del Mar, toward the Pasadena Salvation Army’s Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC).
I arrived at 8:04 a.m., and gave my name to the not-so-friendly looking receptionist, who in return, requested my driver’s license and Social Security card. She and I were separated by a Plexiglas window, and I had to pass my paperwork through a small hole near the bottom. I suppose the Plexiglas was in place to protect her from insane street people who might attempt to over run the center. Or people like me, if I so happened to run amuck. It looked to me though, that she could hold her own in most situations, and would break me in two if I so much as sneezed incorrectly.
I sat in a small waiting room and watched the cars drive by on Del Mar Boulevard through a plate-glass window. I was soon joined by two other young men, who were also seeking admission. One black, one white. I didn’t feel much like talking, so I listened to the two men exchange information. The black’s name was Rico, and he had just left another program in Santa Monica to come here. The white guy was making another attempt at admission, having failed an initial breath-a-lizer test two times before. Both were worried about not getting in. The white guy for good reason. He would fail the test again today, and be asked not to come back.
I waited and waited, finally feeling justified to pull out my Tom Clancy novel, and began to read. Patriot Games. I didn’t mind waiting around at all. The longer the better, actually. The more time I spent in this office going through the admission process, the less time I would have to work out in the hot sun, on the dock (if admitted). Everyone either gets assigned to the dock or the sorting room when they first come in. On two previous occasions, at different ARC’s, I had been assigned to the dock. I guess I look like a dock kind of guy.
At 9:30, an inner door opened, and a middle aged, pox-marked, Hawaiian type face, with glasses, poked out, and asked me to come with it. This was Clarence, the center’s Intake Counselor. Once behind the door he stuck a small black box with a white plastic tube aligned horizontally on the top, in my face and asked me to blow through it. After I had done so and he was satisfied with the results, I thanked the God of Alcoholics that the fumes of rum from last night had dissipated. We, Clarence and I, sat at a table and he asked me what it was he could do for me. I told him that I needed to get into a program. He asked me what was going on in my life (obviously, not much), and what my problems were. I told him I was an alcoholic and that I was homeless. He nodded. He heard stuff like this all of the time. It seemed like he was in a hurry, and after a while, said, “Okay,” and got up disappearing into an office briefly, stuck his head out, and asked, “What’s your name, again?” I gave him this information, and he ducked back inside. After a moment, he came back with a pile of papers for me to fill out, which took about fifteen minutes. Then he photographed me four times, placing one of these pictures on card, which he then laminated. There was a clip on the back of the card, which made it a badge, and which I was told to wear at all times. The picture on the badge looked like a diseased, wild-eyed, Hungarian fur trapper, recovering from a thirty-year LSD trip while losing his way in an intense blizzard, and set upon by three packs of crazed, carnivorous, scavenger beavers.
Clarence sat with me once again and recited a prayer for my salvation. He asked me if I believed Jesus Christ could make a change in my life. I said that I hoped so. He then directed me through the warehouse, across the street, to the residence.
I had been in the Canoga Park and Van Nuys centers, but Pasadena’s facility was much larger and newer than either of those. I had passed by the residence many times while on my way to the supermarket to procure my daily supplies, and I had always been struck by the beauty of the building, and had looked forward to living there.
I walked through the glass front door and presented myself to the studious looking young man at the front desk. I learned his name was Jack Crossley and I gave him the papers Clarence had given to me. Jack gave me a dorm key, 14E, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, three canteen cards, and a razor. He called for someone named Victor Jackson over the building’s public address system, to come to the front desk. As we waited for Victor, Jack gave me a brief indoctrination on how things worked around the ARC. Victor took his time showing up, so I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. I was feeling a little apprehensive, but was relieved at having gotten into the program, and that I could start again towards a new beginning.
As I walked back inside, Victor arrived, a young, black man, apparently Jack’s immediate supervisor. He took me to the building’s one elevator, up to the second floor, where the dormitories were located. He showed me to dorm 14, where my bed and locker was, and showed me where the restrooms and showers were, and gave me my very own towel.
I was allowed to shower, shave, and get myself cleaned up, and felt much better, physically, and emotionally, after the process was completed. I made my bed too, generally dragging out the time as best as I could.
When I did make it back downstairs lunch was being served. Chicken patties! While waiting in line with about fifty other guys to get something to eat, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw my old work mate, Rudy Johnson, smiling at me.
Rudy is a tall, black man, in his late twenties, very handsome. We had worked together in the phone room at the Van Nuys center, taking pick-up orders. I hadn’t seen him since the night he hadn’t made it back for curfew and had been thrown out of the program. It was good to see him, good to see a familiar face. Rudy was a nice guy, and talented too. He had played the piano during chapel services.
He was a little nervous, he told me, because he would be playing at this center’s service tonight for the first time. Rudy had a little problem with cocaine.
We ate lunch together, and talked about what had happened to each of us since we had last seen each other. After missing curfew, he had gone to downtown L.A., and promptly relapsed. Relapse meaning the resumption of drug or alcohol use by a recovering addict. While downtown, after he got tired of relapsing, he entered some program, but had become dissatisfied and left. He then came here, to Pasadena, and had been here over twenty days now. Good for him!
I told him my story, and how it was I had come to Pasadena. A sad tale. Very mysterious also. While at the Van Nuys ARC, I had left my locker unlocked one Sunday, while going off to dinner and an A.A. meeting with my then sponsor, Jeff. The next day, the man who had replaced Rudy in the phone room, dropped dead from a heart attack as he was walking to the kitchen to have lunch. The administrator, a Major Engels, mistakenly went through my locker, thinking it was that of the deceased, finding two empty bottles of Seagram’s VO within. Or so he said. I was summarily terminated from the program, and like Rudy, promptly relapsed.
I was actually innocent. There are very few times that I’m actually innocent, so they do stick out in my mind. I had not put those bottles there. I had not drank while at that center, and even had somewhere between thirty and forty days nicotine free when I was kicked out. I don’t usually drink whiskey, preferring tequila mostly, or rum when I can’t get tequila. I proclaimed my innocence to the Major, but his infallibleness prevailed and I was dismissed, essentially, come to think of it, for having two empty glass containers in my locker, which I never saw. It continues to be a great mystery to me as to who put those bottles there, one I will probably never solve.
I learned one thing though; there is nothing fair about life.
So, having been terminated, I was back on the streets with eighty dollars in my pocket. I fumbled around the San Fernando Valley, drinking heavily, making a nuisance of myself, not knowing where to go or what to do. For all intents and purposes this was the first time I had ever been homeless, and as I’ve said, I wasn’t particularly good at it, nor felt particularly good about it. I was amazed at how quickly this condition had come about. A few short months ago I had an apartment, a good job, a girlfriend, my very own VCR. Now I had none of those. My friends and family had abandoned me. My sponsor wouldn’t have anything to do with me because I was drinking, and drinking was the only thing that took away the fear, anxiety, and pain.
Imagine yourself, dear reader, displaced from your comfortable home, money, loved ones, friends, no place to go, nothing to do, and involved in a love-hate relationship with a toxic, addictive substance, that at once is a fleeting escape from all of your problems and worries, and at the same time, slowly and inextricably your very destruction.
Having been thrown out of the Van Nuys ARC, I thought I would have to wait thirty days, a suspension period, before being allowed to enter another, and the Salvation Army was the only place that I knew about that I could go to.
My sponsor drove me one day, after I had slept next to his car all night in his parking lot, into Pasadena, with the hope that I would be allowed in before said thirty days were over. I had made the mistake of coming to Pasadena on a Friday though, and soon learned that intake for the program was closed on Fridays. So I found the Park, instead. It wasn’t hard to do. Just a block from the ARC. And in the Park I stayed, longer than the thirty days I thought I needed.
I had been arrested twice in six weeks while living in the Park. Once after having fallen asleep in a gas station restroom (After the police had been summoned it had been discovered that I had an outstanding warrant for my arrest, issued in Burbank, for a misdemeanor hit and run I had been responsible for a year or so earlier. Fifteen days jail time for that, seven actually served). The other, a “Dine and Ditch” escapade, I had eaten in a restaurant without having the money to pay, and had been caught (ambushed, really). Ten days, three served.
The rest of the days in the Park were spent reading, drinking rum, smoking cigarettes, following the shade provided by the Park’s large trees as the sun passed over head (taking me from the west side of the Park on Fair Oaks Boulevard in the mornings, to finishing the day on the East side on Raymond), and avoiding homosexuals, who were the only ones who wanted anything to do with me (which I took advantage of from time to time, hence using the shower and getting my cloths washed at Ed’s apartment, then politely refusing to spend the night, as was his suggestion. I have nothing against homosexuals. That type of behavior just does not personally interest me. And Ed, if the truth be known, was being a bit predatory, and deserved to go unsatiated).
The scary thing about living in the Park is that I was starting to get used to it.
But now I was here, finally, in the Pasadena ARC. Lunchtime was over and I told Rudy I would see him later.
Victor directed me back across the street to the warehouse, and to ask for Frank Ortiz. He told me I should ask Frank for an emergency clothing voucher, as I needed clothes desperately, especially for the chapel service that evening.
The ARC is financed mainly from donations received, and then sold through its network of thrift stores. Old clothes, appliances, books, toys, anything really that can be resold with little or no processing. The warehouse is a cavernous building, directly across Waverly Avenue and the residence, where the donations are collected, sorted, repaired, if it’s feasible to do so, and then shipped to the stores.
I walked past the loading dock, where donations are unloaded from a fleet of white trucks decorated with a Salvation Army logo, a red shield and a little blue guy in uniform holding up a phone. Donors called the center and made appointments to have a truck come to their home, office, or apartment, to pick up things they couldn’t bring in themselves. Anything. Everything. Garbage mostly.
After asking around a bit I found Frank Ortiz. He seemed very warm and friendly, and I was glad of it. He was of Latin extraction. Regarding my dingy clothes, he assured me that I would be released from work early and allowed to look around the Pasadena thrift store for something to wear. He then put me to work on the dock, introducing me to the dock supervisor, a heavy set black guy, by the name of Robert.
My first job was to help three other guys shovel trash into a big trash compactor. There was a small mountain of garbage, so it took awhile. For the last two weeks the daytime temperature had reached over 100 degrees, and today was no exception. The refreshing feeling the shower had provided dissipated quickly as I began to work and sweat. None of us tried to work too hard, though. We paced ourselves, telling each other that we shouldn’t get exhausted in case there was some emergency trash to sort through later.
After we were finished, I was told to run a dust mop through the warehouse. I took my time with this job also, wishing to be thorough. After that, I looked up some tire companies in the yellow pages, for Frank, a nice, easy job. The Salvation Army didn’t want me to hemorrhage something while detoxing. I also helped unload trucks at the end of the day.
Near 3:30 p.m., a short fellow with great hair, by the name of Ron Collins, collected me, taking me to through the backdoor into the thrift store, which ran adjacent to the warehouse. The store consisted of one large showroom filled mostly with racks of clothes, but almost anything that can be sold, large and small appliances, books, furniture, computers, toys, and decretive odds and ends, what the Army calls “Bric-A-Brac,” were offered to the public as well.
I never really cared all that much for shopping for clothes, too many decisions to make, and today I didn’t feel up to making a whole lot of decisions. All I really wanted to do was kick back physically and mentally. I had been very much alone in the Park. Being surrounded by people was exhausting. I did need the clothes though, so I toughed it out and wadded into the sea of pants and undershirts to try and find items that came somewhat near my size. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to do it, either. Soon dinner would be served, and I wanted to eat a little something to get me through the night. And the mid-week chapel service would be held right after dinner. Busy, busy, busy.
Within forty minutes I had found for myself two pair of dress pants, two pair of work pants, two pair of socks (brown and blue), two dress shirts, two work shirts, one sport coat, two ties, and one brown belt. Besides the clothes just mentioned, my clothing voucher allowed me to select two pair of under shorts, two pair of under shirts, a work jacket, one pair of dress shoes, and one pair of work shoes, but at the time they didn’t have any of those.
I brought my new clothes back to the residence and to my room, then had dinner. Meatloaf. Afterwards, I put my clothes away while selecting the ones I would wear for chapel. . I also became acquainted with two of my new dorm mates, Gordon and Dan. There are five to a dorm, so I had two more to meet.
The chapel was located on the third and top floor of the residence. It is a beautiful room, really. Dark brown wooden pews and alter, with a plush red carpet throughout. It could hold 150 people easily. The large windows on the north side provided a panoramic view of the Green Hotel near the Park, Old (downtown) Pasadena, and the San Gabriel Mountains.
The mid-week chapel service is usually only thirty minutes long. At 5:30 precisely, the center’s administer, a Major Johnson, entered with his staff through a side door near the alter, and began the service. He said a few words in greeting, then turned the proceedings over to Clarence, who led us all in song, one chosen from the Salvation Army Songbook. People in the Salvation Army like to sing a lot.
Singing songs found in the Salvation Army Songbook is a vital part of their services. One would think that the officers, over a thirty year career, would get sick of singing the same 235 songs over and over again, but they keep singing their little hearts out, week after week. They make us sing too, whether we like it or not. Or at least we’re supposed to sing. About half the clients don’t bother. This ARC has the capacity to hold up to 106 clients, and all of them are required to attend these chapel services, but some were still working, and absent. I’d say there were at least 85 guys here tonight, which meant that about 45 of us were singing our little hearts out, along with the Major. I know I was. I don’t mind singing, although I really didn’t feel up to it at the time.
After the song, Frank Ortiz took over and introduced all of the new clients who had come to the center within the last week, which included myself. There were five of us in all. He then presented awards for the cleanest dorm of the week, the most improved dorm, and the best made bed and cleanest area (adjacent to the bed). Two canteen cards for the winners!
For many years, Britain had been criticized for shipping opium grown in India into China; indeed, two ninteenth-century “opium wars” between Britain and China had been fought over this issue. Many Chinese saw opium from India as unfair cut-rate competition for their homegrown product. American missionaries in China complained that British opium was ruining the Chinese people; American traders similarly complained that the silver bullion China was trading for British opium could better be traded for other, perhaps American, products (some American traders also sent opium into China on a small scale. Some of New England’s world-renowned “china clippers” were in fact opium clippers). The agitation against British opium sales to China continued unabated after 1900. Thus the United States State Department saw a way not only to solve the War Department’s Philippine opium problem but also to please American missionaries and traders. President Theodore Roosevelt in 1906, at the request of Bishop Brent, called for an international opium conference, which was held at The Hague in 1911, and out of it came the first international opium agreement, The Hague Convention of 1912, aimed primarily at solving the opium problems of the Far East, especially China.
It was against this background that the Senate in 1914 considered the Harrison narcotic bill. The chief proponent of the measure was Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan, a man of deep prohibitionist and missionary convictions and sympathies. He urged that the law be promptly passed to fulfill United States obligations under the new international treaty.
The supporters of the Harrison bill said little in the Congressional debates (which lasted several days) about the evils of narcotics addiction in the United States. They talked more about the need to implement The Hague Convention of 1912. Even Senator Mann of Mann Act fame, spokesman for the bill in the Senate, talked about international obligations rather than domestic morality.
On its face, moreover, the Harrison bill did not appear to be a prohibition law at all. Its official title was “an Act to provide for the registration of, with collectors of internal revenue, and to impose a special tax upon all persons who produce, import, manufacture, compound, deal in, dispense, sell, distribute, or give away opium or coca leaves, their salts, derivatives, or preparations, and for other purposes.” The law specifically provided that manufactures, importers, pharmacists, and physicians prescribing narcotics should be licensed to do so, at a moderate fee. The patent-medicine manufacturers were exempted even from the licensing and tax provisions, provided that they limited themselves to “preparations and remedies which do not contain more than two grains of opium, or more than one-fourth of a grain of morphine, or more than one-eighth of a grain of heroin… in one avoirdupois ounce.” Far from appearing to be a prohibition law, the Harrison Narcotic Act on its face was merely a law for the orderly marketing of opium, morphine, heroin, and other drugs-in small quantities over the counter, and in larger quantities on a physician’s prescription. Indeed, the right of the physician to prescribe was spelled out in apparently unambiguous terms: “Nothing contained in this section shall apply… to the dispensing or distribution of any of the aforesaid drugs to a patient by a physician, dentist, or veterinary surgeon registered under this Act in the course of his professional practice only.” Registered physicians were required only to keep records of drugs dispensed or prescribed. It is unlikely that a single legislator realized in 1914 that the law Congress was passing would later be deemed a prohibition law.
The provision protecting physicians, however, contained a joker-hidden in the phrase, “in the course of his professional practice only.” After passage of the law, this clause was interpreted by law-enforcement officers to mean that a doctor could not prescribe opiates to an addict to maintain his addiction. Since addiction was not a disease, the argument went, an addict was not a patient, and opiates dispensed to or prescribed for him by a physician were therefore not being supplied “in the course of his professional practice.” Thus a law apparently intended to ensure the orderly marketing of narcotics was converted into a law prohibiting the supplying of narcotics to addicts, even on a physician’s prescription.
Many physicians were arrested under this interpretation, and some were convicted and imprisoned. Even those who escaped conviction had their careers ruined by the publicity. The medical profession quickly learned that to supply opiates to addicts was to court disaster.
-Edward M. Brecher, and the Editors of
Consumer Reports
Licit and Illicit Drugs
This book is for those that don’t yet know that it’s possible to get even one day, and for those whose story were told.
And my Mother
Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions?
Who hath babbling?
Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath redness of eyes?
They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine…
At the last, it biteth like a serpent, and stingth like an adder.
Proverbs 23
Imagine a terrible disease striking America, a disease of unknown cause. Suppose that this disease is so harmful to the nervous system that eighteen million people go insane for periods lasting from a few hours to weeks or months, with the madness recurring and getting worse over periods ranging from fifteen to thirty years. If untreated, the victims go permanently insane, or die. They commit suicide at a rate up to seventy-five times higher than that of the general population. Imagine that those afflicted by the disease itself and the other illnesses it causes already occupy more than half the hospital beds in the United States on any given day, and that last year the illness killed nearly 100,000 Americans. Suppose further that those out of hospital, during their spells of insanity, commit acts so destructive that the material and spiritual lives of whole families are in jeopardy, leaving many millions of other people cruelly affected. Work in business, industry and professions is faulty, sabotaged or left undone. Finally, imagine that this disease so alters its victim’s judgment, so brainwashes them, that they cannot see that they are sick at all: Their view of life has become so distorted that they try with all their might to go on being ill.
This dread disease is already among us. It has been with us for centuries. It is, of course, alcoholism.
Now me thinks on a sudden I am wakened
As if it were out of a dream, I have had a raving fit, a phantastical fit,
Ranged up and down, in and out, I have insulted over most kind of men,
Abused some, offended others, wronged myself:
And now being recovered and perceiving mine error;
Cry “Solvite me!” pardon that whixh is past.
-Richard Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy
The Salvation Army is a branch of the Protestant faith founded by William and Catherine Booth (although in official literature Catherine is never mentioned as a co-founder) in 1865, in East London, England. It is evangelical in nature, and its clergy assumes the use of a military structure, its leaders known as “Officers,” and their seniority and position within the organization denoted by their respective rank, General being the highest (whose duties are analogous to those of the Pope for the Catholic Church), down through Commissioner to Lieutenant. The church’s laity are labeled “Soldiers.”
When the average person thinks of the Salvation Army, Christmas kettles and temperance movements may come to mind. Any officer though, when asked, will say that the Army’s real mission is to “reach people with the Gospel of Christ expressed in word and action.” This the Army accomplishes with much enthusiasm and vigor, expanding forcefully from its humble beginnings, to today’s membership of over 3 million worldwide, serving in over 90 countries, participating in a wide variety of social programs, ranging from disaster relief, to locating missing persons, providing care for the infirm, and maintaining drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers for indigent men and women in many urban and rural locations around the globe.
The following account transpires within one of those drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, while I attempt to describe the people, events, and my own state of mind, within a set period of time. I regard the Salvation Army itself, with much affection and gratitude, for the real chance it provided to me, and those addicts who come to it seeking help… to find for themselves a new and wonderful way of life.
I also feel nothing but love and respect for all those mentioned herein, officers, staff, beneficiaries, and civilians alike, myself included, no matter what silly things we may do.
Richard Joyce
July 1994
The Park
The disheveled man sat at the picnic table, seemingly lost in thought, while in actuality his mind attempted to sift through the thick fog of a self induced stupor. He shifted slightly, letting his gaze fall around different areas throughout the Park that he found himself in. How did I get here, he wondered. How do I get out?
Staring at the monstrous and majestic Castle Green, thirty yards directly in front of him, thoughts of fairies and goblins entered his consciousness, only to be displaced with sweet, sad remembrances of the innocent times when he had first read the Tolkien stories, filled with elves and orcs, radiant princesses and gallant kings, and of an evil so great it defied description.
The man gathered his filthy trench coat closer about to protect him from the oncoming coldness of the night. It’s funny how cold it gets here at night when each day reaches over one hundred degrees, he thought. Nothing he could do about it, of course, but live with it. It was getting late, his bottle was almost empty, as was the Park itself. He’d have to leave soon, or the police would come and hassle him, something he was tired of and avoided if possible.
He closed the thick paperback book in front of him and placed it in one of his coat pockets, then looked around again. Bright lights shinning up from where Raymond met Colorado Boulevard, lots of pretty people walking around over there, even on a Wednesday night. People with things to do and places to go. Behind him was the stillness of the vast Park, empty now, or almost empty, he thought, feeling the same way, feeling lost and old and sickened. Little pools of light fell on various areas, over the asphalt pathways that meandered through the Park, like capillaries delivering precious blood to oxygen-starved extremities. He couldn’t see anybody moving, but he knew they were probably out there, in the many dark shadows that overwhelmed the little pools of light that shined on the asphalt pathways. There were people out there, all right, people like himself, who didn’t have things to do or places to go. People who’s main concern and occupation was to escape the present at any cost, to temporarily slip into some other reality, to a nicer place, a softer place, a place where no harm will dare come, and truth never concedes to bitter corruption. A reality that should be but never is. A child’s dream.
The people of the Park used different means to reach the reality they desired; sex, drugs, violence, sometimes preying on luckless victims who happened over the border of this lonely place. The man at the picnic table avoided all of them, or tried to. Sometimes the people of the Park gathered amongst themselves to generate some sense of humanity, to share joy and laughter, to feel needed and highly regarded by others even when the others were just as miserable as they were. Sometimes they would boldly ask the man to join with them, but he would always politely refuse preferring to wallow, and take shelter within his own substantial misery, braving life on his own, and distantly praising himself and thinking himself better for doing so. Sometimes they came to him unexpectedly while he was sitting at his table (for he thought of it at times as being his table), talking in different but familiar languages, or brutal and coarse dialects of his own, wanting him to join with them in their false gaiety, in their melancholy songs, or sharing their point of view. The man would just acknowledge their presence with a thin smile, denoting neither partisanship nor superiority. It wouldn’t be prudent to offend these people. Most times they would continue to carry on, leaving the man to himself.
It was strange, he thought, desiring to be left alone when the only thing he could really feel was heart rendering loneliness and alienation.
The man drew a long breath and turned his back on the dry, green, evacuated lawns of the Park, and summoned his attention to the lackluster present, to the bottle resting in the inside pocket of his coat. He took it out, placing it between his knees, looking around for cruising police cars. Out of another coat pocket he extracted a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Red, hard pack. He took out one and lit it, inhaling deeply, placing the pack back in his pocket. Reaching down into his lap, he unscrewed the bottle cap, and took a final look around. All was clear. He hurriedly brought the mouth of the bottle to his lips and drained the last of the light brown rum in two swallows. He suppressed a slight urge to cough by gasping once or twice, then took two quick drags from the cigarette. Now that the bottle was no longer useful to him he had no reason to keep the incriminating evidence of his activities about, and so, with some nostalgia, dumped it into a nearby trash container.
He finished his cigarette, then stood up, stretching as he did so. He had been sitting for a long time.
Walking across Raymond Avenue, he passed the big yellow, Rider Rental trucks, and continued over the large, empty parking lot to Arroyo Parkway. He glanced at the Mobil gas station while waiting for the traffic light to change, noticing the scarcity of customers and being somewhat more at ease because of it.
Dinnertime.
Stopping inside the door of the small convenience shop attached to the gas station, the man looked over the refrigerated food section, giving it his most assiduous attention. He placed himself between the glass door and the Iranian looking gentleman behind the counter , attending to the cash register. It was now past ten o’clock, and there were no others in the store, but the cashier had seen the man many times before and didn’t pay any particular attention to him.
It was easy to make the play. The man simply grabbed two Monterey Chicken and Cheese burritos, transferring them to the microwave oven in the corner, popping them both in, still keeping himself between the merchandise and the cashier. While waiting for the food to heat, the man casually looked at the many medicinal items available for sale nearby, trying to look inconspicuous and small. A woman entered and paid for gasoline, and while the cashiers attention was sure to be elsewhere, the man quickly opened the oven and placed one of the warm burritos in the over large front pocket of his trench coat. He then wrapped the other in a paper napkin and went to the register, waiting for his turn to pay.
The criminal mastermind left the store quickly, not wanting to stay overly long at the scene of the crime. Crossing the street and walking back past the lot, he opened one of the small plastic packages and began to eat the warm food, the only food he would have this day. It tasted good to him, and he ate fast. Coming up to the unattended rental trucks, he sat on the tailgate of one and finished his dinner. It didn’t take long. He lit another cigarette, the day’s last, and sat and thought, looking around occasionally. He was silent for there was nobody to talk to. A patrol car passed, heading north on Raymond, but the officers had their attention focused into the Park and they did not notice him. He remained motionless until they were gone.
He finished his smoke and began inspecting the trucks nearby, finding one unlocked. He didn’t know why the Ryder Rental daytime attendants usually left one or two of their trucks unlocked. A passive attempt to keep homeless people from breaking in perhaps.
He rose the sliding door, then looked back at the Park a last time.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he whispered, then dove inside, closing the heavy door behind him.
September 13, 1990 Thursday Day 1
September, an odd month. I don’t believe I’ve ever done anything significant in September.
I woke up. I didn’t want to move, but my back ached so I shifted slightly. The floor was hard and I was cold. I looked around the empty truck interior and noticed it had begun to get lighter outside. I could see the early morning light from the crack where the sliding panel door came down near the truck bed floor. I looked at my watch, six o’clock. I still had about an hour and a half before I had to get going, if I got going. I thought about what I had to do today, then turned over on my side and tried to go back to sleep, to reach the escape it would give to me. My brain, my mind, my thinking began to race as it often did at such times. A paradox of intention. I considered not going in today. Put it off, wait until Monday, and again on Tuesday. Always putting it off until tomorrow. Yesterday I had finally mustered enough… something, to call, and had talked to an intake counselor--Clarence. He had told me to come in at eight.
So that was it.
The pros and cons of finally leaving the Park went through my mind. If I stayed, I wouldn’t have to go to work, or any A.A. meetings. And I wouldn’t have to face the fear of possibly being turned away. I wouldn’t know what I would do if that happened.
If I got off my butt and went I just might get my life together.
Inaction is so attractive when your depressed, but I did have some other things to consider.
If I stayed in the Park it would be harder to do what I wanted to do, which was to drink rum and smoke cigarettes. Each day I stayed out here I became dirtier and dirtier. Not being a very good homeless person, an amateur really, I didn’t know where to take a shower or get my clothes washed. I hadn’t done either since last Saturday night at Ed’s apartment. My shirt was grimy; I looked bad, eyes glazed, a beard growing. I had broken my disposable razor somehow, and was unable to shave. And I stank, no doubt about it. Being so downtrodden made it increasingly difficult for me to shoplift rum and cigarettes, which I needed on a daily basis to help pass the time in the Park. One must look clean and prosperous in order to be a good thief. The way I looked, I might as well have had a sign around my neck saying, “Homeless, shoplifting person-please arrest me!” And the thought of getting caught and going to jail, once again, was not appealing. I had already been to jail twice within the last month, and jail, although providing a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in, was very, very boring. Very.
Besides, you meet nothing but riff-raff in places like that.
Obviously, if I had to resort to shoplifting, I didn’t have much money. I don’t particularly enjoy stealing things, and would rather pay for them when I can. But I needed the booze, and I needed the cigarettes, and an occasional book to read. These were everyday expenses that would not go away, and I couldn’t afford them, so I stole. The little money I did have I used to feed myself at night, after polishing off the rum. I had been eating at least one meal everyday, so far, so I wasn’t too sick, and felt relatively okay. But I only had one dollar and some pocket change left, with no real prospects of getting any more money, so getting food over the upcoming weekend would become harder. I could eat in a restaurant, and leave without paying, again, but as I’ve mentioned, the worse I looked, the harder it is to do stuff like that.
If I stayed in the Park until Monday, I’d probably have to explain why I hadn’t come in to the Army today, like I said I would. That would be a count against me, and I couldn’t afford too many counts against me.
I knew I had to get out of the truck soon. The attendants might come, lock me in and drive off to Milwaukee. That’s the chance one takes when one sleeps in Ryder Rental trucks.
Not that I have anything against Milwaukee. I don’t. I’ve never been there. Laverne and Shirley seemed to like it well enough.
Not able to get back to sleep, at seven-thirty I rolled out of the empty truck and shook the night from my body. It was cold now, but soon the sun’s heat would be searing. I looked at my reflection in one of the truck’s side view mirrors, and tried to comb my hair. I looked terrible. I then made my way across the railroad tracks, and Raymond Avenue, to the Mobile station, and used the unisex restroom they keep open for the public. The toilet was working this morning, which eased my mood a bit. I bought a cup of coffee from the station’s store, then continued east, on Del Mar, toward the Pasadena Salvation Army’s Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC).
I arrived at 8:04 a.m., and gave my name to the not-so-friendly looking receptionist, who in return, requested my driver’s license and Social Security card. She and I were separated by a Plexiglas window, and I had to pass my paperwork through a small hole near the bottom. I suppose the Plexiglas was in place to protect her from insane street people who might attempt to over run the center. Or people like me, if I so happened to run amuck. It looked to me though, that she could hold her own in most situations, and would break me in two if I so much as sneezed incorrectly.
I sat in a small waiting room and watched the cars drive by on Del Mar Boulevard through a plate-glass window. I was soon joined by two other young men, who were also seeking admission. One black, one white. I didn’t feel much like talking, so I listened to the two men exchange information. The black’s name was Rico, and he had just left another program in Santa Monica to come here. The white guy was making another attempt at admission, having failed an initial breath-a-lizer test two times before. Both were worried about not getting in. The white guy for good reason. He would fail the test again today, and be asked not to come back.
I waited and waited, finally feeling justified to pull out my Tom Clancy novel, and began to read. Patriot Games. I didn’t mind waiting around at all. The longer the better, actually. The more time I spent in this office going through the admission process, the less time I would have to work out in the hot sun, on the dock (if admitted). Everyone either gets assigned to the dock or the sorting room when they first come in. On two previous occasions, at different ARC’s, I had been assigned to the dock. I guess I look like a dock kind of guy.
At 9:30, an inner door opened, and a middle aged, pox-marked, Hawaiian type face, with glasses, poked out, and asked me to come with it. This was Clarence, the center’s Intake Counselor. Once behind the door he stuck a small black box with a white plastic tube aligned horizontally on the top, in my face and asked me to blow through it. After I had done so and he was satisfied with the results, I thanked the God of Alcoholics that the fumes of rum from last night had dissipated. We, Clarence and I, sat at a table and he asked me what it was he could do for me. I told him that I needed to get into a program. He asked me what was going on in my life (obviously, not much), and what my problems were. I told him I was an alcoholic and that I was homeless. He nodded. He heard stuff like this all of the time. It seemed like he was in a hurry, and after a while, said, “Okay,” and got up disappearing into an office briefly, stuck his head out, and asked, “What’s your name, again?” I gave him this information, and he ducked back inside. After a moment, he came back with a pile of papers for me to fill out, which took about fifteen minutes. Then he photographed me four times, placing one of these pictures on card, which he then laminated. There was a clip on the back of the card, which made it a badge, and which I was told to wear at all times. The picture on the badge looked like a diseased, wild-eyed, Hungarian fur trapper, recovering from a thirty-year LSD trip while losing his way in an intense blizzard, and set upon by three packs of crazed, carnivorous, scavenger beavers.
Clarence sat with me once again and recited a prayer for my salvation. He asked me if I believed Jesus Christ could make a change in my life. I said that I hoped so. He then directed me through the warehouse, across the street, to the residence.
I had been in the Canoga Park and Van Nuys centers, but Pasadena’s facility was much larger and newer than either of those. I had passed by the residence many times while on my way to the supermarket to procure my daily supplies, and I had always been struck by the beauty of the building, and had looked forward to living there.
I walked through the glass front door and presented myself to the studious looking young man at the front desk. I learned his name was Jack Crossley and I gave him the papers Clarence had given to me. Jack gave me a dorm key, 14E, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, three canteen cards, and a razor. He called for someone named Victor Jackson over the building’s public address system, to come to the front desk. As we waited for Victor, Jack gave me a brief indoctrination on how things worked around the ARC. Victor took his time showing up, so I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. I was feeling a little apprehensive, but was relieved at having gotten into the program, and that I could start again towards a new beginning.
As I walked back inside, Victor arrived, a young, black man, apparently Jack’s immediate supervisor. He took me to the building’s one elevator, up to the second floor, where the dormitories were located. He showed me to dorm 14, where my bed and locker was, and showed me where the restrooms and showers were, and gave me my very own towel.
I was allowed to shower, shave, and get myself cleaned up, and felt much better, physically, and emotionally, after the process was completed. I made my bed too, generally dragging out the time as best as I could.
When I did make it back downstairs lunch was being served. Chicken patties! While waiting in line with about fifty other guys to get something to eat, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw my old work mate, Rudy Johnson, smiling at me.
Rudy is a tall, black man, in his late twenties, very handsome. We had worked together in the phone room at the Van Nuys center, taking pick-up orders. I hadn’t seen him since the night he hadn’t made it back for curfew and had been thrown out of the program. It was good to see him, good to see a familiar face. Rudy was a nice guy, and talented too. He had played the piano during chapel services.
He was a little nervous, he told me, because he would be playing at this center’s service tonight for the first time. Rudy had a little problem with cocaine.
We ate lunch together, and talked about what had happened to each of us since we had last seen each other. After missing curfew, he had gone to downtown L.A., and promptly relapsed. Relapse meaning the resumption of drug or alcohol use by a recovering addict. While downtown, after he got tired of relapsing, he entered some program, but had become dissatisfied and left. He then came here, to Pasadena, and had been here over twenty days now. Good for him!
I told him my story, and how it was I had come to Pasadena. A sad tale. Very mysterious also. While at the Van Nuys ARC, I had left my locker unlocked one Sunday, while going off to dinner and an A.A. meeting with my then sponsor, Jeff. The next day, the man who had replaced Rudy in the phone room, dropped dead from a heart attack as he was walking to the kitchen to have lunch. The administrator, a Major Engels, mistakenly went through my locker, thinking it was that of the deceased, finding two empty bottles of Seagram’s VO within. Or so he said. I was summarily terminated from the program, and like Rudy, promptly relapsed.
I was actually innocent. There are very few times that I’m actually innocent, so they do stick out in my mind. I had not put those bottles there. I had not drank while at that center, and even had somewhere between thirty and forty days nicotine free when I was kicked out. I don’t usually drink whiskey, preferring tequila mostly, or rum when I can’t get tequila. I proclaimed my innocence to the Major, but his infallibleness prevailed and I was dismissed, essentially, come to think of it, for having two empty glass containers in my locker, which I never saw. It continues to be a great mystery to me as to who put those bottles there, one I will probably never solve.
I learned one thing though; there is nothing fair about life.
So, having been terminated, I was back on the streets with eighty dollars in my pocket. I fumbled around the San Fernando Valley, drinking heavily, making a nuisance of myself, not knowing where to go or what to do. For all intents and purposes this was the first time I had ever been homeless, and as I’ve said, I wasn’t particularly good at it, nor felt particularly good about it. I was amazed at how quickly this condition had come about. A few short months ago I had an apartment, a good job, a girlfriend, my very own VCR. Now I had none of those. My friends and family had abandoned me. My sponsor wouldn’t have anything to do with me because I was drinking, and drinking was the only thing that took away the fear, anxiety, and pain.
Imagine yourself, dear reader, displaced from your comfortable home, money, loved ones, friends, no place to go, nothing to do, and involved in a love-hate relationship with a toxic, addictive substance, that at once is a fleeting escape from all of your problems and worries, and at the same time, slowly and inextricably your very destruction.
Having been thrown out of the Van Nuys ARC, I thought I would have to wait thirty days, a suspension period, before being allowed to enter another, and the Salvation Army was the only place that I knew about that I could go to.
My sponsor drove me one day, after I had slept next to his car all night in his parking lot, into Pasadena, with the hope that I would be allowed in before said thirty days were over. I had made the mistake of coming to Pasadena on a Friday though, and soon learned that intake for the program was closed on Fridays. So I found the Park, instead. It wasn’t hard to do. Just a block from the ARC. And in the Park I stayed, longer than the thirty days I thought I needed.
I had been arrested twice in six weeks while living in the Park. Once after having fallen asleep in a gas station restroom (After the police had been summoned it had been discovered that I had an outstanding warrant for my arrest, issued in Burbank, for a misdemeanor hit and run I had been responsible for a year or so earlier. Fifteen days jail time for that, seven actually served). The other, a “Dine and Ditch” escapade, I had eaten in a restaurant without having the money to pay, and had been caught (ambushed, really). Ten days, three served.
The rest of the days in the Park were spent reading, drinking rum, smoking cigarettes, following the shade provided by the Park’s large trees as the sun passed over head (taking me from the west side of the Park on Fair Oaks Boulevard in the mornings, to finishing the day on the East side on Raymond), and avoiding homosexuals, who were the only ones who wanted anything to do with me (which I took advantage of from time to time, hence using the shower and getting my cloths washed at Ed’s apartment, then politely refusing to spend the night, as was his suggestion. I have nothing against homosexuals. That type of behavior just does not personally interest me. And Ed, if the truth be known, was being a bit predatory, and deserved to go unsatiated).
The scary thing about living in the Park is that I was starting to get used to it.
But now I was here, finally, in the Pasadena ARC. Lunchtime was over and I told Rudy I would see him later.
Victor directed me back across the street to the warehouse, and to ask for Frank Ortiz. He told me I should ask Frank for an emergency clothing voucher, as I needed clothes desperately, especially for the chapel service that evening.
The ARC is financed mainly from donations received, and then sold through its network of thrift stores. Old clothes, appliances, books, toys, anything really that can be resold with little or no processing. The warehouse is a cavernous building, directly across Waverly Avenue and the residence, where the donations are collected, sorted, repaired, if it’s feasible to do so, and then shipped to the stores.
I walked past the loading dock, where donations are unloaded from a fleet of white trucks decorated with a Salvation Army logo, a red shield and a little blue guy in uniform holding up a phone. Donors called the center and made appointments to have a truck come to their home, office, or apartment, to pick up things they couldn’t bring in themselves. Anything. Everything. Garbage mostly.
After asking around a bit I found Frank Ortiz. He seemed very warm and friendly, and I was glad of it. He was of Latin extraction. Regarding my dingy clothes, he assured me that I would be released from work early and allowed to look around the Pasadena thrift store for something to wear. He then put me to work on the dock, introducing me to the dock supervisor, a heavy set black guy, by the name of Robert.
My first job was to help three other guys shovel trash into a big trash compactor. There was a small mountain of garbage, so it took awhile. For the last two weeks the daytime temperature had reached over 100 degrees, and today was no exception. The refreshing feeling the shower had provided dissipated quickly as I began to work and sweat. None of us tried to work too hard, though. We paced ourselves, telling each other that we shouldn’t get exhausted in case there was some emergency trash to sort through later.
After we were finished, I was told to run a dust mop through the warehouse. I took my time with this job also, wishing to be thorough. After that, I looked up some tire companies in the yellow pages, for Frank, a nice, easy job. The Salvation Army didn’t want me to hemorrhage something while detoxing. I also helped unload trucks at the end of the day.
Near 3:30 p.m., a short fellow with great hair, by the name of Ron Collins, collected me, taking me to through the backdoor into the thrift store, which ran adjacent to the warehouse. The store consisted of one large showroom filled mostly with racks of clothes, but almost anything that can be sold, large and small appliances, books, furniture, computers, toys, and decretive odds and ends, what the Army calls “Bric-A-Brac,” were offered to the public as well.
I never really cared all that much for shopping for clothes, too many decisions to make, and today I didn’t feel up to making a whole lot of decisions. All I really wanted to do was kick back physically and mentally. I had been very much alone in the Park. Being surrounded by people was exhausting. I did need the clothes though, so I toughed it out and wadded into the sea of pants and undershirts to try and find items that came somewhat near my size. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to do it, either. Soon dinner would be served, and I wanted to eat a little something to get me through the night. And the mid-week chapel service would be held right after dinner. Busy, busy, busy.
Within forty minutes I had found for myself two pair of dress pants, two pair of work pants, two pair of socks (brown and blue), two dress shirts, two work shirts, one sport coat, two ties, and one brown belt. Besides the clothes just mentioned, my clothing voucher allowed me to select two pair of under shorts, two pair of under shirts, a work jacket, one pair of dress shoes, and one pair of work shoes, but at the time they didn’t have any of those.
I brought my new clothes back to the residence and to my room, then had dinner. Meatloaf. Afterwards, I put my clothes away while selecting the ones I would wear for chapel. . I also became acquainted with two of my new dorm mates, Gordon and Dan. There are five to a dorm, so I had two more to meet.
The chapel was located on the third and top floor of the residence. It is a beautiful room, really. Dark brown wooden pews and alter, with a plush red carpet throughout. It could hold 150 people easily. The large windows on the north side provided a panoramic view of the Green Hotel near the Park, Old (downtown) Pasadena, and the San Gabriel Mountains.
The mid-week chapel service is usually only thirty minutes long. At 5:30 precisely, the center’s administer, a Major Johnson, entered with his staff through a side door near the alter, and began the service. He said a few words in greeting, then turned the proceedings over to Clarence, who led us all in song, one chosen from the Salvation Army Songbook. People in the Salvation Army like to sing a lot.
Singing songs found in the Salvation Army Songbook is a vital part of their services. One would think that the officers, over a thirty year career, would get sick of singing the same 235 songs over and over again, but they keep singing their little hearts out, week after week. They make us sing too, whether we like it or not. Or at least we’re supposed to sing. About half the clients don’t bother. This ARC has the capacity to hold up to 106 clients, and all of them are required to attend these chapel services, but some were still working, and absent. I’d say there were at least 85 guys here tonight, which meant that about 45 of us were singing our little hearts out, along with the Major. I know I was. I don’t mind singing, although I really didn’t feel up to it at the time.
After the song, Frank Ortiz took over and introduced all of the new clients who had come to the center within the last week, which included myself. There were five of us in all. He then presented awards for the cleanest dorm of the week, the most improved dorm, and the best made bed and cleanest area (adjacent to the bed). Two canteen cards for the winners!
Frank gave way to Ron, who had us sing another song, and between verses he gave those who wanted the opportunity to make a brief testimony about how the Lord, or Jesus Christ, was making a big difference in their lives. The Salvation Army is very into Jesus Christ. That’s practically all they talk about… Jesus Christ, and singing songs.
Clarence led us in yet another song, a short prayer, then dismissed us.
I went down to the parking lot in front of the building and smoked a cigarette while waiting for Rudy. He was going to give me a tour of the residence.
Rudy had played the piano in chapel. He was pretty good at it too. Very flowery kind of playing, with a lot of sequential notes between the verses. After the service, a lot of the guys came up to Rudy and congratulated him on what a good job he had done. Major Johnson, a tall and thin man, in his middle sixties, passed me on his way to him, and shook my hand.
It’s good to get to know these guys.
While he was shaking my hand, Clarence, who was standing nearby, mentioned to the Major that I had worked on the front desk at the Van Nuys ARC. I had told Jack Crosley this, and it was almost true. I had relieved the deskman for lunch once in awhile. I didn’t have a clue, really, as to how the desk operated, or what was required of a deskman. I had mentioned this to Jack because he had asked me if I wanted to work at the residence front desk. I had said sure, and that I had experience. I had told him all this because I was trying to avoid working on the dock, which is repetitive, boring, hot, and requires a great deal of physical labor. I don’t know how Clarence found out about it.
When Rudy came down we began the tour.
The residence building is rectangular and shaped like a wide shoebox, the shorter sides facing north and south, the longer, east and west. The north side of the building, the front, faces Waverly Ave., and across this street lies the back end of the warehouse, and the loading dock. Using the shoebox analogy, if you took a shoebox, and thickened the shorter sides about one inch, and the longer sides about two and a half inches, hollowed them out, and placed a glass skylight over the hole in the middle, this would be an accurate representation of the residence. It consists of three floors and a basement, and the walls outside are painted beige. As you come through the entrance on the first floor, the front desk would be directly to your left, the elevator and stairway would be directly in front of you, and a small library on the right. To the left of the stairs is the dinning room entrance, which coupled with the kitchen, comprises the entire east side of the first floor. The inner wall of the dinning room is a full-length window, looking into an atrium, which makes up the hub, or center of the building. The south side of the residence consists of the kitchen, and Blue Room, where the Major, and senior staff dine. The west side (from south to north, respectively) contains the canteen, or snack shop, where hamburgers, sandwiches, candy, toiletries, ice cream, and sodas may be procured (money is never used at the canteen, only canteen cards, small paper cards with nickel signs printed around the edge, which are marked, or cut off at a rate corresponding to the amount of purchase. One canteen card can be bought, for cash or credit, for one dollar, at the front desk), a small area with tables and chairs used for consuming the goods purchased in the canteen, a recreation area, consisting of a pool table and an area for viewing a large screen T.V., with about thirty chairs placed in front of it. On either side of the television are doors, each leading to the same room, which has two smaller TV’s inside. This room can be partitioned in half, by drawing a folding wall, thus creating two separate rooms with a single television inside. These rooms have been dubbed accordingly, the small T.V. rooms. Most of the rooms on the first floor are connected to each other. One can start at the lobby (the area between the front desk and elevators), walk through the dinning room, into the kitchen, down a corridor behind the Blue Room, past a back stairway, past the canteen, through the Recreation Room, and back into the lobby. A full circle.
The second floor was where all 18 dormitories were located, surrounding the atrium. There are no inner windows on the second floor. A banister allows us to lean over and look directly down to the atrium floor, about thirty feet below. Private rooms are located here as well, sixteen of them, four in each corner of the building. Each cluster of four private rooms has its own bathroom. Two large common bathrooms, located in the northeast and southwest corners, serviced the dorms, each containing four showers, six sinks, two urinals, and four toilets.Clarence led us in yet another song, a short prayer, then dismissed us.
I went down to the parking lot in front of the building and smoked a cigarette while waiting for Rudy. He was going to give me a tour of the residence.
Rudy had played the piano in chapel. He was pretty good at it too. Very flowery kind of playing, with a lot of sequential notes between the verses. After the service, a lot of the guys came up to Rudy and congratulated him on what a good job he had done. Major Johnson, a tall and thin man, in his middle sixties, passed me on his way to him, and shook my hand.
It’s good to get to know these guys.
While he was shaking my hand, Clarence, who was standing nearby, mentioned to the Major that I had worked on the front desk at the Van Nuys ARC. I had told Jack Crosley this, and it was almost true. I had relieved the deskman for lunch once in awhile. I didn’t have a clue, really, as to how the desk operated, or what was required of a deskman. I had mentioned this to Jack because he had asked me if I wanted to work at the residence front desk. I had said sure, and that I had experience. I had told him all this because I was trying to avoid working on the dock, which is repetitive, boring, hot, and requires a great deal of physical labor. I don’t know how Clarence found out about it.
When Rudy came down we began the tour.
The residence building is rectangular and shaped like a wide shoebox, the shorter sides facing north and south, the longer, east and west. The north side of the building, the front, faces Waverly Ave., and across this street lies the back end of the warehouse, and the loading dock. Using the shoebox analogy, if you took a shoebox, and thickened the shorter sides about one inch, and the longer sides about two and a half inches, hollowed them out, and placed a glass skylight over the hole in the middle, this would be an accurate representation of the residence. It consists of three floors and a basement, and the walls outside are painted beige. As you come through the entrance on the first floor, the front desk would be directly to your left, the elevator and stairway would be directly in front of you, and a small library on the right. To the left of the stairs is the dinning room entrance, which coupled with the kitchen, comprises the entire east side of the first floor. The inner wall of the dinning room is a full-length window, looking into an atrium, which makes up the hub, or center of the building. The south side of the residence consists of the kitchen, and Blue Room, where the Major, and senior staff dine. The west side (from south to north, respectively) contains the canteen, or snack shop, where hamburgers, sandwiches, candy, toiletries, ice cream, and sodas may be procured (money is never used at the canteen, only canteen cards, small paper cards with nickel signs printed around the edge, which are marked, or cut off at a rate corresponding to the amount of purchase. One canteen card can be bought, for cash or credit, for one dollar, at the front desk), a small area with tables and chairs used for consuming the goods purchased in the canteen, a recreation area, consisting of a pool table and an area for viewing a large screen T.V., with about thirty chairs placed in front of it. On either side of the television are doors, each leading to the same room, which has two smaller TV’s inside. This room can be partitioned in half, by drawing a folding wall, thus creating two separate rooms with a single television inside. These rooms have been dubbed accordingly, the small T.V. rooms. Most of the rooms on the first floor are connected to each other. One can start at the lobby (the area between the front desk and elevators), walk through the dinning room, into the kitchen, down a corridor behind the Blue Room, past a back stairway, past the canteen, through the Recreation Room, and back into the lobby. A full circle.
The third floor housed the chapel, a small waiting room, or foyer, and a one bedroom apartment, expertly decorated, I was told, for use by visiting Salvation Army officers, and other assorted VIPs (another, smaller apartment, resided on the first floor, just to the left of the front desk, as well as two small offices, mainly used for counseling). This was all on the north side of the building, comprising the entire third floor. An exit door located near the apartment, opened into the roof.
The basement, of course, followed the same basic pattern of the rest of the building. Rudy pointed out the door to a clinic, on the north side. It, along with a electrical maintenance room, which ran adjacent to the clinic, were kept locked. On the east side was a small barbershop, an exercise area with weights (used by those who enjoyed picking up heavy objects, and putting them back down again. A constant battle with gravity). A ping-pong table, a hobby shop, and a couple of storage areas, comprised the rest of this side. The south side consisted of a hallway connecting the east and west side. A dry goods storage room, and two walk-in freezers, connected to the kitchen via conveyer belt, could be reached from this hallway. The west side of the basement housed a two-lane bowling alley (yes, really!), two more pool tables, and a small video game area, which is amply supplied with video game cassettes, and two portable TV’s. Four doors, two on the inner east side, and two on the inner west side, opened onto the atrium, a very peaceful, open area, with assorted trees (some reaching almost up to the second floor) and plants, interspaced between a central cement, zigzagging walkway. There are benches for sitting. The glass skylight rested four stories overhead.
There are two cages in the atrium. One for two parakeets, which seem to be afraid of everybody, and one for a sometimes obnoxiously noisy parrot, green and sickly yellow, by the name of Noah. He didn’t seem to be afraid of anybody.
I left Rudy at the end of the tour, and took a seat in front of the large TV on the first floor. I was finally able to do what I had wanted to do all day, sit down to read and relax. But by this time it was getting rather late, and they kick everybody upstairs at eleven. I could have continued to read all night in one of the bathrooms if I had wanted to, but I knew I would be back on the dock in the morning, and I needed to get some rest, and decided to turn in. I hoped that I wouldn’t have much trouble getting to sleep, this being the first night in many weeks that I hadn’t drank myself into a stupor. Sleep patterns tend to get mucked up when you drink a lot.
Much had happened today, but I didn’t feel any of it. I didn’t feel much of anything today, good or bad. I was just there, taking one thing at time. Taking things nice and easy, just existing.
It felt good to be in a bed.
September 14 Friday Day 2
I woke up again. I remembered where I was, and got out of bed. I didn’t know what woke me. The four others in the dorm were still asleep, two of them snoring appreciably. The room was in semi-darkness, but the morning light was beginning to filter in through the one window, which was just to the right of my bed. I could hear activity in the rooms and hallways around me and decided to make a move.
I left the dorm and went the short distance to the nearest restroom, passing other early morning risers along the way. It felt a little disconcerting, being around so many other people so early in the morning, not knowing who they were, and them not knowing me. Rather like a lost company of strangers gathered together to perform some task, or solve a problem. I suppose that’s exactly what we were.
I found a sink that was not in use, and washed my face. I tried to be as quite as possible upon returning to my dorm. All my roommates were still asleep, apparently they were late sleepers. I opened my locker and put on some of my nice, new, second-hand clothes. I made my bed in a military fashion, then went downstairs to see about breakfast.
It was good to have breakfast. All I had had to start the day for the last couple of months was a cup of coffee at best. This morning there were scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast and jelly to be had. I took mighty advantage of the opportunity, and stuffed myself silly.
Breakfast was served at 6:45. Morning devotions, a brief prayer ceremony, was held at 7:15, in the dinning room. This ceremony usually consisted of one person standing before all of the residents (attendance is mandatory), and reciting a prayer, or a short inspirational message, to help us start our workday.
While still seated, Ernie Senes, the Operations Manager of the center, an older, corpulent, Salvation Army veteran, came in and displayed a jacket he had confiscated from a client the day before. The cuffs had been stapled shut, and the arms and pockets of the jacket were crammed with shirts, pants, and other assorted clothing, in astonishing number. Ernie had several clients lift the jacket to demonstrate how heavy it was, then spilled the contents onto a dinning table to display the items.
Obviously someone had tried, unsuccessfully, to steal, or pilfer clothing from the warehouse by loading up the jacket and bringing it back to the residence. That someone was no longer a resident, which was exactly the point Ernie was trying to make. Steal from the Salvation Army, and your out.
Simple enough.
Work starts at 7:30, and as per the usual dock routine, myself and a bunch of other guys began unloading the trucks. After a while though, Frank Ortiz took me aside and asked me if I was interested in going out on a truck. I told him, sure. I had never gone out on a truck to pick up donations before, and it would give me the chance to get away and drive around and look at things. I hadn’t seen anything but the inside of the Park for quite awhile, and the idea of getting off the dock for the day was most welcome. I was introduced to a middle-aged black man by the name of Larry, who would be the driver. I was his helper.
We used truck 14, and got on a freeway headed east. I told Larry that this was the first time I had done this, being a truck helper, one of the few jobs in the Salvation Army I had not done. He asked me if I knew about making a little money on the side. I told him I had never done that.
He asked me if I knew how to keep quite about it. I remembered Ernie’s demonstration this morning, but what was I going to do, say no? That would have made for a great working relationship for the rest of the day. One needs to be pragmatic on occasion. Considering I had about thirty cents and five cigarettes left, I said yes, I knew how to keep quite about it. Larry told me I could make up to twenty, or twenty-five dollars today. A fortune.
At the time I did not perceive this to be any great moral dilemma. I can only offer by way of defense that recently being a big time shoplifter, and just coming off a month and a half bender, I had not sufficient time to get my ethical priorities in order, and was still thinking in a somewhat sub-human mode. Let’s leave it like that for now.
And like I said, I’m hardly ever innocent.
We spent the morning traveling to different houses and apartments at different locations, collecting a multitude of various items, including; lamps, toys, dishes, books, sofas, refrigerators, radios, baby paraphernalia, kitchenware, magazines, junk, chairs, washers, trash, dryers, VCR’s, mattresses, freezers, junk, clothes, clothes, and more clothes. Some garbage too. From the look of things, it seems a lot of people think nothing of donating their accumulated refuse that they would otherwise have to haul to a landfill and pay to dispose of. Some donors got really mad when we tried to explain that we could not accept certain items that were too worn, or beyond repair. Some believe they’re doing us a big favor by letting us have their rotten crap, and get really indignant. The whole point of our collecting donations in the first place was that they would eventually be resold, hopefully with as little processing as possible. I often felt like saying to those who were upset with me and Larry for not taking their trash, “Look, would you go into a store and buy this worthless piece of shit!” We are discouraged from saying things like that though. Greatly discouraged. In fact, we are so discouraged that most likely we wind up taking the stuff anyway, just to maintain a good public image. This explains the mountain of garbage always near the giant trash compactor, which winds up as compacted trash at, you guessed it, a landfill. A truck dedicated to this enterprise makes two trips a day.
All in all, we made about twenty-four stops, and were done by 12:30. Larry then told me he was going to drop off five items. We backed into a driveway in North Pasadena, and off loaded two refrigerators, two washers, and a stove. He gave me fifteen dollars, and said he would give me another ten on Monday. I was knocked out just to get the fifteen dollars. We stopped at a store and I bought some cigarettes.
We didn’t need to be back at the ARC until 3:00, so we went to a park and hung out. I walked back to the store where I bought my cigarettes and bought a slurpy. Soon, another Salvation Army truck came by, and Larry and the other driver chipped in and bought Kentucky Fried Chicken for all.
I guess this was the resting area for Salvation Army truck crews after they finish a hard day of picking up donations and ripping off the Army. I certainly found it restful.
We drove back to the dock at about 3:30, and by the time we finished unloading, it was 4:00. Quitting time. Now I had a nice, long, two day weekend to look forward to. I could now kick back, read my Tom Clancy book, with fifteen dollars in my pocket, and the promise of ten more come Monday.
As I walked through the door of the residence to pick up my locker key (clients are required to turn them in anytime they leave the residence for any appreciable length of time), Jack Crosley, the desk man, asked me if I had been informed that I would now be working behind the desk. I replied, no, I hadn’t, but it was fine with me. I asked him about my work schedule, and when I would start.
“Right now,” he said.
I was re-introduced to Victor, who asked, “You worked across the street today, didn’t you?”
“I sure did. For eight hours.”
He was unimpressed. “All right,” he said. “In that case you can get off early.”
Seeing my weekend fly out the window, I said, “Okay, I’ll be back down after I wash up, and change clothes.”
Unlike the Canoga Park and Van Nuys centers, the desk personnel in Pasadena are required to wear slacks, dress shirts, and a tie. Underwear is optional. All dressed up, with the weight gained by a sedentary lifestyle in the Park, I kind of looked like the actor who played Major Dad, on TV, with a paunch. I avoided mirrors. I never worked a job which required me to wear such clothes on a daily basis. I choked briefly as I straightened my tie.
I reported to work, and was quickly told what some of my duties would be. It was really pretty simple. Basically, I answer phones, hand out and take in lockers keys (which in turn, provides a continuous record of who is in, or out of the building), sign people in and out of the residence, monitor any Salvation Army vehicles that are still out roaming around after business hours using a CB radio, which meant learning Radio Speak. Usually, only one truck was working during the night shift, one that stopped at all the fixed donation trailers in the evenings. This truck, nicknamed the “Night Crawler,” collected all the junk and garbage that no one had time to collect during the day.
Except for quitting time, when the clients all return to the residence from work, I administer breath tests, using a small breath-a-lizer, to all clients entering the residence, like when Clarence tested me yesterday. I also announce things over the residence PA system, like, “So and so, please come to the lobby, you have a visitor,” or, “Group counseling with George will begin in five minutes in the small TV room, group counseling with George. Please check the bulletin board to see if your name is on the list, and please be prompt.” Stuff like that. I also make sure everyone is in by curfew, hand out weekend passes, hand out aspirin and cold tablets, answer questions if I can, and other general administrative type duties.
I leaned that I get Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, work mostly in the evenings, from 2:30 to 11:00 p.m. on Thursdays and Mondays, 3:30 to midnight Fridays and Saturdays, and 6:00 a.m. till 2:30 on Sundays.
I’m the only one around here (except for a small crew in the kitchen) who does not go to chapel on Sunday morning. I can live with that. I also find it a little bizarre that this afternoon I helped steal two refrigerators, two washers, and a stove, and this evening it’s part of my job to help catch people who steal things, which would lead directly to the client’s termination from the program.
Life is funny sometimes, and not without a little irony.
I also get to use the elevator as much as I want (which is off limits to most clients).
I never did get off work early. It being Friday, I worked with Victor until midnight. A couple of times, when Victor got rather abrupt with me for no particular reason, I almost told him what he could do with his fucking job, and quit. But I stuck it out, all the way to twelve o’clock. I figured things would be better tomorrow, and if I could make it through the night, everything would be alright.
At midnight an eccentric older gentleman showed up at the residence to relieve Victor and I. I went directly to bed, and to sleep, without passing GO, and without collecting $200.00.
September 15 Saturday Day 3
I woke up again, and had a nice breakfast. It’s good to have nice breakfasts.
I had planned (as much as one can plan these things) to simply relax in one of the small television rooms until I had to get ready for work, but I found out all new clients are required to do some extra work on their first Saturday here. I was told by Victor the night before that my regular work shift for today would satisfy this requirement, but apparently he lied to me (again). Our boss, Victor’s and mine, the Residence Manager, Mr. Vasquez, had other ideas.
“No, no, no,” he said. “Go straighten up the library a little.”
Most new clients are assigned to the warehouse, and work most of the morning. Some are sent to the kitchen. I got the library. After tidying the books and dusting off the shelves a little, and checking out the available reading material, I unobtrusively made my way back to one of the small TV rooms, hoping that my work was finished. Mr. Vasquez didn’t call me back, so I guess it was.
I read and watched silly Saturday morning television programs. I still wasn’t feeling particularly sociable and didn’t talk too much to anybody. I was pretty tired still, physically. Mentally, I wasn’t all that hot either. I sat, absorbing all that was going on around me. Even though I had been in Salvation Army ARC’s before it felt strange getting used to this new one. I just let things happen, did what I was supposed to do, and observed.
After a shower, and dressing, I reported for work at 3:30 (I would be working with Victor again. Imagine my excitement).
I was to learn that Friday and Saturday night shifts on the desk were pretty much the most boring shifts of the entire week, and thus seemed the longest. I felt a little more at ease and familiar with my job responsibilities this evening, and did not have to ask as many questions, reducing the amount of conversation I had with Victor considerably. One of my responsibilities, it seemed, was to change the letters on the lobby’s bulletin board to announce the following days activities, which Victor had neglected to tell me last night, and the morning shift had not bothered to change it, so I removed Friday’s schedule and replaced it with Sunday’s. I removed the small, individual, white plastic letters, from the groves on the black felt board, and rearranged them in such a way as to depict the events of the next day. I get to do this four times a week.
I also came to realize that instead of working the night shift on Sunday, I had the morning shift with Mr. Vasquez, starting at six a.m.. If I went to bed right after work I would be guaranteed a cool five hours of sleep.
At around 11:30, an older gentleman, dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans, walked through the front door, carrying a large brown satchel over his shoulder. His hair was mostly gray, and he sported a gray mustache that drooped down from the corners of his mouth down to the bottom of his chin. He slowly lumbered towards the waist high swinging doors that was the entrance to the area where I was sitting behind the desk. As he did this, he glanced at me several times with a sideways sweep of his gray eyes, in what appeared to be a look of appraisal, as if summing up my capabilities and estimating my probable life expectancy in this job. He placed his satchel behind the desk, as Victor came out of his office and greeted him. Victor introduced me.
“Rick, this is…” Victor paused, as if trying to remember something, and looked at our visitor as if asking for help in remembering.
“Wolfman,” the older fellow completed. He looked like a man about half way through the transformation into a wolf.
Wolfman was our night security person. Not the same eccentric person who came last night, but a different one. His job entailed patrolling the grounds and the building, watch out for fires, watch out for break ins at the thrift store, make early wake ups, and handle anything else that might come up between midnight and six a.m..
He did not say very much to me, and actually grunted once or twice.
After I got off work, I read for awhile in the bathroom, and although I didn’t feel like it, I went to bed shortly thereafter. I was glad of it in the morning.
September 16 Sunday Day 4
I woke when I felt someone slap me on the bottom of my left foot with a clipboard. I looked up, blearily, to see Wolfman walking away, with the air of someone having completed a job well done.
It’s a good thing he didn’t hit my right foot. That would have really pissed me off.
I got out of bed, went to the restroom, showered, got dressed, then went down to work.
For one hour, Wolfman and I had what appeared to be a conversation. He actually talked at me the entire time. I nodded a lot. He talked about his childhood in Rhode Island. This would be the first of many such occasions.
Mr. Vasquez came down at seven, one hour after I had. He and I would working together this morning. This made me a little nervous. He is the boss, after all. We spent the shift checking each other out, not speaking very much. He’s about 5’9”, slight of build, and in his early sixties. He wears his hair (what’s left of it) extremely short, to the point that it is sort of translucent. As his name would indicate, he looks as if he has some Hispanic blood in him, but very diluted. He comes from Arizona. Globe, Arizona, up in the mountains. One couldn’t easily tell, but he does seem to have a sense of humor. As Sunday chapel time approached, one of the four ushers by the name of Eddie Alphonso, whose sole responsibility is to facilitate the collection of money from the laity, came up to him, and said, “Bob (his first name is Bob, or Robert), I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wait until they call us up to the podium to start orchestrating things. Last week, I wound up holding all four trays.” This statement caused the corners of Mr. Vasquez’s mouth to curl into a slight smile, while expelling three or four short laughs. He then proceeded to supply the man with instructions.
Mr. Vasquez wears glasses. He told me that while driving, because he can’t see out of his left eye he closes his right eye to compensate.
Every once in a while he’ll walk into his office (which is located just to the left of the desk man’s area) and say, “Now then,” or, “Okay, now let’s do this…” and then be silent.
When everybody else goes to chapel at 9:00, I stay downstairs and watch the desk. I insure the residence is not overrun by crazed Goodwill fanatics, or something, while the rest of the house is busy worshipping. It’s alright with me if I miss chapel, as I’m not a Christian very much anyway. So I sit back and read the paper. I can see the door to the chapel way up on the third floor, from a closed circuit television monitor behind the desk, so I’ll know when the service is over, and I’ll be able to put the paper away, so it will look as if I was being alert the whole time.
I read about a country in the Middle East, Iraq. It has invaded it’s tiny neighbor to the south, Kuwait.
A lot of people believe the Garden of Eden had been located somewhere in Iraq. The birthplace of humanity, as it were. I happen to believe the birthplace of humanity was a little further southwest.
Since 1979, Iraq has been led by a man by the name of Saddam Hussein. After taking over the government, all of his political opposition suddenly and mysteriously vanished. Saddam probably has a chemical imbalance in his brain, just like me. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. tells us that chemicals in our heads make us do things, and of course he’s right. Chemicals in my head direct me to not want to stop drinking alcoholic beverages after I start. Chemicals in Saddam’s head make him want to stay in power, no matter what, and make him not care very much if he kills a lot of people, people he doesn’t even know, while doing it. They make him want to control more real estate too. I’m not usually a name caller, but some might describe this type of behavior as a tiny bit sociopathic. It’s certainly unsociable.
Nice guy to have in charge of a country.
He’s been a troublemaker for a long time now. He was at war with Iran before he invaded Kuwait, At war with them for over nine years, and nobody ever won. The war was stopped by diplomats. Imagine that. During that war Saddam and the United States were best buddies. Even when an Iraqi warplane accidentally shot a missile at, and blew a big hole in one of our navel vessels, a destroyer. The ship had been roaming around looking at the war, I guess. Although severely damaged, the ship was able to make it back into port. The captain was criticized for allowing his ship to be attacked. Those things happen.
Later on, another of our ships of the same or similar class, accidentally shot a missile at, and blew up an Iranian commercial airliner, which was filled to the brim with innocent civilians. It was not able to make it back to port. Those things happen too.
Sad, very sad. We seem so cavalier concerning death. Unless it’s our own.
Now Iraq has made war on a small country that isn’t able to defend itself. Smart move. If you like going to war all the time, like Saddam does, you might as well pick a country that can’t shoot back. Kuwait is a big time oil producer, which is the main reason, the real reason, that the United States is so ready to turn its back on its former buddy and step in and help the Kuwaitis. The U.S. has sent a lot of our troops and equipment over to Saudi Arabia, another oil producer which has common borders with both Iraq and Kuwait, and is apparently preparing to engage Saddam‘s forces. Saudi Arabia, which usually sticks pretty much to itself, is allowing us to send our troops into their country because it is afraid that if Iraq is left unchecked, they will invade them too.
I don’t blame them. Saddam can be exceptionably unruly.
The rest of my work day went rather well. No major mistakes made, at least. Mr. Vasquez has a tendency to leave the desk quite frequently; to make rounds, check vehicles, transport people in the van, etc. Mainly I think, he just wanted to get the hell away from the desk for a while. Near the end of our shift he told me that he was going upstairs to take a little nap. He said that he was allowed to do this (like he really had to explain it to me) because he worked all day on Sundays, and still had what amounted to an entire shift ahead of him. I said, “Okay, go ahead, take off.” And he did. Charles Perry, a young and self assured (smart ass), black person, came to relieve me at 2:30, and I was free.
I changed out of my work clothes, and placed myself into one of the small T.V, rooms, with book in hand, and read and watched television at the same time. That used to drive my girlfriend nuts.
I was planning to quit smoking the next day. One reason being that I had now detoxed enough to begin to care about myself and what happened to me. I didn’t want to finally get sober and learn how to enjoy life without resorting to the use of drugs and alcohol, just to wind up getting lung cancer (of course, being clean and sober, I would be able to appreciate the full experience of said cancer, but I found that unappealing as well). I knew, or thought I knew, I could quit. I had recently stopped smoking for eighty days. But like drinking and drugging, the trick is not in the stopping, but staying stopped. I suspected that smoking, like drinking, would eventually kill me, so in the spirit of total health I began to desire to quit.
I didn’t have a whole lot of money to throw away on cigarettes anyway.
Unfortunately, right when I was thinking about not smoking, someone popped their head into the T.V. room, and announced the arrival of the “Cigarette Man.” I thought, who the hell is the Cigarette Man? To relieve my curiosity, I went outside to find out.
New residents are under house arrest, or restriction, for their first thirty days at the ARC, so I was not free to go to a store to buy cigarettes. If someone was bringing cigarettes to the residence to sell, which seemed to be the case, right when I was running out… well, it must have been a sign from God that I should purchase some and continue to smoke. At least for a while.
So I did.
I told myself that I would quit next Tuesday, instead. No big deal. Just a temporary change in schedule.
They were being sold for only a dollar a pack. My favorite brand too, Marlboro! This guy must steal these cigarettes to be able to sell them at that price.
I watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation.” An episode I had not seen before, concerning the final step in the evolution of a species. Very good show.
After “Star Trek,“ I played bingo, a Salvation Army staple.
I had seen the announced V.C.R. movie that had been selected to be shown tonight, and did not have enough energy to sign up, and go out to the outside A.A. meeting (a van takes clients to a Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in the nearby community on certain evenings), so I pretty much just relaxed and read. A good day.
Another good day.
September 17 Monday Day 5
I got to sleep in today. Except for morning devotions, that is. So actually, I had to get up by 7:15. After I was up, I stayed up. I walked around the building. Eventually I found myself in deep conversation with Noah the parrot. I found Noah to be a true a noble bird.
After talking to Noah I walked inside the building, into the video game area, and attempted to play with some of the games I came across. I have little or no skill with these games, and I proceeded to prove it. I found a video chess cartridge and tried that. I lost a couple of times. At least this was a game I understood.
I think I’m hooked.
I rationed my remaining cigarettes so they would last me throughout the rest of the day. I definitely will quit tomorrow!
I checked out the library and found nothing interesting, so I went into one of the small T.V. rooms and watched “Love Boat.” I’d seen the episode before. I’ve seen them all before. Pretty sad, isn’t it?
After lunch, I read until it was time to get ready for work.
I was working with Mr. Vasquez again this evening. Today would be a little different than yesterday, it was a hell of a lot busier. We have counselors who come to see the clients. They counsel us. They are usually students from either Cal State L.A., Glendale, or Pacific Oaks, enrolled in psychology, or drug and alcohol rehabilitation courses. Tonight, five showed up, and it was my job to coordinate them, find the guys they wanted to talk to, and find a place for them to talk, and so on, and so on. I also have my own recovery to look after and meetings to attend. I was allowed to attend a Bible study class, and a group counseling session facilitated by the ARC’s Program Director, a Mr. George Staub. I left Mr. Vasquez to fend for himself while I attended. He somehow muddled through.
Bible study was given tonight by one of the employees who lives outside the residence. He was filling in for the person who usually gave it. By listening to him I felt he was firmly convinced of the validity of what he was saying, but for the life of me, I couldn’t understand a damn thing he said. I wished that I had brought my book with me.
George Staub is a short, squat, very intense individual. If he hadn’t mentioned that he had spent twelve years as a Catholic priest , I’d have said he was Jewish. He’s into everything, doing two things at once. Very quick, very smart, very brash, but seems like a fair man.
Back at the desk the remainder of the shift went smoothly. I seemed to do everything to Mr. Vasquez’s satisfaction, which made me feel good and worthwhile.
I went to bed with the crazy knowledge that I had the next two days off. But before I tucked myself in, I smoked my last cigarette.
Adios tobacco!
September 18 Tuesday Day 6
Today, I will quit smoking.
I started out the day in the atrium saying hello to Noah. I think Noah likes me. I say to him in baby talk, “Noah, are you a good bird? You sure are pretty. Are you the pretty bird? Yes you are! You’re the prettiest bird in the whole world, yes you are. You’re the good bird. Such a pretty bird. You got the pretty feathers. Good boy, good Noah.” He allows me to stick my fingers in his cage and rub the top of his head. “Does him like that? Yes he does. Good boy, good baby.”
I would soon discover that Noah was a girl.
I confronted the video chess game again. A war of wills. I lost. I crashed in flaming defeat.
After lunch I thought to myself, “Boy, I sure do wish I had a cigarette. Why do I want to quit smoking on my day off anyway? Wouldn’t it be so much better to quit on Thursday, when I’m working, and have something to keep me busy?”
So I bummed a cigarette and smoked, thereby resolving the problem.
Of course, in reality this is a cop out, or a rationalization. It will probably be no easier to quit on Thursday rather than today. It’s much easier to do something in the future, though, than to do it in the present. In the present, actual action may be required.
Nevertheless, having resolved one problem, I was faced with another. I had no cigarettes! Having already smoked one I would want another, probably many others. I had money to buy cigarettes, but due to my restricted status, I had no way to get to a store to purchase them. I could have waited around for the Cigarette Man, but I was told he did not come on a regular basis. I became perplexed and anxious.
I decided to take a really stupid and foolish chance and sneak to the Vons Supermarket. I knew full well that if I were caught, I might be thrown out of the program and be back in the Park. I have taken many stupid chances when I was drinking, so I was used to them. Still, I had no excuse for taking what some might call a compulsive risk, other that my self-esteem was so low that I believed that it was an action that was worthy and typical of me.
As the guys working in the warehouse came over to eat lunch (as a deskman I eat a full half hour before they do), making a general nuisance of themselves, I nonchalantly walked away, gaining speed as I went, and ducked into a neighboring alley. I quickly made my way to the market, and even though I had the bucks, I ripped off two packs of smokes simply because I couldn’t afford to wait in the checkout line. Shame on me. Just outside the store I dropped one of the packs and bent down to pick it up. As I stood, I noticed that one of the non-restricted guys from the center had passed me without noticing I was there. I was glad, as I didn’t want any witnesses.
I came back through the alley to the residence, but was worried about how I should walk up to it. If someone asked where I had been, what would I say? Will they have missed me? Why did I do this in the first place? I’m immensely stupid, aren’t I?
I had an idea!
I crossed the street to the As-Is Yard, an area that holds donations that the Army wishes to auction off without repairing them, hence the name. I ambled over to the man who watched over the place at lunchtime, and pointed out a truck, and asked, “Is that the truck that hit a horse?” As if ashamed of it, he slowly nodded in the affirmative.
Let me digress a moment and relate a story that was told to me on my first night at the center.
While getting undressed for bed, I overheard three of my roommates, Dan, Gordon, and Dennis Castle, deep in conversation. The subject of horsemeat came up, and Gordon asked Dennis to tell me about it.
Dennis is a young black guy who’s job it is to help the driver of the Night Crawler truck pick up donations from the different trailers in the evening. He is the Night Crawler Helper.
He and his driver, a two hundred and eighty behemoth by the name of Tiny, were driving down the 210 freeway at a goodly pace (20 miles an hour faster than the 55 speed limit), when something wandered onto their path.
“Hey man,” Tiny said to Dennis, “I think something just jumped on to the freeway.”
“What is that?” Dennis replied. “It looks sort of like a… like a … LIKE A HOOOOOORRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!”
“BOOM!” Dennis told us, “The damn thing EXPLODED! I MEAN EXPLODED! KA-POW! Ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow! Horse guts and blood everywhere!”
Evidently, the horse had escaped from its stable, and as the police tried to catch it, he or she, jumped the divider onto the freeway, and was driven by fear of the approaching police into the path of the truck. The truck was demolished. The front end completely caved in and covered with squashed horse stuff. Dennis and Tiny, considering the speed at which the collision occurred, were lucky in the extreme to come out of it relatively unscathed. After the truck, and what was left of the poor horse stopped moving, and the two men gathered their collective wits about them, they filed a report back to the residence, via the truck radio.
“Red Shield twelve to Pasadena residence base.”
“Pasadena residence to Red Shield twelve, go.”
“Ah… we have a slight problem here base. We’ve been in an accident.”
“Pasadena base, to Red Shield twelve, what’s your 10-20 (location)?”
Tiny reported their location.
“What happened, Tiny?”
“We hit a horse.”
Pause.
“10-9 that, Red Shield twelve.”
“We ran into a horse.”
Pause.
“Quit kidding around, Tiny. What’s going on?”
“We hit a damn horse, man!”
And on, and on.
Dennis and Tiny were eventually taken to a nearby hospital and checked out. No serious injuries I’m happy to report.
The horse was a different matter.
Before the boys were carried off, the owner of the horse made an appearance at the crash site, crying to Dennis, who by this time was laying on a stretcher, dazed, “Where’s my horse? Where’s my horse?”
“It’s over there, man,” pointing back to the carnage, “it’s over there. All over the place.”
I looked at the ruined truck as the As-Is man pointed out the extent of the damage. It really was extensive. Then I left him and casually walked over to the residence, as if I had only been to the truck to satisfy my curiosity.
Of course, no one had missed me, and I walked in without any problems.
After everyone came back to the residence after work at four o’clock, my name was called over the P.A. system to go down to the clinic and get a nice medical check out. Make sure I don’t have the plague. The doctors rolled me this way and that, moved my legs back and forth, pressed into my vertebrae with their bony little fingers, told me I have good tendons and ligaments. It was not until I asked for a prescription for some ointment for a rash I had on my butt, that I realized the people who had been poking and prodding at me were chiropractors, and not MD’s. I felt so violated.
At 6:15 that night, my presence was requested at an A.A. orientation meeting. I already knew a great deal about Alcoholics Anonymous, having been a member, on and off again for ten years, but this orientation meeting concerned what A.A. meetings where held here at the residence, not A.A. in general. A young man with about sixty days of sobriety told me that I would be attending two mandatory meetings a week here at the center, and could go to outside meetings in the evenings if I choose to do so. He assured me that A.A. could help me if I wanted it to. I agreed.
At 6:45, I attended an A.A. Step Study m eeting. Generally, at this type of meeting, the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are discussed. It seemed that I had entered the cycle just at the right time, as Step One was tonight’s topic. I thought, “Great! How good to start from the beginning.” The class was presented by Al, who came across as a very engaging individual, and he made his point very clear. I can’t remember what it was though.
Later, my roommate Gordon told me that my old workmate, Rudy Johnson, had been thrown out of the center after an altercation with my boss, Mr. Vasquez. Rudy had been in the basement practicing on one of the pianos and singing songs with some of the guys, while the clinic was open for business a few feet away. The “doctors” complained to the front desk about the noise, and Mr. Vasquez came down to secure the music and merrymaking. Rudy, for some reason overreacted and told him he had no right to tell him to stop playing.
Ill-considered move.
Rudy could probably get back in tomorrow morning if he cried and pleaded and begged a lot to Clarence, but knowing Rudy, I don’t believe he will.
I wished him well.
September 19 Wednesday Day 7
Today was a really nice day. I don’t know why, it just was. It was nice, sunny, and hot. Being on restriction, I can’t go anywhere away from the residence except out front, where I smoked my last cigarettes.
I read a lot today, and watched T.V. off and on. Again, I suffered horrible defeat at the hands of the video chess machine.
All that’s on my agenda for the evening was mid-week chapel. It has been permanently changed from Thursday night, to the more traditional Wednesday night. Very big deal.
After chapel I had an exciting cheeseburger from the canteen. Life is wonderful!
And later on, in one of the upstairs bathrooms, I took my last drag off of my last cigarette, and began the withdrawal process from another drug I have abused for many years.
September 20 Thursday Day 8
That video chess machine was getting on my nerves. The simplest, itty-bitty mistake on my part and it goes straight for my jugular.
I had quit smoking today. That did nothing to help my disposition. I endured.
I discussed the current political atmosphere with Noah the parrot, read, wrote, and got ready to go back to work at two-thirty.
I worked with both Charles Perry and Victor, the one night a week there are three of us at the desk.
I had two meetings to attend during the evening. A Substance Abuse Seminar, and an A.A. panel. George Staub officiated the seminar. We discussed the effects of alcohol on the body. I already knew that alcohol, physiologically speaking, was very bad news.
It had never stopped me from drinking though. Hardly anything stops alcoholics from drinking. Death, insanity, and jail are retirement city after a long drinking career.
I got off work at eleven and went upstairs, changed clothes, and read a little. When I finally went to bed and to sleep, I dreamt the dream of freedom.
September 21 Friday Day 9
I got up early, at about five-thirty, and took a nice shower. After dressing, I went downstairs to partake of some early breakfast (cheese omelets). I watched the morning news, and “did” morning devotions.
Having exhausted myself, I returned to my room to read and snooze for a bit. I roused myself at nine-thirty, had a cup of coffee in the dining room, then asked my boss if I could go to the warehouse and ask Ron about some shoes. Mr. Vasquez suggested I go see Clarence for a clothing order first, which I did. Clarence told me he would send a clothing order over to the residence a little later. Meanwhile, I found Ron, and he took me to the shoe department in the warehouse, where I discovered a pair of white sneakers and black dress shoes, which seemed suitable for my purposes.
Very exciting (sarcasm).
Later, I tackled the video chess game. I was soundly thrashed two games in a row. I went to bed again, reading, and dozing on and off until it was time to get ready for work.
Work went really smooth. I’ve got the hang of this job, and feel comfortable in it now. I spent most of the evening reading Time magazine.
At midnight, work was over and I went promptly to bed and had dreams about smoking cigarettes.
September 22 Saturday Day 10
Today went pretty much the same as yesterday. Life on restriction is very predictable. The video chess machine beat me again, but it was a longer and better game. My three remaining neurons must be firing in conjunction.
I went to the thrift store and picked up a whole bunch of clothes, along with my new, second hand shoes.
And I started writing this journal. Mainly because I stole a lot of paper from the front desk, and as more and more time separates me from the Park days, I feel better, more in tune with my environment, and more ambitious. I didn’t feel like just sitting around and reading anymore. I felt like participating in some active movement, doing something, and this journal is one small way of soothing that urge.
Two days without cigarettes. I feel like a nervous cat on acid which has just fell off a twelve story building and has got the feeling that landing on all four feet isn’t going to help much.
I worked from three-thirty to midnight. It went well. I went to bed directly afterwards, anticipating the morning shift.
September 23 Sunday Day 11
I got up at five-thirty and took a quick shower, got dressed, and made it to the desk by six. I had all my paperwork done from the night before, so there wasn’t anything for me to do other than sit and listen to the Wolfman relate the stories of his life, something he never tires of. Mr. Vasquez came down twenty minutes after I did and rescued me.
Jack Crosley had done some extra work for Mr. Vasquez last night, shampooing the carpets in the library, and around the desk. He worked until after three in the morning, even though Mr. Vasquez told him not to stay up too long. I guess Jack decided that since he worked so late he was entitled to sleep in and miss chapel. That would have been fine with me, except he neglected to tell anyone about it, and it was usually his job to take attendance for the service. I waited for him to come down and get the attendance sheet until ten minutes before the service, and figuring he wasn’t going to show, went upstairs, leaving the desk unmanned, and began to take it myself. Half of the guys were already in there, so my attempt was sort of like a big joke.
As I was checking the guys off who came up the stairs, Mr. Vasquez appeared, and asked me, “What are you doing here, Joyce?”
“Taking the attendance sir. Jack never came down.”
“Who’s at the desk?”
“Ah… nobody, sir. I assumed that you would want me to do this.”
“Don’t assume, Joyce. And don’t ever leave the desk alone. Get back down there.”
“Yes sir.”
When I got back to the desk, I found Victor there with both feet up on a chair. He told me I could go to chapel today, like he was doing me a big favor. Swell guy.
The rest of the morning went well; with Mr. Vasquez running around here and there, leaving me pretty much to myself.
At two-thirty I got off work, changed clothes, talked to Noah about income tax issues, played video chess, and lost. After dinner (turkey), I seriously considered having a cigarette, but was able to withstand the impulse. I sat in one of the small T.V. rooms until five o’clock waiting for “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” to come on, but it was preempted this week. Life is full of disappointments like this. We must learn to make do. I learned though, that the big season premier would air next Wednesday. I have known for many years that simple pleasures are the best, and the season premier of “Star Trek,” would be something nice to look forward to.
I watched “Friday the Thirteenth, the Series,” instead. As far as I can ascertain this television series has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the story line of the successful film franchise. Interesting. I then played bingo, and won two canteen cards by making what is known as a “small picture frame.” That’s when one gets all the bingo spaces which surround the free space in the middle of the card. Very exciting.
I returned to the T.V. room after, and watched part of the “Horse Soldiers,” with John Wayne and William Holden, part of “Run Silent, Run Deep,” and part of the “Running Man,” starring Arnold Swartzennegger. Stupid movie.
I went to bed after the movie. I had felt good today. Physically I had a lot of energy, but didn’t have much to direct it towards, except watching a lot of old movies. I didn’t feel like drinking today. I rarely do. I don’t enjoy the taste of alcohol, and never did. But left to my own devices, if there is nothing else around, I’ll start drinking, and then have a little problem with stopping.
I did feel like smoking a cigarette, however, but I didn’t. Hurray for me!
As always, I’m just doing it one day at a time. One thing at a time.
Slow and easy.
September 24 Monday Day 12
“Monday, Monday! Da da, da da da da!” I must be feeling pretty good.
Ernie Senes, the Operations Director, has decided that those who are not actually on duty, are not to be served early chow. Apparently, he has a large insect up his posterior. So this morning I slept in a little later, and got up around six-thirty, got dressed, and went down to eat with the rest of the folks at six-forty five. I didn’t need to take a shower before hand because I instinctively felt that I would be going back to bed after I ate, which I instinctively did, waking just in time for lunch. Tough life.
Lunch consumed, I went down to say hello to Noah. “Hello,” I said. She allowed me to rub her head. I then tried my hand at video chess.
Today was unique for two reasons. First, this was the day that I beat the video chess machine! It was a bloody battle, but I persevered. After the smoke cleared from the initial foray, I was left with my king, a knight, and a single pawn. My lowly opponent had only his king and several pawns to help him. Or her. I had the advantage. Calmly and meticulously, without fear or pity, I slowly and systematically slaughtered my enemies remaining pawns, leaving him only his scurvy little king. My remaining pawn bravely moved up the board toward the enemy’s domain with the devil king in hot pursuit. It would do him no good. My knight covered my pawn, making itself vulnerable to attack. My pawn finally pierced the foes threshold, and is if by magic, was instantly transformed into a glorious and beautiful queen. In a fit of desperation the opposing king attacked and quelled my brave and unselfish knight. This cowardly stroke was for not, however, as the lone king was checkmated by my victorious king and queen in two swift and devastating moves.
Very romantic.
I was left exhausted from the fight, but still had my shift to contend with.
Which brings me to the second unique event of this day. For the first time in my life I now know how to tie a tie. It might not seem like much to you, but for me it’s a big deal. Okay, Charles Perry, my co-worker at the front desk taught me. I used to have others tie them, and I would just tighten the slipknot each time I used it. Now I can do it myself, and was very surprised at how easy it was. This demonstrates that although at thirty-five years old, I had had little occasions to wear a tie.
Generally, I don’t like to wear ties. The look too much like a target to me.
What a day!
I worked with Mr. Vasquez. I prefer working with him, although I can’t read books, or drink coffee when I do. He had to leave just as Bible Study started, so I had to watch the desk and could not attend. Damn! It got real busy then. I had four counselors to contend with (they tend to be very needy), the Night Crawler, George Staub, and the usual people coming and going.
As my friend, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. says, “Busy, busy, busy.”
It all worked out pretty well though.
When Bob Vasquez returned, I joined George’s group counseling session. They had been talking about living with rules and a daily structure. George asked me if I had any problems with rules.
“Only when I’m drunk,” I told him.
The rest of the night went well. I had an egg and cheese sandwich from the canteen at eight. It was very good. After my shift I read for a while, then went to bed knowing I had the next two days off.
My desire for cigarettes did not manifest itself strongly, and all in all it had been a good day. I felt very good about how things were going, about being at the center and all. About getting my life together. It’s good to appreciate the good days that you have. They all seem to fly by so quickly.
I felt that I was finally on the right track.
September 25 Tuesday Day 13
Got up, had breakfast, went back to bed. Got back up, went downstairs and said hello to Noah. Noah said, “Auuuuccck!” I rubbed her head, and told her what a pretty bird she was. I lost miserably at two games of video chess, then went back upstairs to read and write.
Even though it was my day off, I was called to help out at the desk (“We must be flexible,” Mr. Vasquez told me), when Charles needed to see the chiropractors in the clinic. After dinner, I read and watched television until I was required to attend the A.A. Step Study meeting. Al was not there this week, so his buddy Sheldon took over for him. Sheldon had about thirty more days of sobriety than I did, so I didn’t know how much I could gain from his insight, but I listened politely.
It was soon clear that Sheldon didn’t know what he was talking about and saved us all a lot of embarrassment by showing a video instead of talking. The video was of a black man explaining the Third Step of Alcoholics Anonymous. What I remember of it was very good, but it did tend to put me to sleep. I remembered what he said about Christopher Columbus, though. He maintained that Columbus was an alcoholic because he thought the world was round when everyone else thought it was flat. When he started his voyage he didn’t know where he was going, when he got to the New World he didn’t know where he was, and when he came back to Europe he didn’t know where he had been. The final proof of his alcoholism being that the whole thing had been financed by a female!
When that meeting finished, I had a cheeseburger with onion from the canteen, then went to a non-mandatory advanced Step Study meeting. Much smaller, as far as attendance was concerned, we discussed what had happened to us in the recent past. What this had to do with the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous I had no idea, but I went with the flow. It was pleasant.
Later, I watched the last hour of “Sink the Bismark,” then retired to my boudoir. I got my laundry bag together for the morning, always exciting. I then read until precisely eleven-sixteen, then turned off my night light and went to sleep.
It had been another good day. I had learned something, got to know some of the people around me a little better, and started writing about September thirteenth. What could be better?
September 26 Wednesday Day 14
I got up real early, a little after five, grabbed my laundry bag (Salvation Army plastic thrift store bag), went to the basement, and stuck my dirty laundry (whites and colors. I do not discriminate) in the washer. I went back upstairs to shower. I had brought my razor and soap with me in the hope that I wouldn’t have to go in and out of my dorm and disturb my slumbering roommates. What I had forgotten was my towel. I didn’t remember that I hadn’t brought it until I was already in the shower, and all wet and everything. So when I got out of the shower I was forced to put on my pants while soaking wet, went to my dorm and retrieved my towel, and went back to the restroom to dry and get dressed.
I finished my laundry, and had breakfast. Then I went to check on Noah. She was okay.
I watched the news on T.V., and lost miserably at chess again. I read a lot, and wrote a lot, until dinner actually. I began reading a collection of long short stories by the horror writer, Clive Barker (this guy is obviously disturbed, a really good writer, but very sick).
Chapel should have been the only official activity for me this evening, and I had hoped I would be able to watch the two hour season premier of “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” afterwards, but my workmate, Charles threw me a curve. He had somehow gotten permission to attend an outside A.A. meeting during his regular shift, and I was volunteered to work for him while he was away. I need to have a long talk with Charles. He will make these little excursions on his own time from now on, not mine.
George Staub got all of us desk people together before Charles left. We discussed the Privacy Act, and how we are not to discuss with anybody, on the phone or in person, who or who is not a resident of this facility. We were told whom we should direct such inquiries to.
I did finally get to watch about three-quarters of the Star Trek show, and then went quietly, and with great dignity, to bed.
September 27 Thursday Day 15
I woke up around six-thirty, and groggily went down to breakfast. This was the day I had decided to start a diet, chiefly to combat my ever enlarging belly. So instead of wolfing down the sausage, waffles, and scrambled eggs that were offered, I demurely had a bowel of Lucky Charms cereal, and a cup of coffee.
After devotions, I went to the atrium to say hello to Noah, the parrot. Then I went to my dorm and read until lunchtime. Lunch consisted of a club sandwich, soup, and coffee. No more fried foods for me!
After another harrowing defeat at the hands of the video chess machine, the afternoon was spent reading and writing. I took a shower and was at work by two-thirty. On Thursday’s, Charles, Victor, and I are all on duty and the work is pretty easy with all three of us there.
Spaghetti for dinner. I don’t know how fattening it is, but I had some, along with garlic bread and salad.
I was required to attend the Substance Abuse Seminar at five-thirty, which this week consisted of a video of Father Donovan talking about alcoholism. This clergyman must have some experience with alcohol, and is a good public speaker, entertaining as well as informative. Five guys were late for the meeting, including my roommate, Gordon. Being the deskman on duty, I was the one who wrote them all up and informed them they would have a little extra work on Saturday because of their tardiness.
Seven-thirty brought the in-house A.A. Panel. Panels consist of visiting A.A. members coming here to relate their personal stories. Tonight, four people related their drunk-a-logs, in front of thirty guys who already knew how to get drunk and into trouble. Therefore emphasis is placed on the panel member’s history after they quit drinking. There was an exceptionally pretty blonde lady, Katherine, who told us all about her problems. She told us how easy it is to manipulate men. I believe her. She also told us about how she didn’t have any money, and all, and she didn’t know how she was going to pay this next month’s rent, but all was still okay because she was sober. This is all true and good. Getting drunk more than likely would not help her economic situation. However, I think she was completely and genuinely neurotic. I don’t know how good an example she was of life in sobriety, except to demonstrate how mucked up life can still be after five years without booze.
After work I went upstairs to the head (restroom), sat on the toilet, and read, as I have often done. I had finished one of the Barker stories (about hands turning against their owners), and decided to space out the remaining stories between different novels. So I began to read A Winter’s Tale, by Mark Halprin, mainly because the reviews were so good. We shall see.
I had felt alright today. I got a lot of stuff done, which usually helps to elevate my mood. I began my diet, and got through work rather well.
I read about a bad guy, Pearly Soammes, and a beautiful white horse until thirty minutes after midnight. Then I went to sleep under the first quarter moon.
September 28 Friday Day 16
I woke and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up and took a shower at five-thirty in the morning. After a light breakfast I immediately went downstairs and said hello to Noah, then started a game of video chess. Even though the computer had me at a disadvantage I prevailed, and for the second time, I won! A good way to start the day.
I went upstairs and read the paper. A company I used to work for and own stock in is thinking about selling itself to the Japanese, and it looks more likely the United States may get itself into a shooting war in Iraq. If we do, maybe I’ll reenlist.
At one time I was in the Navy.
I read and wrote a lot during the day. At four o’clock I collected my gratuity (six dollars and a canteen card). Now I have nineteen dollars and some change. I went to work at three-thirty. Nothing much happens around here on Friday nights, so it’s very laid back, an easy night to work, and boring as hell. The hardest thing I did was to stop myself from breaking my diet by getting something to eat from the canteen. To help stop the temptation, I spent all my canteen cards on deodorant (much to the delight of my roommates), and read my book. When I got off work at midnight, I read in the bathroom until after one, then went once again, peacefully and with great dignity to bed.
September 29 Saturday Day 17
Had some Lucky Charms for breakfast, a glass of milk and some coffee. I said hello to Noah, and played video chess. I get the strange, Twilight Zonish feeling, that I’m doing the same things each day, over and over again.
Better than drinking I guess.
I called my mom at ten-thirty. She lives in Arizona. Bullhead City, Arizona, to be exact. Everybody is alright in Bullhead, my mother assures me. My grandmother is getting her teeth fixed. I don’t exactly know what’s the matter with her teeth, but if I find out I’ll be sure to let you know.
Roger, the canteen man, came down to the video game area at a quarter to eleven, wanting to use the video machine. The one I was using was the only one available (the other was broken). In the game I was playing the computer had the advantage, but not much of one. I gave up though, at twelve-fifteen, so Roger could play awhile before lunch. I went to work.
All the guys who were supposed to be back by curfew made it back in time. As I had an early wake up scheduled for five, I swiftly made my way to my bedchamber after completing my chores for the evening. Adieu.
September 30 Sunday Day 18
I keep thinking (hoping) that Wolfman will run out of stories to tell me about his life.
I am wrong.
At seven I had breakfast, and broke my diet a little. French toast and bacon.
During my morning shift I read when Mr. Vasquez was not around, which was most of the time. I also wrote.
After work, in which I was relieved seven minutes late by Charles Perry, I changed clothes and went down to say hello to Noah, then went to the video area. Somebody was using the video machine, so I turned on the other T.V., and watched “Key Largo,” with Humphrey Bogart (how many people do you know by the name of Humphrey these days?), Lauren Bacall, and Edward G. Robinson, who you just don’t see that much of anymore. A fine performance by the lovely Claire Trevor.
When the video machine was free I moved over and lost two games, then went to the rec. room to play bingo, and won. Oh Boy! Two canteen cards for me. I wanted to buy some shampoo from Roger, the canteen man, but he was out. I needed shampoo disparately, as the regular bar soap I had been using was giving me dandruff like crazy.
Flake City.
I had no alternative other than to cheat on my diet some more and used my new found wealth to buy an egg and cheese sandwich. And as I sat watching the VCR movie, “The Fog,” (based on a true story, I’m told) I decided I was hungry again. Roger was so busy by this time that it took me a full forty-five minutes to get a burger out of him. After I ate it, I returned to the small T.V. room to watch the end of the movie, but it was already over.
I returned downstairs to the video area, and grabbed an available T.V. set, to watch the season premier of David Lynch’s “Twin Peaks.” Mr. Vasquez came down twenty minutes later and told me the video area was supposed to be closed at ten o’clock. It was ten-twenty, so I went back upstairs, hoping that “Twin Peaks,” was on in one of the small T.V. rooms. It wasn’t, they were watching something else, so I went to bed.
I feel all right these days. No dramatic mood swings, no bouts of ecstasy or deep depression. Mainly I feel satisfaction knowing that I’m doing the best that I can. Doing the right thing (finally), right now, not in the future, not at some later date.
This is good. The best I could hope for really, and that’s fine. I feel a little guilty that I ate like a slobbering, gluttonous pig today, but hopefully the world will not end because of it and I’ll still be alive in the morning to carry on.I went upstairs and read the paper. A company I used to work for and own stock in is thinking about selling itself to the Japanese, and it looks more likely the United States may get itself into a shooting war in Iraq. If we do, maybe I’ll reenlist.
At one time I was in the Navy.
I read and wrote a lot during the day. At four o’clock I collected my gratuity (six dollars and a canteen card). Now I have nineteen dollars and some change. I went to work at three-thirty. Nothing much happens around here on Friday nights, so it’s very laid back, an easy night to work, and boring as hell. The hardest thing I did was to stop myself from breaking my diet by getting something to eat from the canteen. To help stop the temptation, I spent all my canteen cards on deodorant (much to the delight of my roommates), and read my book. When I got off work at midnight, I read in the bathroom until after one, then went once again, peacefully and with great dignity to bed.
September 29 Saturday Day 17
Had some Lucky Charms for breakfast, a glass of milk and some coffee. I said hello to Noah, and played video chess. I get the strange, Twilight Zonish feeling, that I’m doing the same things each day, over and over again.
Better than drinking I guess.
I called my mom at ten-thirty. She lives in Arizona. Bullhead City, Arizona, to be exact. Everybody is alright in Bullhead, my mother assures me. My grandmother is getting her teeth fixed. I don’t exactly know what’s the matter with her teeth, but if I find out I’ll be sure to let you know.
Roger, the canteen man, came down to the video game area at a quarter to eleven, wanting to use the video machine. The one I was using was the only one available (the other was broken). In the game I was playing the computer had the advantage, but not much of one. I gave up though, at twelve-fifteen, so Roger could play awhile before lunch. I went to work.
All the guys who were supposed to be back by curfew made it back in time. As I had an early wake up scheduled for five, I swiftly made my way to my bedchamber after completing my chores for the evening. Adieu.
September 30 Sunday Day 18
I keep thinking (hoping) that Wolfman will run out of stories to tell me about his life.
I am wrong.
At seven I had breakfast, and broke my diet a little. French toast and bacon.
During my morning shift I read when Mr. Vasquez was not around, which was most of the time. I also wrote.
After work, in which I was relieved seven minutes late by Charles Perry, I changed clothes and went down to say hello to Noah, then went to the video area. Somebody was using the video machine, so I turned on the other T.V., and watched “Key Largo,” with Humphrey Bogart (how many people do you know by the name of Humphrey these days?), Lauren Bacall, and Edward G. Robinson, who you just don’t see that much of anymore. A fine performance by the lovely Claire Trevor.
When the video machine was free I moved over and lost two games, then went to the rec. room to play bingo, and won. Oh Boy! Two canteen cards for me. I wanted to buy some shampoo from Roger, the canteen man, but he was out. I needed shampoo disparately, as the regular bar soap I had been using was giving me dandruff like crazy.
Flake City.
I had no alternative other than to cheat on my diet some more and used my new found wealth to buy an egg and cheese sandwich. And as I sat watching the VCR movie, “The Fog,” (based on a true story, I’m told) I decided I was hungry again. Roger was so busy by this time that it took me a full forty-five minutes to get a burger out of him. After I ate it, I returned to the small T.V. room to watch the end of the movie, but it was already over.
I returned downstairs to the video area, and grabbed an available T.V. set, to watch the season premier of David Lynch’s “Twin Peaks.” Mr. Vasquez came down twenty minutes later and told me the video area was supposed to be closed at ten o’clock. It was ten-twenty, so I went back upstairs, hoping that “Twin Peaks,” was on in one of the small T.V. rooms. It wasn’t, they were watching something else, so I went to bed.
I feel all right these days. No dramatic mood swings, no bouts of ecstasy or deep depression. Mainly I feel satisfaction knowing that I’m doing the best that I can. Doing the right thing (finally), right now, not in the future, not at some later date.
October 1 Monday Day 19
For some reason today, or this morning rather, I was acting really tired, or lazy even. I slept right through breakfast, and did not want to get up for devotions, but did, then promptly went back to bed and slept until I was rudely awakened by a call over the P.A. system, requesting my presence in the lobby.
I was to meet my individual counselor, Richard.
When I got down there, Jack Crosley told me that my counselor was in the restroom, and that I should wait for him in the dining area. I sat at a table by the coffee machine, and just finished pouring myself a cup, when an older white gentleman, with graying white hair, entered the room sitting on what looked like a miniature golf cart. This contraption zipped quite easily up to the table I was sitting at, where he introduced himself. I tried not to act as if it were unusual for a man to ride around on such a device, hoping that I wouldn’t say, or do anything that might offend him. I believe that those who are handicapped, and not as fortunate as most of us, should be treated with respect and dignity, and that they would probably like us to treat them as if they were whole physically, and offer them no special considerations, other that what as human beings they would normally expect and deserve. Nevertheless, I found myself preparing to ask this man if he would like a cup of coffee, and was going to get it for him, when he suddenly rose from his seat, walked over to the coffee maker, and poured his own.
This was Richard. An ex-policeman and fireman, among other things. In his fifties, he is working on his bachelors degree, has over three years sobriety, and two years without cigarettes. He uses the motorized cart so he won’t have to walk too much. Apparently he had injured his back in an accident and experiences a lot of pain if he over stresses himself. The cart, like his education, has been paid for by one federal agency or another, and he tells me that he must continue to go to school or the government will call in his loans and may take his little cart back.
I didn’t get much that was particularly beneficial to me from our session mainly because he tended to talk about himself for most of it, and those techniques to maintain sobriety that work for him (he’s very big on higher power (God) stuff), and repeats himself over and over again. I put up with it for three reasons: (1) I had no choice but to put up with it, (2) I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, or discourage him in any way, and (3) I need all the help I can get.
I think though, that I may be doing us both a disservice by not voicing my needs. I would think about this.
After being thoroughly counseled, I read and wrote for a while, then played to a draw in a game of video chess.
Mondays are my busiest days behind the desk. The rush starts at four o’clock, when the boys in the warehouse get off work. They come at me as if I were a lone running back, when out of the thin air a ball appears in my hands, before 100 defensive tackles. I give them their dorm keys as they come inside; at the same time I’m supposed to be on the lookout for unsightly bulges in the men’s clothing, suggesting misappropriated articles taken from the warehouse.
After the initial upheaval I get to juggle five different counselors, all wanting different things from me at the same time. I also get to make sure George Staub’s classes are announced and start on time, and I take roll call for each. I attend two meetings myself. Bible Study with George, in which he discussed the various social relationships Christ had during his lifetime, and to a lesser degree, how those relationships helped to ostracize him from the existing orthodox Jewish establishment. George pointed out that Christ’s affiliations were deep, uncritical, unbiased, loving, totally without malice, honest, courageous, on and on.
I imagine, that if there is a God, and he, she, or it cares, it would be very good to have a relationship like that with he, she, or it. Much to the laity’s advantage, you might say. Many adhere to the old saying: “If there is a God, and I believe in him, then I’m all right. If there isn’t a God, and I believe in him, then it doesn’t matter. But if there is a God, and I don’t believe in him, I’m in deep shit! So I’ll believe in God to minimize my downside risk.”
Seems a bit self-serving to me. We always want something back. But I don’t really want to get on the subject of religion. My mind is cloudy enough as it is without trying to figure out who and what entity created the universe, and for what purpose, and my place in it. Personally, I tend to lean toward the Buddhist tradition, the Zen variety (and have so since High School), but really am pretty eclectic about it, in a mild, non-fanatic sort of way.
My second meeting is group counseling with George. He gave each of the twelve guys there a paper cup and a pen or pencil, and said, “The cup represents you, now do something with it.” He then abruptly got up and left. I hate these psychological parlor tricks mainly because I think it demonstrates a lack of imagination and laziness on the part of the therapist. He gets to go off and do whatever, while we’re stuck with these stupid cups! I got into it after a while though, and in a very Zen manner, cut a whole in the bottom of my cup, and nothing else. This of course symbolized my openness and objectivity, and willingness to exchange ideas, information, and feelings. When George returned, we all took turns discussing our cups. Big deal.
But I think I will keep my cup forever.
October 2 Tuesday Day 20
My day off! Another big deal.
I got up early, just for the pure sweet hell of it, and made a mad dash down to the library to read the morning paper before there was a chance of it being dissected by the thoughtless horde. I am very interested in what’s happening in the Middle East.
After breakfast I went to the atrium and said hello to Noah, played chess, and watched the news on T.V. I lost the chess match, but noticed that Bryant Gumball was in Berlin, and that at four P.M., my time; East Germany will cease to exist. So much has happened in that part of the world recently, with the tearing down of the Berlin Wall, and now German reunification. Learning that Germany has been a leading supplier of chemical agents to Iraq gives me cause for concern.
In my dorm later, with no one there to disturb me except the sleeping form of Dennis Castle, the Night Crawler helper, I continued to read what has turned into a wonderful (and long) novel, A Winter’s Tale, I also started reading a page or two out of the Bible, beginning where I left off while I was at the Van Nuys center, with the Second Book of Samuel. It’s not that I’m converting, or anything, I’ve just never read the book before, and I feel that my education lacks by not having read it. I also read a chapter from the Time Life Science book, The Mind. I found little new information, but it served as a refresher for a subject I find fascinating.
I wrote after lunch. I not only made an entry concerning the events of October First, but also about what happened on the fourteenth of last month, my second day here, and my first full day of sober living. I finished at three-thirty and read until dinner, and continued reading until it was time for Step Study group, in which we reviewed the exact same material we reviewed the first time I went to this class. I discovered a very interesting thing during this meeting. This Twelve Step study class will only explore the first three steps over and over again for the remainder of eternity! That’s all they do there, the first three steps, week after week. I suppose this is beneficial for newcomers to A.A., and fits into the scheme of things considering the amount of client turnover that goes on around here. But even for new people in A.A., this is going to get pretty boring, very soon. I’m already bored and I have seventeen more mandatory classes to attend.
Such is life.
I decided to got to the outside A.A. meeting tonight, specifically with the idea of developing some kind of outside support system. Near eight o’clock we took a van into South Pasadena, just a block and a half away from where I had been arrested in the gas station toilet last month. The meeting was being held at the St. James Church, in the auditorium. A typical A.A. speaker meeting, in which a guest speaker delivers a monologue concerning their drinking career and recovery for about an hour. I sat near the front with Kevin, a new man at the ARC. As this was a brand new attempt at sober living for me, I felt compelled to identify when asked, as a newcomer with less than thirty days sobriety. I did not feel like an A.A. newcomer, nor actually was one, having been in and out of the fraternity for over eight years. Still, I had less than thirty days, which was the point.
During the coffee break a man did come up and introduce himself to me. His name was Bill, and he told me of the different meetings that could be found in the area. People are like that sometimes at A.A. meetings. They’ll come up and introduce themselves, and tell you about different meetings in the area.
The speakers name was Ed, a male, of Japanese ancestry. He was well dressed, and in his middle to late fifties. His accent was American, and he spoke of how his father was taken from him at the outbreak of World War II, and put into a concentration camp somewhere in America, and how he and his mother were also eventually interned, and how they all suffered. There’s a lot of suffering going on, past and present.
He spoke of their reunion, and of how alcohol first affected him, and how it changed the rest of his life. He spoke of his efforts to stop drinking, and what living without booze was like for him. You could tell that he has spoken like this before. He was very good at it, interlacing humor with tragedy, warmth with pain.
When I returned to the residence I went to bed after getting my laundry stuff ready for the morning. I read for a while, feeling kind of melancholy, then went to sleep, and did not dream.
October 3 Wednesday Day 21
My new alarm clock that Mr. Vasquez had gotten for me, went off at five. I got out of bed at five-twenty. I grabbed my laundry bag and soap, and went to the laundry room, which I found to be locked. This surprised me. Many things surprise me, but last night there had been no door to the entrance of the laundry room.
I took my stuff back to my dorm, and then went to the library to read the newspaper. After breakfast I read some of The Winter’s Tale, novel, and got sleepy, so I decided to take a little nappy. Victor Robinson woke me by coming into my dorm and attempting to fix a broken lock on the locker next to mine. While he was there I lobbied for my dorm, saying, “You know Victor, this is the cleanest dorm by far, and really should be the winner tonight for Best Dorm, or at the very least, the Most Improved!”
“At the very least is right,” he chuckled. My dorm, due to certain apathy within its membership, had about as much chance of winning tonight as I did surviving on the surface of Pluto in my underwear. But as Randall Patrick McMurphy once said, “I tried, Damn it! At least I did that!”
Jack Crosley came in a little later. He was actually doing the judging for tonight’s festivities. He had a clipboard and everything. He took notes on a piece of paper that was attached to that clipboard, checking for neatness, if all personal items had been put away, if beds were made, stuff like that. I tried the same ploy I had tried with Victor with much the same results.
I finished my nappy just in time for lunch, naturally. And after that, I read some from the Bible, and some from The Mind book, then wrote. At one point, I needed to find out how many hours Berlin was ahead of us here in Pasadena. This was so I could write that at four P.M. yesterday, East Germany would cease to exist, as you may recall.
Anyway, I called my trusty AT&T operator by dialing 00 on one of the pay phones in the lobby.
“AT&T. May I help you?”
I had said those very words anywhere from 350 to 650 times a day, five days a week, for almost three years.
I never worked for AT&T. I just used to like to say that a lot.
No, no, I’m kidding. Forgive me, please. Really, I had been a long distance operator for that company. Really!
“Yes,” I continued, “I need to know what time it is in Berlin right now, please.”
“Oh, all right. One moment.”
I had said, “one moment,” about as many times as I had said, “AT&T, may I help you?” I could hear the lady operator enter the information request on the Computerized Operator Mechanized Position Information System, or COMPIS. She had to press her international button on the main menu, the enter GE, for East Germany, the type in, “Berlin.” She asked me, “West Berlin? I guess it’s the same, isn’t it?”
I said, “Yeah.”
“They are eight hours ahead of us, which would make it 8:48 P.M.”
By pressing one more button she could have told me the major holidays celebrated in Germany, if that country accepted collect calls, and if you could use a calling card there. Another button and she could have named all the cities in Germany, or 95% of the rest of the world that was sophisticated enough to have a telephone system, for that matter.
Indeed, I have spent many bored hours gazing at the lists of names of all the world’s cities.
I asked her, “Are you in the El Monte office?”
“No,” she answered, “Burbank.”
That’s where I had worked. My mind instantly transported me to the very office that the operator who was talking to me was sitting in at that very moment. I was tempted to ask her if she knew Jan Williams, but I didn’t. I said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
Armed with the information I had needed I tried to continue writing, but I found that my thinking had short-circuited. I could not keep from remembering how I had blundered away a good job at the Burbank office of AT&T. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jan, the girl I had spent over a seventh of my life with. My thoughts of her were contradictory, as they often are. Intense anger, balanced by loving affection and longing.
I realized it would be pointless to continue in this remorse, so I tried to put Jan out of my mind and get on with my work.
I had agreed to cover for Charles Perry at the desk for a few hours tonight. In turn, he would do the same for me some time next week. He wanted to go to an outside A.A. meeting. He’s quite a social butterfly.
Chapel at five-forty five. We sang some songs, heard some testimonies. Ho hum. My dorm lost out on the awards deal.
I didn’t do any work at the desk, just handed out keys or took them in. I read a lot. When Charles returned I ate a donut, then went upstairs and crawled into bed.
Maybe it was because of the two large cups of coffee I had drank at the desk tonight (caffeine usually doesn’t bother me), but I couldn’t get to sleep for at least two hours. Maybe it was my thoughts of Jan. When I did sleep, under tonight’s full moon, I did dream.
October 4 Thursday Day 22
This morning I paid my respects to Noah, the parrot, won a game of video chess, and read sections of the three books I’ve already mentioned. I took a little nap in the afternoon, and then got ready for work.
Victor, Charles, and I would be working, but at two-thirty when I arrived, Victor was headed upstairs to take a long break (This was one of the two days in which he works from six on the morning until eleven at night), and Charles would be late, so I had the place to myself for the first hour or so.
Thursday nights are similar to Monday nights for me. Very busy, with lots of counselors to look after and meetings to go to. George Staub told me to be on the look out for two new counselors he was expecting this evening. A Charles and a Stacy. Charles showed up while I was eating dinner and was ushered into the Blue Room where George was eating. Stacy came about ten minutes later.
George had said that I would recognize or know Stacy when she arrived. He described her as a “cute, blonde girl.” Well, there certainly was a lack of those around here and she was all of what George said she would be, so it wasn’t too terribly hard to pick her out of the crowd. The word “beautiful,” could be used to describe Stacy. So could “beauteous, prepossessing, lovely, graceful, delicate, fair, comely, seemly, bonny, good-looking, eye-filling, photogenic, telegenic, well-favored, well-proportioned, curvaceous, shapely, symmetrical, harmonious, sightly, easy on the eyes, nifty, stunning, devastating, flawless, radiant, perfect, splendid, picturesque, resplendent, becoming, dazzling, magnificent, glowing, sleek, gorgeous, fine, attractive, enchanting, and undeformed.” She definitely made an impression on me. I was delighted to see no rings adorning her dainty fingers. I volunteered to escort her to the Blue Room to join George and Charles. She seemed quite pleasant and friendly, and I immediately started thinking about how I could successfully change counselors.
The Substance Abuse Seminar was the first class for me tonight. George elaborated upon the harmful affects alcohol and cocaine had upon the cardiovascular, central-nervous, and digestive systems. Old stuff for me, but a nice review. Charles and Stacy were in attendance.
A typical AA panel meeting later. I won’t go into it.
Nothing much else happened for the rest of the evening. One man checked out of the program. Another had apparently went to work in the morning and never returned to the residence. Two more empty beds.
I looked over at Charles Perry at about ten-thirty, and said, “I need to get a new counselor.”
“Who’s your counselor now?” he asked.
“Richard.”
“Which one?”
“The one that travels around in that little golf cart thing.”
“Oh,” he said.
“I need someone… someone… who understands me. Someone who can firmly show me the error of my ways, and teach to me how wonderful life can be. Someone who can point out the subtle intricacies of sober living, and the hazards of a continued reckless lifestyle, punctuated with endless bouts of alcoholic frenzy, of emotional turmoil, or drug orientated lunacy. Someone who will not be afraid to give of themselves freely, and be totally committed to my cause. Someone who can take the time to get deeply involved in my recovery, make it a personal issue. Someone who at once can be a friend, a teacher, a guide, someone with the most fantastic legs I’ve ever seen in my entire adult existence. Someone like…”
“Stacy.”
“Indeed.”
When I went to bed tonight, I read, and when I tried to go to sleep I had no trouble.
October 5 Friday Day 23
I read in today’s paper of a weapon that Iraq might have, and that the U.S. has just found out about. A weapon that may prove very effective against ground personnel, and stationary targets, such as troop encampments, oil rigs, and refineries, all of which are in abundance in Saudi Arabia, where our forces are massed. The weapon is named a Fuel-Air Device. If detonated properly it can be ten times as powerful as conventional explosives of the same size, which also creates a huge shock wave effect that could be comparable to a small nuclear bomb. The United States, it appears, does not stockpile this type of device, so presumably the only effective response to its use by the Iraqi’s would be to counter with nuclear or chemical weapons.
Frightening stuff.
It’s nice of the Central Intelligence Agency to tell us all of this after we got our boys and girls over there.
In other news, the U.S. government is broke after Congress voted down a new budget proposal that was backed by President Bush. I was kind of glad about that. The proposed tax seemed to unfairly tax the poor 7% more than they were already being taxed, and the wealthy only 2%. The Republicans and Democrats both voted down the issue, probably not due to its unfairness, but because it is an election year. Strange business politics. Mr. Bush has stated that he will veto any attempt to borrow money to keep the government in operation, which will hopefully bring about a quick solution to this crisis. We shall see. National parks are slated to close tomorrow.
I was taking a little nap when Robert (Mr. Vasquez) announced, “Pay day! Pay day! Pay day! Not May Day. Come on down and get your gratuity, gentlemen. In-house payday. Come on down,” over the PA system, at two-thirty. I raked in $7 and a canteen card, increasing my total net worth to $26.
I began work at three-thirty. It was my turn to go out to an outside A.A. meeting tonight, while Charles watched the desk for me. He tried everything his sleazy little mind could think of to get out of it, even offering me real money, but I held him steady. After all, it was a question of principle.
We went to the 202 Club, right in Pasadena. It reminded me very much of The Whole In The Wall, in Canoga Park, a small, informal gathering place. A fair participation meeting where alcoholics take turns talking about anything that comes to mind, hopefully something to do with coping through life without using alcohol. Little cliques of frequent members were apparent. Half of those there seemed just starved for attention, but that’s how we are.
I got back to the residence a little after ten, and finished my shift. I polished off A Winter’s tale, which if you like humorous and vague, modern fairy tales, I highly recommend it.
I went to sleep tonight remembering Peter Lake and his beautiful white horse, and that life can be very unfair and very cruel.
October 6 Saturday Day 24
I got up early and read the morning paper until five-forty five. The Smithsonian Museum and the Washington Monument are closed today due to a lack of funds. We are still in Saudi Arabia. Nothing much else that’s interesting. Oh, NASA finally got a shuttle into orbit after an extended period of delay due to mechanical difficulties. This mission will launch a satellite that will hopefully, after gaining momentum from a gravity assist by detouring around Jupiter, achieve a polar orbit around the Sun, allowing it to photograph and study those never before seen regions.
At five-forty five I went to the basement near the pianos, to a lone chair in a secluded corner. I have started to practice meditation once again. I have been doing so since last Thursday, and I apologize for forgetting to mention it. I’m starting out slowly, with only ten minutes a day. I find it pleasant and relaxing.
After a hearty breakfast I played a game of video chess, and won. I said hello to Noah, the parrot. Noah was fine and doing well. Victor came down and asked me if I would cover for him at the desk for a couple of hours while he attended a driver’s education class. He himself was covering for Mr. Vasquez, who had left the building on some personal errand. So at nine o’clock I went to the desk, and read and wrote for most of the time I was there. Victor returned at eleven-eleven.
After lunch I played another game of video chess, feeling lucky. It was a long, drawn out affair, and although I did not win, I did not lose either. The game ended after my meretricious opponent was left with a king and a knight, to my lonely king. It could have gone on until the Big Crunch (or the Big Freeze, depending on how much mass is around) at the end of the universe, so I ended it, calling it a draw, thereby giving the video chess machine no chance to catch me unawares and do me some devious trickery.
After this exhausting battle of wits, I relaxed by reading another of Barker’s short stories, this one concerning evangelists and ghosts in a Texas motel the went to work.
Since Victor supposedly worked the day shift, I had the distinct honor and pleasure of working with the unflappable Robert Vasquez, formerly of Globe, Arizona. This meant that I was not allowed to drink coffee at the desk, or openly read a book, both of which I did anyway when Mr. Vasquez meandered off on one of his many excursions throughout the building, and to points beyond.
I shall now go so far as to venture forward into real time, and state unequivocally that I am now writing this from the desk, at by my watch (Seiko alarm chronograph, a gift from my lovely mother), precisely eleven-fifty and forty-four seconds A.M., on Sunday, the seventh of October, 1990, during my six to two-thirty tour of duty. I will now go back in time (for the sake of those who get nauseous easily after too much bouncing about) to Saturday night, where I have just now gotten into bed and fallen asleep.
October 7 Sunday Day 25
The Wolfman woke me at five, a horrible experience in itself, let alone the early hour. I actually got out of bed at five-thirty, and stumbled into the bathroom, where I came to the conclusion that I really didn’t need a shower, so I stumbled back into my dorm where I put on my spiffy Sunday uniform, then stumbled down to the desk, and was hard at work by five-forty-five.
While reading the Sunday paper I tried in vain to ignore Wolf as he told me everything I didn’t want to know about his past. Mr. Vasquez began his six A.M. shift at six-forty five. His shift ends at eleven P.M. He has a long day ahead of him.
Nothing earth shaking happened during the shift. Someone called to tell us that they had lost their wallet and keys yesterday in the Alhambra store, and wanted to know if those items had were still in the store (fat chance). They were really adamant about it, so Robert took a drive over there to look. He didn’t come back until after my shift, at two-thirty, so I didn’t find out if he found anything (fat chance).
While chapel service had been going on upstairs, I had practiced meditation behind the desk, and had done all my writing for the day, so after work I changed my clothes and read. After dinner I watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” on T.V., a particularly insightful and touching episode in which Captain Picard went on leave (after last weeks terrifying abduction by the Borg) to his family home in France to visit his estranged brother. The human parents of Mr. Worf (an adoptee, just like me), a Klingon, paid him a visit aboard the Enterprise, and for his eighteenth birthday present, Wesley viewed a holographic message from his long dead father.
Family night!
And then, Bingo time! The fun never ceases.
I lost miserably.
Licking my wounds, I thought that a win at the video chess might make me feel better about myself. I was doing pretty well until I let my queen be taken by a wretched, pox-ridden, little pawn that came out of nowhere. I conceded the game.
Downtrodden, I retired to my room, and continued to read “Songs from Distant Earth,” a novel I had started earlier in the day, from Arthur C. Clark, my favorite sci-fi author.
I then went to sleep, dreaming of smoking cigarettes on worlds far away.
October 8 Monday Day 26
I laid comatose for twelve hours, missing morning devotions. At ten-thirty, I crawled out of bed, took a shower, and except for the tie, dressed for work. I read a little, then ate lunch, after which I read some more, then wrote until it was time for work.
No time for video chess today. I waved to Noah from the lobby window. Noah waved back.
I relieved Charles Perry at two-twenty five. Monday’s begin quite deceptively, nice and quite at the beginning with no one around… a raging panic near the end. My shift partner and boss, Mr. Vasquez, went across the street to the weekly staff meeting, and I was alone. I could do anything I wanted to. Exercise my power as a desk man to its uppermost limits, give conflicting, or nonsensical orders, have everyone do my bidding or I’d toss them out on their ear. Have my way with helpless female counselors as the become enthralled by the way I exude power and leadership, strength and security. Run amok if I so desired.
I usually settle for sneaking a cup of coffee to the desk before Robert gets back, which he did ten minutes early today, at two-fifty.
He asked me how I was. “Mr. Joyce,” he said, “how are you?”
I said, “Fine, sir.”
“Good,” he says.
He gave me the mail, and the reentry program appointment slips for the coming week, which I placed in the appropriate key boxes, to be given to the appropriate residents, as they returned from work at the appropriate time. Mr. Vasquez disappeared. The Night Crawler began its nightly crusade. I got to monitor its progress as it made its way through Covina, El Monte, The City of Industry, Pomona, Alhambra, Tujunga, La Canada, then back to good old Pasadena.
I juggled five counselors, plus George Staub. We also had a visit from the wife of the Territorial Commander, Mrs. Col. Allen. She came to pick up a suspicious package.
I attended two meetings, Bible Study, and group counseling, directed by George. In Bible Study I learned about some interesting details concerning the basic differences between Christianity and Judaism, and aspects of the political situation during the time of Christ.
I missed the beginning of group counseling because Robert had not returned from disappearing yet, but when I got there they were talking about having dreams of using drugs and alcohol. I related that that very morning, I had dreamt of smoking cigarettes. I told them I could not remember any details of the dream, but that I had woke thinking about how good it would be when I had my first cigarette of the day, feeling disappointment as I became more alert and remembered that I had quit smoking (damn alertness!), then feeling proud of myself because I had quit, then forgetting about it altogether. I told the group that this was the first such dream I have had of this nature, and that I was a little surprised that I had not had more. If I continued not to act because of dreams like these, or rather, not smoke because of them, then they didn’t particularly bother me, or cause me undo concern. It is a little scary though, when you realize that your own subconscious, or dreams, can help to do you in.
The rest of the night went fairly well. One client, who had gone to the hospital in the morning, did not come back, and didn’t bother to call us to explain why, so we gave him the boot (discharged him from the program).
After work I went to bed and read for a while, then took a right turn into dreamland.
October 9 Tuesday Day 27
I managed to get up early today. Earlier than yesterday at least. I was out of bed at six-twenty five, and first in line for breakfast at six-thirty. After devotions, I meditated for ten minutes, then equipped with a calm, clear, peaceful attitude, and a wonderful sense of serenity, I proceeded to attack the cunning, insidious, and guileful video chess machine, and was summarily wiped out four times!
I don’t believe I wish to discuss this matter further.
I received a card from my mother in the mail. It was of the “Don’t give up hope, it will be all right, every cloud has a silver lining,” variety. She must think I’m really depressed, which I’m not. I’m getting along well with everybody. Because of my job I come into contact with all the guys on a daily basis, so isolating is hardly a problem, as it has frequently been in the past. I do my job well, and get along easily with my boss, Mr. Vasquez. That is usually a good thing. I attend all my meetings, and am there on time, so George is happy with me. I have pleasant, although short, conversations with Major Johnson every Sunday morning. I mind my own business. I get the feeling that I am generally well liked, and may even be respected a little bit, possibly because I believe myself to be fair and don’t abuse the power others may think I have, which of course, is in itself a form of power. And people are surprised by my quite endearing, and sometimes offbeat sense of humor. For my part, I am comfortable here. I have no desire to stay here any longer than I need to, but for right now I think that this is a good place for me to be. The price is right. Early sobriety is a delicate time, and as I’ve said before, right now I’m taking it very easy, very slowly, one day at a time, one thing at a time.
And I’m not depressed. Nice of my mom to send the card though.
Dinner over, I read until it was time to for the Step Study meeting. Steps 1, 2,and 3, over and over.
I went to the outside A.A. meeting next. Seven of us were driven to the same church we went to last week. A professional comedian was the speaker tonight, and he was quite good. Very Funny. At least the parts that I heard. My attention did wander a bit toward the beautiful brunette in the second row who was there to get her court card signed (a document designed to prove attendance at12 Step meetings for the judiciary).
We returned to the center by ten-fifteen, and I went to bed and finished reading the Clark book. It was a good book, and a good way to end the day.
October 10 Wednesday Day 28
The Clark book must have taken a lot out of me, as I slept in until nine. When I did get up, I showered, then went to the dinning room and had a cup of coffee (after getting dressed). I got through my reading and writing for the day, and started a new Time/Life book, Food and Nutrition, also a new novel, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. So far, it’s very funny. I have a sneaking suspicion that the author is British.
I even found time to play five games of video chess, winning three! NOT TOO SHABBY! I do admit that after yesterday I may have gotten a bit carried away. During my second victorious game I wiped my enemy clear off the board except for the king, which I toyed with, showing no mercy. I transformed all my remaining pawns into queens, surrounded the hapless king, and began to squeeze.
Overkill?
Yes, and delightedly so! I even went so far as to leave the checkmated king on the board when I left the basement for a break, so my unequivocal triumph would imprint itself forever upon the computer’s memory circuits.
I was trounced horribly in the very next game.
Chapel service was short because Ernie Senes gave the message. Ernie does not like to talk in front of large groups. My dorm lost the awards again.
At seven o’clock twelve of us piled into the van, and ventured into northern Pasadena, Altadena actually, to a small church for another outside meeting. Not an A.A. meeting however, Cocaine Anonymous (C.A.) tonight. A lively participation group.
I am not addicted to cocaine. I have used it in the past, and have always thought it a nice, pleasant drug, but exceedingly expensive for the slight effect it produces. I don’t believe I’ve actually bought the drug, or if I did, only once or twice. I’ve gotten it mostly from other people who’ve turned me on to it (gave it to me). My second wife, Debbie, gave me a lot, she having been a dealer in the substance. At the time I was introduced to the drug the street price was anywhere from $100 to $120 for a gram of the white powder. A gram is a very small amount which I could consume in one sitting easily, and still it’s effect would be difficult to detect and short lived. That was the reason that I didn’t purchase the drug usually, though I never turned it down if it were offered to me.
This was way before people began smoking condensed versions of cocaine, crack, or “free base.” I have never done this. I have been told that I am fortunate that I haven’t because this method of consumption of this version of the drug is extremely addictive. I believe them. This is one time I am willing to learn from other people’s experience. In this matter I am very wise, and display vast maturity.
But only in this matter.
The price of powder cocaine has remained fairly stable throughout the years. It seems to be inflation proof.
During the meeting one man took a chip (a small plastic token, similar to poker chip, designating various periods of sobriety) for eighteen months without using the cocaine. He shared this with us, “I drank and used drugs for twenty seven years, and never lost anything. I had a car, family, house, job, lots of money. Then I started smoking crack, and within three years I lost it all.”
Those of us who attend these meetings are all (usually) substance abusers. That is why though primarily an alcoholic and nicotine addict, I can attend C.A. and Narcotics Anonymous (N.A.) meetings, and feel a part of them, and gain something from them that might help me with my own addictions. What happened to that man with cocaine happened to me with alcohol. I simply took a little longer than three years for me to lose everything. Some who go to these meetings are disdainful, or intolerant of others who use a different drug than the one that they use. This is nothing less than silly. Alcohol, cocaine, and narcotics are all used for the same reason, and all can make you equally dead. C.A., N.A., and many others, have taken and used the tenants of Alcoholics Anonymous because they have proven to work for a large number of individuals over significant periods of time.
I believe it may be the only thing that can work for me.
We shall see.
October 11 Thursday Day 29
A brand new day begins. A beautiful, lovely day here in sunny Pasadena. Great to be alive! Great to be able to get out of bed in the morning. Great to have a bed to get out of. Every sober day is a good one!
Don’t you just hate cheerful people early in the morning? I do.
I crawled out of bed at five-fifteen, and crawled down to the library to read the morning paper. Nothing important is happening except for the folks who keep getting themselves killed during training exercises in Saudi Arabia, especially at night. Pilots claim that they’re having difficulty seeing in absolute darkness. Imagine that. Ha! What the hell are we paying these high-tech, turbo jockeys for anyway? We give them the latest in night vision technology, so what if there’s no depth perception and they can’t tell the desert floor from the sky! That’s what altimeters are for, if they’re working. These helicopters and jets cost a lot of money! Please, let’s have some consideration for the American taxpayer.
Enough of current events.
I went to the basement, to the lone chair by the pianos to meditate. After ten minutes, the cool, clear, effervescent, silky sounds of the Wolfman’s voice permeated my stilled conscious. “Good morning Gentleman! This is your six o’clock wake up! Your six o’clock wake up! This is laundry day for dorms forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, for rooms twenty-four and twenty-five. Breakfast will be in forty-five minutes. Six o’clock wake up!”
We get this every morning.
In my room I read the Bible for a while. I made my bed, then went to the rec. room, and watched the morning news in T.V., while reading a novel. I got in line to eat. I ate. I then listened to morning devotions.
I won a game of video chess before being wiped out four times in a row.
I wrote for a while, then changed into sweats and worked out in the weight room for thirty minutes, doing sit ups mostly, push ups, stretching, plus some lifting of heavy objects.
Work was somewhat hectic this evening. George was running around getting everybody all excited. Victor couldn’t seem to quite get a handle on things, and Charles quite simply, couldn’t be bothered. I performed flawlessly though, keeping my head while those around me were losing theirs.
The lovely Stacy came tonight, ignoring me completely. Next week I will ignore her and play hard to get. Unfortunately, this ploy usually winds up with me not getting got. A definite indication of imperfection of design.
Damn.
Substance Abuse Seminar dealt with the curious phenomena of relapse, as you’ll recall, something I’m intimately familiar with. Again, old stuff for me, but a good review. I am happy to say that at the present time I do not seem to be suffering from relapse warning signs. But wait! Could that in itself be a relapse warning sign? I know I don’t feel like relapsing today, so I’ll worry about it tomorrow. If tomorrow comes.
The A.A. Panel was typical, but interesting. Tonight’s message seemed to be that’s all right to be brain damaged, or half crazy.
After work I went to my room and talked to my roommate Gordon for a while. I think I’m falling madly in love with his daughter, although I’ve only seen her once. I’ve talked to her on the phone twice when she was looking for her dad. Her name is Dori. What a nice name for a girl to have. She’s in her middle twenty’s probably, and very cute, although she does look a little like her father.
It seems that it’s pretty easy for me to fall madly in love right now, a direct consequence of being sober. I’ll have to watch myself.
October 12 Friday Day 30
Got up, read the paper, meditated, ate breakfast, listened to devotions, played chess, lost, wrote, read, had lunch, read again, took a nap, and got ready for work.
I did not exercise for four reasons. First: I’m lazy. Second: After my big workout yesterday, I was really sore. Most of my muscles ached, which I suppose means that they got a good workout, which is a good thing, but it’s not very good for things like moving. Third: I had heard that the maintenance crew was working on the hot water heater, so I assumed that it may have been impossible to shower after exercising. Fourth: I’m lazy.
I will start again on Monday.
At three-thirty I started work. I called the Pasadena Counsel on Alcoholism, and asked about a particular text I had begun to use at the Canoga Park center concerning relapse prevention. They gave me the author’s name and where I might find a copy. George Staub also wanted to know.
It was a distinct pleasure and honor for me to take myself, Rico Montgomery, and one other client, off the restriction list for tomorrow. It has been thirty days here. Thirty good days.
MISSING DAYS
October 16 Tuesday Day 34
Partial At the LAC/USC Medical Center (General Hospital)
Shklovskii, Intelligent Life in the Universe). Mr. Strauber is also a successful novelist. I have read one of his other books, Wolfen, about super-smart wolves in New York, which was made into a movie starring the irrepressible Albert Finney.
One must not be naïve about these things. In order to maximize profits, Mr. Strauber could be exploiting a public craving for stories of the weird and unexplained. Indeed, Communion, has been on the bestseller lists. Factually he provides little credible evidence, and his personal testimonies are tainted by his vested interest in promoting this account. Having said that, it is an interesting book all the same.
While waiting I managed to make an entry into this journal. It’s good to be economic with your time. We have so little of it.
At precisely seven-thirty, a black lady opened the door to the office, and gave to each of us who were waiting a numbered ticket. Mine was number one. That accomplished, she then instructed us to go to another part of the hospital. We all filed off, one after another to that location, finding no one there. Twenty minutes later a whole slew of individuals appeared out of nowhere, some of them handing out more numbered tickets. I got one of those, and again my number was one. We were then instructed to wait some more (they’re very big on waiting here). Five minutes later a man wearing a stethoscope around his neck called out my number and asked what it was I needed. I told him that I would like to make an appointment with a dermatologist. He asked why I needed to see a dermatologist. I told him I had a rash. He then asked if he could see it, the rash that is, that he could probably give me some medication today. I said okay. We went into a screened examination area, and I showed my rash to him.
I sure hope he was a doctor.
He told me that I should stop wearing tight fitting underwear, and all my pants should be made of cotton. I said, sure. He then gave me another numbered ticket and instructed me to go back to the office where I started out.
At the office where I had started out, the same black lady took my numbered ticket and instructed me to take a seat in the first row of chairs that they had there. Five minutes later she called me to one of the interviewing windows and began asking me a lot of administrative type questions, like how I intended to pay for the medical services I would soon be receiving. I told her that I had no intention of paying for anything, that I was homeless and unemployed (even though I was living at the Salvation Army, legally I was considered homeless). She said, okay, that that was fine, that I would need to go to the billing office anyway within the next ten days, and apply for the Ability To Pay program (A.T.P.). I assured her I would do this. The billing office was right in front of the hospital in trailer number 21. I knew exactly where it was. She then gave me some paperwork, surprisingly without a numbered ticket, and instructed me to go back to the place I had just come from and dump all my completed paperwork into a basket that they had there. That accomplished, another black lady called me. We went into a small booth where she took my temperature and blood pressure. She wrote out an appointment slip for the dermatologist and a prescription note for some ointment that I could pick up before leaving.
I said, “Thank you,” then left.
I walked to the pharmacy down the hall and turned in my prescription. It would take about an hour, so instead of walking around aimlessly and getting depressed remembering the last time I had been here, I decided to take care of the A.T.P. application, and went outside to trailer 21, and got into a big line. I was not number one there, and so had to wait. An hour and a half. When I was finished, I got my prescription, and got the hell out of there.
Naturally, I got back to the residence right before lunch. Tostados. Afterwards, I talked to Richard, my counselor, and told him how swell I was doing. He was glad to hear it.
I read and wrote some more during the afternoon. Lost a game of video chess.
At the weekly Step Study meeting we learned all about Steps One, Two, and Three.
Instead of going to an outside A.A. meeting tonight, I decided to stay at the residence and relax, citing fatigue after getting up so early this morning. I planned to go out tomorrow and get my chip.
I went to my dorm, intending to lie down and read, and maybe get to sleep early. I wound up going out with my roommate, Gordon, to the Radio Shack store in the mall along Colorado Blvd. He needed something from there. It was a pleasant walk, a clear, cool evening, and I enjoyed talking to Gordon, a fifty year old ex-con, who was still feeling uncomfortable living outside of prison.
As I have mentioned, he has an attractive daughter.
We stopped by the pet shop while at the mall. I looked at the parakeets. I wanted to replace the one that had died, so the other wouldn’t be so lonely. They were too expensive for me though.
I got back and wrote a little, the went to bed and read until I fell asleep…
October 17 Wednesday Day 35
…for almost twelve hours. I had planned to get up early and go run around the park a few times, but I guess I didn’t want to bad enough. Anyway, I got out of bed… actually, I just reached across my bed to my nightstand and grabbed my Bible, and read a few chapters, then finished the “Food and Nutrition” book. Now I am an expert on food and nutrition, and can one day be a trophologist.
I had early lunch (no one seems to be paying much attention to Mr. Senes edict about eating early), then took off to the park with my radio headphones and blanket, and relaxed in the warmth of the sun for an hour, rediscovering the joys of music and ants.
While sitting in the park I thought about the pros and cons of going back into the Navy. The pros: the Navy is a steady and secure job, with plenty of opportunity for advancement. If I went back in I could conceivably save a virtual shit load of money by not drinking away all my earnings. If I don’t drink it would be unlikely that I’d spend money chasing around exotic women. I could also save by living on board ship, and I don’t even smoke anymore. That’s about a thousand a year, right there. I would once again have the opportunity to travel around the world, and by remaining sober, hope to actually remember some of it. My family would once again have reason to be proud of me, and I might be able to continue my education at little or no cost.
The cons: tomorrow the United States (whose particular Navy I would be interested in joining) may be at war, and there would be an inherent possibility I could get killed. A serious consideration.
I do not believe myself to be an exceptionally brave person, or a hero type guy, but I don’t think the threat of harm to myself would stop me from doing something I felt strongly about, or from trying to protect someone I cared for. Hell, I’ve already been killing myself for years with alcohol.
But it’s hard for me to get all worked up, and patriotic and all, about participating in a war which is essentially about an automobile lubricant. I mean really… why should I die or be injured (or anyone else for that matter) to keep the price of gasoline low. I can imagine a whole slew of better, more noble causes I’d consider sacrificing myself for (distressed damsels), not that I’m all that eager to become a martyr.
Besides, when I look at what I wrote for the reasons for returning to the Navy, I realize that those reasons constitute a cop out, or have illusory meaning for me. I can certainly continue my education as a civilian (others do it all the time… teenagers even), for little or no cost, starting earlier than if I were in the service. Contrary to popular belief I’m not getting any younger, and the sooner I start my extended education, the better. After school I should be able to find a decent job, for a reasonably fair amount of pay (despite Reagan and Bush). I’m usually pretty good about saving money (when I’m sober), so that should be no problem. There are only a few places in the world that I haven’t been that I’d like to see, and the Persian Gulf isn’t one of them. My family would be proud of me whatever I did, as long as I kept my act together. I can’t be doing things for them anyway. I must do things for myself, because I want to do them. And I remember, that while I was in the Navy, about the only thing I ever thought about was getting out. I remember why too. The long hours, the Mid-watches, the endless, thankless jobs. The infantile, idiot officers I was forced to work for. On and on.
My thirty-fifth birthday is coming up in a little over a week, the cut off age for reenlistment.
I think I’ve decided not to join, and I believe my reasoning is sound.
My stress factor declined considerably.
I still have time to change my mind though.
Something very strange happened after dinner. I was in my dorm, talking to Gordon while changing my pants for chapel. As I was leaving the room he asked me if I wanted a kiss. I said, “What?” He said, “Do you want a kiss?” and pursed his lips together and approached me. I laughed it off, and closed the door between us. I thought he was joking, but the more I thought about it the more it disturbed me.
Gay guys really crack me up.
He really had been in prison too long.
And what was it about my demeanor that would indicate to Gordon I may be receptive to his amorous advances? I’m obviously a virile, potent, exceptionally handsome and healthy heterosexual, manly man. Oh well.
I was sitting in church, minding my own business, when Mr. Vasquez called me out to relieve Victor at the desk. Robert wanted Victor to read the responsive reading part of the service. I was only too glad to help out.
After chapel I changed clothes and walked to the supermarket, and stole about twenty-five bucks of stuff that I needed. Sunglasses, shampoo, toothpaste, batteries, and a comb.
I know! It was very, very bad of me, and I’ll never do it again!
I went to the outside A.A. meeting at the Women’s Club in South Pasadena. A speaker meeting. Nice. Lots of women there, appropriately enough. No chips. The van was about a half an hour late in picking us up afterwards, so when I got back I went straight to bed.
October 18 Thursday Day 36
Last night I had set my alarm for five, and actually got up at five after five. Amazing. I truly sprang out of bed, got my jogging shoes and sweat shirt (I had slept with my sweat pants on), took my radio headset, and five minutes later was running around the park listening to old Beatles songs. Nothing quite like it.
I read the paper when I got back. Still hassling about the budget.
After breakfast I went back over to Union Station. I like this meeting. It’s short, only an hour long. There’s not much but homeless and poor people there, just like me. Not much risk of this turning into a fashion show. This place reminds me of where I came from such a short time ago, and where I could return by taking just one drink.
The folks who live here, and others like myself who rely on institutions like the Salvation Army, or the United States government, are in a tenuous position at best. I know the Park is only a few blocks away, and I must work hard everyday in order to keep myself from going back there. I must also remember the unfairness of life, and that I do everything I can, everything that my nature allows to keep myself above water, still something, anything might happen (like Victor finding an empty liquor bottle I didn’t have anything to do with in my locker when I’m not there), and SNAP! Back in the soup again.
Not much different from you, dear reader. Us homeless are a downtrodden mirror of yourself. If things take a turn for the worse the soup is there for all of us. One paycheck away from it, as some would say (but certainly not me). Don’t count on Uncle Sam to help. Oh he’s glad to take our hard earned money, but quite indifferent to our precipitous fortunes, believe me.
Uncle Sam is out for himself, greedy, selfish bastard.
Am I being cynical? Am I being unfair and prejudicial in nature. Am I over generalizing huge and specific problems facing our society at large?
Yes, and delightedly so! At the same time I realize it’s nobody’s fault that I am an alcoholic, and that I’m in the mess that I’m in. According to recent theory it’s nobody’s fault (except perhaps my biological parents, but I’d choose alcoholism to never having been born, any day), not even mine. I did not wake up one morning all enthusiastic about becoming an addict and homeless person. But I am stuck with the reality of the situation, and am aware that I must deal with these problems by myself, because I know now that no one else can do it for me. I’ve tried. I’ve gone on for years thinking others might solve my problems for me. That always got me further into the pit.
But that does not mean we cannot ask for help. We are unlikely to cope alone. That’s what A.A. is all about.
A lot of those at the Union Station meetings are still on the street with no homes to go to, wanting a meal, or a cup of coffee. Half of them I wouldn’t trust further that I can spit a rat. Some of them make very perceptive observations about themselves, a prerequisite for change.
“All my life I’ve compared myself to other people and asked why am I so poor, while there’s so many rich people around. All the time I thought God had it out for me, so it was okay to do the things I did, because he didn’t care anyway.”
Or
“I’ve never met anyone who was not worse off for knowing me.”
Both of the above statements demonstrate a dire loss of self-esteem that prevails throughout the ranks of those afflicted with problems of addiction.
These are not stupid, worthless people here, although they may feel that way about themselves. There is much potential in this room. What is happening with our homeless and addicted is a human tragedy of enormous proportions, occurring not in some foreign third world country that is helpless to do anything about it, but right around the corner from where we live, affecting our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers.
And the problem won’t go away; it’s been destroying human lives for millennia. Our country has not formulated a realistic, workable solution to it, substituting politically based prohibitive and punitive measures, rather than utilizing preventive and therapeutic substantive goals that may actually help to alleviate the misery we, the affected experience on a daily basis. No, our pattern has been to ignore the problem, sweep it under the carpet in hopes that it will go away, while all we get is a lumpier carpet, which we continuously trip over.
Sad, sad, so very sad.
Back at work, we lost a man. An older gentleman by the name of Rodolfo. He didn’t make it back by the eleven o’clock curfew. I had seen him this morning as I came back from my run. He had asked me if I had any cigarettes, or if I had change for a dollar. I told him no, that I didn’t. I don’t smoke anymore, and at the time I didn’t have any pockets to carry change. Later in the day I thought I saw him lying down in the Park, but wasn’t sure that it was him. I found out that he had been missing from work, and when his counselor came looking for him he was no where to be found. Ron Collins from the warehouse, told me that he thought Rodolfo had been drinking. When I remembered the man in the Park, it did look as if he were passed out. We marked him as A.W.O.L.
That’s how we are. We come and go. The odds are stacked against us.
It could have been me out there. In the Park. So I learned from Rodolfo’s sadness. This is one way we come to understand.
Alcohol has won a small battle today.
My war continues.
October 19 Friday Day 37
Apparently my request for another parakeet has been rejected. I had filled out a parakeet purchase order:
ITEM: REPLACEMENT PARAKEET – BLUE (Melopsittacus undulates)
$17.00 - $25.00
DUE TO THE RECENT LOSS OF OUR BLUE PARAKEET (SKIPPY)
SURVIVING BIRD (ESMERELDA) APPEARS TO BE FORLORN
POSSIBLE PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA EXPERIENCED
HOPEFULLY SITUATION MAY BE REVERSED
WITH INTRODUCTION OF “NEW BIRD”
SUGGESTED NAME: THORNTON
IMMEDIATE ACTION ADVISED
Mr. Vasquez called me over.
“Mr. Joyce, a word with you please. What’s this parakeet psychological stuff? Don’t make waves. I’m just waiting for the other one to kick off. Request denied. And don’t go saying anything to the Major! I got rid of the fish, you know!”
Under the circumstances I’m left with only two alternatives. Do nothing, and hope that the Major will rectify the situation all on his own; or buy a bird myself and donate it to the center, anonymously perhaps. For the time being I can only do nothing.
A lady came in at about mid-shift complaining that one of our ex-clients was abusing her nineteen-year-old daughter. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing we could do for her. The center is not responsible for the people who leave here, nor are we responsible for their conduct outside of the residence. How could we be? We suggested she contact the police.
Alcoholics and drug addicts are just like everybody else, except they happen to be alcoholics and drug addicts. There are good ones and there are bad ones. Well adjusted and maladjusted. Some people are sicker than others.
A couple of empty bottles of whiskey were found in Rodolfo’s locker today. This was the second time he’d left the center due to resumption of usage. I wish him a quick return to sanity, and peace for his family.
October 20 Saturday Day 38
I don’t believe I slept more that thirty minutes last night. For some reason I just couldn’t nod off. Worried about Esmerelda, I guess. I kept doing the Toss and Turn Fandango.
I forgot about running this morning, or even going to Union Station. I did manage to lose a game of video chess, and after lunch I went to the Thrift Store, and looked for possible gifts for my family for the upcoming holiday season.
Work was boring. Victor thinks I’m his boy.
I called my mom at about ten-thirty. No change, everything is still hunky dory.
I caught a guy who had come in after drinking tonight. He blew a .10 on the Breath-a-lizer. I told Victor about it, and he had to throw the guy out. I didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. I had been in this man’s position once. I knew what it was like to be thrown out and be put on the street. But I have had to look at it realistically. It was now my job to help enforce the rules of the house and center. I did not force this man to drink, and he knew that if he came back and blew dirty he would be asked to leave. If he’s drinking, even though he knows he may loss the roof over his head, he may more than likely have a drinking problem and the sooner he knows about it the better. Lastly, I wouldn’t be doing him a favor by letting him get away with drinking around here. That would be tantamount to enabling him to further progress into his disease, prolonging it, worsening it, making eventual recovery that much more difficult. I won’t do that.
As with Rodolfo, I wish this man well.ITEM: REPLACEMENT PARAKEET – BLUE (Melopsittacus undulates)
$17.00 - $25.00
DUE TO THE RECENT LOSS OF OUR BLUE PARAKEET (SKIPPY)
SURVIVING BIRD (ESMERELDA) APPEARS TO BE FORLORN
POSSIBLE PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA EXPERIENCED
HOPEFULLY SITUATION MAY BE REVERSED
WITH INTRODUCTION OF “NEW BIRD”
SUGGESTED NAME: THORNTON
IMMEDIATE ACTION ADVISED
Mr. Vasquez called me over.
“Mr. Joyce, a word with you please. What’s this parakeet psychological stuff? Don’t make waves. I’m just waiting for the other one to kick off. Request denied. And don’t go saying anything to the Major! I got rid of the fish, you know!”
Under the circumstances I’m left with only two alternatives. Do nothing, and hope that the Major will rectify the situation all on his own; or buy a bird myself and donate it to the center, anonymously perhaps. For the time being I can only do nothing.
A lady came in at about mid-shift complaining that one of our ex-clients was abusing her nineteen-year-old daughter. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing we could do for her. The center is not responsible for the people who leave here, nor are we responsible for their conduct outside of the residence. How could we be? We suggested she contact the police.
Alcoholics and drug addicts are just like everybody else, except they happen to be alcoholics and drug addicts. There are good ones and there are bad ones. Well adjusted and maladjusted. Some people are sicker than others.
A couple of empty bottles of whiskey were found in Rodolfo’s locker today. This was the second time he’d left the center due to resumption of usage. I wish him a quick return to sanity, and peace for his family.
October 20 Saturday Day 38
I don’t believe I slept more that thirty minutes last night. For some reason I just couldn’t nod off. Worried about Esmerelda, I guess. I kept doing the Toss and Turn Fandango.
I forgot about running this morning, or even going to Union Station. I did manage to lose a game of video chess, and after lunch I went to the Thrift Store, and looked for possible gifts for my family for the upcoming holiday season.
Work was boring. Victor thinks I’m his boy.
I called my mom at about ten-thirty. No change, everything is still hunky dory.
I caught a guy who had come in after drinking tonight. He blew a .10 on the Breath-a-lizer. I told Victor about it, and he had to throw the guy out. I didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. I had been in this man’s position once. I knew what it was like to be thrown out and be put on the street. But I have had to look at it realistically. It was now my job to help enforce the rules of the house and center. I did not force this man to drink, and he knew that if he came back and blew dirty he would be asked to leave. If he’s drinking, even though he knows he may loss the roof over his head, he may more than likely have a drinking problem and the sooner he knows about it the better. Lastly, I wouldn’t be doing him a favor by letting him get away with drinking around here. That would be tantamount to enabling him to further progress into his disease, prolonging it, worsening it, making eventual recovery that much more difficult. I won’t do that.
October 21 Sunday Day 39
I got up at ten minutes to five and ran around the park a couple of times. I was back by five-twenty, showered and dressed, and was at work by five-fifty.
Then I spent 95% of the next 17 hours behind the desk. Charles Perry, who was to relieve me at two-thirty, had been on an emergency pass for the last two nights. He was supposed to be back last night before curfew, but had called, asked for and received an extension good until his shift started this afternoon. He had been visiting his mother in the hospital, he told us. This is the second emergency pass Charles has taken, since I’ve been here, to visit his poor, sick, mother.
Such a good son.
He called me today at one-thirty, and hour before he was to relieve me, to say that he would be in sometime tonight.
Very good of him.
I had they distinct honor and pleasure of working his shift.
Let tell you why I love life so much…
October 23 Monday Day 40
I slept until ten-thirty because I was such a tired fellow. But I was refreshed. I told myself that I had no time to run, or exercise, which was a big lie. I still felt good though. I felt good even after losing another game of video chess. I did manage to get a lot of reading done before I went to work.
I continued to feel good while at work. It all went very nicely because it was very busy, not like yesterday when time stood still. I had my five counselors to deal with, Bible study, and group counseling. The time flied.
We discussed historical biblical figures during Bible study. Isaac, Moses, and Noah, to be exact. It was a good review. I had forgotten who Isaac was.
We sort of discussed stress management in group counseling. Another good review.
The only other interesting event of the evening happened when we attempted to get a urine sample from an Hispanic gentleman, who had been throwing up all over the place last Saturday night. He has been telling us that he hasn’t been able to pee for the last 48 hours. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. I don’t think Mr. Vasquez did either.
Somehow this guy snuck in and lifted his key, last Saturday, without me seeing him. He won’t do it again, not while I’m on duty at least.
Anyway, he was given an ultimatum. Either pee tonight, or be terminated for refusing to take a drug test.
He waited until Mr. Vasquez went on his rounds, then asked me for a cup and went into the head. He returned with his lukewarm sample a short time later. I couldn’t leave the desk to watch him provide the sample, and so couldn’t be sure it was genuine. We shall see.
October 23 Tuesday Day 41
I just couldn’t drag myself from bed at five o’clock when my alarm went off. I just couldn’t do it.
I tried, but I just couldn’t do it!
My peepers were cemented together.
So I slept on for another hour, and at six, I pried open those peepers, and turned on my little nightlight, successfully pissing off everybody else in the darkened dorm, and began reading from the Bible.
After a chapter or two, I made a decision and acted upon it.
I got up.
Then I dressed. Having accomplished this, I felt guilty and angry with myself for not having the where-with-all to get out of bed earlier.
I added this onto my list of things to feel guilty and angry about (I’m up to the eighth volume), then went down to have some nice cereal for breakfast.
Fruit Loops.
After devotions I went to Union Station. They are getting used to seeing me there now. I don’t ever say anything to anybody, or share during the meetings, but they are getting used to seeing me. I sit in my chair and chuckle every once in a while.
This meeting is really good for my head. It’s so unpretentious, it’s almost shocking. I remember a television show with sweetie Sarah Purcell (oh, where is she now?!), called “Real People.” I never saw anything like this on it.
I feel like singing and dancing every time I leave this meeting!
When I got back, I went to say hello to Noah, the parrot. Noah is just fine. She gets very excited now, and makes the strangest noises when I come around. Then I mimic her. She doesn’t know what to make of that.
Not to change the subject, but when I think about it I often marvel at what a magnificent organ the brain is. What indiscriminate pieces of information it retains.
I played a game of video chess, and lost badly. This is getting to be a habit.
I worked out for a half an hour, then went running to make up for this morning, and so I wouldn’t feel guilty and angry anymore. As I completed my second lap around the park, I had a little trouble catching my breath. I attributed this to the heat. No big deal.
I guess the Hispanic guy did give me a genuine urine sample last night. It was dirty. Cocaine. He doesn’t live here anymore.
I returned to the residence and wrote, ate lunch (tuna), then went back to the park to lie in the sun and think about what I should do tomorrow, then went back to the residence, took a shower and put it back, read and wrote, ate dinner, wrote some more, finished writing, went to Step Study class, learned all about the first three steps of Alcoholics Anonymous again (I know Al’s whole speech by heart now), read, checked out the female counselors who work on Tuesday nights, and went to the outside A.A. meeting in South Pasadena.
The leader of the meeting was Sue, a beautiful girl, probably born in Sri Lanka. Quite unsurprisingly, her complexion was rather dark. I’ve noticed her before. She actually smiled at me at one point. I can’t remember the last time a girl smiled at me for no reason.
She’s a heartbreaker, no doubt about it.
The speaker was very interesting. I thought he would be a dud, but it turned out rather well. His name was Joe, an ex-hippie, somewhere around his mid-forties, I’d say. I could relate to his story. He had been thrown out of an entire country (Ireland). I had only been thrown out of a state (Arizona. My mom packed me up, bought me a ticket, and made sure I got on the bus to L.A. “Good luck,” she said).
Later in bed, I read a little from Stephen King’s novel, Misery, a very well written piece of work. Very interesting. Then I went to sleep, anticipating all the neat stuff I’m going to be doing tomorrow.
October 24 Wednesday Day 42
I dragged myself out of bed this morning and went running while listening to the Eagle’s tell me how life in the fast lane will really make me blow my mind. I came back and read the paper. The stuff in the Middle East is still dawdling on and on. Looking at the movies playing around town, none interested me.
I had been thinking about visiting a Buddhist temple, or church, as I am interested in learning first hand about this religion. All I know of it I have learned from books. I imagine there must be one downtown somewhere (there’s one of everything downtown), and I’ll be going there next week, so I’ll check it out then.
Today we had eggs over easy for breakfast. I allowed myself to eat them as long as I cut out the yoke, which has all the yucky cholesterol. I know, it’s my favorite part too, but the whole point of eating is to stay alive and healthy, right?
The usual crowd gathered at Union Station. The subject of the meeting being making amends to those we alcoholics and drug addicts have hurt in the past (Step 9). Most of us got to talking about how hard and scary that would be when we finally got around to doing it. A man by the name of Dennis, said this, “As usual I seem to look at things from a slightly different point of view. We all seem to concentrate on how hard it will be when we have to face the people we have harmed because of our behavior. But I’m thinking of all the benefits we will receive once we have attempted to do so. The freedom from guilt and worry, peace. The chance to start fresh, with all the garbage from the past behind us. That my friends, is worth having.”
I agree. As for myself, most of those I have hurt I’ll never be able to find.
After the meeting I went back and said hello to Noah. Noah was fine.
I lost a game of video chess. I exercised for about a half an hour. While doing that I decided to skip lunch, and relished the thought of all those unconsumed calories.
It was ten-oh five when I finished, and I knew that the movie, “Atlantic City,” with an aging Burt Lancaster and Susan Sarandon had started at ten, so I commandeered one of the video game TV’s, and watched it. A very good film, four star. I began playing video chess with the other set while watching it (a sure sign of addiction). I won for about the first time in three weeks.
I started another game and won that too.
I now know the secret of video chess. It’s either that Burt Lancaster, or more likely the lovely Susan Sarandon, has a detrimental and disconcerting affect on neighboring video machines, or the trick is not to concentrate very hard.
I played to a draw on the third game, and so quit while ahead.
I went out to the park to lie in the sun. I was beginning to get dark. I thought of myself with melanoma.
While watching “Star Trek, the Next Generation” (This one about another of Wesley’s experiments gone awry. He managed to zap his poor suffering mother into a warp field bubble. They should beam this kid into a supernova), this evening, Victor came by on his rounds and gave me a hard time about using the video TV’s, even while no one else was there. He didn’t make me turn it off, but did manage to irritate the hell out of me.
I began thinking about how it was a year ago when I had my old apartment, when I could, and quite often did, stay up all night watching T.V. (the epitome of couch potatoeness), when I had privacy, when I could eat whenever I wanted, smoke whenever I wanted, and drink whenever I wanted. I isolated myself pretty well in those days.
Then I thought that I wanted those things again, and I wasn’t doing anything to get them back by sitting around here.
All this thinking left me with an nostalgic emptiness, and thinking about nostalgic emptiness’s led me to think about how to fill it, and I knew the answer to that one. Alcohol would fill it up real well. I’d feel just great with a few shots in me.
You see, this is how the process of relapse begins. One of the ways, at least. It’s about forgetting the bad times, and glamorizing the parts we tricked ourselves into believing were good (euphoric recall). Having been through this process a few times in the past I could recognize it for what it was, and hopefully counteract its progress by remembering that the past wasn’t so great. I remembered the sleepless nights, the puking my guts out, the loneliness and uncertainty, how miserable I had been. The lies I had to tell.
I lost that apartment, that job, that girlfriend, by doing the very thing I had just been contemplating. Taking a drink. One would be enough, because an alcoholic can’t have just one drink. I thought about what would happen if I had just one drink.
I would be back in the Park almost instantaneously.
I didn’t what to go back there, so I thought about what I was doing here, and I knew that I was okay. That I was doing what was best for me, and exactly what I needed to be doing right now. The slow and sure path. The harder path. Too many times my impatience had tried to destroy me. I could not let that happen.
So I calmed down. My life was bound to get better if I was patient.
You see how easy it is to fall back. How insidious this disease can be, and is. It is very often like this. That it’s not the major crisis’s of life, the deaths, the divorces, job losses, that foul us (although they can, and certainly do), but the little frustrations and stresses that can quite literally tear us apart. The simple fact that Victor was being Victor could have gotten me back in the Park. Anything could.
I need to be constantly vigilant, for I know that unlike myself at times, my disease is always patient and waiting.
October 25 Thursday Day 43
I slept until nine, or so. For some reason I’m having a heck of a time getting up in the morning. When I was drinking I never had any problems at all getting up. I had wanted that first drink and cigarette of the day too much. But I’ve had trouble lately, and this throws off my whole schedule, which in turn increases my general stress level, which I don’t need but I think I can handle.
My schedule mucked up, I found some time to lie in the sun and do some reading before cleaning up and getting ready for work.
Which was kind of fun today, because I got to work with Jack Crosley for the first time. He and Charles had traded shifts it seems.
Jack is an interesting young man, very quiet and stern, but I’ve seen him break into a smile every now and then. He is the senior deskman, having been here longer than Charles, myself, and Victor, about nine months in all. He reads about a book a day, all fantasy and Sci-Fi stuff. He has a peculiar habit of making little grunting sounds, gurgling out of his belly, as he walks. He is short, with dark hair, with a facial scar that runs from the corner of his mouth to his ear lobe. I have heard rumors of Jack experiencing a great personal tragedy in his past, something about his wife and children being murdered. He talks little though, and nothing about himself. I like him, although he is hard to get close to. He at least helps me do some of the work around here, unlike some others I could mention, who will remain nameless.
The luscious Stacy is not coming in this evening. She is supposedly cramming for her midterms. All of us at the Salvation Army’s Pasadena Adult Rehabilitation Center wish her much success.
We discussed the myths vs. facts of alcohol and drugs in tonight’s substance abuse seminar, and the A.A. panel was made interesting due to the lively and uninhibited discourse of the two female panelists. One of these was a flight attendant who had worked for PSA (Pacific Southwest Airlines). I talked to her after the meeting, and we reminisced about the 1978 PSA crash in San Diego, which I had almost been on.
Yet once again, I had escaped the yawning jaws of death.
Alas, the end of another day approached. Tomorrow I would go back to County Hospital.
October 26 Friday Day 44
Well, the day started out good enough, but then I woke up.
After that it was all down hill.
I had a dream about a dog. The dog was running around and I was trying to catch it. We were playing. I had the feeling that we were friends, this dog and I. As in real life, when a sock, or some such object of woven material is thrown, a dog will run like the devil, grab it in it’s teeth, bring it straight back, and when you attempt to get it back from him (or her), it won’t let go. You can tug, pull, plead, coerce, but it won’t let go. It’s playing.
Thus “Tug-Of-War” was born.
My dream dog wouldn’t let me catch it.
For some reason this dream was oddly comforting to me, and I did not want to let it go.
So I continued to sleep, or tried to. I woke briefly every now and then, and I would think to myself that I really should be getting up. I had told myself that I would go running this morning.
Time kept passing.
I even tried to talk myself into not going to the dermatologist, but I couldn’t quite do it.
I got up and made it down to breakfast, which I ate, scrambled eggs and everything. I reasoned that I would be missing lunch today, so it was alright to eat eggs. Cholesterol be damned!
After devotions I checked out of the residence and walked to the bus stop on Fair Oaks. I didn’t feel like sitting down, so I stood while waiting. It was seven-thirty six, and my appointment was for nine, and I only had the one bus to take, so I should have had plenty of time, although I had no idea when the next bus would arrive.
A longhaired, disheveled fellow in dirty jeans stopped and waited with me. Not so long ago I had looked just like he did.
After about ten minutes a bus came. Of the two buses that stopped here, this was the wrong one. This bus wouldn’t go anywhere near County Hospital. Unless hijacked. It stopped, let someone out, then continued on its way.
After another five minutes another bus came. It was the right bus this time, the 483. It was jammed with people, like a can of Vienna sausages, so instead of stopping it passed me right by, laughing as it did so. I felt intense anger. I looked up Fair Oaks, as the bus stopped at the next street, California Ave. It let a whole bunch of people off there. I decided to walk over to that stop, thinking I’d have a better chance to catch the next bus. I began worrying about being late for my appointment now, knowing that the buses typically run thirty minute apart.
As I was half way to the next stop, another, relatively empty, 483, passed me right by. I felt now like killing something.
I finally managed to get on a bus about twenty minute later, and made it to the dermatologist by nine-oh two.
They asked me to take a seat. I had my Stephen King book to keep me company, so I sat on a long cement bench, with about a billion other patients.
At eleven-thirty my name was called over the P.A. system, directing me to door D. I slid the door closed behind me. It was sliding door, like in a warehouse, but much smaller. A young man looked in from another door, and asked me if I’d ever been here before. I told him yes, that I had, last June. He told me he’d be right back. I said, okay.
He came back with my file. I told him about my rash, that it was a lot better now, but that I’d still like a doctor to look at it, and that I wanted some more medication. That’s how us alcoholics and addicts are. We always want more medication. It doesn’t matter which kind.
He looked at it and said it was healing well. He told me he’d give me more ointment. I had him look at my feet while I was there. He did this.
He asked me if I had a lot of dandruff.
I answered, “Yeah, I have recently. I had been using cheap soap on my hair, but now I’m using some dandruff shampoo and that seems to be working.”
“Are you in any of the high risk groups for AIDS?” he asked.
I replied, “No,” and swallowed painfully.
“Have you had any homosexual encounters in the past?”
“No.”
“Have you been with any prostitutes recently?”
I said, “No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Why? Because flaking of the scalp is one of the symptoms of the AIDS related syndrome. But you’re not in any of the high-risk groups, are you? So there’s nothing much to worry about. People get dandruff all the time, you know.”
He told me to wait outside and someone would call me when my prescription slips were ready.
Not surprisingly, I got to thinking about what he had told me. He scared the hell out of me.
I thought about a time around early August, when I had a one time casual sexual encounter with this girl I had met in a bar. I had been drunk, and probably wouldn’t have had anything to do with her if I had been in my right mind. Not necessarily sober, but in my right mind. That had been at the beginning of my living on the street period, and I wasn’t used to it yet. I would drink and talk to anybody, just for the company. One thing led to another. She may have been using a dirty needle, or had been sleeping with somebody who had the disease. The point was that I did not know.
Now I was thinking, oh shit, do I have it?! I had had that horrible dandruff and thought my hair was falling out. I had attributed it to the soap I had used upon entering the center, and now the Head and Shoulders seemed to be working, but my dandruff still must have been noticeable for the doctor to see it.
I thought, this is just great, just what I fucking need! Right when I’m doing everything within my power to get my life together and feel much better about myself, that’s when I get some untreatable, terminal illness. Typical.
I wanted to get tested for the HIV virus as soon as possible, or faster. Not knowing was going to drive me batty.
I thought about the very real possibility of a premature death. I was once asked to make a list of the ten things that made me the angriest. Death was right at the top. I don’t have a whole lot of faith in having an afterlife to escape to, so for me death is the end. It was something I definitely had not planned on encountering soon.
For such a long time I felt so safe and secure in the knowledge that I could not possibly get AIDS because of my long, monogamous relationship with Jan, which even predated the AIDS scare. Now, after one reckless incident my very life was in danger.
There was no endless future for me anymore.
Who could I blame? Myself ultimately. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I hate blaming myself for things that go wrong.
I continued to freak out until I heard my name called to collect my prescription. I took it immediately to the pharmacy as I knew it would take a couple of hours to be filled.
Then I walked around the hospital thinking about AIDS.
I decided to treat myself to something from the cafeteria. I ate a huge burrito with everything on it. I told myself that it didn’t really matter if I got fat if I was going to die of AIDS anyway. It didn’t matter if I smoked, either. Or drank.
I would not drink. I would not drink. I would not drink, no matter what! No even if I tested positive. I won’t spend the rest of my life in a drunken stupor.
How about one last binge?
No! My whole life has been one last binge! I know what happens when I start drinking, I would not start that process today.
So I wouldn’t drink, and I wouldn’t have to get thrown out of the Sally again. What would I do?
Find out for sure if I had it, for one thing. Of all the things the doctor could have said, he had to mention the fucking dandruff. Talk about of coming out of left field.
What would I do if I had it?
I don’t know. Die, I suppose. Everybody dies at one time or another. It’s not a big deal really, is it?
Your god damned right it is! This is my life on the line, not somebody else’s. This is the big R, reality in all its glory. The very thing I have so often tried to avoid in the past. Or ignore. This is what it was like to be a big time grown up. I’d rather be a kid again, even if I had to wash the dishes.
Death. Shit, I didn’t want to die. Even if I had the HIV virus it could be ten or twenty years before AIDS set in.
It could be tomorrow.
In ten or twenty years a cure may have been found.
Pigs may fly someday too.
Death. No more plays by Chekov, books of Henry James, Beethoven symphonies, Cuban women or ladies from Puerto Rico and New York (except for those Skanks on Staten Island), Emerson essays and poems, old Bob Hope movies, and volleyball. No more Michelle Chandler, Haiku poems, Quevedo, rabbits, Playboy (articles), Campbell Soup, Brando movies, Bob Dylan, and algebra. No more Rembrandt, thunder, Canadian women, Cagney movies, and ant encroachments. No more boomerang bombs, calluses, compressed air, El Salvadorian women, Dante, Boogey woogy, Pink Panther films, seasons, Plato, Acetylcoline liberation, iguanas, grammar, national parks and monuments, sandwiches, porcelain, gorillas, Darryl Hannah, leather and lace, radio astronomy, Tanzanian women, veils, H.G. Wells, flies and fog. No more Malagasy women, Kafka, Sepulveda and Roscoe Boulevards, Christmas and everything that goes with it, apples, Hume, mammary glands, Monet and mosquitoes. No more Fonda movies (Henry or Jane, you can keep Peter), lycanthrophy, British (Kay Parker, Sara Jane Hamilton, Diana Rigg, and Linda Thorson notably) and Brazilian women, The Beatles, elves, sneezes, tugboats, otters, baths, kazoos, jellyfish, Goethe, macadamia nuts, doors, Ray Bradbury stories, saturated fat, nosebleeds, Yeats, Vladimir Horowitz, Abbot and Costello, Kierkegaard, Danish women, airplanes, health insurance, legumes, newspapers, xylophones, marathon running, llamas, Hallmark cards for all occasions, Buster Keaton films, Yazoo river rides, Schultz, Dylan Thomas, retrograde motion, operas, Salinger books, salt, income tax, resonance, Venezuelan women, Parmesan cheese, dolphins, basketball, M&Ms, diets, latitude, lemons, gamma globulin, kumquats, servomechanisms, Joanna Storm and Spencer Tracy movies, porcupines, curry, fatigue, cottage cheese, Thoreau, Cole Porter, Nat King Cole, termites, poker, sonic booms, rain, Lzaak Walton, Ten Years After, anxiety, deodorant, Halley’s Comet, Italian women, and fishing. No more ice cream, Dostoevsky, evaporation, skyscrapers, sky, pressure, football, mushrooms, Schubert, and rust. No more Olivier films, zebras, heartburn, lettuce, Columbus Day, Pink Floyd, avocados, pizzas, Spinoza, ethics, Eskimo and Ethiopian women, giraffes, calories, John Rawls, cosmic rays, Bazooka Bubble Gum, mildew, jackalopes (known to the ancients as “deerbunnies”), Armenian literature, arrests, kaleidoscopes, gelatin, chairs, Sackbut music, love, air pollution, Credence Clearwater Revival, Thomas Hardy, Mahler, chestnuts, Russian women, prairie dogs, unemployment, Jules Verne, samurai comic books, women from the Dominican Republic, AT&T, “Cheers,” humidity, Carl Sandburg, Carl Sagan, pineapples, surrealism, women who get mad at you without telling you why, and magnetic resonance. No more greenhouse effect, libraries, tides, George Santayana, Dana Delany, Costa Rican women, sunburns, water polo, massages, Matisse, and margarine. No Icelandic women for sure. No more Arthur Miller, grapes, the sweet lyrical voice of Janis Joplin. No more equity, Doppler effect, Yukon women, mahogany, furniture, laser light shows, Led Zeppelin, chocolate cream pie, Dupont, earthquakes, indigestion, Laurel and Hardy, bevel gears, Clark Gable films, mineral water, woodpeckers, John Locke, Darwin, Butane lighters, crabs, rapid transit (not that we have it now), Marquez novels, smoke, Mark Twain, fantasies, Australian trips and women, heavy metal hard knacky acid rock music, drug addiction, Renoir, balloons, fables, sauces, Frankl, sailing, Kim Catrall, pheromones, Philippine women and Saudi Arabian women. Say goodbye to echoes, butter, bananas, bagpipe music, prejudice, Jennifer Connelly (who I’m secretly in love with, please don’t tell) and Meg Ryan, Tchaikosky, ping-pong, George C. Scott movies, rockets, orchestras, softball, American Samoan women, elevators, Buddhism, chrysanthemums, enzymes, Twinkies, Doyle, Yosemite National Park, Judith Wright, San Luis Obispo, Ann Marten, perception, stores, Rhodesian women, John O’Hara, making of beds, Paul Schofield movies, the Uncertainty Principle, shrimp, Fritos, morning dew, broccoli, Kayak women, scene design and stage lighting. Astalavista to time, tunnels, and tulips. Sayonara to Steinbeck, pigweeds, Jethro Tull, ballet, fashion, chocolate, beavers, eclipses, Salvation Armies, Janine Turner, Tillich, fireworks, rocks, refrigeration, rainbows, Valentine’s Day, Victoria Jackson, Kim Novak, Carrie Fisher, and Teresa Ganzel. Adios to Oscar Wilde, dreams, Dutch and Flemish women, buses, adenosine triphosphate hydrolysis, Elizabeth Perkins, Joanna Storm, cinnamon, trips to Arizona, Led Zeppelin, idealism, linoleum, irony, fruit, James Ward, blackjack, Scandinavian women, tears, Poe, integrated circuits, Sir Isaac Newton, Jack Nicholson movies, Gabonese women, Herman Melville, instinct, concerts, wallpaper, divorce, Joyce, Byzantine women, law, Hemingway, civil rights, sequoias, Paleolithic art, and rent. Aurevoir to mom, Cheryl, Kari Lynn, Patti, Michelle, Terri, Debbie, Janine, Jan, rubber, and French women, Auf Wiedersehen to Norwegian women, loans, halitosis, George Orwell, scorpions, vegetables, peafowl, Lois Aryes, symphonic poems, plumbing, Isaac Singer, quela, Hesse, limericks, ham, rain forests, Kathleen Sullivan, “Get Smart,” Michelangelo Buonarrotic, heat, geckos, German women, short stories, “The Man from U.N.C.L.E” (the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement), Trappists, pepper, Jugs Magazine, Redwood National Park, telescopes, facades, Doritos, Czechoslovakian women, bank holidays, and bikinis. Adieu to crabgrass, jade, Madeline Stowe, Milton, lathes, engines, inflation, fractions, justice, Teresa Ganzel, daisies, fairs, jealousy, The Who, antacids, cellophane, Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, microphones, Ukrainian women, satire, Mary Louise Parker, ladybugs, gifts, quadraphonic sound, Synge, Jimmy Stewart movies, Fourth of July’s, amino acid, covalent bonding, and Harold and Maude. Arrivederci to diarrhea, marsupials, swimming, rivers, Scottish women, poetry, pencils, February, Shannon McCullough, hydrogen bombs, education, iodine, miniature golf, lavender, scale, vinyl, plastics, parrots, wheat, Saint Patrick’s Day, civilization, automobiles, Shaw, Pali literature, spring, hats, Emma Thompson, malts, violin music, Hitchcock, films in general, tile, oranges, onions, O’Neill, soup, locusts, television, Persian women, Joyce Carol Oats, Handel, happenings, April, fruit bats, koans, mirrors, pollution, Shakespeare, “Bewitched,” Elizabeth Montgomery, grass, Latin women, women of Mozambique, Nevell Shute novels, wind, cashews, Faulkner, cycles, pistachios, Sartre, Rachel Ashley, cherries, elephants, Arabian music, Christianity, credit cards, Sophie B Hawkins, Equatorial Guianian women, body temperature, sex, emotion, ducks, hate, mucilage, color, Irish women, liberty, lizards, lubrication, cold, Gallup polls, Tracy Winn, luminescence, Gustave Moreau, Mongolian women, Inge, consciousness, pumps, oak trees, sculpture, DNA mingling, Strindberg, Voltaire, Tennessee Williams, gasoline, Indonesian women, laxatives, metaphysics, harvest moons, Ruth Gordon, Rita Hayward, lakes, William James, Kant, Japanese women, Goodyear, blimps, memory, wolves, art, Thornton Wilder, cable television, cysts, ethnic groups, Cyndi Wood, fire, checkers, the Rolling Stones, Bach, euchre, Finnish women, college, tea, Joseph Conrad novels, “Green Acres,” Solzenitsyn, the Blues, Terri Garr, exobiology, thirst, dogs, carbohydrates, flannel, Cambodian women, aleatory music, church, tamales, enchiladas, sparrows, orchids, South African women, ventilation, Neil Simon, Mary McDonnell, picnics, nagging, shunsho, parakeets, Schuler, energy, fear, blood clotting, landscape painting, Cassandra Peterson, John Houston films, Hawaiian women, land, tacos, philosophy, ships, Moria Kelly, Uccelo paintings, quantum mechanics, laundry, snow, Ugandan women, keys, grease, metal, Frost, impressionism, May, Marina Sirtis, forests, nuts, radio, obscenity, volcanoes, Yugoslavian women, fountains, Liszt, allergies, flowers, roads, Olympic Games, vibration, Amazon women of the moon, farce, trips to Fiji, chivalry, ornaments, soap, Swiss women, Virgil, baseball, saving and loan associations, pulses, alcoholism, dry cleaning, Balinese music, Tawny Little, feedback, Chinese women, skepticism, obsidian, perfume, backache, epics, coconuts, plaid, sap, oceans, school, disease, anthologies, dachshunds, Mimi Rogers, friends, Beatles songs, coughing, Richard Wagner, aristocracy, fish, Chilean women, rhinos, peas, smut, monopoly games, Greek women, melons, natural gas, classical gas, Marisa Tomei, Kelper’s laws, horses, pearls, smog, pancakes, Jung, helicopters, Malaysian women, Islam, pens, symmetry, Katie Couric, Portuguese women, masks, Victor Hugo, Korean women, streetcars, whales, giger counters, motion sickness, geometric problems of antiquity, “Star Trek,” and “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” Jazz, mint, Dali, electricity, Schumann, organ music, sports, croquet, bankruptcy, comedy, tournaments, Rumanian women, wax, bias, felt, days, bugs, dandelions, sugar, pears, scurvy, belligerency, excretion, light, Kenyan women, “The Invaders,” gin rummy, Taija Rae, George Kaufman, Indian women, bears, women of Hong Kong, Nietzsche, paring of finger and toe nails, haircuts, liberalism, Vulcan and Betaziod women and some Klingon babes (and let’s not forget those Orion Slave Girls (they’re so green!)), horseradish, potatoes, Swedish women, silt, unions, marching, June, gophers, Picasso, Syrian women, verbs, harmonies, the Milky Way, interest, genetics, Sinclair Lewis, music, learning, Gaelic literature, food, ivy, marriage, melodies, Mexican women, penguins, value, Swift, fasts, lightening, motels, games, Hungarian women, chamber music, fever, carrots, eggnog, walruses, beds, lobsters, Israeli women, glass, linen, skywriting, soybeans, police, Transylvanian women, groups, Las Vegas women, mistletoe, hail, Paganini, weather, incense, liver, Mozart, intuition, Guatemalan women, plays, Virginia Woolf, gardens, muffins, logic, Lithuanian women, hamsters, limits, water skiing, halls, lotteries, cholesterol, arithmetic, denial, Ethiopian women, Ferris wheels, Flaubert, envy, athlete’s foot, dandruff, attorneys, Easter, cartoons, erections (or lack thereof), Natalie Wood and Bogart movies, court, Egyptian women, Chopin, astrophysics, barbeques, acne, waltzes, ballads, Joe Cocker, watercolors, art deco, cheese, family, American women (despite the Guess Who song), customs, evil, Three Musketeers Bars, greed, astronomy, depression, equations, dance, chess, nights, enamel, wintergreen, almonds, cake, waves, clouds, humor, cats, hygiene, Ionesco, milk, Jack Benny, labor, inertia, mantras, mustard, Jamaican women, nationalism, itches, Hegel, Homer, handball, kangaroos, kites, water, weaving, warblers, nonconformists, culture, boats, drainage, factories, corn, debt, anecdotes, detective stories, education, engraving, drama, August, dates, celery, eating, wood, Vonnegut, bowling, cloves, walnuts, Kubrick films, horror stories, literature in general, knots, language, mufflers, numbers, smell, pantomime, Rachmaninoff, rice, riddles, Saxon women, silk, Van Gogh, Christina Applegate, Rabelais, photocopying, theater, Judaism, hedonism, hummingbirds, moonlight, internal-combustion, hair, women of New Zealand, Anne Archer, Bob Hoskins, hotels, mysteries, Elvira Mistress of the Dark, Thurber, science fiction, newts, jeeps, hallucinations, hiccups, motivation, vacuum cleaners, reading, writing, Nigerian women, miniskirts, waterfalls, macaroni, mountains, Ibsen, Desiree Cousteou, nihilism, identity, money, koalas, honey, noise, turtles, tomatoes and toads. Farewell to laughing and crying, peanuts, pears, and pianos. So long to sleep and waking up, screws, combs, Kickapoo Indian women, names, meat, government, animals, touch, tables, tulips, telephones, tempera, Tennyson, pies, plants, personality, songs, parody, Susie, Bobbie and Shannon, terns, and relativity.
And pinochle.
Lists.
And that's just off the top of my head!
Also women in general (I can do without the men).
Girls too.
And that’s just off the top of my head.
Death is exceptionally discouraging.
Some will cheerfully tell me, why Rick, you’ll be reunited with all of those things and people when you get to Heaven, where all the angels live.
I say to these hopefuls, there’s not much evidence for that. As a matter of fact, there’s no evidence for that.
They will say, you must have faith, my son.
To which I say, faith is believing without evidence. Would you buy a used car based on only the word of a used car salesman.
To which they will tell me, yes, of course, Heaven is there for all, just believe.
To which I reply, yeah, and the Tooth Fairy and Tinker Bell shack up with Santa in Paramus, New Jersey, next door to Bugs Bunny and Wonder Woman.
Am I being cynical? Am I being harsh?
Yes, and delightedly so!
Cynicism based on fact is cool. It almost turns into satire.
Whatever happens I won’t drink and I feel good about that decision.
And I’ll continue to write. I’ll write down what happens each day. I know it helps me, helps me a lot. I don’t know why, but it does. Maybe it will help somebody else, if someone else ever reads this. I’ll write about what it’s like. If I stay sober, that is. If I do drink, I won’t be writing much of anything.
Hopelessly reflecting on death would be a great reason to start drinking again. A perfect reason (maybe not perfect—yes, yes, it would be perfect), if I were going to start. Relapse is about making excuses. But I’m not going to start.
I’d start smoking instead, which is what I did. I walked to a local liquor store and bought a pack of cigarettes, and smoked some, after over thirty days of abstinence. But I won’t drink.
No matter what!
After I picked up my medication I walked to the bus stop in a somewhat somber mood. A man was already sitting at the only bench. A heavy-set lady of Slavic ancestry joined us. It became clear they were both employees of the hospital. They conversed.
“I was in the laundry room today. Gee, that place is big,” the man said.
“I don’t know, never been there,” the lady replied in some Slavic sort of way.
“It’s huge. They have dryers, must be as big as a truck,” he continued.
“I don’t know, never been there.”
“I’ve been all around the hospital. Almost ever single place.”
“In one year, I’ve only been to the first and second floor,” she said. “I’m too afraid I’ll get lost.”
“Almost every place. I’ve been in the jail ward a couple of times.”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been there.”
“There’s only one place there that I haven’t been to yet,” he added, “that I want to go to. The morgue.”
“Ah! I’ve been there,” she shouts. “Second floor. Oh, you should see it! Rows and rows of dead people. They have all these tables, must be fifty, at least, with dead people on them. They have all the bodies covered, you know, with the plastic.”
“Ah huh, body bags.”
“Yes. The body bags. So you can’t tell if they’re men, or women. Rows and rows. You should see them all.”
This was about all of that conversation I could take. I moved further away.
I returned to the residence after a thoroughly disgusting bus ride, totally depressed.
I was late for work, but my tardiness was excused because I had been on a legitimate pass. The idea of spending the rest of the evening behind the desk with Victor did nothing to cheer me.
Everything that could go wrong during the shift, did go wrong. I won’t go into it. I survived, and did have tomorrow off.
My birthday.
October 27 Saturday Day 45
I slept in a little. I hadn’t planned on doing a whole lot today, so I didn’t need to get an early start.
I got out of bed around ten, and felt like taking a walk. I went to a liquor store a few blocks down Fair Oaks, and bought some more cigarettes and a Playboy Salute to the Female Form magazine, so I could look at the pictures later, and torture myself over all the beautiful women I’d never meet, get to know and love. I was still depressed from yesterday you could say. Depressed and anxious. On the way back I bought two shredded beef tacos as my birthday present to myself. I was thirty-five today.
The tacos were delicious.
I remembered my last birthday, when I was isolating in my little bachelor apartment in North Hollywood, drinking rum and watching TV.
I thought about the birthday before that, when I had got home from work expecting to have a nice dinner with my lady, and celebrate a little maybe, only to find the house empty, with Jan out visiting one of her friends. I suppose I had isolated from her too, by that time.
Come to think of it, I had isolated from her for most of our entire time together. No wonder she left.
I sneaked my Playboy into the residence (this magazine is considered “porno” by the Salvation Army, and warrants expulsion if found among ones possessions, just like empty liquor bottles). I read for most of the day. Played bingo.
I read an article about AIDS. I found out that it usually takes four or five months for the body to start producing the HIV antibodies, so I had a while to wait before the results from any kind of blood test would be definitive. I had to learn more about the disease. I should find out if flaking of the scalp occurs after only a month after infection. I know that even with knowledge, I won’t know if I’m infected, but at least I’ll be doing something.
I also know that worrying won’t help matters.
It’s hard not to though.
Noah the parrot wished me a happy birthday.
October 28 Sunday Day 46
I went back to work today. I began at six a.m. At least I was working with Mr. Vasquez.
It was good to be working. It felt normal, and helped to keep me normal. It’s good to work. I had the opportunity to get some writing done while behind the desk. It’s good to write. It’s good to get these thoughts down on paper. It’s like confession for Catholics, I suppose, it takes a weight off one’s shoulders.
When I did get off work I felt lost, actually. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, not wanting to do much of anything really.
Do you think I’m making too much of this AIDS thing? Getting all worked up over nothing. Maybe I am. Let me explain something that I might not have made sufficiently clear earlier. I am not one who is usually prone to hypochondria (although I do like to be pro-active in health matters (if not drinking). A lot of men take better care of their cars than they do themselves), but hardly knowing the woman I shared the dalliance with, I do remember that I was not particularly impressed with her character, which really doesn’t say much for me really, now does it? However, it does say a lot of the state of mind I occupied at the time. Pretty sad.
She very well may have been an I.V. drug user or exceptionally promiscuous (if she took me on she had to be). That would place her in the high-risk group for AIDS, which places me into it as well. So my concern stems from the fact that before this encounter I had been 100% sure of not having the virus. I can’t be 100% sure anymore.
Such is life.
I guess if one has any sex at all one can’t be 100% sure anymore, so I should quit crying like a little baby, and get on with life.
Makes sense to me.
All I can do now is not drink, first, last, and always. Tuesday I can go to the library and do some more research. That may help to make me feel more secure. Probably not.
Then I figure, sometime after New Years I can take the HIV antibody test.
It’s a long time to wait, especially when you’re afraid of the answer.
At eight p.m. I went down to the video game area in the basement and found Jack Crosley there, watching T.V. Mr. Gant, one of the house janitors, was there as well. We all watched a fairly decent, though thoroughly implausible sci-fi movie, “Lifeforce,” concerning parasitic space vampires, a subject which fascinates me. It had been directed by Tobe (“Texas Chainsaw Massacre”) Hooper, and stared Steve (“Helter Skelter”) Railsback, and the lovely French actress, Mathilda May, who was the best thing about the movie. Our old friend, Patrick Stewart, of “Star Trek, the Next Generation,” was in it as well.
Jack didn’t say a word throughout the whole movie. That’s why I like him so much. He’s so comfortable to be around.
October 29 Monday Day 47
I’m really getting into a funk. I’m developing relapse warning signs, and feel like I’m on a dry drunk.
I woke late again, missing morning devotions. Mr. Vasquez peeked into my dorm while making his rounds, searching for stragglers. We looked at each other, and I mumbled something about the time, and he told me that I was alright, and to go back to sleep.
I followed his instructions.
At least I now had a reason for sleeping in. When I get depressed I tend to use sleep to escape. I knew that Jack would be coming in later to shampoo the carpet in my dorm, so I got up around nine-thirty, and moped around while avoiding people.
I began to feel better once I was at work, but I soon discovered we were to have liver tonight for dinner.
Figures.
When I was but a small child I had a habit of throwing my liver out the kitchen window when my parents weren’t looking. I did that because of peer pressure (my friend Terry, my parent’s best friends son, who I ate with regularly, made me do it). I don’t really mind liver.
I don’t really like it either.
During Bible Study, we discussed some of the similarities of the major religions practiced in the world today. A progressive subject for the Salvation Army.
I missed George’s group counseling tonight as we were rather busy behind the desk. That’s a shame, because it’s the one activity I believe I receive the most benefit from.
I went to bed right after work. Hopefully tomorrow I can start to get my act together.
October 30 Tuesday Day 48
I felt good today. I farted around until after lunch, then walked to the library.
As I made my way up to Walnut Ave., on this bright autumn day, I once again marveled at the intricate architecture of the Green Hotel. It felt great just to be walking around, watching the people go from this place to that, the hustle and bustle of Colorado Blvd. Everybody busy looking at things.
Pasadena has a wonderful modern library. No card catalog here. All the titles are listed on computer, with many terminals located throughout the building. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.
AIDS, of course, is the end result of infection by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (H.I.V.). The simplest description of a virus could be to say that it is a tiny bit of self-replicating nucleic acid (DNA or RNA, the stuff of life). Frisky little devils, a virus reproduces by invading a host cell and subverting that cell’s own metabolism to such an extent that it is transformed into a factory for making more viruses. The damage this does to the host cell, depending upon the type of cell, the pervasiveness and the virulence of the infection, become observable in the form of various diseases.
Viruses are able to invade a cell by attaching it to specific receptor areas on the outside of the cell membrane, in a lock and key sort of an affair. If a virus does not find the right receptor it cannot invade and reproduce. The virus itself has no mechanism for reproduction. It must find a host cell to help it.
Unfortunately for us humans (and other creatures), viruses are very clever about doing just that (without even having brains. See, there’s hope for blondes after all (I’m very sorry about that. I love blondes, for many reasons, they’re vast and profound intelligence not the least among them)).
The Poliovirus usually infects the cells lining the stomach initially. The key finds a lock and opens it. But it interacts in such a way with these cells that little, or no damage or injury is sustained. But for still unknown reasons, the virus sometimes moves on, or migrates to other parts of the body, looking for more locks to open, and finds the cells of the brainstem and spinal cord, where it meets the right receptors and goes wild, causing in most cases the inability to breath and paralysis of the limbs.
“The human immune system has the inherent ability to recognize 10 million configurations of molecules. Viruses, parasites, fungi, bacteria and their toxins; pollens, strange blood cells, and a host of human made pathogens are scanned, evaluated and accepted or rejected. At the same time it’s guarding against these external dangers, the immune system monitors cells of the self and mops up behind the minor accidents that occur constantly within our bodies. It also rides herd on cells in the process of becoming cancerous” (“Viruses: Agents of Change,” Giudici Fettner 1990, McGraw Hill, N.Y., p. 51)
Some viruses have unique ways of beating our body’s own natural abilities to combat infection. The Myronvirus, which various strains are responsible for millions of deaths due to influenza (probably the most devastating killer of human beings in our history), seems to be in a constant state of genetic mutation. Once an infection has successfully been fought off by the immune system, the body will become immune toward repeated attacks by the same agent that caused the original infection (by the production of specific memory cells and antibodies). If this agent itself changes its own genetic makeup in subtle but important aspects, which may also increase or decrease that agents degree of virulence or lethality, the immune system has no way of recognizing it and subduing the virus with preexisting defense mechanisms in a quick and efficient manner. It must start from scratch, taking a greater amount of time to respond.
And this time the virus may be a hundred times deadlier.
Other viruses reproduce quickly after the initial infection for very short periods of time, then turn dormant for months or years, until for one reason or another they suddenly reactivate and create havoc within us.
The H.I.V. virus attacks, or reproduces with the human T4 cell, a white blood cell that is one of the many defenses the body uses to ward off infections. H.I.V. undermines the very system our bodies have created over hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary trial and error to protect us from viruses such as H.I.V. Not only does H.I.V. survive and thrive, but by significantly decreasing the immune systems ability to function, a host of other opportunistic diseases that are normally held in check by a healthy immune system, are free to move in, grow, proliferate, with devastating results and almost always fatal repercussions.
A person experiencing extreme immune dysfunction brought about by H.I.V. infection will go through wave after wave of dreadful illness, from deadly forms of pneumonia, to cancers of the blood or lymphatic systems, until the body is weakened to such an extent that death is the only certain outcome.
The H.I.V. virus, like any other bacteria, fungus, or pathogen, will affect different people in different ways. The immune system in some individuals is better equipped to fight off infections, due to good general health, adequate nutrition, little exposure to toxins in the environment (man-made or occurring naturally), and a predisposition toward health in the genetic makeup (or else everyone would have died from influenza or the Plague (unless they were isolated on Gilligan’s Island, or something)). Other individuals are not as well equipped, or adapted. Some people get sick a lot, others can live a hundred years without catching a cold. H.I.V. may enter the system of some and pass out again without gaining a foothold. Or upon infection may lie dormant with a persons body for the rest of their lives, during which that person is free to infect others by using one of the various well known routes of transmission.
Most cases of H.I.V. infection that become known to public health authorities occur when a patient has developed some form of the AIDS Related complex, or full blown AIDS.
“The great killer of AIDS patients is Pneumocstis carinii pneumonia, which is caused by a fungus carried harmlessly by the majority of adults. Those with AIDS also suffer from common bacterial infections such as staphyloccus and streptococcus; from mycobacterium (the tuberculosis agent) and Pseudomonas bacilli; from protozoan disease toxoplasmosis avian-intracellulare, which infects many animals and birds; and from various rickettsia (which have habits halfway between those of the viruses and those of bacteria and are carried by fleas and ticks) and spirochetes as well as a panoply of viral infections. All these agents are handled with aplomb by a competent immune system (p.49).”
After initial infection by the H.I.V. virus, a person will typically develop H.I.V. antibodies (the immune systems response to infection) after anywhere from two weeks to six months, or more. This incubation period must pass before the infection may be detected by way of a blood test. The test screens for the antibodies, not the virus itself. Usually no other symptoms will transpire during this time.
The intermediary period between initial infection by the H.I.V., and full-blown AIDS is ill defined. Some believe that the symptoms characteristic of the AIDS Related Complex actually signal the onset of AIDS itself. Nevertheless, the symptoms usually ascribed to AIDS Related Complex include: swollen glands, unexplained loss of appetite and weight loss, leg weakness, fever lasting more than a week, night sweats, persistent and unexplained diarrhea, persistent dry coughing, white spots in the mouth, Shingles and lymphoma.
Also, “Many of the AIDS patients have seborrheic dermatitis and dandruff, frequent genital tinea, and athlete’s foot. You’d expect these kinds of diseases to increase in those who have T-cell abnormalities or cellular immune deficiencies” (The Truth About AIDS Evolution of an Epidemic. Ann Guidici Fettner and William A. Check PhD 1984, k Holt, Pinehart and Winston, New York, p. 171-172).
Great.
I have a dry cough sometimes too.
Wonderful.
Actually, I felt a little better after I finished reading. Dandruff or seborrheic dermatitis can be a symptom of the AIDS Related Complex, but nowhere did I find any mention of it being a symptom of initial infection. The dandruff appeared only a month after the episode of possible infection (and only after I began washing my hair with hand soap), and it seems to me that with this particular virus, one month would be a tad too early for symptoms to start manifesting themselves. It’s more likely just a plain old case of oily scalp.
And a plain old case of smokers cough.
But then again, I can’t be sure.
I will have to wait and see.
It also eased my mind to learn that the H.I.V. virus is very fragile, and relatively hard to contract, that not all people who are infected with H.I.V. get AIDS, that there is a possibility I am immune to the virus, and that if I had been infected the virus might have already have passed out of my body altogether.
I will still wait until after New Years to get tested in order to decrease the chances of getting a false negative result.
So what I will try and do now is to put this in the back of my mind for the time being and get on with my life and continue the program with the best of my feeble ability until circumstances warrant alternative action. What else can I do?
This whole AIDS experience, no matter what the eventual outcome, has been in ways very beneficial. Like watching the last act of “Our Town,” I have remembered, and been made to realize and appreciate how precious the gift of life and self-awareness is. How wonderful and momentous it is, and that each of us only has today.
How easy it is to forget that. How most important it is to remember.
October 31 Halloween Day 49
Halloween! All Hallows Eve, and All saints Day!
Big Deal.
Or as J.D. Salinger would put it: Very big deal.
I did manage to wake up fairly early, only because I needed to go downtown to make a dentist appointment. The dentist will be paid by the county of Los Angeles, which is why I have to go all the way downtown (yuck!), because that is were the dentist is. I’ll probably have to wait in line with a billion or so people in front of me. But the price is right.
After I heard the breakfast call, “Good morning gentleman. It’s breakfast time! Breakfast time!” given by Harry Gomez, the mad, but cute Spanish breakfast cook, I got dressed. Then I laid back down again until I heard the last call for breakfast. The line thus shortened, I went down to eat.
I slipped away before devotions (something I’ve been doing a lot lately), and showered and dressed.
I grabbed a bag lunch from the kitchen (consisting of a sandwich made from some unspecified meat and cheese product, a bag of potato chips, two containers of frozen apple juice, two packets of mayonnaise, two packets of mustard, and a rotten orange), and was on my way.
I walked to the bus stop on Fair Oaks. The 483 came just as I finished a cigarette, as it should. The bus was very crowded, with standing room only when I first got on, but by the time I reached the stop at Pico and Grand, I was the only one left on board (which in itself tells you something of the character of the area I was visiting).
I waited for the 38 bus, which arrived just as I finished another cigarette. I missed my stop, and continued on the bus many miles past my destination, until the bus just wouldn’t go any further and the driver made me aware of my error.
Things like this happen to me all the time.
Finally making it to the Claude Hudson Medical Center (Mr. Hudson being the celebrated orthodontist, founder of the NAACP, and spelunker), the scene resembled the Woodstock music festival between sets from Joe Cocker and The Who, with millions and millions of folks desiring care for their decaying and rotten teeth.
Fortunately for me, all I had to do was make an appointment to come back at a later date. This took less than ten minutes. I’d get my chance to wait in line on Dec Sixth.
When I finished my business, I walked north on Grand Ave., looking for a 483 bus stop while checking out the scenery. It looked like an interesting place to live, to grow up around. I personally, wouldn’t want to live or grow up there, but it looked interesting. When I travel through communities or streets like these, I often wonder what secrets lie behind the walls, doors, and windows of the run down houses and businesses.
I found a 483 stop, and the bus got there a little early, before I could even light up, but I boarded it just the same. It took me straight back to the ARC, and as luck would have it, right in time for lunch.
Now I could save my bag lunch for a snack later in the evening.
I wrote in the canteen area for the rest of the day, until dinner time, then I continued to write in the lobby, watching the counselors come and go, and the neighborhood children come to the desk, dressed as goblins and fairy princesses, and beg for sweets, which fortunately, Mr. Vasquez had the presence of mind to keep in ample supply.
I remembered Halloween’s of my past, my friends, my sister. And I marveled at how fast life and everything goes by.
November 1 Thursday Day 50
I woke up in time for lunch. Lunch seemed to call to me.
Dispelling my hunger, I went down and talked to Noah awhile. Noah is such a soothing influence in my life. I am so glad I have made her acquaintance and that we have become fast friends. I consider her advice invaluable, and she knows just how to cheer me when I’m blue. A witty, “Click-click-click,” of her black-horned tongue usually does the trick, or a cheery, “Hello!” A “Do dee do dee do dee dooo!” never fails to brighten my spirits, and of course the endearing wolf whistles, offered with sly mischievousness, are always welcome.
Noah, being a parrot, is a very discriminating creature. My roommate, Dennis Castle (the slayer of horses), came up to her one day and asked, “Hi Noah, what’s happening?”
“Fuck you, asshole!” was her steadfast reply.
Everybody was in a tither at work today, anticipating tonight’s Second Annual Achievment Awards Ceremony and Banquet, to be held in the chapel. Mr. Vasquez was running around, making sure everything was clean and shinny for the festivities. Mrs. Johnson came over and helped out in the kitchen. It’s all a very grand affair.
The purpose of the ceremony being to honor those residents who have achieved various lengths of sobriety: two to five months, those who have completed the six month program, and graduates who departed the center and have begun their journey into the “real world.”
The whole thing went rather well, actually. I was very impressed.
The beautiful Stacy arrived, escorted by Charles the counselor.
Alas, I have made the decision to give her up, as I feel she is too young and inexperienced for me. And too skinny. I shall attempt to let her down easy.
I must be honest now. I admit that I have fallen deeply in love with another. She is also a counselor. Stacy and I have not been, as of yet, intimate, so I have not been unfaithful to her, and I feel good about that.
The object of my affection goes by the name of Jill, a strikingly gorgeous, more mature woman, with shoulder length, flaming red hair, and large, bountiful breasts. I’m enamored of her, and I’m positive she feels something for me also, by the occasional looks she casts in my direction of coy disdain.
But I digress.
As I was saying, it all turned out rather well. I had expected a ho hum and boring presentation, but most of the evening was devoted to the guys, and some of them had the chance to speak, and what they had to say interested me. Most spoke of their appreciation of the Salvation Army, and how they were getting along amongst many and varied diversities. Almost everyone got a chance to go up on stage and shake the Major’s hand, shake George Staub’s hand, and get a certificate. Our own Jack Crosley got special mention and plaque, for always being ready to lend a helping hand when needed (carpet shampooer). I didn’t get didily.
I dreamt of Jill this evening. We were running toward each other in slow motion, within a field of golden flowers.
November 2 Friday Day 51
I slept as late as I could this morning, wanting to end this day as quickly as possible. I have come to my senses, and now realize that I should never have resumed smoking. That the excuses and rationalizations I employed are not now, and never were valid, and that they don’t work for me today. Accordingly, I’ve stopped smoking again, and my quest for sleep is a physical manifestation of the idea that if I’m not conscious I’m less likely to smoke.
It’s not too hard to stop smoking really if you never think about it.
I wrote a lot today, again not requiring a great deal of thought.
Surprisingly enough, I’ve discovered that I enjoy writing immensely. Besides being therapeutic, it is a nice challenge to be doing something somewhat useful, to force myself to do something on a daily basis, even if I don’t want to do it sometimes. I’ve never done this before. You could say there hasn’t been an over abundance of discipline in my life.
The more I write; the more I enjoy it.
I talked to Noah quite a bit today. We discussed the Gulf crisis. Noah thinks we should kick Saddam out of Kuwait, but under no circumstances invade Iraq. I don’t know if I agree.
Work went smoothly. A little hectic in the beginning, then slowing down to nothing.Noah, being a parrot, is a very discriminating creature. My roommate, Dennis Castle (the slayer of horses), came up to her one day and asked, “Hi Noah, what’s happening?”
“Fuck you, asshole!” was her steadfast reply.
Everybody was in a tither at work today, anticipating tonight’s Second Annual Achievment Awards Ceremony and Banquet, to be held in the chapel. Mr. Vasquez was running around, making sure everything was clean and shinny for the festivities. Mrs. Johnson came over and helped out in the kitchen. It’s all a very grand affair.
The purpose of the ceremony being to honor those residents who have achieved various lengths of sobriety: two to five months, those who have completed the six month program, and graduates who departed the center and have begun their journey into the “real world.”
The whole thing went rather well, actually. I was very impressed.
The beautiful Stacy arrived, escorted by Charles the counselor.
Alas, I have made the decision to give her up, as I feel she is too young and inexperienced for me. And too skinny. I shall attempt to let her down easy.
I must be honest now. I admit that I have fallen deeply in love with another. She is also a counselor. Stacy and I have not been, as of yet, intimate, so I have not been unfaithful to her, and I feel good about that.
The object of my affection goes by the name of Jill, a strikingly gorgeous, more mature woman, with shoulder length, flaming red hair, and large, bountiful breasts. I’m enamored of her, and I’m positive she feels something for me also, by the occasional looks she casts in my direction of coy disdain.
But I digress.
As I was saying, it all turned out rather well. I had expected a ho hum and boring presentation, but most of the evening was devoted to the guys, and some of them had the chance to speak, and what they had to say interested me. Most spoke of their appreciation of the Salvation Army, and how they were getting along amongst many and varied diversities. Almost everyone got a chance to go up on stage and shake the Major’s hand, shake George Staub’s hand, and get a certificate. Our own Jack Crosley got special mention and plaque, for always being ready to lend a helping hand when needed (carpet shampooer). I didn’t get didily.
I dreamt of Jill this evening. We were running toward each other in slow motion, within a field of golden flowers.
November 2 Friday Day 51
I slept as late as I could this morning, wanting to end this day as quickly as possible. I have come to my senses, and now realize that I should never have resumed smoking. That the excuses and rationalizations I employed are not now, and never were valid, and that they don’t work for me today. Accordingly, I’ve stopped smoking again, and my quest for sleep is a physical manifestation of the idea that if I’m not conscious I’m less likely to smoke.
It’s not too hard to stop smoking really if you never think about it.
I wrote a lot today, again not requiring a great deal of thought.
Surprisingly enough, I’ve discovered that I enjoy writing immensely. Besides being therapeutic, it is a nice challenge to be doing something somewhat useful, to force myself to do something on a daily basis, even if I don’t want to do it sometimes. I’ve never done this before. You could say there hasn’t been an over abundance of discipline in my life.
The more I write; the more I enjoy it.
I talked to Noah quite a bit today. We discussed the Gulf crisis. Noah thinks we should kick Saddam out of Kuwait, but under no circumstances invade Iraq. I don’t know if I agree.
Tomorrow I will continue the pursuit of the Zen concept of Empty Mind.
November 3 Saturday Day 52
I woke to the sound of my roommate Gordon being upset. He was upset because a mutual acquaintance of ours was being thrown out for suspected pilfering. This friend had worked as an upholster, and some of the furniture in his area was found stuffed with clothes. Gordon felt that the dismissal was unjustified, for various reasons, probably good ones. The staff felt that the dismissal was justified, and were quite adamant about it. Though I feel for the man, I’m staying neutral.
I don’t need a lot of controversy in my life right now.
I scored a whole bunch of alcohol, alcoholism, and A.A. related books last night, even a Big Book (the main text used by Alcoholics Anonymous). The man in charge of sorting through all the donated books in the warehouse brought them over, and I got first crack at borrowing them forever. They’re now stashed in my locker.
After lunch I went to the park and sat in the sun for the first time in about a week. The new sprinkler system that was in the process of being installed while I was living there is proving to be very effective. One can’t find a dry place to sit hardly, and if you do find one, be very alert. Don’t be listening to large, Mickey Mouse looking, radio headphones, and expect the sprinklers not to turn on suddenly, showering hapless victims repeatedly as they try unsuccessfully to gather their once dry belongings.
Back at the ranch, I showered and returned a call to my mother. She had called while I was at the park. She was wondering if I was all right since I hadn’t called her last week on my birthday. I hadn’t called her on purpose. I had been a little mad at her, and resentful, and was punishing her by not calling. Why had I been upset with my dear, sweet mother? Because she had lied to me, that’s why. She had sent me a card which stated that she “couldn’t think of a thing to send me,” for my birthday that is. Here I am with absolutely nothing, nada, and she can’t think of a thing to send me! I’m so sick of this Alanon, though love crap, I can’t believe it! Parents all over the place raise their kids with a predisposition toward alcoholism, screw up their early childhood by drinking around them, then kick them out into the world, saying, “Make something of yourself, your not me responsibility anymore. So don’t come around asking for any favors, or even anything for your birthday, like some boxer shorts, or something.”
Poor, poor, pitiful me.
As soon as I got on the desk at three-thirty, Gordon’s lovely daughter came in and caught me off guard (which isn’t hard to do) by saying, “Hi,” to me.
I said, “Hi, hi.” Can you believe that. How lame.
“I’ve come to see my daddy,” she said. She’s so cute.
I said, “Okay.”
Then she turned around and began to completely ignore me.
Such is the effect I have upon women.
The remainder of the evening was just as exciting.
November 4 Sunday Day 53
Some days are better than others.
Such wisdom.
At two minutes to five I was suddenly awakened by a sharp, insistent pounding on my feet. I lifted my head up, and exclaimed, “Uh, wawa,” as I perceived the Wolfman lumbering (and I mean lumbering) away.
This of course was my wake up call.
I made it to the desk by six. A nice, ordinary day today working with my buddy, Mr. Vasquez.
He had an appointment with the doctor tomorrow, so he asked me if I could help out if needed. I said, “Sure bet, boss.”
He also asked me if I would mind doing tomorrow’s devotions. I said, “Yes, of course,” being the very helpful individual that I am.
After work I forgot all about quitting smoking and lit up in the bathroom. I don’t know why I did this, and as I finished my fourth cigarette I began to wonder about it, because I started to feel bad.
As I lighted another I realized why I had began smoking again. I’m addicted to nicotine.
I got too busy feeding my addiction and reading a Dean Koontz novel to worry anymore over the matter.
But later, when I got into bed, I thought about it again, and again felt real shitty. I tend to do this to myself quite a bit.
November 5 Monday Day 54
Well there’s not much to talk about, because I slept through most of the damn day! At eleven-thirty I climbed out of the sack, and was still fairly disorientated.
Excuse me, I did get up briefly at ten after seven, and read, bleary-eyed, the morning devotion to an unappreciative audience, then went straight back to bed. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Fatigue is also a symptom of the H.I.V. virus (everything is a symptom of the H.I.V. virus), but I’m not really fatigued. Once I’m up I feel good, and am quite energetic.
As I showered, I promised myself that I would get up at five tomorrow, no matter what, and do all the wonderful things that I want to do, like go to Union Station, exercise, read and write, stuff like that.
After dressing, I wrote until it was time to go to work.
Work picked me right up. I enjoy the job, and enjoy talking to people. Mr. Vasquez seems to like me, and my work. Not that the job is all that difficult. One just needs the proper temperament.
One of my new friends came by the desk, and we made plans to go to the movies on Sunday, and see the new film, “Jacob’s Ladder.” His name is Warren Bahr. When he first arrived at the center I thought he was a smart-ass, but I soon grew fond of him as we got to know each other. He is short, about 5’7”, with brown hair and eyes, a tad heavyset, with an amiable disposition. It doesn’t seem like too many things bother him. He appears dedicated to the program, and to his children, which he talks to over the phone almost everyday. He is divorced, but has a decent relationship with his ex. He is a member of the maintenance crew, and helps to fix all the things that go wrong around here. I admire that ability, to look at a machine and instantly know what is wrong with it and how to fix it. I cannot do that. I am liable to make the problem ten times worse just by getting near it. Warren is a bowler. He spends a lot of his time in the basement working on the pin-setting machine for our two bowling lanes. I sometimes sit and watch him work, and help out by handing him tools he asks for. He is a simple, basic, uncomplicated, easygoing fellow, in tune with his environment. Hell, I just like the guy, that’s all there is to it. I hope we stay friends.
He, like the rest of us here, has been decimated by the compulsive use of drugs and alcohol. Cocaine got him. He had been making good money doing what he enjoys, and what came naturally to him. A pretty sweet deal, by anyone’s reckoning. Coke took it all away. Now he tells me that he will go to any lengths to stay sober.
Just like me.
I wish him well.
November 6 Tuesday Day 55
I slept and wrote today. And ate some dinner.
November 7 Wednesday Day 56
I slept, and did not write today.
Because I’ve had so much trouble getting up in the morning lately, I thought it would be a good idea to wait until eleven p.m. and start writing, and write all night long. That’s what I did last night, or tried to. I got tired after eleven-oh five and went to bed, falling asleep shortly thereafter. I figure part of the problem may stem from my inability to get to sleep once I’m in bed. Sometimes I can’t get to sleep for many hours, and have stayed up as late as three o’clock. Of course, then I’m way to tired to get up at five when my alarm clock goes off. Maybe I’m suffering from some form of latent depression that does not manifest itself during my waking hours. Oh well, this really is the least of my problems.
Today the Salvation Army gathered together those of us who experienced birthdays in the month of October, and treated us to a nice steak dinner in the small dinning room (why this was not done in the actual month of October is unknown to me, but I’m sure there is a very good, logical answer… somewhere). It wasn’t a particularly nice steak; rather it was like something you might find at the local Sizzler restaurant, half stringy fat, but the whole, overall meal was very nice. The Major and his lovely wife (Mrs. Johnson (also a Major. Married officers share the same rank in the Salvation Army) also celebrated a birthday in October, on the sixth), his sister Bonnie, George, Clarence and his lovely wife, Pattie (who is the Major’s secretary), their daughter, and Dr. Ed (the man who would be taking over from George, who will be leaving us later in the month), were all in attendance. I had the dubious distinction of sitting at George’s table. I, unlike a lot of people around here, am quite fond of George, and consider him to be very knowledgeable toward issues concerning alcoholism and addiction (for a non-alcoholic), and I enjoy our brief conversations. Tonight I found out that he is looking forward to his upcoming move to Phoenix, and will be living closer to his wife’s family home, which is in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico (a place I enjoyed calling immensely while working for AT&T). I also learned that he would one day like to camp out, and have breakfast, on the rim of the Grand Canyon, in Arizona.
I, myself, have had breakfast on the rim of the Grand Canyon, in Arizona. I have also flown over it in a small airplane, and have ridden down into it on the back of a donkey. My butt hurt for days afterwards.
My group counseling sessions have been mysteriously moved to Wednesdays, starting tonight. We talked about how we felt about group. I said that I liked it, that I got more out of group counseling than I did any other aspect of the center’s program (except what I do for myself, like attending A.A. meetings, and writing). George does have a tendency to dominate the conversation though, but he always has a lot of interesting things to say.
We also discussed the alcoholics, or drug addicts ability to consciously forget, ignore, or not care about, all the pain and misery that using brings about, thus making it so much easier to take that first drink, or drug, again, and again. All we do remember are the so called “good times,” (euphoric recall). This is a major problem for us. I can’t begin to remember how many times in the last year I’ve relapsed with booze, using the same old tired excuses: it won’t happen again (it always does), just this one time (it never is), I can control it (I never do), I’ll stop before it gets out of hand (I can’t). I have done this over and over.
Now I consider the experiences I’ve had with relapse to be my best defense against them reoccurring. I may have come to a point (I pray) were my pain and discomfort have reached a high enough degree that I do not wish to experience them again. I believe that I now may have gotten it through my head that total relapse, and all the horror that goes along with it, will occur, without fail, after I take the first drink. If I continue to remember what will happen, and keep caring about myself as a human being, I’ll be alright.
To make not taking that first drink the most important thing in my life, and go to any lengths to maintain that attitude, can be my only goal.
Nice talk. Talk is sometimes all that alcoholics do.
Tonight, while everyone else had gone to bed, I stood looking down from the second floor into the atrium, and got an idea for a story to write. It’s always a good idea to get an idea for a story. We shall see what comes of it.
November 8 Thursday Day 57
I won a game of video chess today. Slaughtered the fucker! Well, maybe not slaughtered… barely squeaked through is more like it, but it felt like a slaughter.
That was the high point of my day.
I actually talked to Stacy this evening. She’s a nice girl. Now I understand how young she is. She hates school, doesn’t study, has a B average, likes Morro Bay and Monterey (like I do), is going to take a break from school after the semester, and uses words like, “awesome.”
It reminds me of myself when I used to use phrases like, “to the max,” and “far out.” She makes me feel old.
I still say those things. And “groovy,” too.
I noticed some pimples on her face, which seemed to make her more approachable. Strange. But I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore (even though she’s the prettiest girl who comes around here). I’m much too busy being in love with Jill… and Gordon’s daughter, Dori, and this girl who was at the A.A. panel this evening.
Her name was Christen. She was very thin, and blonde, and pretty, with longer hair than Stacy’s. She has green eyes. I like green eyes.
Debra, my second wife, had green eyes. Probably still does.
Christen stated that tonight was the first time she had ever spoken on a panel. A panel virgin. I, myself, am a panel virgin. She was a little nervous, as virgins are. Her voice was soft, just above a whisper. I was sure that some jerk in the back of the room would shout out, “Speak up!” or “I can’t hear you!” thereby interrupting her, and increasing her nervousness, but no one did. I sat in the first row, directly in front of her, so I had no difficulty at all in hearing what she said.
What she said was that she was fourteen months sober, and that she had never been on a panel before. I don’t remember her exact words because her speech was somewhat disjointed, and not completely coherent, but I was able to put together most of it.
Her father is an alcoholic, and had been recovering up until a week ago. Today he suffered a massive heart attack. As she spoke her voice grew stronger and more self-assured as her nervousness subsided and her pain became more apparent. I could feel the strength of her pain and anger.
I admired her ability to know what to do in a time of crisis. She made the choice to come to this panel and be with other alcoholics, rather than delve into self-pity and remorse. Christen choose to strengthen her resolve and not take a drink, or use some drug to help ease the pain she was most certainly experiencing. She choose to talk to us instead. To share her experience, strength, and hope, in order that we who listened to her story may gain. And by doing this she gained also.
This symbiotic relationship we addicts have is the very essence of A.A.
She said that she did not have many material possessions, no husband, not even a boyfriend. She said that she lived in a small, claustrophobic, bachelor apartment, just as I had once done.
I could relate to what she must have been feeling, her loneliness and isolation. That is what drew me to her.
We were different though, her and I. She knew how to deal with her situation in a positive manner. Her to break her isolation, and search out other people who could help her. I did not know how to do that, and all to often wallowed in my loneliness, and embraced my isolation, cherishing both and eventually turning to the bottle.
She knows how to stay sober for fourteen months.
I do not.
I learned a lot from her, and I learn from others like her.
I held her hand at the meetings end, as we all recited The Lord’s Prayer.
This is about the only time I get to hold a girl’s hand anymore.
It felt good.
I told her that I admired her courage, to get up and speak in front of sixty strange men.
She said, “Thank you.”
I told her that I hoped things turned out alright for her father.
She said, “Thank you,” again.
I will most likely never, ever, see her again. I wish her exceedingly well. I wish her father well. I wish everybody well (except Saddam, all other ruthless dictators, and child and animal molesters).
I love her, for being who she is, and for showing up.
November 9 Friday Day 58
I was going to get up real early and go downtown to the V.A., and see about getting my General Discharge from the navy upgraded to an Honorable. When I woke up though, I found myself for some reason glued to my bed, and was not able to leave it.
When I did finally free myself, I smoked a little, read a little, and wrote some. I won a game of video chess, and lost four. I talked with some people, and some people talked with me. I talked with Noah the parrot, and she talked with me. We discussed the Special Theory of Relativity, and that a lot of what happens in this world can only be labeled good or bad, depending on your personal frame of reference.
Noah wondered whether the degree of heartburn suffered by munching down too many sunflower seeds was the same for a bird traveling on a train at 90% of the speed of light, as it was for a bird sitting in a stationary fashion (relatively) at a train station.
We couldn’t figure it out.
At work, Jack told me that he’s quitting the desk to become a driver next Monday. He told me that he couldn’t get along with Victor (there had been a slight altercation a day or two before), and that he had been on the desk too long anyway, and wanted a change.
I will miss him at the desk, even though we didn’t work together very often. He has been a calming, and steady influence for me. But I’m sure he’s making the right decision for himself.
I have gotten along with Victor pretty well recently. We talk about “Star Trek,” and exobiology. He insists that one day it may be possible for Klingons and Vulcans to mate with humans and produce viable offspring. I maintain it would be easier for an elephant to mate with a flea, due to the incompatibility of our respective genetic material.
But one never knows.
November 11 Saturday Day 59
During the morning hours everyone was cleaning and painting around here, so it was hard to find a nice quiet bathroom stall to sit down in and contemplate the meaning of the word “Omm.” After ten, things settled down a bit, and I was able to proceed with this task.
I found, much to my amazement, that there is no meaning to the word “Omm.”
There is no sound issued from one hand clapping, either.
However, I did discover a hardy, somewhat absorbed, sonorous thunking noise derived from slapping one hand against a toilet bowl.
Abandoning these lofty investigations into the realm of perfect meaning, I descended towards the omnivorous video chess machine, only to discover the meaning of the word “humiliation,” as the hideous device had its way with me.
After lunch I went to the park to see what I could see. There was an Arts and Crafts Fair situated there for the weekend, and I desired to check out the arts and crafts (I wanted to check out the women). There was square dancing, and Jazz music, and nice paintings and photographs, tee shirts, mobiles, candles, jewelry, and various arts, and various crafts.
I made a stop at the thrift store on the way back, and picked up some more dress clothes. One sport coat, two pairs of socks (brown and white), a couple of shirts, pants, and ties.
Mr. Vasquez finally got around to purchasing a new parakeet today (at the Major’s urging, I’m sure). A Norwegian Blue. I went down to the atrium and looked at it. It seemed a little nervous in its new home. It just sat a the bottom of the large cage, eyeing me with audacious suspicion. The other parakeet did nothing to help matters, looking down from high on its perch, with haughty malevolence.
I said, “Hello,” to the new bird. The bird said nothing in return.
I noticed that the bottom of the cage where the bird was standing, was damp.
I hoped that soon the bird would fly up to its perch to join its parakeet partner. It probably just needed to be alone with Esmerelda for a little while, and get used to its new surroundings. I would come back and check on him in the morning.
Hoping that it was a male, I christened the new bird, Thornton.
I said, “Hello Thornton.”
November 11 Sunday Day 60
Thornton was found this morning, still on the bottom of its cage, only today he was dead. I was the one who found him.
Maybe we should have dried the bottom of the cage, or something.
Poor Thornton, bless his little parakeet soul. We hardly knew ye.
Mr. Vasquez will attempt to get another bird from the bird store, free of charge.
It won’t be Thornton, though.
Today seemed like a normal Sunday (except for Thornton’s untimely demise) I was a little tired, but felt all right. Until the Major threatened me with physical violence, that is. After chapel, he was walking out of the building with another Major buddy of his. One of the guys had left the door open, and I hadn’t noticed. Whenever I do notice, I close it. It’s closed 99% of the time. The Major closed it and pointed to me, saying, “If you value your head, or any other part of your anatomy, keep this door closed!” I nodded like a dumb ass.
He was worried about the building’s air conditioning system becoming over taxed as it attempted to cool all of Pasadena.
What upsets me about this is that all week I do a very good job (or try to), and work very hard at making sure there are no major malfunctions around this place, and am usually fairly successful at it. Twice a week this dimwitted, moronic asshole comes over here, airing a distinctly superior air that he insists he does not have while in chapel, and goes about making snap judgments about everything. His whole impression of me now must be that of a total incompetent boob, who can’t even keep a simple door closed, thereby increasing his electricity bill ruinously.
Am I rushing to judgment as he is? Am I being too harsh? Too bitter?
Yes, and delightedly so!
I shouldn’t get too worked up about it I suppose. I tend to be a bit thin skinned, due to my basic lack of self-esteem. It doesn’t really matter anyway, what this guy thinks (typical alcoholic attitude).
Unless they decide to throw my ass out of here.
The rest of the day was alright. I didn’t do much. I was tired and a little overwrought. I watched the end of “Jaws,” “Married with Children,” and finished Twilight Eyes, the Koontz novel I had been reading. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will quit smoking and get my life back in control.
What makes me feel my life is out of control? I’m smoking, spending money, not exercising, not reading the literature I told myself I would read, failing the schedule I had made for myself, sleeping too much, and farting around too much.
And stressing out about it.
All that makes me feel bad (I make myself feel bad).
So tomorrow I’ll fix all that stuff. Really! The first step is to quit smoking again.
November 12 Monday Day 61
I didn’t fix anything today. When I woke up, when I finally woke up, I was filled with resolve. I intended to fast for three days, give up smoking, and stop drinking coffee. I woke up at twelve, and at the two o’clock break I was choking down donuts and swilling coffee. I had resumed smoking by eight.
But I continue not to drink! That is the main issue, I know can do anything (eventually) as long as I don’t drink, or use psychoactive drugs.
I have sixty days sober today!!! One of my janitor friends, a Mr. Rockoff, gave me one of his extra Sixty Day chips. A good thing too, as I seem to be having difficulty getting to a meeting that gives out chips, or any outside meetings lately. If I had a sponsor type person, as A.A. suggests I have, they would probably tell me something like, “Go to 90 meetings in 90 days,” meaning that I should go to as many meetings as possible while in early sobriety (or one meeting a day). He would also say something like, I should find a meeting that gives out chips, and take chips when warranted, because it’s not only for my benefit, but also for those in attendance with less sober time, so they know it’s possible for them to get a chip as well.
It’s excellent advice. I’m just not following it at the present time.
The last time I sponsored someone, I relapsed.
Mr. Vasquez went and got a new bird today. He exchanged Thornton’s little dead body for it (straight out of a scene from Monty Python: “This bird’s dead.” “No it in’t” Yes it is.” “No it in’t.” “My dear fellow, I know a dead budgie when I see one,” on and on). I guess he didn’t bother to tell the pet shop people that we had allowed Thornton to stand in what amounted to a lake of water all night, catch parakeet pneumonia, and keel over and die.
Our new bird is blue, just like Thornton used to be. And like Thornton, it started out life in the residence at the bottom of the birdcage. Must be some kind of budgie initiation ritual. There is wild speculation that the other, yellow and green bird, Esmerelda, killed off Thornton in the middle of the night, but I don’t believe it for a minute. She doesn’t have the close-set eyes of a killer parakeet (although she does sport a slight smirk).
Hoping that it is a male, I’ve named the new bird, Jasper.
I said, “Hello, Jasper.”
Mr. Vasquez and I work well together. He is opening up more and more, telling me of his past, and to even things out, I do the same (tell him of my past, not his).
I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with another counselor. Her name is Shirley, and she is a very nice, attractive, brunette lady. She usually works on Tuesdays, but she stopped by tonight.
It’s so easy to fall in love.
November 13 Tuesday Day 62
Jasper is still alive! I got up early to check him out. He’s even sitting up on a perch, though a discrete distance from Esmerelda. I hope we’ll have good luck with this bird.
After breakfast I took a little nap.
After lunch, I wrote a little, down in the lobby, where Shirley happened to be, looking bright, beautiful, and as spunky as ever.
I like spunky women. They have so much SPUNK!
I like ones that aren’t spunky, as well.
Later in the evening, I could be found in the lobby once again, innocently reading a collection of 24 Terror Tales, while surreptitiously waiting for Jill to arrive.
When she came in, she pretended not to notice me.
Her cool aloofness turns me on.
I’m sure I affect her also, although probably not the way I’d like.
At nine, my friend Warren Bahr, and my roommate Dan (a very good looking, reticent, red haired person), went to a local coffee bar (as opposed to an out-of-state coffee bar), and drank coffee and played cribbage. The place looked like something out of the sixties, people in strange dress, using drugs, and singing protest songs (“Save Our Boys in Saudi Arabia”). I hadn’t played cribbage since I’d been in the navy, but I managed to keep up. We played two games, Dan won the first, and Warren and I tied for the second. We got back to the residence ten minutes before curfew.
I stayed up until one, finishing an apocalyptic novelette of Stephen King’s, entitled The Mist. Very interesting, and very creepy.
Based on a true story I’m told.
I went to bed determined to get up and go to the VA in the morning. I had a right attitude. It’s good to be alive.
November 14 Wednesday Day 63
Up early, and Jasper’s still alive. He is sitting a little closer to Esmerelda this morning too. Sly devil.
I wrote and read today, and lost a game of video chess. Chapel was brief. The Major and Mrs. Johnson were not there.
They were A.W.O.L.
I guess I forgot about going to the V.A. today.
George was not at our group counseling session either. He’s letting Dr. Edmund Reitz gradually take over his responsibilities. He began the group by writing two words on the blackboard, “Blame,” and “Responsibility.” He asked each of us (about twelve) how we used these two concepts. He told us that we were wasting our time by blaming other people, places, things, and ourselves. Instead, we should take responsibility for our situations, and do everything in our power to effect a change in our lives.
Our answers, almost to a man, did not follow the Dr’s game plan. None of used blame as a cop-out.
“Ultimately,” I said, “I could blame my natural parents, whom I’ve never met, for providing me with a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and drug addiction. I could also conceivably blame my adopted parents for the drinking and smoking I was subjected to when very young. My God, my dad owned a liquor store! I could blame my dad, for dying when I was eleven. I could blame society, for condoning alcohol and tobacco use, advertising agencies for depicting drinking as being sexy, and smoking as glamorous. But again, ultimately the responsibility is all mine. After realizing that I do have a problem with alcohol, that problem becomes mine, and mine alone. No one else can help me if I don’t want to help myself. For a long time I did not want to help myself. But I now realize that denial plays a big part in this disease, so I can’t really get down on myself for the time I wasted continuing to drink. Once I became aware of the nature of alcoholism, any failure to take appropriate action to abstain from drinking lies on my shoulders alone. To blame is an exercise in frustration. Nothing gets done while blaming people. If I were on a ship that struck an iceberg, and was knocked overboard, I could spend all day blaming the iceberg for being there, or the lookout for not seeing it, or the captain for running into it, but it would still be my responsibility to start swimming. My being here at the A.R.C. is an example of my taking responsibility for my life. Right now, I feel that this is the best place for me to be. I can learn about patience here. I can hopefully come to grips with this problem in a realistic manner, using all the available means at my disposal.”
All of us that were there, basically, stated that it was our responsibility to take care of ourselves, and deal with our addictions, as well as any other of life’s problems.
I beat Warren Bahr at cribbage, the read until I fell asleep.
November 15 Thursday Day 64
Back to work today. I slept in a little, then talked to Noah, and looked in on the two little parakeets. They seem to be doing well. Nervous creatures.
I began to read, The Damnation Game, by Clive Barker. I like his prose style. The book has to do with gambling it seems.
One of our male counselors is taking over for George in the substance abuse seminar. His name is Richard Bennett, an older, black man. More Christian orientated than most of the other counselors, he talked tonight about fear. He asked what fear meant to us. A few vague replies came forth, “The unknown,” “Death,” “Pain.” If he had asked me, I would have said fear is a survival mechanism. Animals need to feel fear when the situation warrants.
I have a small fear when I am on the edge of something that drops down a great distance, or rather, a height where there is no railing to hold on to. This trepidation does not interfere with any other aspect of my life, so it does not appear to be what could be called a phobia. I can control this fear, or actually, manage it, while I am doing something that necessitates my being in a position that triggers it. An example: the mule ride I mentioned earlier, that Jan and I had taken down into the Grand Canyon. When starting the descent we were assured that no mule had ever walked off the path, taking itself, and its rider, down the cliff face, a shear drop of probably a thousand feet or more. It was a scary ride, no doubt about it. Looking down those cliffs, knowing that one misstep, or if the mule spooked for any reason, my life would end. This produced a good bit of anxiety within me. But in my mind, intellectually, I knew that the ride had to be fairly safe, or the folks who provided the service would be out of business (although it does provide a small amount of genuinely sick pleasure for me to imagine this admonition of the mule train driver, as one in his party falls helplessly over the side, their frantic screams diminishing the farther they drop. “There goes another one. Now see how important it is to stay together! Some people can’t follow simple instructions!”) I could hold on to the animal with my hands and legs, which allowed me some form of action, thus lessening my tension.
When we approached the end of the trail, though, which emptied onto a plateau overlooking the Colorado River, I would not get near its edge for love or money. Jan said to me, “Come over here and look at this,” referring to the breathtaking view, as she stood right at the lip of an unprotected, 500-foot straight fall. I walked over and stopped two feet behind her, looking down into empty space. At times like this my mind plays funny games with me. It lets me know how easy it is to fall over the edge. A simple stumble, a quiet gust of wind, a slight bump from someone behind me, a deliberate push from a homicidal maniac mass serial killer, an earthquake, avalanche, alien invasion, anything. I could easily visualize myself falling, arms flaying outward trying to grab hold of something, too scared to shout or yell, watching the jagged rocks beneath me getting closer and closer, faster and faster. I would flap my arms like a bird, and try to arrange my body in position to do the least damage, failing miserably as I landed face first upon the hard, unforgiving stony terrain, splattering all over the place with a squishy plopping thud!
“Come closer,” she commanded.
“No way,” I told her.
“Chicken,” she teased.
“You got that right, my little apple dumpling.”
A little while later she told me that as I walked away from her she tripped and almost fell over. In my mind, I saw her falling, and heard her terrible screams. I thought about what life would be like without her, how much I loved her, how much I would miss her, and what I would have to tell her parents. I felt guilty for letting her get that close to the edge to begin with. All these thoughts came in a single second.
It did nothing to make the trip back up the canyon any easier.
My point is that fear is a necessary and important aspect of life. As is pain. They help to keep us alive. If I am nervous about going to high places where it would be possible for me to fall, it is less likely I will go to those places, and less likely I will fall and die.
I will never be a construction worker on a skyscraper.
I will never climb mountains, and I think that those who do are absolutely bug nuts.
I like fear. I think its nifty, especially when you’re with a cute girl at a scary movie.
Unlike pain. Pain is almost always painful.
The opposite of fear, I think, is security. I like security more than fear, and much more than pain.
But too much of anything usually turns out to be detrimental to one’s well being.
Too much fear makes a fellow jumpy.
Too much security makes him stagnate.
The only thing that I ever had too much of that didn’t hurt me in some way was good, old air.
But tell that to the man in a hurricane.
November 16 Friday Day 65
This morning I got up and went to the bathroom, as I am often do. This is a place of sanctuary. Where a man can rest, think at leisure, and plan for his future. A place where dreams are brought to a practical conclusion. A place where one’s identity can be concealed, privacy assured, and meditation possible, all done with pants neatly tucked around the ankles. John Steinbeck has written that the bathroom is one of the few places were women can be frank with each other. Where pretense is discarded, and the feminine façade forgotten. Where women can talk without fear of being overheard by men.
I don’t know what that has to do with my particular situation at the moment, but that’s what Steinbeck wrote.
There I sat, perfect in my tranquility, at peace, pursuing the state of harmony that is No Mind. Zazen. Searching for enlightenment. My eyes were closed, and my breathing soft. I concentrated on a point near the back of my skull. Gradually I sensed a brightening from behind my closed eyelids. A soft white light, emanating from a virtual point, far away, which was coming closer to me, without sound, without heat. It was is I were floating with no weight in my body, no mass, no sensation, through a dark tunnel toward a light, which with each passing moment (though I felt no sense of passing time), gains in its cold (though I feel no sense of temperature) brilliance. I then believed I could hear a sound coming from far away. I felt the sound growing in intensity, a surging, crashing, violent cadence, a seething explosion of noise, like a gigantic tidal wave breaking over an entire city, over and over, faster and faster, louder and louder. My body vibrated….THE LIGHT…..THE LIIIIGGHHHHHHHTTTTTT!!!! I’M ALMOST THEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRREEEEEEEEEE…..
“Attention in the residence. Attention in the residence. In approximately five minutes the water in the building will be turned off for approximately fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
My body deflated as it was wrenched back from the infinite.
I heard Warren Bahr stumbling around, working in one of the shower stalls. I felt sure that it is he who was responsible for the last message over the P.A. system.
I continued to hear him tinkering for the next five minutes.
I kept quiet and smoked an unauthorized cigarette (cigarette smoking is only allowed in the restrooms after ten p.m. It was nowhere near ten p.m.).
“Hey Tommy! Bommarito! Come here for a second please,” I heard Warren call.
“Whatayawant?” Thomas Bommarito, the residence laundry person asked, as he entered the room. He is a thin, recovering junkie, with a receding hairline.
“Do me a favor, will ya?” Warren asked.
“What do you want, Bahr?”
“I need you to… see this valve. I need you to turn this valve off when I turn the water back on.”
“Why?”
“So it won’t squirt out all over the place, you lop.”
“I’m not going to get wet, am I?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why am I not going to get wet? You’re going to go downstairs and turn on the water, right?”
“Right.”
“And then the water is going to come shooting out all over the place, and all over me, right?”
“No man. You won’t get wet,” Warren assure with deceptive childlike innocence.
“Why don’t we just turn it off now?” Tommy retorted, not one to be taken in easily.
“Because, if we did that, it would melt the washer.”
“Why?”
“Because I just heated this valve here, see. And if I close it now, it will melt this washer. Once I turn on the water, it will cool the valve, and then we can close it.”
“Okay.” Tommy thought a moment. “Explain to me why I won’t get wet again?”
“Well, don’t stand under it, for one thing.”
“You see! I will get wet. It will squirt out all over and soak the shit out of me.”
“No it won’t, you lop. Right now the systems not under any pressure, so all the air has to come out first, see. You’ll have the air coming out alooooonnnngggg time before the water does. But you’ve got to hold this, just like that. All right?”
“All right.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
A few moments passed of uninterrupted silence.
Then I discerned a snake-like hissing sound. Then a sput, spat, sputtering sound, then a “Godddaammmmnnnnn iiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttt!!!!!!!!! Goddamn it Bahr! Baaaaaahhhhhhhhrrrrr! Motherfucking, cocksucker! Baaaaaaaahhhhhhrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!
Kevin Rockoff came in, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m soaked! That’s what’s the matter! I knew this was going to happen. Goddamn Cahr!”
Warren returned, effortlessly deflating vindictive expletives from Tom, while he began flushing the toilets for some reason. One of the toilets, two stalls down from my position, would not stop flushing, and soon overflowed. I could hear it start to splatter on the floor, and looked down toward my feet. A pool of water had reached the floor drain, but the flow was faster than the drain could accommodate and began creeping towards me.
It invaded my stall.
I stood on my toilet, buttoning and zipping my pants. I opened my stall door, and leaped to safety.
I passed Warren on my way out. He was puttering around under one of the sinks.
“Goddamn it, Bahr,” I said.
“Yeah,” Tom followed.
Warren later confided in me, “I knew he’d get wet.” He smiled when he said it.
I had planned to go to the park after lunch, but it was too cloudy. I stayed at the residence and read instead. I also wrote.
Skip (Charles) Grinnell is taking over Jack’s position at the desk. A slim, dark haired, Caucasian fellow. A honky. He wears a mustache. He has held a job at the desk before, it seems, during an earlier appearance here at the A.R.C. He seems highly intelligent and capable.
I relieved him at three-thirty, and Victor and I started our long evening.
It was hectic for the first few hours. At four, several events occurred simultaneously. The boys came home from work demanding their room keys, a Major Lund checked in for a stay with us (freeloader), and Major Johnson came by to greet him.
I usually only see major Johnson, in my official capacity, on Sunday mornings, which is usually enough for me. As chance would have it, someone had left the front door open, right as the Major stepped in.
“Try and keep this door closed, will you, Rick.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I will kill the next person who leaves it open.
Otherwise it was a rather unexceptional night.
We lost two people by the end of it. They didn’t return by the midnight curfew. I wish them well.
I’ve forgotten to relate something.
A few days ago I passed on the street, Mr. T. Piles. He was the man I had caught drinking with the breath-a-lizer a few days previously.
I didn’t really know what to expect from this confrontation. Would he be angry? Would he get violent? How would I react in his position?
What he did was shake my hand. He admitted to me that he had had a hell of a lot to drink that night. I asked him what he was going to do now. He said, he didn’t know, that he might come back to the center after his thirty-day suspension was over, and after George Staub had left. I wished him good luck.
I’ve seen him since, wandering around.
In the Park.
November 17 Saturday Day 66
I got out of bed at a little after ten. Not that I hadn’t woken up any earlier. Warren had stuck his head into the dorm on two occasions, trying to rouse Dan for one reason or another. Probably to go bike riding.
And I had woken at breakfast time, but considered what was most likely being served, pancakes or French toast. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed for fried bread. Eggs maybe.
After I did get up, I went downstairs and ate a couple of chocolate donuts from the pile set out near the canteen for the extra duty workers. Then I walked to the store to buy some more smokes, telling myself I would quit tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
I read a little bit after I came back from deciding that I’d quit smoking tomorrow. I planned a leisurely afternoon, have some lunch, maybe play a game of video chess, wash up and get dressed for work, write, then fuck off until three-thirty.
Victor changed my plans for me.
Mr. Vasquez had spent last night out on the town (out catting around probably. Shameful for a man his age), so Victor, being such a swell guy and all, covered for him during the morning shift. But Victor had traffic school to attend at noon, and he asked me if I could help out for a while so he could go. Always ready to lend a helping hand, I acquiesced.
I began at twelve-thirty, and except for a few minuscule breaks, didn’t stop until midnight.
Mr. Vasquez returned about two minutes after I started. He gave me three canteen cards for helping out, the disappeared into his room until three o’clock.
The Salvation Army Corps, up on Walnut Street, was holding some kind of Thanksgiving dinner tonight, and when Mr. Vasquez did come down to work, he was kept fairly busy shepherding volunteer workers (dishwashers and bus people) back and forth.
The Corps (the actual Salvation Army community church) gave the ARC ten tickets to the dinner, but only one of our guys wanted to go, Jesus Ibara, a diminutive, Latin person.
Robert also picked up the weekend video.
Which was “Total Recall,” starring Arnold Schaurtzhisname. I had suggested it.
Robert was out of my hair for most of the evening, so I wrote.
When I got off at work at twelve, I wrote some more. I decided to stay up all night and do it. Right now, in real time, it is 4:08:44 a.m., on the eighteenth. I may do this more often, it is so quiet and peaceful, although I am confined to one of the upstairs restrooms.
They’re having a big party at the house next door. I can hear Mariachi music faintly drifting through the morning mist.
November 18 Sunday Day 67
Now I remember why I don’t stay up all night a whole heck of a lot. I tend to get very tired when I do.
I wrote until I ran out of paper (I vowed to never run out of paper again. Never, ever), then read. Soon it was time to go back to work. I didn’t shower, but shaved. I noticed some blackheads high on my cheeks, and squeezed several of them until they burst and spewed forth dead white corpuscular material here and there. When my face got so sore that I couldn’t squeeze the blackheads anymore, I noticed a red spot on the right side of my face, and wondered of it.
Along with flakiness of the scalp, the information I had gathered concerning AIDS symptoms told me that dry patches could also appear on the face. Thinking about this red spot, and about the possibility that I may be infected with the HIV virus, got me super depressed. I kept looking at the spot, poking it, and comparing it to the other side of my face. Was there a red spot there too? Maybe. Maybe just the beginning of one.
I looked and looked.
The spot didn’t look real bad (as if I knew a good looking spot, from a bad looking one), maybe it had been there all along. I decided to put it out of my mind and not worry about it anymore. Then I went to work.
Talking to Wolf Pandolfi did not exactly brighten my spirits. Wolf is a big, bearish man, on the high side of fifty. He told me about his new freezer, and how much meat he can cram into it. He told me of his love life (the visualization this inspired was truly frightening), how good he is at his job, how much he hated George Staub, what he was going to do for the rest of the day. There was no stopping him. If I were to actually enter into the conversation and attempt to relate some exploit from my life, he would stop talking long enough for me to have my say, then resume his narrative at where he left off, and at the same steady pace. He is relentless. If I try and escape by reading the newspaper or a book, or busy myself with something, it does no good. His assault is merciless. He will continue to talk no matter what I do. I can only pray for seven o’clock to hurry up and get there so I could go to breakfast, and be rid of the Wolfman for at least another day.
The front door managed to keep itself closed while the Major was here. I couldn’t wait for him to leave the building this morning so I could sit down. I have a tendency to stand whenever he’s around, as if I were being alert.
After he left I sat down in my chair and relaxed so much that I almost fell asleep.
At one point Mr. Vasquez looked up at me from where he was sitting at his desk, and said, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bread pudding at lunch.” He is diabetic. I asked him if he felt bad. He said, yes, he did. He said he was having trouble seeing.
This scared me a little. It didn’t seem to faze him though. He continued to run around like he always did. Later he told me that he couldn’t see, and that he was going upstairs. I reminded him to get some medicine, and get some rest.
“I did take my medicine,” he told me. “You can’t take too much, no.”
He continued, “I’ll go up and start running some samples [urine], and maybe rest a little. Give me a call at number twenty-six, at around twenty to five, will you?”
I told him, yes, that I would be happy to do that.
He seemed to be alright after his rest.
I called my mom when finished working. She is well. She told me that in a little while she was going to go into her backyard and pick up Skeeter’s poop (her small Pomeranian type dog), and then go over to Alice and Lester’s (closest friends) house for dinner.
I asked her to have a good time, and to make sure she washed her hands.
She asked me what I wanted for Christmas. At first, I told her that I couldn’t think of anything. I was being obstinate. Later, I offhandedly mentioned that I could use a small tape recorder (for writing purposes), and she said that she had just seen one at the store the other day. I also told her that I could use some underwear, that I couldn’t get any around here. She asked me what size I wore.
She let me know that she might come to visit around Christmas time. It would be nice to see her.
I took a little walk. When I returned I ate early dinner, and then watched “Star Trek, the Next Generation.” I had wanted to watch the television adaptation of Stephen King’s novel, “It,” at nine, but nobody else seemed very interested in watching. Most of the guys here felt the same way, that King’s material is too psychologically intricate to transfer well to another medium. Our crowd here at the Salvation Army is extremely astute.
I read for a while, then went to bed. I had a little trouble falling to sleep.
November 20 Tuesday Day 68
I got out of bed for lunch, the went to talk to Noah. I washed up, and got ready for work, then wrote a bit. At two, I stopped and went to the dinning room, and had some coffee and a donut, then took my position behind the desk.
I continued to write until Mr. Vasquez came back from across the street with the day’s mail, appointment slips, passes for the upcoming weekend, and the counseling books that the counselors use to document their client’s progress, or lack thereof. George treats these books as if they were the Crown Jewels. I am one of the few clients who have access to them, and accordingly one day when no one was around, I took a tiny peek at my file. It contained about five rather innocuous entries, each stating something like, “Doing very well,” or, “Doing fine.” That was good to know. What a relief.
No problems at work this evening. Counselors came and went, as counselors do. Bible Study (which I had to miss. Mr. Vasquez took off for Smart & Final, and Star Video) and group Counseling. The last counselor left at ten-fifteen, quite later than usual. She had come in especially to see a client who had checked out of the program earlier in the evening, at five-forty three, to be exact. Obviously she had missed him, and seemed upset and concerned about his leaving. But that’s how us alcoholics and drug addicts are until we finally make the decision to stop using. We come, and we go.
It began to rain at about ten o’clock.
An older gentleman, bearded and dirty, came in from the street to my desk seeking shelter from the rain. I felt sorry for him, but there was little I could do for him other then tell him to come back in the morning to enter the program. He had been here before, and I had told him the same thing. The strength of my concern for him was tempered by his lack of motivation to help himself. As my mother has often told me, “You have to want to help yourself first.”
The old man stood outside under the building eaves for a while, protecting himself from the fine drops of plummeting water. He stood, wondering what to do, I imagine, or waiting for something to happen, just as I had once done on many occasions while I had been an amateur homeless individual.
My roommate, Gordon, came by, and spoke to the man briefly. Gordon told him of the Ryder trucks that I used to sleep in, which I had told Gordon about. The man left. Maybe he went there.
That’s where I’d go.
Shortly after ten, Mr. Vasquez left to pick up Matthew Moore from his outside job. Matthew usually uses a bicycle to get back and forth from work, but it was not operational tonight. Its chain was broken. Besides, it was raining. While Robert was gone I had the place all to myself.
I stood outside and watched and listened to the rain.
November 20 Tuesday Day 69
I made it up for breakfast, then walked to the store to purchase some cigarettes. I came back and smoked a few, then laid down on my nice bed and read a little, slowly drifting off to sleep.
When I awoke, I showered and dressed.
I met Jerold Schimmele, the resident’s senior janitor, at the elevator. I told him that my mother had said hello.
He looked at me quizzically. “Your mom said hello, to me?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“But she don’t know me.”
“Ah, there’s where your wrong, Mr. Schimmele. She knows you intimately. She knows everything about you.”
“She does?”
“Indeed. I mailed her the evidence in case I don’t survive.” The elevator door closed between us.
I sat in the lobby to write. After a while my counselor, Richard, came out with another client he had been talking to. We said hello to each other, and went inside the dinning room and started our session.
He told me how fine he was, and I told him how fine I was. We were both fine (some say that means, “Fucked up, Insecure, Nervous, and Emotional”).
He likes to talk about his Higher Power. He depends on his a lot.
I have some trouble (as do many) with this concept. I do believe in higher powers, or rather, a power greater than myself. There are many powers greater than myself. The influence alcohol has over me is one of them. Whenever I consent to take that first drink, I am powerless over what happens next, and my life becomes very unmanageable. My whole life is an example of that. Therefore, for me to maintain some semblance of manageability in my life I must never take that first drink! One day at a time. More fundamentally, I am also powerless over gravity as long as I stay near the surface of this planet (and even if I weren’t, gravity would still keep me in an elliptical orbit around the sun, as it acts over very large distances),
and I do not often put my belief in that particular powerlessness to the test. I am also powerless over other people, places, and things… and women. There is only one thing I may have a small degree of power over (if you insist on calling it that) and that of course, is myself.
And my current concern is with ridding my life of alcohol and drugs, and learning to live a content life in a sober fashion. I told Richard that right now, A.A. is my higher power, and I try to follow its tenets. I can intellectually understand how A.A. works (one alcoholic helping another, a group of similarly afflicted people getting together to help overcome that problems grasp… the Herd Theory), and I can feel its power when at meetings. I can intellectually grasp the concept of God (Supreme Being, creator of all things… the Turtle Theory), but do not believe that concept exits, in and of itself. So, I have a difficulty using the Higher Power concept in my recovery. Maybe one day I’ll experience a spiritual awakening and be able to accept the more conventional idea of what God is. If so, I’m all for it. It would certainly make things a lot easier (think for a moment how easy it is to be an honest and unapologetic agnostic at best, atheist at worst, in a predominately Christian nation, especially considering Christianity’s penchant for evangelical imperialism).
But I have no doubt that A.A works, so right now that is my higher power. And that’s okay.
Now I feel I can do another Fourth Step. The First: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – That our lives had become unmanageable,” I think I have finally beaten into my head. This very important step cannot be overlooked or compromised in any way. To do so is to flirt with disaster. I have relapsed too many times because I forgot how powerless I was over alcohol, or decided to not care about how unmanageable my life became, and once again strove for the empty false security and heedless oblivion a drug induced euphoria instantly gave to me.
That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? People have asked me repeatedly, why do I drink like that? Why do I hate myself so? Why do I want to live like that?
It’s almost impossible for a nonalcoholic or drug addict to understand.
I don’t hate myself. I think I’m a fairly decent human being, better than some, worse than others (if there is such a thing as better or worse). I may be very insecure, and have a certain capacity to withstand a certain amount of emotional pain, which I don’t care for, and which I’ve discovered drugs and alcohol completely alleviate instantaneously. I can choose to take a drink and not experience what I had believed to be a great deal of pain, or I can choose not to. Those are my only options. I have no others. I can choose to deal with life’s difficulties, joys, temporal concerns in a slow and systematic way, at the same time experiencing constant nagging sufferance, stress, and strain, or find instant (although temporary) relief that the ever present bottle brings.
Up to this point I have chosen the easy way. The temporary way, the solution that solves nothing.But I have no doubt that A.A works, so right now that is my higher power. And that’s okay.
Now I feel I can do another Fourth Step. The First: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – That our lives had become unmanageable,” I think I have finally beaten into my head. This very important step cannot be overlooked or compromised in any way. To do so is to flirt with disaster. I have relapsed too many times because I forgot how powerless I was over alcohol, or decided to not care about how unmanageable my life became, and once again strove for the empty false security and heedless oblivion a drug induced euphoria instantly gave to me.
That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? People have asked me repeatedly, why do I drink like that? Why do I hate myself so? Why do I want to live like that?
It’s almost impossible for a nonalcoholic or drug addict to understand.
I don’t hate myself. I think I’m a fairly decent human being, better than some, worse than others (if there is such a thing as better or worse). I may be very insecure, and have a certain capacity to withstand a certain amount of emotional pain, which I don’t care for, and which I’ve discovered drugs and alcohol completely alleviate instantaneously. I can choose to take a drink and not experience what I had believed to be a great deal of pain, or I can choose not to. Those are my only options. I have no others. I can choose to deal with life’s difficulties, joys, temporal concerns in a slow and systematic way, at the same time experiencing constant nagging sufferance, stress, and strain, or find instant (although temporary) relief that the ever present bottle brings.
Why? Because I’m an alcoholic, that’s why. No other explanation is necessary.
Why am I an alcoholic? It was always my dream. My first grade teacher one day asked us what it was we wanted to become in life, and I raised my little hand, and said, “A stinking drunk,” and have stuck to that vision ever since despite great sacrifice and hardship, never gaving up, finally achieving my goal. How many millions never get to realize their deepest ambitions?
But I’m being facetious. I do now realize that I am one, and realize what being an alcoholic means and that continuing to drink alcohol is not a satisfactory solution for what ails me. Through a series of disastrous lifetime experiences I have come to this conclusion. I seem to be slow learner in this regard. Many of us are. I had to do what is known as “hitting bottom.” Delve into so much pain that I just didn’t want to hide in denial anymore, and actually made a decision to help myself to never have to live that way again. The Park was my bottom. When I was ready to really understand that, and came to understand that, I understood it, and had completed the First Step of Alcoholics Anonymous.
The task at hand is to learn how to live life, with all of its pain and sorrow, with all of its joy and happiness, with all of its mundane, repetitious boredom, with its apparent lack of meaning and purpose – without having to anesthetize myself throughout it, and thereby allow myself to become exposed to the truth, beauty, and significance of what being alive and self-aware really is. I can no longer use things out of myself to help me. I must learn to look within.
Other people can help, but they can’t do it for me. That’s where A.A. comes in. Ultimately it comes back to me. If I truly want to learn a new way of life, set new behavior patterns for myself (which admittedly, is probably the most difficult thing any of us will ever have to do), if I truly want to stop living the way I have in the past, then I must make learning how to change, successfully and positively, the most important thing in my life. Nothing can be more important. NOTHING! No person, place, or thing, can ever be more important that my sobriety. I can’t love, protect, help, or be with someone if I’m not sober. Sobriety first; everything else second. I believe I really have no other choice.
Step Two: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Insane is a very appropriate word to describe the way I used to live. I have no trouble admitting that. I am told that a lot of us have difficulty with this Step because they can’t identify with insanity. As I said, I have no problem with that at all. If most of us took an honest look at the way we used to act and live while drinking and using, this part of the second Step shouldn’t be difficult. As for the second part of the Step; I believe that A.A. can restore me to sanity. Right now, that’s good enough.
Here’s the tickler (for me, at least), Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. Or her. Or it. If I substitute the letters, A.A., or thought of God as in the Buddhist’s “Everything,” or “Oneness,” then I can live with Step Three. That’s all that’s necessary.
The writing of this journal could be considered as an attempt at Step Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. This journal, more than likely will be a more detailed inventory than any the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous will suggest. Which is fine. It’s just going to take a while to complete.
Which is all right too.
In the meantime I’ll probably do a simpler version. A less detailed one, purely for personal maintenance purposes. I’ve done one before. I may do another. As Sigmund Freud often said, “It couldn’t hurt.”
Richard and I also discussed death. He told me that he did not fear death because life was never his. It was a gift from his higher power. Interesting, but probably a bunch of bullshit. He’ll squirm like the rest of us when his time comes.
I told him that I didn’t fear death all that much either (which is true to a point. It’s not happening to me right now, so I’m not particularly concerned with it at the moment), but that the idea of it really pisses me off.
He asked me why.
I told him that for me death represents a cessation of awareness. I won’t be able to experience the things I had always wanted to experience, but had never been able to. Death made me realize how I had wasted my life by drinking and drugging, or that I’ll never get a chance to be successful at what I wished to achieve in life.
It was all pretty depressing really.
I didn’t tell him about another reason. That I would be forgotten. That I would return to nothingness, which is pretty frustrating when you think about it. No one will remember my having been here. I’ll be just another faceless individual that had once existed. A statistic.
I didn’t tell him that because I hadn’t thought of it until I started writing this all down. It really is wonderful to realize that we’ve all defeated insurmountable odds to be here, to be self-aware, if only for a little while (99.99999999999999999998% of the universe is unaware of its own existence). It’s like winning the state lottery every week for a million years. That’s quite a comforting feeling.
He asked me what I though success meant.
I told him that success for me was to be able to experience the simple but important things in life (important to me, at least). To have a family I could love, a woman I could be in love with and be friends with, maybe have children. To have real friends who honestly care about you, not just when things are going well, or when it’s convenient for them to be friends. To have a home. To earn a living doing something I enjoyed doing. To be able to help other people. That would seem to be a great success to me. Material possessions, or social status does not really enter into it.
He said I can still do those things.
He is right. I can still do, or experience those things, some of them at least.
He asked me what school I wanted to attend. I had previously told him that I wished to continue my education. I told him I didn’t know. Glendale, I supposed. I hadn’t really though about it much. I told him I still had a lot of this program to complete, and when (and if) I graduated, I would be seeing the people from the California Department of Rehabilitation, where we would surely discuss this very issue.
These people were the same ones who were financing Richard’s own continuing education. I told him that right now I was just taking things one day at a time.
Richard said he could lend me one of his textbooks on alcohol and drug rehabilitation if I wanted. He knew I was interested in the field, and psychology in general.
I said sure, that would be great.
By now it was two o’clock, which is afternoon break time. We both went to get coffee and donuts (little circles of death, Richard calls them).
I wrote some in the lobby, mainly because Shirley was there, and by sitting in the lobby I get to watch her walk around.
Is this behavior bordering on lecherousness and perversion?
Yes, and delightedly so!
No, not really. I wouldn’t get to see, or talk to her at all if I were sitting somewhere else. How is one supposed to overcome their isolationist tendencies and get to know people if one doesn’t try? Or at least, hang around.
I also read while I was there. I could still be found sitting in the lobby at five-forty, when Jill walked in to begin her group counseling session. Playing the Ice Goddess, she ignored me completely, playing hard to get.
God I want her! But I know she will never be mine.
Pity.
Obviously it’s her loss.
Later, Gordon, Brian Montague (my new roommate, a sixties holdout), myself, and Kevin Rockoff, went to the Ramo Auditorium at the California Institute of Technology, right here in Pasadena. We went in Gordon’s car, that he bought for $200.00 a few days ago. Nobody knows where Gordon got $200.00, and beneficiaries are not supposed to have cars. We used it anyway, rebels that we are. We went there to hear the Occidental Caltech Symphony Orchestra perform L’Arlesienne Suite No. 2, by George Bizet (of “Carmen” fame), and a cello and Orchestra, by Arthur Honegger, and Symphony No. 7, in A Major, Op. 92, by Ludwig van Beethoven.
I tend to enjoy classical music (but I can’t stand operas, or movie musicals (except Bob Fosse). How often do you see people walking down a street in the rain breaking out into song and dance? Okay, it happens every once in a while, but not often enough to make it remotely believable), so this was a real treat for me. I don’t know much about classical music, but I know that I enjoy most of it, and I’m very grateful that I’ll probably never have to play it. It seems a bit complicated. The musicians tonight were wonderful though. All those different people, with their different lives, customs, attitudes, and specialties, coming together for a short while to meld their talents into a coherent piece of music. And it was free.
How does one describe a symphony with mere words? One can’t. Nevertheless, it was an amazing thing to see and hear. I went there for the Beethoven, but found I enjoyed the first two pieces much more. This is something I shall have to do again.
I hope, many, many times.
November 21 Wednesday Day 70
I got up and had breakfast again. Then went back to bed.
After lunch I read a short story by H.P. Lovecraft called, “The Tomb.”
Richard came by and dropped off the book, I’ll Quit Tomorrow, by Vernon Johnson. That was nice of him, and very appropriate. I seem to be telling myself that very same thing a lot lately. Maybe this is an attempt by my higher power to get in touch with me.
Anyway, I spent most of the day writing and helping out around the desk, as I’ve been hanging around the lobby too much.
I got angry with one guy who tried to tell me how to do my job. Very silly of me. I was at fault to begin with, and not concerned with providing what he wanted because I didn’t like him. Very unprofessional. But then, this is not my profession. Still, I guess I should apologize. And I would to, if I was not afraid that my apology would make the incident a bigger deal than it already was. Stuff like this tends to nag at me, and I kept thinking about it for the rest of the evening.
In group counseling with Ed Reitz (George went home to San Diego, for the Thanksgiving weekend), we were called upon to describe, very briefly, our essential selves, and then describe how others might see us. Talk about being put on the spot.
When it was my turn, I replied, “Well, let’s see, talk about being put on the spot.” Ed didn’t seem to mind putting people on the spot at all. “Let’s see,” I continued, “I guess I could describe myself as being curious, sincere, fairly intelligent, fairly responsible when I’m not drinking. Alcoholic and drug addicted. I have a strong sense of humor, bordering on the bizarre. I’m interested in the physical sciences, psychology, philosophy, literature, and good movies…” I stopped because I couldn’t think of anything to say with everybody looking at me. There are qualities and attributes that I possess that I don’t care for. I can be impatient, selfish, obsessive, and sometimes dishonest. If I’m drinking, there’s no end to the stupid, ill-considered things I can do, and have done. But that’s not the real me, and for me to ever get nasty I have to be pushed into it. Usually I’m very amicable when I drink. I just want to get high, escape, have a good time, then go to sleep.
Ed then asked me what I thought others might think of me. I told him that I had no idea what others might think of me. I’m not a real demonstrative kind of guy. More your strong and silent type, but also very sensitive and nurturing. I guess I consider myself to be rather androgynous actually, in a masculine sort of way. That’s how I imagine others might see me.
Really, I don’t have the faintest idea how others might see me. Except that I’m ruggedly handsome, and intensely modest.
Seriously though, I don’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about it.
When I finished fumbling around with my answer, Ed said, “Okay,” and went on to the next person.
After group I played a game of cribbage with Warren, and lost. Then I watched, “Star Trek, the Next Generation.” In this episode Picard and Wesley crashed on to a barren planet in a shuttle craft, while a very contrived entity hogged all the water.
That happens all too often.
After, “Star Trek,” I wrote for a while. In fact, I’m writing right now, in real time. I’m now sitting in the large T.V. room, and I’m the only one here. A New Perry Mason thriller is on. Debbie Reynolds is the guest star. Jack Crosley and Thomas Bommarito are shampooing the carpet in the lobby. The have just finished in the room I’m sitting in right now, and they are really busy resenting the fact that I’m sitting where they had just finished cleaning without giving the carpet a good chance to dry. A guy by the name of Sheldon just came out of one of the small T.V. rooms and hiccupped. Jack just came by and told me to go to bed. I suppose I will. Eventually. It is getting kind of late. I will go up to my room, grab the Lovecraft book, and go to the bathroom to read and smoke cigarettes for a while, then go to bed.
Now, having written about it, I suppose I should go make it happen, just to make my account perfectly accurate, and all.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. A very big deal around here.
November 22 Thanksgiving Day Day 71
Thanksgiving Day. A day of thanks for our many blessings.
Yeah right!
I am forced to get out of bed earlier than I would have liked. Anytime I am forced by some outside agency to get out of bed earlier than I would have liked, I’m not too damned thankful. Sometimes I may even get rather grumpy. Women have told me this. It doesn’t pay to be grumpy around here though. Someone just might slap me upside the head if I got grumpy at them, and then we would both be thrown out of here and be back in the Park.
So I got up, depressed by base, immature feelings, trudged to the showers which were abnormally filled with other grunting, smoking, farting, Thanksgivers in various states of undress. I found an empty shower stall and went for it. Freshly laundered, I was in the act of dressing when I heard my name called over the PA system.
I rushed down to the desk. Mr. Vasquez wanted me to take attendance at the ten a.m. chapel service. I consented to do this with some trepidation. We’ve had an inordinate amount of new people come into the program within the last week or so, and I didn’t know them all by name. As I stood at the back of the chapel, they rushed me as I tried to check off each person. I found it impossible to keep up with them. I remembered the advice Mr. Vasquez had given to me for times like these: “Don’t Panic!” Words to live by. At all times I looked like I had everything under perfect control.
I marked everyone as being present.
A nice hour long service ensued. Ed Reitz sang a song for us. These Salvation Army people really get off on singing songs. They sing their heads off every chance they get.
There was a little recognition ceremony for a few of the guys who had completed Salvation Army Adherent classes. Victor and Kevin Rockoff were among them, the brown nosing bastards.
After chapel we had our big Thanksgiving Day lunch/dinner. The Major and his lovely wife, and guests wanted to show us all what nice, regular people they were by serving us the food. We even had a Colonel helping out.
I hung out around the lobby after lunch, watching everybody, and reading the book that Richard had lent to me. I spent most of my shift reading, and taking notes on what I had read.
It is a very good book, so far. I read about how and why alcoholics start to drink, how they get hooked, the increasing emotional cost paid by the alcoholic, and/or chemically dependent person. The feelings of powerlessness, low self-esteem, free-floating anxiety we addicts share. The defense systems we use to keep on going, that keep us out of touch with reality so we can’t see what’s happening to us, let alone begin to deal with it. We use denial, rationalization, projection, all to protect ourselves from pain. Or we try to forget, or ignore the pain and degradation our continuing drinking and drug use causes through blackouts, repression, and euphoric recall.
It’s not that alcoholics don’t see what’s happening to them and don’t care. They can’t see at all! They’re own memory and defenses won’t let them realize that they are sick.
As has been mentioned, this is the only disease that makes those who have it insist that they don’t!
This is when some form of intervention must come into play for there to be any chance of the addict to begin recovery.
Mine was the rejection by my family, and so called friends. The realization that no one was going to fix me except myself.
And the loneliness of those lost days in the Park.
November 23 Friday Day 72
Work was boring. I was bored after the first twenty-five minutes. The enigmatic Russell Burke, one of our janitors, walked by and said, “Hello.” He always does that.
Victor called me into his office and told me that he liked animal stories. He offered a book that he’d been reading as proof of this statement. He had been reading, Big Mutt. I didn’t catch who the author was. He told me that what he liked about these novels and stories is that when he reads them they help him to relax. I believed him. I recommended Animal Farm, by George Orwell.
He said he would be eager to read it.
I continued studying the I’ll Quit Tomorrow book. I read of forced intervention, when family members or an employer of the addict (I will use the label “addict,” now to describe both those addicted to alcohol and those addicted to other drugs and behaviors, unless specificity is required) confront the dependent person with detailed instances of intolerable behavior brought about by their using. Note that the confrontation is made by significant people the addict will having the most difficulty ignoring, and whom they care most about, or is affected by the most.
Specific instances of painful incidents (times, dates, witnesses, etc.) are used because they are impossible to refute.
The intervention, although extremely difficult for everyone involved (I confess, I got a little misty reading of a typical confrontation), is necessary in order to bring about a crisis in the addict’s life, and bypass the defense barriers normally employs to disregard the problems they incur while using, and allow them to see themselves as others see them. To bring them back to reality, the point being to get them into some form of treatment as soon as possible (immediately).
The book is of the opinion that the intervention should be brought about as early in the disease process as possible. To sit back and do nothing, and wait for the addict to hit bottom is not recommended. The addict’s bottom may be death, at which point intervention is deemed unnecessary. Also, the longer the addict participates in their disease, the harder they will be to treat once treatment has begun.
The book goes on to describe the typical hospital treatment program.
Intervention did not work for me. I am a stubborn and hardheaded individual, much to my personnel determent. My mother tried a form of intervention. Jan and Debbie tried it. I was already aware a problem existed when they tried it, and it still did no good. I had to hit bottom, if in fact I have done so.
I hope I have.
I’ve been in a hospital treatment program for drug dependency, and it did not stop me from drinking. It did help me understand my disease, and to this day I will continue to draw from that experience to help me remain sober. Hospital treatment programs have helped many people, but I drank the day I got out. I still had a nice little apartment I could go to and hide in, with my nice color TV and VCR. I had to lose that stuff before I could stop drinking.
After work, I went upstairs to the bathroom and started reading a science fiction novel by Kilgore Trout, who is himself a fictional character created by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., who is himself a fictional character created by Eliot Rosewater. The title of the novel is, Venus on the Half Shell.
I read until two a.m., then went to bed.
November 24 Saturday Day 73
I roused myself in time for lunch. I’ve figured out that if I stay up late at night, I tend to sleep in late in the morning (I must be unconsciously depressed to crave sleep the way I have. I must be bummed out over not having stopped smoking yet, thus putting my behavior into conflict with my value system. How’s that for being a shithouse psychologist). If I go to bed early, I have trouble getting to sleep. A puzzling predicament.
I was hanging around the lobby after lunch, and before work, when my good janitor friend, Jerold (Jerry) Schimmele came in from an outing. He sat next to me and we bantered back and forth. Skip Grinnell was finishing his shift when he asked Jerry if he wanted his key. Jerry said, yes, and Skip offered him a breath test (S.O.P.). After he blew, Skip’s facial expression suddenly changed, and he asked that I come over to verify the test results. The breath-a-lizer read: .05. Jerry had been drinking. He probably had had a beer or two within the last couple of hours. Unfortunately for Jerry, or anyone else who comes in after drinking, automatic termination occurs if the machine reads as much as .01. Skip asked Jerry to have a seat and wait for Mr. Vasquez to return from Star Video.
He was busted. At once Jerry’s demeanor altered noticeably. He instantly became incommunicado, embarrassed, and distraught. Having been in his position (a bustee), I could certainly empathize with him, and could guess what he was feeling and imagine what he was thinking: “I fucked up! I fucked up! Fucked up! Fucked up! Fucked up! Did I mention that I FUCKED UP! Why did I do that? Why? Why? What am I gonna do now? One minute, everything’s alright, the next I’m on the street. Where do I go? Where do I go now? Got no place to go. Oh, Jesus, help me!”
Jerry admitted to me and Skip that he had been drinking. We let him get a coat from his locker upstairs, and he left without waiting for Mr. Vasquez.
Later, an employee of the center, Roger Cunningham, found Jerry sitting alone in the Park. He apparently took Jerry to a motel for the night.
I’ll hope he’ll be all right. I hope he makes it through this. From what I understand, his family has good as abandoned him. Just like my family has abandoned me. The Sally is the best place for him right now. Just like it is for me.
Unfortunately.
I wish him well.
God, I hate this disease.
November 25 Sunday Day 74
I stayed up until two in the morning, reading in the bathroom. I don’t know why. I went to bed with my clothes still on.
I woke to the gentle tapping of Mr. Pandolfi’s clipboard against my boots. I opened my eyes and said, “Ohra orha….” as he retreated softly back into the darkness.
I arose at five-forty, grabbed a tie and razor, and was at work by six.
Typical Sunday for me. Mr. Vasquez was quite busy though. The Annual “Do Da Parade,” was going on nearby on Colorado Blvd., and Robert was trying to squeeze a buck out of it by selling parking spaces from the Thrift Store and As Is Yard at seven bucks a pop. By the end of the day we made about $300.00, which will go to the Salvation Army’s World Service Office, in London, to help finance their imperialistic expansion across the globe.
It is a fairly unconventional parade, I’ told, just about anybody with a costume can join in.
While he was running around I had time to read a few chapters from, I’ll Quit Tomorrow. One of them dealt with relapse. A curious phenomenon, one with which I’ve had much personal experience.
This is when seemingly intelligent, well intentioned individuals who have already lived through the pain and degradation associated with an alcohol and drug related lifestyle, and have admitted to themselves that they have a chronic, progressive, fatal illness, and who have stopped using, having gone through the lengthy and agonizing process of withdrawal, for some reason start using again. Being progressive, the illness never tones down or gets better. If the alcoholic was downing two-fifths of tequila a day when they stopped drinking, once they relapse, a shot or two won’t satisfy them. It will be right back to two-fifths a day.
Addicts tend to relapse repeatedly. I did that for many years.
The book attempts to explain why this occurs, or at least one of the reasons. It seems it all has to do with potentiality.
While drinking, (before initial recovery) an alcoholic will eventually experience a period of emotional deterioration:
“Normal self-esteem, is replaced progressively by discomfort, twinges of remorse, severe and chronic remorse, self-hatred, and at last self-loathing that may even reach suicidal proportions. The illness causes the individual to move emotionally downward from A to B:
A: Emotional deterioration
B: Recovery
These negative feelings potentate the equal and opposite feelings (conservation of energy), so that people after successful intervention and initial recovery often experience euphoria.
To put it one way, the more one knows what it is to actually suffer pain (1), the more one would knows what it would be like not to suffer pain (2). Likewise, the more one knows what it would really be like to hate oneself (3), the more one would know what it would be like not to hate oneself (4). And so on through the long list of negative feelings in the alcoholic:
C: Positive feelings are potentialized
Negative feelings are experienced
Because the suffering had been so severe, they now know what it is like not to suffer! And this occurred in a short period of time.”
Let us say that a persons “response to treatment has been good. Abstinence time goes on and things, as he sees them, are simply getting better and better, at home, on the job, and health wise as well. He will be comparing what is now with what was then.
At this point let’s say, a stray thought moves through the person’s mind. ‘Maybe it isn’t true, after all, that I’m an alcoholic,’ or ‘Maybe it isn’t true that alcoholics can’t drink safely, a little, from time to time, on special occasions…’”
I would like to point out that the book fails to explain why these thoughts occur. The typical answer seems to be that the person did not immerse himself (or herself) into recovery (or A.A., or religion, or a hospital treatment after care, or whatever.) by attending meetings, building an usable outside support system, and literally brainwashing ourselves to the point where taking another drink is wholly unacceptable. Sometimes we forget, or want to forget the insidious power that alcohol, or drugs maintain over our lives, and the better we feel, the more sure we are that we will never sink once again into the despair we once suffered in the past. Trifling, everyday frustrations, nag at us, causing an existential distress that becomes increasingly difficult to deal with. We multiply the pain into eternity! It overwhelms us. And we alcoholics know how to stop that pain, how to repress it, know how to forget get it, to delay it, at least for a little while. We know how to do that instantly! We can cope with out problems tomorrow, but today we’ll take a little rest. One drink, that’s all. We can stop after just one. After a drink we’ll be able to think a little more clearly, act more rationally, have a better perspective. Just one drink. Then maybe just one more. Just one more, that’s all, and then I’ll stop. Maybe I’ll drink just for today, and then tomorrow I’ll stop drinking forever, and then get my life back. Tomorrow. I guess if I’m just drinking today, I can have as much as I want. What difference will it make? Just today I’ll drink. Just for right now, just one more itty bitty, teensy weensy, little dinky drinkie poo.
INSANITY!
D. Relapse Potentiated feelings are actualized.
“While there are variations to the pattern, nevertheless, in a relatively short period of experimentation, if one is a typical alcoholic, he (or she) will plunge emotionally back to E. And it is to be noted that his new emotional state seems much worse than it was the first time (B). This may well be because the potentiation was, in fact, greater.” The illness progresses even when the alcoholic is not drinking (or when the addict is not using).
E. Positive feelings potentiate the negative counterparts
“In any case, now because the emotional pain is back making its demands, all the old defenses are revived and regrouped, this the entire alcoholic syndrome reappears in force.”
Now I know all about relapse.
After work I walked to the supermarket and purchased some birthday cards for my mom and my sister, as both celebrate their respective births next month. I don’t particularly care for store bought cards, but if I made my own they would think that I was too cheap to buy them some.
I was the big winner at bingo tonight. I won seven canteen cards! That’s the absolute most one can win in one night.
Oh boy!
I watched some TV, then went to bed early, as I was very tired.
The wind was blowing outside. A very cold wind. I knew that because some idiot left the window open above my bed. I told my roommates that I would personally find the key to the door to the roof, so those that felt the need for fresh, ice cold air while sleeping can bed out there. I though of Jerry Schimmele.
I pulled the covers up closer and went to sleep.
November 26 Monday Day 75
I woke up and went to breakfast, and returned to bed.
I was rudely woken by the distant, but steadily increasing volume of sound made by a raging vacuum cleaner headed my way.
I attempted to ignore it. I refused to open my eyes and accept the existence of the perpetrator of this domestic upheaval. I thought that maybe it would go away having completed its task, and leave me to my slumber. No such luck.
Someone began to talk to me.
“Hey, Rick.”
I opened my eyes. It was Jerry Schimmele.
“They gave me thirty day restriction.” He turned off the vacuum and stood near the foot of my bed.
“Nuuraccgo,” I wittily replied.
“But they told me, if it ever happened again, don’t bother to come back.” He looked at me and swallowed, his eyes bulging out the cute little way they do, as if to say, “what do you think of that?”
“Good to see you, Jerry. I’m glad you’re here. We were all worried about you.”
“Yeah, well. I was kinda worried myself,” he said and smiled.
Jerry was not suspended from the center for the usual thirty day period, because he had a relatively good record, was not too much of a trouble maker, and had been here almost a year. And Mr. Vasquez liked him. The Major too, I guess. Besides, the administration can change the rules to suit its own purposes any times it wishes to, simply because they can. Just like the government.
Along with the thirty-day restriction, Jerry also managed a drop in gratuity from $15.00 a week, down to $5.00, until further notice.
It’s better than being on the street with nowhere to go.
Being thrown out of the Salvation Army, certainly is a form of intervention. It forced Jerry to face that if he drinks a beer or two while living here, he can, and will be expelled. He had forgotten that.
Like all of us, he may, or may not drink again. But he’s been reminded of the consequences of that action.
I’ve fallen in love with another counselor. Her name is Wendy, a very cute blonde person, slight of build, like Stacy. She comes here on Monday mornings. I hang out in the lobby when she’s here sometimes, whenever I can drag my ass out of bed, that is. Like Jill, Wendy has a tendency to wear long, flowing dresses, which can be very discouraging. I hang around the lobby anyway.
Work went well. I like working on Mondays with Mr. Vasquez. Things get busy, busy, busy. Things in general.
George came back and conducted Bible Study this evening, the last class he will have here. We talked about the differences between the Old and New Testaments.
One’s real old, the other’s not so new.
November 27 Tuesday Day 76
Today is one of my well deserved days off.
I finished I’ll Quit Tomorrow, this morning. A very good book. I highly recommend it.
Finishing it up taxed me so completely that I had to take a little nap to recuperate.
Richard, my counselor, came by for our weekly chat later. He discussed himself for most of our session. I sat back, nodded my head when appropriate, and said, “Yeah, I agree.”
Then I had some nice tostados for lunch. I really like Mexican food. And women.
I had found a box the night before that was just the right size and shape to mail my sister’s birthday presents in. So I put the presents in there. I cushioned them with newspaper, then walked across the street to the warehouse, to the Bric-A-Brac Department.
Yes, we really do have a Bric-A-Brac Department.
I asked Molly, the Bric-A-Brac lady, to loan me some strapping tape to close the box.
Molly said, “Who are you?”
Returning to the residence, I borrowed a felt pen from Victor, and wrote my sister’s address on the box (she also lives in Bullhead City, about a mile away from my mother). All finished, I put the box in my locker. It’s a little too early to mail it yet.
Then I went to the lobby and wrote for awhile, and wait for Shirley to show. She didn’t.
After I finished writing I put my laundry in the washer, and went back downstairs and rearranged all the pages of this journal. Then I put my clothes in the dryer, and walked to the store. When I got back, I made my bed and checked my laundry and noticed that I had neglected to turn the dryer on.
So I turned it on.
I had dinner after that, then took my clothes out of the dryer and put them away, then went back to the lobby to write some more.
Shirley had arrived. We said hi, to each other.
Jill came at five-forty, and I can tell you that I was a little nervous having two women I’m in love with, both in the building at the same time.
Soon it was time for Step Study. Same old thing. The first three Steps. Tonight we talked about Step Two. Boy, if we progressed a bit, and actually talked about Step Four, I might have a heart attack.
After Step Study, I enjoyed an egg and cheese sandwich at the canteen. I had plans to play cribbage with Warren, but he had already started a game with Dan.
What a dick.
I returned to the lobby, and wrote and watched Jill for awhile.
As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m doing right now. It is now 9:28:08 in real time, and Jill just walked out the door, saying, “Oh! It’s cold out there.”
She’s right. It is cold out there.
That’s why I’m in here.
Now that the show was over, I thought I’d head upstairs to the bathroom, and read and smoke cigarettes. Then later I’ll go to bed.
Another day in the life of a recovering alcoholic.
November 28 Wednesday Day 77
I was sitting on the toilet when I heard my name called over the P.A.
I feel a little nervous sometimes when I hear my name called like that, similar to how I feel when a police car pulls up directly behind me when I’m stopped at a red light. Guilty of something, even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I remember how I had been set up at the Van Nuys center, so I went to the desk with an air of caution.
It was just my counselor, Richard, wanting to give me another book. This one was, Understanding Alcohol, by Jean Kinney S.S.W., and Gaven Leaton. After having read a little of it, it seemed like an owners manual for the disease of alcoholism. Everything you ever wanted to know (or didn’t want to know) about alcohol and alcoholism is in the book. Everything! Lots of facts and figures and statistics. Very useful. I’ll need to acquire a copy for my own. I have some theories about alcoholism and drug addiction in this country, and how we as a nation have mucked up dealing with these important social issues.
Suddenly I’m exceedingly interested in social issues.
I suppose a lot of addicts begin thinking about saving the world while in early recovery. Me Too! We have all this energy for one thing. We’re not drugging ourselves silly any more, and we have to do something to keep us busy. And like I mentioned previously, we feel guilty for wasting so much of our lives, and we want to help others. I do realize I can’t help anyone else if I don’t first help myself, which, yes, is selfish, but the way it has to be for the time being. I’ll tackle the world tomorrow.
Fat chance I have saving the world anyway.
But, you never know.
So for now I’ll file away all my thoughts and plans for world saving for some time in the future, like a chipmunk with its nuts.
After Richard left I ate lunch, the said hello to Noah, the parrot. Don Jones, the warehouse janitor, and Charles Purcell, the shop supervisor, have erected a large and wonderful electric train set in the atrium. This is done every year so the neighborhood children can look at it when we invite them in for an annual Christmas party. It’s set up right next to the two parakeets, who look down on it with icy indifference.
I said goodbye to George. Today was his last day here at the ARC. I shook his hand and wished him good luck. I told him that I had benefited from our brief acquaintance. He thanked me, and said that it meant a lot to him to hear that. He said that he hoped that if he had accomplished anything, he had been fair about it. I told him that I thought he had.
What a kiss ass I am.
George is not perfect, and certainly not a people pleaser. A lot of people around here will be glad to see him go. But nobody’s perfect, not even me. The people who want to see him go are more than likely those who are not working any kind of program, and they disliked George because he let them know it.
George, though not an alcoholic, is a nicotine addict who stopped smoking twenty years ago. He has an intuitive grasp of addiction issues, backed up with many years of academic and counseling experience. And he doesn’t fuck around.
I’ll miss him.
At chapel tonight we all said goodbye to him during the testimonial portion of the service. I’m sure George was pleased with the overwhelming positive response.
I wish him well.
November 29 Thursday Day 78
I have a cold. It’s the second since I’ve been here. I sat around a lot, and was miserable all day.
I hate being sick and having to work. The time goes by so slow. Especially working with Victor. He’s an all right person, I guess. He has a lousy job and tries to make the best of it. He tries and tries. He also takes undo advantage of the authority his position provides him, but we all do that to some extent.
He upholds the rules and regulations around here, and he does an adequate job, but he does not have the knack of enforcing the rules without irritating everybody.
Mr. Vasquez has that knack. He can chastise you harshly (and does) without you even knowing that you’ve been chastised. You will walk away smiling and shaking your head, and you will do, or not do, according to his direction, what he wants you to do.
An example: one day while in the midst of some chore, Robert Vasquez will suddenly stop. No movement can be discerned as he quietly gazes off into the distance, resembling a contemplative, skinny version of Mr. Magoo. A sly, knowing smile appears from nowhere. He slowly reaches for the telephone, his eyes still fixed on some distant point, his fingers punch in the code that activates the P.A. system. He raises the receiver to his lips and utters these words: “May I have your attention in the residence, please. All you people waiting in the line to eat chow in the canteen area. Stay off my walls and windows. Otherwise, I’ll volunteer you for a little Saturday work. Thank you for your cooperation.” He’ll put down the receiver and watch his victims for a while. Several fellows in line straighten up and disengage themselves from the wall. Others don’t seem to get the hint.
Mr. Vasquez will now pounce with the swiftness of a striking cobra. He walks into the canteen area, walks up the line of potential diners, takes stock of an offending individual without saying a word, scribbling something down on a clip board and moving on before that person has time to react, alter his position, or think of an excuse.
You really can’t help but laugh and admire his abilities.
Victor is another story. His confrontations lack finesse. Most leave him feeling hurt and filled with resentment. I am one of the few people around here who has the opportunity to view the inner Victor, and understand him, a little, and am probably the closest he has at what could be called a friend. Yet, he still manages, with relative ease, to every so often piss me off. Like today.
He told me to change my pants.
Me! The perfect deskman.
I had on a gray pair of jeans, dress jeans you might say, which I had worn last Monday night when working with Robert, but Victor didn’t want me to wear them. He said I was out of uniform. He said I should be wearing slacks.
I hate slacks.
This of course, was a minor irritation that I successfully amplified into a major one. Not feeling very well to begin with (excuse), and being busy doing something at the time that he mentioned it (excuse), provided the perfect opportunity for me to get angry with him. Minor irritations get to us alcoholic people, so I argued with him a while, which did absolutely no good whatsoever. I then repressed my anger, and changed my pants. Soon I began to realize how minor this incident really was, and that these things will happen when dealing with Victor, and proceeded to get on with my life, which at the time consisted of being stuck behind the desk while sick and miserable.
Later, after work, walking by the laundry room, I saw Richardo Montgomery, the thirty year old, black guy, who if you recall, entered the center the same day I did. He wears his hair in sort of a raised flat-top (I call him “Aircraft Carrier Head,” sometimes). He enjoys a muscular build (not unlike myself), is very handsome (again, not unlike myself), and is very amiable, usually smiling and filled with laughter.
We call him “Rico,” most of the time. Besides from being a skilled pot washer on the kitchen staff, Rico serves another very useful function. He stirs people up, or agitates them, and takes immense pleasure in doing so (whereas Victor does the same, but without the mischievousness). Some of us in the center, left to our own devices, tend to stagnate and get into ruts, and Rico is wonderful at getting these individuals incensed, and moving again. Rico maintains that it is vital to agitate others in order to stay sober. He asks everyone he sees if they’re all right. “You all right?” he says, again and again. He believes that he is making a nuisance of himself, when I for one am happy that somebody cares enough to ask me how I am each and every day. Twelve times a day. I’m sure others are also.
Anyway, I espied Rico in the laundry room, folding some clothes. He looked at me, “You all right?” I assured him that I was, but that I had a mild cold, one for which he probably couldn’t do anything about, and thanked him anyway for asking.
Then I thought I would be tricky, and attempt to agitate him. I asked, “Rico, do they call you ‘Reek,’ for short?”
But he is the master. He said, “No, they usually call me, ‘sir,’ or, ‘get out of my house!’ or, ‘please don’t hurt me,’ or, ‘just take it and leave.’”
I walked away, thoroughly agitated.
November 30 Friday Day 79
At two o’clock this afternoon, I took a break from doing nothing to have some coffee and donuts with all of the other in-house workers, but there were no donuts. All that were offered were some stinking muffins. Not that I have anything against muffins. I don’t. I like a good muffin as much as the next man. I like muffins when they’re nice and warm, with melted butter throughout. But the muffins presented today were cold and hard. Nobody ate any.
Enough about muffins.
I wrote until it was time to go to work. A very typical Friday afternoon. Only one person went on a weekend pass, David Earl, the young, honky, forklift driver.
George Staub and his wife came in at about four-thirty. They were going to spend the night in the downstairs apartment, before leaving for Phoenix in the morning. Dale and Jenny (Major and Mrs. Johnson) picked them up at five-fifteen, to go to dinner.
Just after seven the phone rang. I thought nothing of it, as it rings all the time.
I answered, “Salvation Army residence. Rick speaking, may I help you?”
“Uummm yes. This is the Salvation Army, right?” a masculine voice asked.
“Yes it is.”
“And you provide shelter for the homeless?”
“Well,” I replied, “this is a program for recovering alcoholics and drug addicted people. Males.”
“And your address is fifty-six, west Del Mar, in Pasadena?”
“Correct.”
“Are you the one to talk to, to obtain a list of the people living there?” he asked.
Ah haw!
“I’m sorry. We can’t provide that information over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the privacy act.”
“Oh. So if I came down there, I could find out who lives there?”
“Even if you came down I couldn’t give out any information about who, or who does not live here, sir. I’m sorry. I would have to direct you to the program director or the intake officer, and they would not be available until Monday morning.”
“How about if this person was a wanted criminal? A rapist?” he persisted.
“I’m still not allowed to give out any information.”
“Isn’t that kind of silly?”
“Silly, or not, sir,” now I was getting a little peeved, “I can’t give out that information.”
“This is the Temple City Sheriff’s station calling. Who can give me this information?”
“One moment, sir.” I put down the phone, and yelled, “Victor! There’s someone on the phone for you.”
Victor came out of the office and took the call.
The men who come here for help have a certain right to privacy. Sometimes they don’t want anybody to know they are here and undergoing therapy for drug and alcohol abuse. Some wish to deny this information even to their families. We (I’m speaking as if I were a staff member) have to respect that right. I for one, would not appreciate someone giving out my name and address to certain creditors. Not that I wish to stiff them, I’m just not ready to deal with them. I will deal with them at some later date, but not right now. At the same time we do not wish to harbor felons. However, I have been given stern directions not to breach the center’s rules regarding client privacy, and for no other reason than to save my own ass, I intend to do just that.
Or pass the buck, as I did so expertly with young Victor Robinson.
The cops (if the guy on the phone really is a cop I’ll eat a plutonium omelet) can sit outside and wait for whoever it is they’re looking for to come out, if they want them that badly, and then bust them. Or produce a search or arrest warrant, Monday morning to Ed, or Clarence.
Besides, I’m not all that fond of police officers in general. I’m sure there are some good ones. Really I am! But I’ve had some awful experiences with a few, enough to manifest a certain degree of ambivalence and caution when dealing with them.
After a minute or two, after Victor had reiterated our policy numerous times, he gave the insistent caller our address (which they already had, apparently), and hung up.
“That guy was psycho,” Victor exclaimed.
“If the sheriffs are coming over here, I’m leaving,” I told him. I still had an outstanding warrant for a failure to appear on a drunk in public charge I received while living in the Park. I had been scheduled to appear in court the day after I came to the ARC, and didn’t go. I plan to take care of this eventually (always tomorrow).
“Me too,” Victor said.
Simultaneously, we both took off our I.D. badges, and put them away in our trouser pockets.
Victor went to tell Mr. Vasquez what happened. He came down and called the Temple City police, but could get no clear answers from them. He then handed me his room keys, saying, “I’m going out for awhile. If they come with a warrant, let them take anybody and everybody!”
“As if I’d try and stop them,” Victor said.
“Doesn’t it strike you as being more than a little curious,” I asked Victor after Mr. Vasquez had left, “that once Mr. Vasquez found out the police might be coming, he takes off, in what might call a distinct hurry?”
We both mused.
No one from any police department showed up.
After an hour, Mr. Vasquez returned. “Gee,” he said, “when I came back, for a while there, I thought I’d see… what was the name of that movie… Fred Astaire was in it, yes… about the submarine…”
“Oh,” I said.
“Gregory Peck was in it, too.”
“On the Beach,” I remembered.
“On the Beach?”
“Yes.”
“Remember when they went to San Francisco? To check the radiation, or something?”
“Yes sir.”
“And no one was there. That’s what I thought I’d see when I came back. The whole place deserted.” We laughed.
Matthew Moore came in from work at about ten-thirty. I opened the canteen and heated a fish dinner for him.
Soon I shall write about Matthew. If I can. It might help to prepare me for the more arduous and subtle task of describing Russell Burke.
December 1 Saturday Day 80
Speaking of Gregory Peck, I once helped him make a telephone call to Beijing, China, while working for AT&T. He tried to call direct, but mistakenly dialed an “O” before the country code, and got me instead. I put the call through at a direct dial charge, being the nice guy that I am.
“Thank you,” he said.
A beautiful, sunny, but crisp day here in Southern California, nice enough to lure me outside to take a short stroll. Stopping at the desk on my way out, I asked Skip if he wanted me to buy him a lottery ticket, as I was going to the Vons supermarket to buy one for myself. After long and careful deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that if I never purchase a lottery ticket my chances of winning the lottery are fairly slim. Skip gave me a dollar for his, and I was on my way.
I picked up some cigarettes while at the market, and a Christmas card for my lovely and precocious, young niece, who is all of six years old. Her name is Kerri Lynn (after Ginger and Amber, respectively. Oops, just kidding), and she is the love of my life.
I bought the lottery tickets from an automated lottery ticket machine, then walked to the thrift store and purchased one birthday, and one Christmas present for my mother.
On previous Christmas’s, I have been known to go wild with gift giving, and spend two or three million dollars (extreme exaggeration) on a single person (usually Jan). But now, making only fourteen dollars a week, I can only afford one or two presents a week from the thrift store, until eventually everyone is taken care of.
I took my stuff back to the residence, and all my roommates told me that I was a chump for buying the presents at list price. That anyone of them could have gotten them much cheaper. I reminded them that I did not have all their underworld connections, and they told me to come to them the next time I needed something.
While writing in the canteen area, Gordon came over and we somehow began talking about Paul Gauguin, the French painter and woodcut artist. We both wondered what Gauguin would have thought of today’s computer graphics, and set a date to visit the Norton Simon Museum, which is within walking distance of the residence.
Work went well. For me. Victor almost got into a violent confrontation with one of the house barbers two minutes after he began his shift. Poor Victor.
Mr. Vasquez went out at five, then called back at nine-thirty to let us know he wouldn’t be back tonight.
The old coot must be getting some somewhere.
Matthew Moore called. “Is Bo Bo Bo Bo Bo Bo ah Ba Ba Bob there?”
“No Matthew. This is Rick. What do you need?”
“Ta ta ta ta tell him I I I I I I I I I I I I I’ve got got got got got to work, over over ov overtime ta ta ta tonight.”
“So what time will you be in, Matthew?”
“To ta ta ta te te to ta ta two o’clooaaaacck.”
“Okay, Matthew. But I want you to know that I’m not going to wait up for you.”
“F f fa fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa fa faaa fa fa fine.”
I read for most of the rest of the evening. The Understanding Alcohol book.
Everybody came in on time, no A.W.O.L.s. Gordon blew a lot of air on my thumb as he took the breath test, which led me to believe he may have been trying to beat the machine. I hope he knows what he’s doing. If he tries to do it again I’ll have to talk to him about it.
I read for a while after work, then went to bed to try to get some sleep before I faced Pandolfi in the morning.
I had the same old dream. Giant grasshoppers attacking Chicago.
Will it never end?
December 2 Sunday Day 81
I awoke to the gentle WHAP! WHAP! Of Mr. Pandolfi, striking my feet with his clipboard again. I took a nice shower, pulled on my clothes, and was down at the desk by six a.m.
For the next thirty minutes I was treated to an account of Wolf’s amorous adventures. I was amazed he was able to make it last for thirty minutes, but he managed.
Mr. Vasquez rolled in from his night on the town at seven-thirty, right before the Major and Mrs. J got here.
Nothing that was very interesting happened at work. Different people came and went. They’re always doing that. They give me their keys and I mark down the time they left (when they’re leaving) on a piece of graph paper especially designed for that purpose. When they return, I mark down that time, and give them a breath test along with their key. Very exciting stuff. Gordon left at one-thirty seven.
Russell Burke walked by, raised his hand and waved at me, while saying, “Hi, how ya doing?”
I answered, “Fine Russell. How are you doing?”
He said, “Okay, fine,” still walking. “The Rams are winning. They’re doing good,” as he made a fast exit around the corner.
Russell likes to keep a low profile.
I tried to read as much as possible, but inconsiderate people kept interrupting me, wanting to come and go.
Mr. Vasquez went upstairs to take a nap at two o’clock, or said he was. Shortly after he left I saw him through the window in the canteen area vacuuming.
I got off work ten minutes late (our new deskman, Clarence Bliss had overslept), then went upstairs and read an article on quantum mechanics, in Discovery Magazine.
I consumed a couple of pieces of pizza at dinner, the first pizza I’ve had in over three months. I sprinkled artificial bacon pieces over them.
I watched a repeat episode of “Star Trek, the Next Generation.” It was the season premier show, concerning the Borg. The season’s not even half way over and they’re already showing repeats.
I lost every game at bingo. My self-esteem diminished considerably.
Afterwards, I got myself a seat in the small TV room, in anticipation of the big Sunday night VCR movie, which I knew to be “A Fish Called Wanda,” a comedy about sex, deceit, and seafood. I’m in love with Jamie Lee Curtis.
When the movie was over I walked around the residence, then talked to Warren and my new roommate for a while, then read.
When I went to bed at midnight, Brian, who has the bed next to mine, was still awake. He told me that Gordon had not made it back for curfew. I thought of Gauguin as I fell asleep.
December 3 Monday Day 82
I heard Matthew Moore’s voice calling to me as I was shaving this morning. “Just th th the pa pa pa person I I wan na na ted to see.”
He walked into the bathroom where I was standing. I continued shaving, ignoring him.
“Where’s ma ma ma ma my, my my my to to two baauucks tha that tha tha that you you you, that you owe me?”
Matthew is a rather short, slim, wiry person. He has dark features, with a curly black mustache. One could look at him and assume his ancestors had once lived near the Mediterranean region, and had been kidnapped by a gang of marauding Arabs. He tells me he is of Portuguese-French-German extraction, but I don’t believe him. If he was telling me the truth, his Portuguese shows the most. “Scrappy little fellow,” describes him quite nicely, although I hesitate to describe anyone as a scrappy little fellow. He has an engaging smile, which often makes him appear as if he enjoyed some naughty secret. You have already noticed that Matthew suffers from a pronounced stutter. No one around here makes fun of him because of it. It adds to his charm. He can be defiant, aggressive, obstinate, and stubborn. This is all a mask he presents to the outside world. Actually, he is a shy and sensitive man, and very vulnerable. I have seen him wait all day in the lobby for a single phone call from his wife. Whenever he does this, and when it gets late in the afternoon, I can no longer tease or joke with him, as he gets so despondent that she has not yet called. I don’t pretend to understand their relationship, or why they live apart. Whenever she is here visiting Matthew they seem quite happy together, but you know how that goes. Matthew is obviously very much in love with her.
Matthew is almost always in good humor. If anyone could be called the human house mascot, it would be Matthew. Everybody likes him. He calls Mr. Vasquez, “dad.” And he is the snazziest dresser in the residence. In chapel, when the rest of the house is wearing sports coats and slacks, Matthew inevitably shows up in a tuxedo and tails.
He pretends to be violent. He will at times rush me like a wild rhino, yelling, “Up yours, motherfucker,” and stop short while pulling a few fast air punches at me, his victim. In the very next instant he will ask with a devilish smile, “Got a, got a, a a a, cigaaaareettte on yoooouuu?”
One thing about Matthew, he never stutters while cursing.
Which led Ernie Sens to believe that he might be able to help Matt solve his speech problem by forcing him into a job that required him to talk all day. Thus Matthew became our dispatcher.
“Re re re re r rr rea rea re reaaaad red sheee shee shee shee shee shee… sheeeeeeeeild fooooooooouuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrttteeeeeeeeeennnnnnnn…”
He didn’t last through his first day.
He is tirelessly insolent. Today I saw Harold Eversley, our lead cook, go to the trouble of personally making Matthew a bag lunch to take with him to his new job (he is a janitor at a local church). Matthew thanked him, and said, “I I I I I I I I I I sta sta sta sta still still tha think youuur an asshole.” Harold, being a good-natured person, laughed, and said, “Gee, thanks Matt. Now get the hell outta here before I kill you.”
“Up yours, motherfucker,” he shouted while in a hurried retreat.
One night, when Matthew came in after work, into the bathroom where I was reading. He sat next to me and we starred at each other in mock hatred. He lit a cigarette.
I asked him, “How are you, Matthew?”
“Fa fa ah ah ah fine.”
When Matthew finishes a sentence, the pitch of his voice dips down, then up again upon the last word, as if he’s exhausted by the time he’s reached the last syllable.
“How’s work going?”He walked into the bathroom where I was standing. I continued shaving, ignoring him.
“Where’s ma ma ma ma my, my my my to to two baauucks tha that tha tha that you you you, that you owe me?”
Matthew is a rather short, slim, wiry person. He has dark features, with a curly black mustache. One could look at him and assume his ancestors had once lived near the Mediterranean region, and had been kidnapped by a gang of marauding Arabs. He tells me he is of Portuguese-French-German extraction, but I don’t believe him. If he was telling me the truth, his Portuguese shows the most. “Scrappy little fellow,” describes him quite nicely, although I hesitate to describe anyone as a scrappy little fellow. He has an engaging smile, which often makes him appear as if he enjoyed some naughty secret. You have already noticed that Matthew suffers from a pronounced stutter. No one around here makes fun of him because of it. It adds to his charm. He can be defiant, aggressive, obstinate, and stubborn. This is all a mask he presents to the outside world. Actually, he is a shy and sensitive man, and very vulnerable. I have seen him wait all day in the lobby for a single phone call from his wife. Whenever he does this, and when it gets late in the afternoon, I can no longer tease or joke with him, as he gets so despondent that she has not yet called. I don’t pretend to understand their relationship, or why they live apart. Whenever she is here visiting Matthew they seem quite happy together, but you know how that goes. Matthew is obviously very much in love with her.
Matthew is almost always in good humor. If anyone could be called the human house mascot, it would be Matthew. Everybody likes him. He calls Mr. Vasquez, “dad.” And he is the snazziest dresser in the residence. In chapel, when the rest of the house is wearing sports coats and slacks, Matthew inevitably shows up in a tuxedo and tails.
He pretends to be violent. He will at times rush me like a wild rhino, yelling, “Up yours, motherfucker,” and stop short while pulling a few fast air punches at me, his victim. In the very next instant he will ask with a devilish smile, “Got a, got a, a a a, cigaaaareettte on yoooouuu?”
One thing about Matthew, he never stutters while cursing.
Which led Ernie Sens to believe that he might be able to help Matt solve his speech problem by forcing him into a job that required him to talk all day. Thus Matthew became our dispatcher.
“Re re re re r rr rea rea re reaaaad red sheee shee shee shee shee shee… sheeeeeeeeild fooooooooouuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrttteeeeeeeeeennnnnnnn…”
He didn’t last through his first day.
He is tirelessly insolent. Today I saw Harold Eversley, our lead cook, go to the trouble of personally making Matthew a bag lunch to take with him to his new job (he is a janitor at a local church). Matthew thanked him, and said, “I I I I I I I I I I sta sta sta sta still still tha think youuur an asshole.” Harold, being a good-natured person, laughed, and said, “Gee, thanks Matt. Now get the hell outta here before I kill you.”
“Up yours, motherfucker,” he shouted while in a hurried retreat.
One night, when Matthew came in after work, into the bathroom where I was reading. He sat next to me and we starred at each other in mock hatred. He lit a cigarette.
I asked him, “How are you, Matthew?”
“Fa fa ah ah ah fine.”
When Matthew finishes a sentence, the pitch of his voice dips down, then up again upon the last word, as if he’s exhausted by the time he’s reached the last syllable.
“I ah ah ah, I ah ah ah, th th th th th, I think I I I I I I I I may be ba ba ba ba be be be be in a a a ah ah ah ht little troooouuuuuuble.”
“Oh. Why is that, Matthew?”
“I I I I I I, ah ah ah ah ra ra ra ran, I ran in ta ta ta, into a da da da doooor.”
“You ran into a door. How did you manage that, Matthew?”
“It wa wa wa was a a a a a an an an an ax ax ax accident.”
“What did you run into a door with, Matthew?”
“As as as an an an an an an an a a a ah ah ah ah ah ca ca ca caaaar.”
“A car. Did you do any damage to the car?”
“No, uh ha.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“An a a a a a an an an an an e e e ee electric ca ca ca car.”
“An electric car. So you were in the performance of your duties when the accident happened?”
“Ya ye ye ye yeeeees.”
“Well I don’t see that you could be in much trouble. If you were working. I mean, accidents do happen.”
“I I I wa wa wa wa was wasn’t su su su suppos, supposed ta ta ta to tot be uu u u u using the th th th th th the caaaaar.” He smiled.
“Ohhh! That makes things a little clearer. Well, I guess if you offered to pay for the damage, that might help. How much could a door cost? A pay check?”
“Ma ma may may may may maybe a a a few paaaychecks.”
“Why so much, Matthew?”
“It it it it it’s a pre pre pre pre pre pre pretty ex ex ex ex expensive a a a a dooor.”
“What kind of door was it, Matthew?”
“A a a a a for for for for fourteen fa fa fa foot ha ha ha hand ca ca ca carved one.”
His employers never made him pay for it.
He is charmed.
He is notorious for ignoring the rules and regulations of the residence. He smokes in the bathrooms during the day, walks around with his shirt untucked, leans on walls! He gets away with all of it. Having a beard is not allowed, but Matthew sported a goatee for two weeks before anyone noticed. The only reason someone eventually did notice it was because Matthew brought attention to it himself by coming up to me at the desk, pointing his finger, and saying, “You na na na need a ha ha haaaaircut! Immediately!” Victor then noticed his facial growth and directed him to shave it off.
“Na na na na na na na na na na neeeeeever!” Matthew replied.
His wife made him shave it off two weeks later.
She said it was “icky.”
About the two dollars I owed him. I had bought a hat from him a few days earlier, and he actually wanted me to pay him for it, even though I had came to learn he had stolen it. Matthew’s exploits at thievery in the residence were legendary. Roger Patrick Buchanan, a maintenance person, made the mistake of letting his multimeter sit unattended for forty-five seconds. Finding it missing, he thought he had misplaced it, and soon gave up looking for it and asked a friend if he could borrow theirs.
“Sure,” his friend said, as he handed it over, “I just bought it.”
“This is mine! This is the one I’ve been looking for. Who sold it to you?”
Of course it had been Matthew.
“Rockoff owes me two dollars,” I told him, “because the Giants lost to San Francisco last night (7 to 3). I have to wait for him to pay me before I can pay you.”
“Ah a a ah ah all right.”
A minute later I noticed a Matthew’s blur wiz by my open door while on his way to intercept another victim. It was Kevin Rockoff, who was busy vacuuming the hallway. “Ah ah ah all right. Up against the wall. Assume the po po po position.”
Work went well tonight. Mr. Vasquez did not even notice that I ditched Bible Study.
I fell in love with another counselor tonight. Her name is Sylvia. What a lovely name, Sylvia. She actually talks to me sometimes.
I think Mr. Vasquez fell in love with a counselor also (it seems to be an occupational hazard). Her name is Milda. Milda is a very nice, older blonde lady, who just began counseling for us. Very attractive.
“Milda,” Mr. Vasquez ruminated. “Sounds kind of Scandinavian, Finnish, or Swedish maybe. Denmark or Holland. One of those countries.”
“I’d be happy to find out for you sir,” I offered.
He squinted his eyes, and said, “No, no, no. Don’t be asking her anything, Mr. Joyce. It’s none of our business.” He looked away. “But if you happen to find out, let me know.”
“Yes sir. She is very attractive. And very nice.”
“Yes,” he said. “She’s a nice lady.”
Near the shift’s end, he disappeared upstairs to the sample room to play with urine. It happened that Milda was here quite late. The last counselor to leave.
Before I left for the evening, I wrote two memos. One for Mr.Vasquez, and one for Rico Montgomery. Rico’s was hand written, and was left in his key box to be discovered by him in the morning. The message consisted of only three words, “You all right?”
The other was typed. I gave it to Wolf to give to Mr. Vasquez when he eventually came down. This message also consisted of just three words.
“She is Lithuanian.”
December 4 Tuesday Day 83
Extraordinary! My old friend Rudi is back! I saw him at lunch briefly. Apparently he just got out of jail yesterday, and had called the residence and had talked to Robert about his possessions that he had left. He must have talked to Clarence as well, because now he’s back. That’s certainly good news.
I also looked at the daily notices on the Bulletin board, and what do you think I saw?
Give up?
I saw the daily notices!
And one of them told me that I would be having group counseling tonight with Jill… my one true love.
Oh boy!
I talked to my counselor, Richard, this morning. We discussed sobriety, physics, and astronomy, specifically the potential of gamma ray bursts from outer space destroying all life on our planet except itsy bitsy microbes buried deep underground. Even cockroaches would bite the dust. Imagine that. This adds one more to my list of things to worry about, which now stands at 3,893.
I could not give him back the Understanding Alcohol, book, as I had not finished reading it yet, but he gave me another book anyway.
I wrote for most of the day, in the lobby, while watching Shirley walk back and forth. At dinner, Shirley and I sat at different tables, but were facing each other. Watching her eat a plate full of spaghetti almost stopped my heart.
After dinner, I put on my sport coat and brushed my teeth, and began getting a little nervous about my meeting with Jill.
I needn’t though. Everything went well. We met in the small dinning room. Me, Jill… and nine other guys.
How romantic.
She was wearing another frustrating long, gorgeous, black dress, which set off her lustrous shoulder length red hair to perfection.
She began by telling us her rules.
How sexy!
We could not miss meetings, and we had to be on time each week. I felt like I was back in kindergarten as she dictated to us.
She had met with some of us before. The ones like me, who she hadn’t, she wished to find out a little about, and accordingly asked us some questions. When it was my turn, I briefly described my life with alcohol and drugs, and my tendency to relapse. She asked me, “If asked why you had relapsed before coming here, what would you say?”
“I would say, that I wasn’t ready then. I hope I’m ready now.”
I’m way past the point of being embarrassed by admitting to anybody that I’m an alcoholic. Even to a pretty lady. A.A. has done its job well.
Some of the guys were acting like real assholes, by not cooperating, or making fun of everything that was said. This can be expected of people who are seeking attention or hiding their feelings. But besides from these individuals, Jill seemed to be the one who had the most defenses up and working. She wanted us to feel that she was in control. That she was self-assured. She was almost flippant in her retorts, sometimes condescending. It made me want to get to know her, what she was really like, because I thought I saw someone it would be nice to know, I mean, in addition to being in love with her and all.
Women trip me out, they really do.
Later I went to an outside A.A. meeting at the Crown City Church, in South Pasadena. It was the first I had been to for a while. Steven Rockoff and Brian Montaque went with me, among others. Mr. Vasquez drove us in the van, but we made it there safely.
I fell in love with a beautiful lady there who was celebrating her eleventh year of sobriety. She stated that this was the first birthday cake she had ever taken during those eleven years. She had thought that she may have inadvertently jinxed herself if she were to take one, go out and celebrate, getting drunk in the process. Her brother had been in the program for six months and had insisted she take her cake tonight.
See how chips and cakes are for other people, more than they are for ourselves.
And see how brothers are.
I wish her and her brother well.
I went to bed tonight with the best feeling I’ve had in I don’t remember when.
Jill, and A.A., what a combo.
December 5 Wednesday Day 84
I was walking to the showers this morning, about half naked, when I heard feminine voices all around me. I looked around and didn’t see anybody. I immediately considered the possibility of having entered into the Seventh Dimension, disregarded that idea and thought that maybe I was in the midst of an LSD flashback. Then I simply looked over the second floor banister into the atrium.
Mrs. Johnson, and a few of her friends were down there decorating a nice big Christmas tree.
There were boxes; I mean big boxes, of Christmas paraphernalia in the lobby. People were running to and fro, putting up ornaments here, tinsel there. A large (and extremely heavy, according to Schimmele and Rockoff) artificial fireplace was brought up from the basement and placed in the dinning room. What a festive atmosphere!
I felt like a big fat Christmas elf.
Mrs. J brought out a little stuffed teddy bear that must have swallowed a music box at one time. It never stops playing Christmas carols. Mrs. J’s favorite place to sit this teddy happens to be right on top of our desk. She told me, “This thing drives Robert crazy.”
I have no problem believing that.
I left all the festiveness, and walked over to the warehouse to find two boxes I could use to put my mom’s birthday and Christmas presents in. I found them, and boxed those presents real good.
Since my mother is coming to visit me on the sixteenth, I can give her all the presents that need to go to Arizona, and save some money on postage.
Later on, in chapel, we sang, “Joy to the World.”
I went to another outside A.A. meeting at the South Pasadena’s Women’s Club. Rudi came along. Although I’m not a very good schmoozer, I enjoy these meetings, and like being around all the sober people gathered together to help each other stay sober.
I went to bed, once again feeling really good.
And that was great!
December 6 Thursday Day 85
I was going to get up early today, and I did. I went down and had some pancakes and bacon for breakfast, then forgot why I had wanted to get up early, so went back to bed.
As luck would have it, I woke once again just in time for lunch. After eating I brushed my teeth real good for my trip to the dentist. Dentists don’t like it if you don’t spend about three days brushing your teeth before you see them. And flossing.
As I left the residence, Reuben Smith, my twenty-nine year old, skinny, fellow San Fernando Valleyian, who’s job it is to serve Major and Mrs. Johnson, and other assorted VIPs their meals in the Blue Room (and incidentally, refused to serve me early dinner on my second day here), made a horrendous buuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzzziiiing noise with his mouth, attempting to imitate the sound of a dentist’s drill, striving to increase the amount of my supposed anxiety.
This action on his part displays a magnificent insight into his character, or lack thereof.
The dentist at Claude Hudson was fine though. He even mentioned that I had good teeth. As he introduced himself, he asked me what I wanted.
I said, “Well, I think I have a cavity, possibly needing a root canal, and I think a filling came out back here. And I would really like this cap here in front fixed, if you possibly could.”
He said, “Um hum, and this is all you want?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I felt like saying, You’re the bloody dentist! You tell me what I need done!
He said that I did need a couple of fillings, and a cleaning, which he could do. He also told me that I needed two crowns, one in back, and one to replace the chipped cap in front.
One night, while quite inebriated, I had been walking along when my face somehow made direct contact with the cement sidewalk, thus leaving one of my front teeth looking like it had been broken almost in half. The tooth in question was itself a crown, having previously been knocked out while I attempted to stop a fight between my girlfriend at the time, Michelle Meridian, and the girlfriend of a former suitor. Such is life.
The dentist informed me that they didn’t do crowns there. He said I would need to go to the USC Dental School, or a private dentist to get a crown. Great.
All they did today was to take some X-rays. I have an appointment for January eighth, to have my teeth cleaned. I look forward to this.
I made it back to the residence, as luck would have it, just in time for dinner. Then I had to go to work.
At substance abuse class, I was told that for the first nine months of my recovery, I probably wouldn’t be unable to think very well, remember practically nothing, and fall over things a lot. I was also told not to worry about it too much, that I was suffering from an organic brain dysfunction that would undoubtedly clear up sometime within the next seven years.
Now that I understand this, I feel so much better about myself.
Work went well. Stacy kept giving me the old eye, but I ignored her. She must learn to forget me.
After work, I read while sitting in the bathroom, until midnight. At eleven-fifty I lit a cigarette. At midnight I said, “Happy birthday, Cheryl" (Cheryl is my lovely sister, three years younger than I), then went to bed.
December 7 Friday Day 86
I hung around the lobby a lot today, reading and writing. I read parts of the new book that Richard had loaned to me. It is entitled, I Didn’t Know I Had a Choice, by Corey and Corey, Fourth Ed. It’s not about alcohol or drug addiction. It’s a textbook on how one is able to make choices as far as one’s life is concerned. Each chapter deals with a different stage, or aspect of a typical person’s life, from birth to death. The first chapter discussed Maslow’s model of the Self-Actualizing Person, about what a good thing it is to be one of them, or in the process of becoming one of them.
It’s not particularly great for the families of Self-Actualizing person though, or those who have to be near them for any appreciable amount of time, for they tend to be assholes. This observation, I confess was not in the book. I reasoned it out myself by equating Self-Actualized with Self-Absorbed, Selfish, Condescending Jerks.
But they get a lot of work done, that’s for sure.
I must say that anything I read about bright, successful people who realize their full potential depresses me to no end. It reminds me of how little I’ve done in my own life to realize my own. I think about all the years I’ve wasted, and I could just scream!
However, there’s nothing I can do to change to past at the moment, and very unlikely that there ever will be. All I can do is learn from past mistakes.
As was intended by the authors, this self-actualization process is demonstrated as a goal. I have a goal.
I don’t wish to be like anyone else. I haven’t met too many people I’d rather be like (other than the legendary sex machines, Peter North and Wally Cox), but I would like to be a better me, and not fritter away my whole life uselessly. I think that being here, and doing what I’m doing, taking my time, not getting gung-ho or fanatical about anything (except taking that first drink), or trying to be a perfectionist and burning myself out, is a pretty good way to be spending my time right now. A first step toward the rest of my life.
I reminded myself to read more informative books like this, because when I do I tend to think a lot more about things that happen in the real world, things that could help to make my life a better one. I should probably read less trashy science fiction novels like, Venus in the Half Shell.
I also reminded myself that I’ve always learned a great deal about the real world from novels.
Venus in the Half Shell has its place I suppose.
Work went quickly. I read the Choices book continuously, except when the guys kept bothering me by coming and going. Or wanting aspirin, or band aids, or asking silly questions about house rules and regulations. Very annoying.
“What da’ya think this is? A damned pharmacy, or something!?” I would say, quite reasonably.
I found an empty pint bottle of bourbon in the northeast common restroom tonight. I dutifully reported it to Victor. This is about the fourth one in a week we’ve found. Someone’s partying up there, someone who needs a lot of help desperately. If I find them, I’ll bust them. It seems like they want to get busted anyway. How hard is it to dispose of an empty bottle? They could just throw it in the trash, and it probably wouldn’t be found.
Everybody came in on time tonight.
I went to bed thinking of the possibilities that life presents, and those that may be possible, even for me, if I just don’t drink.
December 8 Saturday Day 87
I got up this morning at seven, and went down to a wonderful scrambled egg and sausage breakfast, then thought that with all that good food in my belly, I better lay down for a while and let it digest. Which is what I promptly self-actualized.
I was in a slight doze when I heard Skip call my name over the P.A., requesting my presence at the desk. I went down to see what he desired.
He just wanted me to watch the desk while he walked across the street to open up the Antique store for the two little old ladies that worked there. I watched the desk, which did nothing as long as I was looking at it.
When Skip returned, I returned to my dorm to continue the food digestion process, but sleep evaded me.
I decided that since I was lying down, I might as well be doing it in the park, where I could get a nice suntan and relax.
So I went to the park.
It was nice there. A nice, warm day. Hardly any clouds, good skin cancer weather. I had thought that it might be cool, being only ten in the morning, but the sun warmed me right up.
I took off all my clothes, except for a pair of swimming trunks, and laid down on my blanket and listened to old Rock and Roll songs on the large radio headphones that Gordon had given to me. Listening to the songs made me think about the times in my past when I had first heard them. This reminded me of how old I was, and how many years I had wasted by drinking and drugging again. This led me to consider how I wasn’t going to be wasting my life anymore, which forced me to remember that I hadn’t quit smoking yet, which depressed me, which led me to begin thinking about all the things I could be doing right now to improve myself, which made me think about the time I was wasting lying here in the park.
So I got up and left.
See what thinking gets you.
I had told Mr. Schimmele before leaving that I would be back in about an hour, that that was about all the joy and freedom I could take for one day. Boy, did that turn out to be true.
I returned to the residence just in time for lunch. Chile Mac. Afterwards, I decided to go to the thrift store and finish my Christmas shopping. I purchased two presents apiece for my sister and niece. The list price for these gifts was well over six dollars, but the lady at the checkout counter only charged me two. I don’t know why. Now all the Christmas presents that I’m going to buy have been bought. One more Christmas card for my dear sweet grand Ma Ma, and fini!
I dumped all my purchases back at the residence, then made my way to Vons to buy a lottery ticket.
I came back, showered and dressed. This was Skip’s first day off restriction, so I relieved him at the desk a half hour early.
What a prince of a fellow I am.
Work! Work! Work! My God, it was awful.
I read most of the night.
This damned Choices book is making me think, and I’m not supposed to be able to do that for at least nine months into recovery due to the organic brain dysfunction that I have, which I learned about in substance abuse class.
Such a quandary.
I was reading the chapter, “Work and Leisure: Your Lifestyle.” The authors discussed types of personality and choice of careers. The point being that it is important for there to be a correlation between one’s personality and their job. So I began to wonder what type of personality I have.
Holland and Morrow designate six types: Realistic, Investigative, Artistic, Social, Enterprising, and Conventional. After reading all of the descriptions of each, I decided that my personality fit somewhere in between the Investigative and Artistic, but I would like to cultivate more of the Social. Let me describe some of the characteristics of the Investigative and Artistic types (as the authors see it):
Curious and inquisitive (if I had to describe myself in one word, it would be “incredibly handsome.” However, as far as my mind goes, I would use the word “curious,” in both its descriptive forms), a need to understand, explain, predict things that happen. Creative and individualistic. Scientific in attempts to understand things and tend to be pessimistic and critical when nonscientific, simplistic or supernatural explanations are suggested by others. Iconoclastic. Likes to express things with words and with physical expressions as in acting and singing. Wish attention and praise for artistic endeavors, but sensitive to criticism. Tend to become engrossed in whatever they are doing, and may appear to be oblivious to everything else around them. Independent. Do not particularly like to supervise others, or be supervised. Uninhibited and nonconforming in dress, speech, and action. Impulsive in outlook. Place great value on beauty and esthetic qualities. Find abstract and ambiguous problems and situations challenging. Find it difficult to accept traditional attitudes and values. Seek attention and approval from others. Tend to kill college cheerleaders in random and unspeakable sprees. Compensate for feelings of estrangement or alienation by relating to others primarily through the indirect medium of art.
Except for the propensity for serial killing (to my knowledge I’ve never laid a hand on a cheerleader, college, or otherwise… unfortunately), I feel I may possess some of the above qualities, or symptoms, whichever you prefer.
I would wish to cultivate more within the social. I have difficulties, or sometimes feel uncomfortable, or self-conscious when around a lot of other people that I don’t know very well, unless I’m loaded. I guess everybody’s like that to some degree.
Except morons.
Not that I don’t at times manifest some outgoing qualities, but I feel I could work further in this area.
I used to isolate a lot, you see. (using drugs is a form of isolation, or insulation). I try not to do that anymore.
I have other qualities as well. When drinking I can be mean, affable, petty, dishonest, resentful, egocentric, destructive, on and on.
The answer seems to be, once again, is to cease all drinking activities.
It keeps coming back to that, doesn’t it?
This book also asked me to identify my interests: literature, physical science, social science, women, astronomy, psychology, movies and plays. My abilities: I make a mean cheese omelet. My wants: a nice career; something I enjoy doing that provides enough money to live comfortably, a wife to share life with, a friend as well as a lover, a family, a nice house in Morro Bay or Monterrey. My preferences: I prefer that I receive everything that I want.
I wish to continue my education, most probably in the field of psychology (drug rehab). I feel a pressure to do this rather quickly because of my age. I feel I don’t have a whole lot of time to fart around, that I’ve done that a lot already in my life.
As far as jobs go the one that I have right now is the first one that I can remember in which I start the day feeling depressed, and at the end of the shift find that I feel much better. Maybe it’s because I tend to get out of myself while I’m working and don’t dwell needlessly on my own problems. I try and help others while working on the desk. When I look at some of the problems these guys face mine seem insignificant in comparison. A major part of the 12 Step Program constitutes working with others, and by doing so, help ourselves.
This is the first job in which I don’t feel like a cog in some great machine. I feel that what we do here has some meaning.
And maybe I like this job because I haven’t drank, or been inclined to drink, while doing it. It certainly is a new experience for me.
I hope I can find these qualities with other employers. I’d hate to think to think that in order to maintain job satisfaction I’ll have to work for the remainder of eternity at the Salvation Army for $15 a week.
The chapter I had been reading also dealt with leisure time. Right now I don’t have much of a problem with leisure time. I lie down.
Today is the tenth anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. They are playing a lot of his songs and interviews on television and the radio this evening. Ten years ago today I was sitting alone in my friend’s apartment, A.W.O.L. from the navy, in Portland, Oregon, drunk and watching T.V., wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I’m still doing that.
Tommy Bommarito came in and told me he had seen a lady lying down on the sidewalk, near the Park, with her head extended over the curb sticking out into the street. He said that she was old and that her clothes didn’t look too good. He went over and asked her if she were alright. She opened her eyes and said, yes, that she was okay. The police had just kicked her out of the park. Tommy reminded her that if she stayed where she was a car might come and hit her head.
She got up and walked away.
December 9 Sunday Day 88
Mr. Pandolfi woke me in his usual manner at five am.
Mr. Vasquez seemed a tad disgruntled this morning. I would be too, I suppose, if I knew I had to work for the next 17 hours straight.
Everything went according to plan at work. I told Mr. Vasquez that my mother, who should be visiting next Sunday, was looking forward to meeting him. If he wasn’t taking a nap, that is.
This was a big lie. My mother doesn’t know Mr. Vasquez from beans.
I spent most of today writing about yesterday, and found myself wondering at what an extraordinary thing that was to be doing.
I lost horribly at bingo tonight.
I then watched a horribly contrived movie. “Men at Work,” starring the Sheen boys, Charlie and Emilio. A silly effort, written and directed by Mr. Esterez. I liked it.
I watched “Married with Children.” Horribly contrived and silly. I love this show. It’s so sick, and easy to relate to.
I called my mom to give her directions to the residence, and to get Bobbie’s address (the lovely daughter of Alice and Lester, a life long friend), which I had misplaced. She told me that she would be going to the doctor tomorrow morning, that she thought she was coming down with a cold (another viral attack). She assured me that she would come next week if she didn’t get too sick.
She also told me that my sister’s boyfriend, Jim, was spending lavish amounts of money on Cheryl and my niece Keri, for Christmas, including a two-carat diamond bracelet. She said that Jim had paid for, and erected a Christmas tree, with all the trimmings, at my mom’s house, even though she didn’t want one.
Guy’s like that not only make me suspicious, but really piss me off.
I went to bed wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
December 10 Monday Day 89
I forgot to wake up early this morning. I did get up in time for a nice breaded fish lunch though.
After lunch I hung around the lobby, writing, and waiting to catch a glimpse of the luscious Wendy. I did catch sight of her, lurking around the counseling room. She does not stray far from there. She seems almost frightened, or timid. I once asked her, nice guy that I am, if she wanted to have some lunch, it being served at the time. The thought had not occurred to me until this very moment that she may have thought I was asking her out on a date! I was not. I had already had my lunch. I had just wanted her to know that it was perfectly alright if she wanted to get something to eat in the dining room. She answered, “No, thank you,” in her soft, lilting voice, “I usually work through lunch.” She said this even though she was just sitting around, waiting for everybody to get finished eating so she could see her next client. I wonder if she eats.
Some people don’t, you know.
Work went well. Mr. Vasquez was a little late coming back from the weekly board meeting, so I was hard pressed to get all the mail, passes, and appointment slips in the proper key slots before the guys got back from work. I accomplished this though, with cool panache.
I have been writing a lot of notes lately. Harold Eversley’s girlfriend, Ellie, called for him yesterday, and he could not be found. She asked if I would let Harold know that she had called. I told her that I certainly would. Fortunately we have little memo notices behind the desk that we utilize in just these types of situations. On them there are spaces for the name of the called party. I took one, and wrote down “Harold Eversley,” in the name space. In the space allocated for the date and time, I wrote, “9 Dec 90, 11:23 a.m.” There is a space for the name of the caller. I wrote, “Ellie.” A space for a message and a return phone number is also provided, but Ellie did not leave either of those. So I wrote my own. “Fuck you asshole!” Quotation marks included.
Tonight I wrote two notes. One to Rico Montgomery, which I left in his box. It said, “Mayhew Rottenell called. Wanted to know if you were all right. May be reached at 312-555-7136.” The name Mayhew Rottenell is a delicious invention of Mark Halprin’s, the author of A Winter’s Tale. I happily stole it from him.
I also wrote a note on the sign up list for the outside A.A. meeting. The list lets us know how many people wish to go. I wrote at the bottom, “All persons who sign must actually be alive (body temperature of at least 97 degrees must be maintained), and present at the time of departure. Zombieism is strictly unauthorized, and could lead to termination from the program.”
I can be compulsively silly at times.
Mr. Vasquez confided in me this evening concerning his plan to win the heart of the much sought after Milda. “She doesn’t know I know that she’s Lithuanian, you know. So I’ll say, ‘You look Scandinavian. No wait a minute. Maybe somewhere from the Baltic States. Lithuania would be my guess.’”
I agreed that it was a good plan.
See what us idiot males go through to win the attention of the superior female of the species. We’re such idiots. All women have to do is look reasonably good and healthy, then they can twist us around their little fingers. Until they get past 19 years old, that is.
My own true love, Sylvia, showed up. She let me know that she was feeling stressed lately. I let her know that she was my favorite counselor, because she actually talked to me without being forced to do it. Her reaction to this piece of information was to swat me playfully on the arm, and smile. As she was leaving I told her that she should go home, lie down, close her eyes and listen to a tape of seashore noises to help relieve her stress. She said that sounded like a good idea, but she had to write a paper that she hadn’t started on yet, which was due on Wednesday. She said she would probably be up half the night writing it. I wished her good luck, and cautioned her to drive carefully.
I’m afraid Milda and Mr. Vasquez never got together tonight. Both were too busy at their appointed tasks.
Maybe I shall have to intervene.
December 11 Tuesday Day 90
I forgot to wake up early again, and dashed out of bed at ten-thirty eight, and into the shower. While lathering my hair I heard my name called over the P.A. This indicated to me that Richard, my counselor, desired my presence.
It being lunchtime, I relieved my protégé, Skip, so he could eat. Soon Richard appeared, driving up to the desk in his little golf cart. We had our weekly session then and there. We both told each other how we were doing. I told him that my life was relatively stable right now, which it is. Relatively. He told me that he had just inherited a three-year-old Persian cat. I told him that I liked cats, which is true, I do like cats.
Most cats.
For some reason I just can’t stand to be around Iranian cheetahs. They really freak me out.
After concluding our conversation, I took my turn at lunch. Cheeseburgers.
I walked to the supermarket afterwards, and bought some cigarettes, and a lottery ticket for Skip.
I then wrote in the lobby, watching, and sometimes talking to Shirley. She’s a nice lady.
I went to the warehouse and found some more boxes for the rest of the Christmas presents that I still needed to package.
I then made my bed and did my laundry. My heart fluttered with excitement.
I relieved Clarence at the desk for dinner, then I ate.
A visiting Colonel, the official evangelist for the Salvation Army, had arrived today, and would be freeloa… spending the night and the next two days with us as part of a Christmas crusade.
We were all required to stay around after dinner for a five-fifteen devotional service conducted by the aforementioned Colonel. Colonel Smith. He got up in front of the men, put on an accordion, and we all (some of us) sang some Christmas carols. Then his wife, Mrs. Colonel Smith, told us about how glad she was to be here, and recited some interesting bumper stickers she and her husband had seen while she and her husband had traveled across the country. She then directed an inspirational reading. The Colonel came back and led us in another song, and told us a little about himself. He and Major Johnson had worked together before, in Alaska, when the Colonel was a Captain, and the Major was a lowly, stinking Lieutenant. The Colonel then told us he would be available for counseling tomorrow, and a sign up list would be at the desk for anyone who felt the urge.
This poor bastard must be in pretty bad shape if he needed counseling from the guys around here.
Anyway, we then said a prayer and were dismissed.
All this folderol cut into my group counseling time with Jill. Our session lasted only twenty minutes, and I need way more counseling than that!
Two people had newly joined our group and they introduced themselves. Our house groundskeeper, David Robinson, told us of his job search prospects, and that was it. Nothing about me! And I waited all week for this?
After group, BAM! Right into Tuesday night Step Study, with Al Watts. Tonight we listened to a tape about Step Two.
Next, I cautiously moved back into the lobby to write some more. In fact, I’m writing right now. In real time, it’s now 8:53 and 12 seconds. Jill and Mr. Vasquez are behind the desk. Together. Clarence is on a break. I can’t see their hands. I’m getting jealous. They just turned on Mrs. Johnson’s Christmas bear. Now Skip and Jill are talking. I’m getting more jealous. And distraught. I think I better quit writing and go upstairs and read a while, then go to bed before I lose control.
December 12 Wednesday Day 91
Ninety days! Another threshold. Now this journal is more or less one quarter complete.
I had wanted to get up for breakfast, but overslept. I overslept so much that I didn’t have time to go downtown to the VA. Oh well.
Never put off until tomorrow what you can avoid all together.
I was rudely awoken at nine-thirty, however, by Victor, who opened the door to my dorm, and yelled, “Joyce! You got to get up!”
I groggily replied, “Aaeee eeerrrrr ooorrruu errwwwa?”
“What?”
“What for? Why do I have to get up?”
“Everybody got to be over across the street.”
“What?”
“Everybody.” He then moved on.
I got up, dressed, combed my hair, then went across.
As I entered the warehouse I noticed that everybody who worked there was gathered around the shipping desk, sitting on old donated sofas, sipping out of Styrofoam coffee cups. Apparently we were here for another informal get together with Colonel Smith. Major Johnson introduced the Colonel, who promptly hoisted his accordion for a few lively numbers. He sang some more Christmas carols and invited us to sing along, but nobody seemed to know the words, so we all hummed a lot.
He gave us another evangelical message. I could tell that everyone appreciated the Major waiting until break time, time they would usually have for themselves, for this mandatory insertion of religious dogma.
It was over by nine-fifty (don’t want to cut in to actual work time, oh no). I came back to the residence, showered, then boxed up the Christmas presents for Cheryl and Keri.
I read the Choices book until four. Today I read two chapters, one entitled, “Your Body, and Stress Management.” It reminded me that I should manage my stress, continue to meditate, exercise, and that I would probably be a lot healthier if I quit smoking. It also recommended therapeutic massage to help alleviate body tension. I feel ripe for this particular type of healing ministration.
The other chapter concerned “Sex Roles.” I don’t believe I’m confused about this issue. I’m a guy. I like girls. I don’t have any interest in men in a physical way, and don’t understand what women see in the brutish, uncouth pigs (myself excluded, of course). Women, on the other hand, are much more interesting physically. Besides being aesthetically pleasing, they are, even while standing straight, able to point in all directions at once.
Fascinating.
I don’t mind sharing my feelings with others. At least not now. I may have in the past. I don’t mind crying in front of others, if that is what I need to be doing at the time. I cry at sad stuff in old movies, and when I hear about atrocious injustice and cruelty in the world, and don’t consider that to be unmanly (whatever that means). Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean that I’m not human, and humans should have feelings and be able to express them in a healthy way.
I don’t think it’s unmanly to help around the house, especially if the man in question is single.
I love to cook. I prepared most of the meals when Jan and I were together (it was either that or a steady diet of TV dinners). I even washed the dishes and cleaned up after myself. Sometimes. We shared most of the household responsibilities. Why not, we both had jobs and worked hard. I quit doing the laundry though when she got mad at me for putting one of her sweaters in the dryer when it wasn’t supposed to go in there. She got real mad.
She did the laundry from then on.
I mean, what’s the point of being in a relationship if you’re not willing (and wanting) to help each other. I can’t make sense of any opposing argument. We should be supportive of each other, in all of our endeavors. If my mate wanted to go out and start, or continue a career she cared about, fine with me. Great. I would have no problem with that, and I would try to help her all that I could. I know how rewarding it can be doing something you enjoy. I don’t see how a man could ask a woman to supplant her instincts and drives to stay at home if she didn’t want to.
Slavery’s dead. Or should be.
I don’t think I’d like my mate to be a work-a-holic though. Or spend a lot of time away from home, traveling across the country, with handsome business associates, or something, a lot of the time. I might as well live alone then.
Or with a dog or gerbil.
Anyway, we enjoyed another inspirational message from Colonel Smith tonight in chapel. This guy is getting to be a real pain in the ass.
I watched, “Some Like It Hot,” with Jacky Lemon, Tony Curtis, and Marilyn Monroe. I can’t believe how heavy she was in that movie. She was really packing in the beans and mustard. Not that I would take a pass on her, but still… Maybe guys liked girls with a little more meat on the bones back then.
Naaaww.
Not that I have anything against fat girls, or women of huge personage.
I went to bed pondering the immortal question posed by Kilgore Trout’s Space Wanderer, “Why are we born, only to suffer and die?”
Like the lonely Space Wanderer, I’m afraid the only answer that I’m ever likely to get is:
“Why not?”
December 13 Thursday Day 92
I was having a wonderful dream. I remember it vividly.
Certain creatures had become extinct on a green, swampy, rain forested planet, and I had been sent to introduce the seeds of two different species that would hopefully flourish there.
Myself, and hundreds of my brothers, jumped out of atmospheric cruise vehicles to fall to the moss carpeted earth below. I felt so free as I fell, no fear at all, only a sense of beautiful anticipation and togetherness as my friends and I floated through the air, our hair streaming behind us as we came together to hold hands.
I looked at my colleagues, all male. I then looked down at my own body and realized I was a woman, feeling sure that I was pretty, with long flowing auburn hair.
I considered this decidedly odd, and not a little bit peculiar. However, I had once worn my hair exceptionally long at about the time of my first marriage, a protest for all those flat tops my parents forced upon me as a youth, so thought nothing more of it.
My friends popped out of the overcast sky as their drop inhibitors activated, breaking their fall, slowing their descent to a leisurely and carefree pace. I experienced momentary anxiety as my drop inhibitor had not activated and I was one of the very few who were still falling rapidly. But that feeling was quickly dispelled as I felt the jets fire, just in time, and was the first to touch the ground.
Trees were all around me, but I had managed to land between them, on a rock which was protruding through a clear, slow moving stream. I had been carrying the seeds, two green shimmering, elongated, aquatic looking animals, one a snake like thing with four legs, the other an insect type with a long exoskeleton. I released the snake into the water, and the insect skittered off into the underbrush. I felt so fulfilled as I watched them start on their respective journeys, knowing that with luck they would bring a new vitality to this ripe world. In the distance I heard, “six o’clock, six o’clock, six o’clock,” and felt exhilarated that I had completed my mission in the nick of time. I listened more closely as the sound became insistent.
“This is your six o’clock wake up. Dorms forty- four and forty-five, rooms thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-eight, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-four, will have laundry done today. Breakfast in forty-five minutes. Six o’clock wake up. Time to get up gentlemen.”
So I got up and ate breakfast. Pancakes and bacon.
I actually stayed up for morning devotions today instead of going back to bed and hiding under the covers until the morning deskman came by checking to see who had not attended. Charles Leary had been caught ironing his clothes during devotions last week by Mr. Vasquez, and had been put on restriction.
So after eating I watched Debra Norville’s lips and eyebrows on the NBC Today Show for a while, went to devotions, got devoted, then went back to bed.
Upon awakening I showered and dressed, then went downstairs to the lobby to write.
People ask me all the time what it is I’m writing about. I either tell them that I’m writing a journal, or that I’m writing about whoever it is who happens to ask me what I’m writing about, or who I’m talking to at the time. I ask them if I may use their real names, and surprisingly all of them say yes (the quest for immortality is rampant). I then ask them if I could get a signed statement to that effect. I haven’t got one yet.
Work went reasonably well, except for a few touchy individuals I had to contend with.
Another chapel meeting tonight with Col. & Mrs. Smith. This one lasted a whole hour and fifteen minutes. For a while I thought they were going to hold everyone hostage in the chapel until all had been converted.
I was down at the desk though. Which was great, as I got a chance to talk to Stacy. Alone. It’s funny, I couldn’t think of much to say to her. She asked me how I was, and I said good. I asked her how she was, and she said that she was good too. We were both good. She’s very friendly for a devastatingly pretty girl. She asked me about my job and hours. I told her that one of the things I liked about my job was that it forced me to interact with a lot of other people, which felt good. I learned that I’m only bout ten years younger than her father. Ye gads! I can remember when all of the Playboy Playmates had the decency to be older than I was.
She let me know that she was going up north, to San Luis Obispo, with her family for Christmas. I said that was, “Awesome.” She agreed.
She also let my know that that she would be in next Wednesday, instead of her regular Thursday night, because she had to work at her job on Thursday.
As she left I gave her a Christmas card. She left without opening it. I was too chicken to give her a Christmas card that was directly from me, but to let her know she was appreciated around here, the card was signed, “From all of us behind the desk at the Pasadena A.R.C.”
I don’t understand the significance of the dream I had earlier. I know what Freud and various other psychiatrists think about certain aspects of dreams, and I also know that all of that is mostly conjecture and theory, which in itself implies that they don’t really know anymore about dreams than you or I do.
Actually, ever since I was a small lad I’ve always thought dreams were simply metaphoric translations of waking expectations and the act of dreaming deactivates emotional arousal by completing the expectation pattern metaphorically, freeing the brain to respond afresh each new day.
But what do I know?
One thing I do know is that the dream felt good, and I actively pursued it as I went to sleep tonight.
To find out what happened next.
December 14 Friday Day 93
I had a dream in which I was wanted by the law and they caught me in an alfalfa field.
So much for dreams!
Amazing day. Some good things transpired, maybe good things, and some bad things happened. Typical.
I wrote in the lobby this afternoon, after forgetting to wake up early again. A Christmas dinner and floor show was being presented tonight at the Corps facility. Everyone at the ARC was required to attend. Mr. Vasquez and I argued about who would stay behind and man the desk, answer the phones, and watch over the place incase Goodwill attacked. Guess who won that argument? Even though it was my scheduled shift I had to go.
Meanwhile, if you can remember back to the first day I came to the center, my first full day of sobriety, a man with great hair (wig) by the name of Ron Collins, the shipping supervisor, escorted me through the warehouse into the store so I could get some clothes. Well, Ron had relapsed a week or so ago. He took off, and nobody knew where he was, or what had happened to him.
Today he came back. Or rather, was allowed to come back and enter the program once again. He’s lost his job, been put on restriction for sixty days, and I believe he will be working in the kitchen for a while.
It is a very hard thing to do, to come back knowing full well what you will have to go through. It’s hard enough starting over at a different ARC, or program, where nobody knows you, let alone coming back to a place where you had succeeded for a significant period of time before succumbing to relapse, and going through the embarrassment and self-loathing you feel because you allowed alcohol to win once again, and admitting to yourself that you fucked up and had to start all over at the very bottom.
But to start at the bottom is a hell of a lot better than not starting at all.
Ron probably stopped drinking because his resources gave out on him, and he probably came back here because he had nowhere else to go. Still, I admire him
Missing Manuscript
December 16 Sunday Day 95 In Progress
I went back upstairs and finally got my shower.
I was waiting for my mom in the lobby near one o’clock. Victor was shuffling in the chow line when he happened to glance out the front window, and said, “Woo eee! Look at that car. Miss Susie.” He was referring to the personalized license plate my mom has on her car, “Miss Susie.” My mother’s name is Susie. Some people call her Lucille, like her mother. That’s her middle name I guess.
I call her mom. When my father was alive my sister and I both called him daddy, while calling my mother mom. I don’t know why.
“That’s my mom,” I told Victor.
“Tell her I want a drive.”
My mother’s Lincoln Town Car stopped in our driveway and went out to greet her. She’s fairly well off now having survived two husbands and one divorce, and gets a new car every two or three years. She spends a great deal of time sitting at home watching TV game shows while listening in to the Bullhead City Police Radio frequency on her dinning room monitor. She has a dog named “Skeeter,” and she likes to feed the humming birds and roadrunners that appear outside in the backyard of the three bedroom house her last husband built for her (not my adopted father).
We hugged and exchanged pleasantries. She said I looked sharp (I still had on my desk suit and vest so I would look sharp when she arrived. It worked. The last time she had seen me I looked like a dried up, diseased prune pit), and I told her she looked beautiful (an adjective used much too often… especially by me). She did look beautiful (see).
I’m told at one time she was a professional singer. I inherited that ability from her, although we are not blood relatives.
I didn’t get her good looks.
I took my mom on a tour of the residence, and she seemed very impressed. Noah the parrot, acted very shy, and would not let me or my mom fondle her. I introduced her to Mr. Vasquez and Victor. Mr. Vasquez spoke of Globe, Arizona, and how cold it gets up there in the mountains. My mom said that it could get pretty cold in Bullhead City too.
Chit chat.
I forced my mother into taking me to a Mexican restaurant down Fair Oaks. We enjoyed a buffet lunch. She had a mushroom omelet. Scrambled eggs, chorizo, crab in tomato sauce, beef fajitas, rice, beans, guacamole, sour cream, and desert for me. I obviously pigged out.
We made small talk. She told me about the Galphin Ford Christmas party she had attended last Friday night, and how her friend Jeanette had fixed her up with some guy who owned a ranch, and had lamas for pets. I told her that I was writing a book. She said, that was nice, and continued talking about whatever it was she was talking about.
After our meal we drove to Vons so she could buy some mints, then she drove me back to the residence. We kissed goodbye and then she was gone.
I watched her drive away, then walked over to one of the benches at the side of the building, sat and smoked a cigarette while I thought about our encounter. I felt a little sad. I love my mother, and I wish we could understand each other better.
I soon walked back inside and sat around feeling listless. I relieved Clarence for dinner at four. He didn’t seem to be feeling very well.
My roommate Dan had given me a ticket to a Christmas play at the Lake Street Congregational Church. The show started at six, and I caught a ride. A two act, Nativity musical comedy, starring Jeff Conway, of the sit-com “Taxi,” fame. The play was entitled, “And You, Bethlehem.” It was very nice. Very forgettable, but very nice. A good change of pace for me.
I’ve been in a couple of high school plays. I played the part of The Professor in Eugene Ionesco’s, “The Lesson,” in such a way that it appeared as though I did not know my lines, and got so nervous I sweated so much puddles formed at my feet. A brilliant interpretation, although most who witnessed that performance did not seem to appreciate its subtle intricacies, one being my drama teacher. I still remember him sadly shaking his head. I thought he might cry.
My girlfriend at the time, Michelle Meridian, who was playing The Maid, actually slapped my fake mustache completely off, and I had to hold it in place for the rest of the performance.
Well, I’m more of am film actor anyway.
When I got back to the residence, I went up to my room and opened one of the four presents my mom had brought from Arizona. I picked one at random. It was supposedly from my sister Cheryl, and my niece Keri. They had given me eight, never before used, pairs of underwear.
I went to bed and fell asleep and had no dreams.
December 17 Monday Day 96
I got out of bed early today. I had planned to hang around the desk this morning, and watch Mr. Vasquez, and try to learn the weekday morning routine. I had early breakfast with him, then went upstairs to shower. Of course, just as I was about to step in, he found me.
“Joyce! Just the man I was looking for. We seem to have a little problem. Clarence is still sick, so get dressed and come on down.”
I began to comply when Mr. Vasquez stopped me. “Wait a second. That’s not the end of our troubles. Mr. Grinnell tells me he can’t pass a urine test I arranged for him {he’s always arranging urine tests for people}. He must have had a little something at his girlfriend’s house last night. So Mr. Joyce, to put it bluntly, we’re falling apart.”
I told him that I’d be right down.
Mr. Vasquez reminded me, “Remember Joyce, first and foremost… don’t panic.”
I had never worked a day shift during the workweek before. It was a tad unnerving to experience the massive onrush, a hoard of people streaming at once from the dinning room after devotions, headed straight for me at my position behind the desk, slapping down their keys as they made their way to work.
Such eager fellows.
Besides from putting away all of those keys, there wasn’t mush to do. Mr. Vasquez went through some of the paperwork that needed to be done, and handed into the front office by eight. This morning it got there at nine.
Victor called at one o’clock from his school. He told Mr. Vasquez that he had decided to move out of the residence while attending classes, and move into his mother’s house. Apparently the school offered a job placement service, and Victor figured it would be easier for him to study at his mom’s, and find a job after graduation.
Good for Victor!
This is the was everyone hopes they will leave here, but which only a few actually do. Sober, and with a realistic plan for the future. I wish him well.
Surprisingly enough, I think I will miss him.
He did manage to leave me holding the bag, so to speak. I now have his job, and will have to work more hours than I had planned on. Seven shifts in a five day work week. On Wednesdays and Thursdays I will be in charge of this crazy place from six in the morning until eleven at night.
Thrilling!
And responsible to everybody.
Just what a three month sober, recovering alcoholic, drug addict needs.
Actually, I do not feel that this change will endanger my sobriety, probably just the opposite. And I will do my utmost not to let my program, studies, and writing suffer. All I have to do is learn how to do without sleep.
Some more changes. Kevin Rockoff will take over for Skip. Clarence will remain right where he is, if he survives.
The doctors told him that he only has 20% lung capacity, so it’s a pretty serious thing if he comes down with a cold, which he has. To top things off, I don’t think Clarence is being completely honest when he tells me that he has quit smoking cigarettes. Every once in a while, in the bathroom, I will see him enter a stall, cough horribly a few minutes, then hear the flicking sound of a cigarette lighter being discharged. Hmmmmm.
By the way, Clarence is a lovely man, approximately fifty years old, who somewhat resembles a midget Einstein with red, frizzy hair. I doubt that he would dispute this brief description, especially since I don’t plan to show it to him.
Jack Crosley, the perennial deskman, shall make a return appearance. Temporarily that is. He will be helping us out until Mr. Vasquez can find someone to fill my position on the roster.
What Jack really wants to do is be a truck driving man. He wants to apply to the Dootson School for trucking.
Victor came back at three-fifteen. He was supposed to have worked the evening shift with Robert, and Robert was going to hold him to that, last night, or not. Victor did manage to disappear for the early part of his shift, and Kevin and I hung around while I broke him in, showing him how to be a perfect deskman.
No easy task.
When Victor finally returned, Kevin and I ducked out.
I ate a nice juicy cheeseburger with a fried egg on top at the canteen. Then I finished reading the “Choice” book Richard had loaned to me. I would return it to him tomorrow. The last chapter that I read (which was the second to last chapter in the book. I had read the last chapter earlier, as had been suggested by the authors. The last chapter concerned “values”) discussed death and loss. It was not depressing though.
The Rams losing to the San Francisco 49ers was depressing, so I went to bed. Tonight would be my last night in a five-bed dorm.
I hope.
By the way, Clarence is a lovely man, approximately fifty years old, who somewhat resembles a midget Einstein with red, frizzy hair. I doubt that he would dispute this brief description, especially since I don’t plan to show it to him.
Jack Crosley, the perennial deskman, shall make a return appearance. Temporarily that is. He will be helping us out until Mr. Vasquez can find someone to fill my position on the roster.
What Jack really wants to do is be a truck driving man. He wants to apply to the Dootson School for trucking.
Victor came back at three-fifteen. He was supposed to have worked the evening shift with Robert, and Robert was going to hold him to that, last night, or not. Victor did manage to disappear for the early part of his shift, and Kevin and I hung around while I broke him in, showing him how to be a perfect deskman.
No easy task.
When Victor finally returned, Kevin and I ducked out.
I ate a nice juicy cheeseburger with a fried egg on top at the canteen. Then I finished reading the “Choice” book Richard had loaned to me. I would return it to him tomorrow. The last chapter that I read (which was the second to last chapter in the book. I had read the last chapter earlier, as had been suggested by the authors. The last chapter concerned “values”) discussed death and loss. It was not depressing though.
The Rams losing to the San Francisco 49ers was depressing, so I went to bed. Tonight would be my last night in a five-bed dorm.
I hope.
December 18 Tuesday Day 97
I finally woke up, after Mr. Pandolfi smacked me a few times on my feet with his clipboard. It was five-thirty a.m. I slowly got out of bed, and begrudgingly went to the showers, then dressed for my morning shift.
I got downstairs just at six. Kevin and I had some breakfast, and then got behind the desk. Mr. Vasquez was already there. He had prepared yesterday’s paperwork the night before. We went over it, then went to the front office. He showed me who got what, described some office procedures, and stopped by Ed’s office to discuss some changes in kitchen personal.
Pretty cool.
Back at the residence I made a dorm inspection, picked up the counseling lists and posted them, talked to my counselor for a good half an hour, and screwed around until Mr. Vasquez came to relieve me at two-thirty.
I moved all of my stuff into Victor’s old room, which he had moved out of by seven-thirty this morning. I changed clothes, went to dinner and to my group counseling session with the intoxicating Jill. She sat right next to me tonight, but about half the guys in the group seemed to be hostile towards her, showing off their independence I guess, and I wound up not saying a single word throughout the session.
I wrote for a while in the lobby making myself available to Jill if she should need me.
Even though I am a client of hers I don’t think she realizes that I exist.
Mr. Vasquez took me on his evening rounds. An extremely thorough tour, I got to see the two apartments which I had never seen before. Very ritzy.
Then I went up to my lonely room, turned on my color TV to “Cheers,” made my bed, read a little of John Nichols, The Milagro Beanfield War.
Then went to sleep.
December 19 Wednesday Day 98
I woke up to the sound of slamming doors, and someone walking down the short enclosed hallway directly outside my door. I wondered to myself, since there was no one else there at the time, why someone would be making so much noise so early in the morning. I knew it had to be early because I had asked Wolf to wake me at five, and I had set my wrist watch alarm for five-twenty one, and hadn’t heard it sound off as of yet. I noticed more morning sounds; I thought I heard an unusual amount of activity in the distance, a muffled, busy sound. I turned over in my bed and reached for my watch that was sitting on top of the folded pair of light brown slacks I had chosen to wear the night before. I looked at my watch with the express purpose of determining how much more time I had left to snooze. My watch let me know that the impossible had occurred. It told me that it was six-thirty four a.m. My watch must have been lying to me, either that or a stray Christmas Elf had entered my room during the night and set my watch ahead an hour. I leaned up in my new bed and looked out my one window and noticed how light it was getting outside. My next move was to leap out of bed, grab my soap, shampoo, and razor, dash out my door into the semi-private bathroom I shared with Mr. Vasquez, Robert Collins the canteen man, and Don Erwin the maintenance supervisor, Warren’s boss. No one was in there at the moment. I threw off my nightgown and cap, jumped in the shower, washed my face and armpits, shampooed my lustrous hair, jumped out of the shower, cursed Pandolfi, dried myself, ran back to my room, got dressed for work, cursed Pandolfi, ran back to the single stall in the bathroom, smoked a cigarette, cursed Pandolfi again, flushed, combed my hair and shaved, returned to my room, came out of it again, walked to the elevator, took said elevator to the lobby to start my first seventeen hour shift as a lead desk person.
Pandolfi was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Pandolfi?” I asked Kevin Rockoff. This was Kevin’s first shift also.
“Honey Glazed Donuts called. Said they had been out of business for a while, but now they’re working again, and want us to pick up some donuts.”
“Fuck Honey Glazed! Where’s Pandolfi? He didn’t wake me up!” It was now seven o’clock. My shift had started at six.
“He ate breakfast and took off.”
“Right. Call Frank Ortiz at the dispatch supervisor’s extension and tell him we just got a call from Honey Glazed and they’re back in business and want us to make a pick up.”
Kevin proceeded to do this.
“Frank said to get the duty driver to go make the pick up.”
“Great,” I said.
Our duty driver for the week, a short, rotund black man whose name is Lee Jefferson, was also our Night Crawler driver. He had worked last night until ten on his normal route, had already gotten up this morning at four-thirty to pick up donuts at Tastee’s, and now I had to ask him to get up once again to get some more donuts.
Not that we needed the fucking things, but we wanted to keep our donors happy.
I thought seriously about sending Kevin up to go get Lee, but could not bring myself to do this to him.
I went upstairs and approached Lee’s door with caution. I knocked. “Lee!”
I heard music from inside his room, so I knew he was awake. “Who’s out there?” he asked.
“Rick Joyce,” I said.
“Joyce? What you want?”
“Honey Glazed just called and said they had donuts to pick up.”
“Donuts?”
“Yes, donuts.”
“I already got donuts.”
“I know you did, but this is Honey Glazed, and they want us to pick up more donuts.”
“I already got donuts.”
What is this, Cheech and Chong?
I walked away.
As I got back to the desk Kevin was announcing last call for morning devotions, so I went back upstairs to find out who was ducking. Al Leberthon was up there. I told him that he needed to be at devotions, something he already knew. He said, “So what are you going to do? Bust me?”
“Mr. Vasquez would,” I replied. “If he caught you, you’d be on restriction right now. I’m just giving you a warning this time.”
Al Leberthon’s a smart ass. I should have busted him.
By the time I looked through half the dorms, devotions had finished, so the second floor began to flood with guys getting ready for work, which kind of defeated the purpose of my inspection.
I went back down to the desk.
I came up again with our three diabetics, Tommy Bommorito, Reuben Perez, and Jeff Funicello, to let them get their morning injections of insulin. The insulin was kept in the sample room, where George Staub used to sleep whenever he stayed over night. The sample room is called the sample room because urine samples are stored in the refrigerator in there, right next to the insulin. On a table to the right of the refrigerator, rested what looked like an office photocopying machine. It was not a photocopying machine. It was however, a very sophisticated, $35,000 urine analyzer. Robert had previously explained to me how the device worked, and how to set up a urine sample run. He told me that throughout the years the Salvation Army had found it uneconomical to test for drugs other than marijuana and cocaine. This machine did have the capability to detect the by-products produced by the body when metabolizing any mind altering substance known to man, but marijuana and cocaine seemed to be the resident’s favorites, and testing for other drugs was very expensive.
The Salvation Army is nothing if not thrifty.
Of course, alcohol is tested for at the front door of the residence with the breath-a-lizer, a very sensitive and discerning device, making alcohol the most tested for substance here.
After the insulin had been dispersed, I returned to the desk. Mr. Schimmelle, who had become our lead janitor (only in America), replacing Mr. Rockoff who was now on the desk, informed me that we were in dire need of more toilet paper, which I would need to get across the street from warehouse supply.
I said to him, “Okay.”
I gathered up yesterday’s paperwork that Mr. Vasquez had left for me from the night before, and took it, and Mr. Schimmelle across the street through the warehouse, into the front office. Officer’s country.
I deposited the paperwork in the appropriate receptacles, took Mr. Schimmelle to see the supply person, Melvin Clark, and told Melvin of our plight, got our toilet paper, and returned to the residence.
My whole day turned out to be very much like my morning. People come to me with their problems and I either solve them, then and there, or direct them to, or tell them I will talk to the people who can solve them, at a later date and time.
And I do paperwork.
Mr. Vasquez took off for an appointment at the V.A. outpatient clinic in downtown L.A. The good folks at the clinic wanted to stick an endoscope down poor Mr. Vasquez’s throat for about an hour or two, and look to see what they could see. Cancerous growths maybe. Mr. Vasquez was not too thrilled about it.
I made a dorm inspection and selected the best dorm of the week, and the best bed and cleanest area. They all looked like hell. I sent my selections over to Clarence Orion so he could give out the dorm awards at chapel tonight.
When Mr. Vasquez came back later in the afternoon, he was about half anesthetized, but still managed to bust two guys coming in the residence with clothes that they had stolen from the warehouse. They were both given the boot and sent out into the cold, December evening. I felt sorry for one of them. He had taken two T-shirts.
“I was so stupid,” he said. “I worked for Frank Ortiz, ya know! I could of gotten a clothing order anytime.”
This incidence, and two voluntary checkouts, kept me in paperwork for a while.
After dinner, back upstairs for more insulin.
Chapel went smoothly. Clarence had invited a friend of his over to play his guitar and sing a few Christmas songs. Very nice.
I finished my paperwork, made the evening rounds, found out that while Jack was outside smoking a cigarette he had inadvertently stepped on a water sprinkler and broke it, so I wrote a maintenance work order to have it fixed.
Damned cigarettes!
At eleven O’clock, everybody was in who was coming in, so we closed up shop, and I, very gratefully, went to bed.
December 20 Thursday Day 99
Not very surprisingly, today was very similar to yesterday, although much more subdued.
Soon after Mr. Vasquez took off to do some Christmas shopping, Kathy from the outpatient clinic called for him. I told her that he had gone out.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “He must be feeling better then.”
Mr. Vasquez, much to his consternation, had discovered that he had left the clinic yesterday, with electrodes still attached to various parts of his body. He told me, “I kept finding them here and there. Found one this morning.”
Ed Reitz brought over a box of Christmas gifts destined for our counselors, and it was my great pleasure to hand some of them out. To Stacy in particular. She seemed genuinely pleased as she accepted hers, smiled and said, “I like presents.”
Barbara, and older counselor, who also works for the phone company (Pac Bell), asked me if I believed in prayer.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Then pray for this kid I’m going to go check on now. I only hope he’s still alive. You know how you can get so depressed, you aren’t able to believe that anything will ever change, or get better? His family has treated him like shit, and now it’s Christmas time! I only hope he hasn’t killed himself. I’m recovering myself, ya know, and throughout the years I’ve come to realize that no matter how bad you think you are, or how bad you have it, there’s somebody’s who’s always worse off than you.”
I wished her a Merry Christmas, told her to drive safely, and after work, went up to my lonely room and prayed.
December 21 Friday Day 100
Mr. Vasquez had telephoned last night while I had been on my rounds. He wanted me and Art Svensk, the relief night watchman (the eccentric looking individual I spoke of on my first night at the desk), to know he might be in late. Around midnight.
I had gone to bed right after my shift ended at eleven, so this morning I got up early to make sure Robert had made it back and started his shift. He had, and since I was up I pigged out at breakfast.
Later, Mr. Vasquez got really busy, so I took the paperwork over to the front office for him. That done, I returned to my lonely room for a little nap.
I woke up when Harold Eversley began pounding on my door. He wanted to let me know that I was wanted down at the desk. I said, “Thank you very much, Harold Eversley,” but it sounded like, “Ururrah airy much, Howwwy Urusly,” because I was still a little bit asleep.
Kevin Rockoff just wanted someone to relieve him so he could eat lunch. Not an unreasonable request. Mr. Vasquez had disappeared yet once again. He is a remarkable man really, and very good at what he does. However, he has a tendency to forget all about his colleagues at the desk in his extreme busyness (fogged brain), and if it were not for the graciousness of other desk personnel, the on duty deskman would never eat or be able to use the restroom. I can easily imagine Robert returning from an extended excursion only to find a bleached dry skeleton behind the desk to greet him.
“Oh my,” he would say.
Although Mr. Vasquez and I both have valid California driver’s license’s, Robert is the
only one authorized to drive the Salvation Army vehicles, because he is an employee. So when he works, he takes off all of the time and is usually absent from the residence, which is one of the reasons I enjoyed working with him. He was hardly ever there! That allowed me to do whatever I wanted while I was working, like drink coffee, read, run amok, etc. Now, Robert and I work what we called in the navy, port and starboard duty sections. Whenever he’s on, I’m off, and whenever I’m on he’s off. So I can still do whatever I want to while working because Robert (my supervisor) and I never work together. Sweet deal..
Except that now, I’m constantly hit up, full force, with all of the inquiries, phone calls, problems, and hassles that accompany this position, and I cannot escape from it as Robert does.
That sucks!
This is something I must see about changing. It would be so nice to be able to drive around a bit.
After lunch I showered, shaved, and dressed for work. Then I went to the canteen area and wrote until my shift began.
It was me and Jack tonight. I left him pretty much alone. He knows what to do. He made a deal with Mr. Vasquez to shampoo the carpet in the lobby, library, and elevator at around ten this evening. He’s doing it for extra canteen cards. Exciting stuff.
Work went well. I’m getting used to the new job and the paperwork, and I feel pretty secure when dealing with most situations.
I got a raise in my gratuity. Now I’m making sixteen dollars a week, for about sixty hours work, which works out to about 27 cents an hour (next week I’ll get seventeen!). Of course I also get room and board, and learn to live in sobriety.
Seems almost fair.
All in all I feel pretty good.
At seven-thirty I went out to put up the big steel bar that effectively stops vehicles from entering the thrift store parking lot after the thrift store closes. This is one of my duties. It sucks. The bar’s heavy! It was very cold tonight (at least for me, Southern California boy that I am), below 40 degrees F. I kept thinking about how nice it was going to be when I got back to the residence, and how nice it was that I had a residence to go to and wasn’t out freezing my shapely butt off in the Park.
I unlocked the As-Is Yard gate, entered and locked it behind me. I walked to the gate at the south end of the Thrift Store parking lot, opened it, and looked for the padlock I would need to secure the damn bar. I was hoping that it would be there because it was not in its customary location, on top of the key box back in the nice, warm residence. I had thought that Mr. Vasquez or Art Svensk might have left it attached to one end of the twenty foot long bar. It was not. It was no where to be found. Astonished, I said to myself, “God Damn.” Then I closed the parking lot gate, walked back through the As-Is Yard, opened its gate, crossed through and closed it again, hating the touch of the freezing metal, and walked back to the residence.
I looked around the office, but the padlock was not there, so I called Mr. Vasquez, who was up in the sample room, playing with urine. I asked him where the lock and chain were to be found. He said, “Oh shit!” Then he said, “I must have put it down somewhere and forgot about it. All right, I’ll be down in a minute.”
After a while he came down. “It’s not in here, huh?” He looked around. He said he would go look for it. He came back later and agreed with me, that it was not anywhere around. It had vanished.
He said, “Okay. We’ll have to put on a new lock. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I’ll have to get you a key too.” He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a lock with a key taped to it, pulled off the key and placed it on his key ring. Then he took the lock to the van (Red Shield 4) so he could drive around the block to the thrift store parking lot. He was tired of walking, I guess. I don’t blame him.
I thought that would be the end of it, but it was not. He came back in a few minutes, and said, “Where’s the key to that lock? I told him I didn’t know, “I though you had it,” I said. He grumbled, searched through his pockets and looked around for five minutes before saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. All right, I think I’m relapsing. This is what I’ll do. I’ll take the lock off basement cage and use that [apparently we were running out of locks by this time]. Here, take this lock and put it back in the drawer. Look around, will you. That key has got to be somewhere.” He went downstairs and got the padlock off the cage in the basement, then took off in the van again.
As I searched for the lost key on the office floor, Mr. Vasquez returned. He looked at me and smiled.
“You sat there and let me do this, Joyce.” He pulled out his key ring, on which the lost key was attached. I had forgotten he had put it there. So had he. “For awhile there I thought my Alzheimer’s was acting up.” He continued, “All right, I’m now going to put the cage lock back where it was.”
He did that, then took off in the van again. He was gone a good five minutes before he returned… again.
“You let me do it again, Joyce! Give me that damn lock in the drawer please. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! This hasn’t happened to me since I was fifteen years old.”
He departed once more, hopefully with all of the proper tools required to complete his task this time.
Finally, the thrift store parking lot bar was secured. We could all sleep a little easier tonight.
The thrift store parking lot bar, by the way, when secured for the night, is indeed locked to a cement post with said lock and chain… on one side. Due to some strategic conceptualizing on the part of Major Johnson, the other end of the bar is secured to a similar post… with a coat hanger. This of course means, in actuality, there is damn little to stop anybody from getting into the thrift store lot if they really wanted to, and even if they didn’t.
And how do I feel about expending so much time, effort, and worry into putting up that bar, each and every night? Stupid. I feel really stupid.
Such is life.
December 22 Saturday Day 101
I got up early again, mainly to see if everything was correct from the night before, and to answer any questions Mr. Vasquez might have. He asked me if everything was correct.
“Yes sir,” I replied.
Since I was up I had breakfast, then went to my room and watched some T.V. “The New Leave It to Beaver.” I dozed off.
I woke up to the sound of someone pounding on my door again. I hoped fervently that this would not become a trend.
It was Tommy Bommorito. He said that Mr. Vasquez was gone, and that he needed his insulin. I told him to take a hike, that I was off duty, and that diabetic comas were none of my concern. No, no, just kidding. We went to the sample room and got it. I had some lunch, then showered and got dressed.
Today we were hosting the block party for the neighborhood children. The party was held in the atrium. I helped out at the desk while Robert went down to oversee the festivities. The train was set up, piñata’s were bashed, and Frank Ortiz played Santa Claus to about fifty kids. Very nice.
My shift was rather boring actually, nothing much happening. David Earl, the fork left driver dude, was three minutes late getting back tonight, and I would have been within my rights to terminate him from the program for violating curfew. He had a good story, and I didn’t think terminating would help his program, and it was freezing outside, so I let him in. Maybe I shouldn’t have, I don’t know.
Mr. Vasquez, earlier in the evening, had caught one guy drinking. That man blew a .14, so out into the cold he went.
I wish him well.
December 23 Sunday Day 102
A whole day off today! There are church services to attend though. And since I am now the lead desk person I get to be an usher and help pass around the collection plate. Oh boy!
The money that is collected during chapel does not stay here at the center. Mr. Vasquez makes a point of explaining that every week. This money also goes to help finance the Salvation Army’s imperialistic expansion into Eastern Europe and Madagascar.
Mr. Vasquez didn’t quite get around to turning on the chapel’s air conditioning/heating system in time, so it was 45 degrees in there when we walked in. Every once in a while the Major would get out of his seat to fiddle with the controls, as if his personal intervention would help things out.
The crisp atmosphere did tend to keep everyone awake.
The Major likes everyone to be awake. He has Robert take the names of those he sees nodding off, for retribution at a later time.
Afterwards, Warren Bahr and I walked over to the warehouse to check for water leaks from pipes that might have frozen and burst during the night. None were apparent. We turned on the furnace so the building could heat up a little before everybody came to work tomorrow. We did that because we’re nice guys.
As we were leaving Warren said to me, “Boy, I sure hope that water heater kicks in.”
“Why Warren, why? What will happen if the water heater doesn’t kick in?”
He just shook his head and walked away.
We went to the movies later, Warren and I. We walked up Pasadena Ave. to Colorado Blvd. A police helicopter was circling fairly low overhead. Pasadena police helicopters are painted red to keep them inconspicuous. Warren asked me, “Is that a fire department helicopter?”
“Police,” I answered. I had seen it everyday while living in the Park. It had done policish things.
We saw the film “Misery,” starring Kathy Bates and James Cann, and directed by Rob Reiner. The film was based on the Stephen King novel of the same name. The screenplay was written by William Goldman, who is a favorite of mine, although I tend to like his early work. The movie was good, fairly true to the novel. As I’ve already mentioned, King’s work typically is difficult to transpose into other mediums, such as film and haiku poetry. Much of King’s appeal is based on his ability to open a window into the thoughts of his characters (as well as all the scary, horrifying shit he can think up. I love him, but he is truly one sick, sorry bastard). In the case of “Misery,” 70% of the novel concerned the protagonist’s thoughts and ideas, which by their very nature are difficult to film. Implication, and obviously calculated physical gestures, or dialogue are almost always used to express this negation, and they almost always fail. A fine effort though, and a very good movie.
When we got back to the residence, Warren was immediately set upon by irate clients with complaints concerning the heating of the building.
Examples:
“There is none, Warren, none what so ever, there is NO HEATING!”
“It’s fucking cold up there, Warren! A penguin would freeze.”
“My butt, Warren, my butt froze to the toilet seat!”
Harold Eversley asked for a shovel to get the snow out of his room.
Warren would say, “I’ve got to wait for Mr. Vasquez to go around with me to check all the thermostats.”
Mr. Vasquez, of course, was nowhere to be found.
There would be a Christmas presentation tonight at the Corps at six. I had had a taste of it already a week or so ago, at the Christmas party. Myself, Kevin Rockoff, Dennis Smith, and my old friend Rudi Johnson, got a ride from Ed Reitz, who had stopped by the residence to drop off some bread.
We arrived a half hour late. The show was very nice: boys and girls dressed up as church mice and cats, singing songs. The most engaging part of the show had never been rehearsed. Kids tripping over each other during scene changes. The children were not self-conscious at all about giving each other stage directions.
After the show there was a little get together out on the patio for those who had forgotten how cold it was outside.
My old friend, Capt. Strickland, from Canoga Park (my first ARC. Unfortunately I had really relapsed while there), and his lovely wife Pamela were there. She comes from Minot, North Dakota, a place I had thought was only used for government biological warfare experiments until she set me straight.
I called Mr. Vasquez at eight o’clock to ask for a ride back. Surprisingly he was there to answer the phone. He asked if we could get a ride from someone else, as he was still very busy. I told him that we could walk back, but he said no, that we would probably get lost. He relented, and said he would pick us up in twenty, or twenty-five minutes.
An hour later we managed to get a ride back with Rudi’s uncle, who had come for the show.
I went up to my room and watched “A Bundy Christmas,” on “Married with Children.” Then I wrote a little before falling asleep with the T.V. on.
December 24 * Monday Day 103
Christmas Eve!
The day before Christmas!
My day off!
I slept in a little, came down to the lobby around nine and wrote for a while.
My old roommate, Dennis Castle the night crawler man, and Ruben Perez did not make it back by eleven o’clock curfew last night, and were terminated from the program. Dennis however, was in the lobby when I came down, waiting and hoping that the review board would be lenient and let him back in. The review board usually met on Monday’s at one o’clock, but due to the holidays, it was held earlier today. As it turned out, both Dennis and Ruben would be allowed back, with 30 days restriction and their gratuity cut in half.
A short workday today, everyone would be off by two.
I went upstairs after I finished writing and took a little nap.
My little room is just a bit larger than some of my former closets. A rectangular affair, the walls, north and south, measure approximately ten feet wide, east and west, five. The east wall sinks into a closet, where most of my clothes, dirty laundry, and books are stored. The entrance is on the south wall, by the west corner. To the left of the door is a nightstand with a lamp on it that provides the rooms only illumination. The switch for that lamp was situated at the left of the door, half way up the wall. A good place for a light switch to be. A desk with three side drawers occupies most of the west wall. On top of that lies a very small ten-inch color T.V. The door bangs into the desk every time I open it. My bed lies alongside the north wall. There is a medium sized, rectangular hole in the north wall, with glass in it, just above my bed. My one window. My window looks out over the front parking lot of the residence. Not a bad view really. I can see who’s coming or going, what’s happening at the back of the warehouse, and the top of the mysterious Green Hotel.
Not that I spend a lot of time looking out of the window.
I do not.
The heating in my room works well. It can get nice and toasty in there. But when I lie down at night on my bed, watching a little television or reading, I can feel the cold of the night radiating from my window. That acts as a reminder of what it would be like, what it is like, to be living out there.
I took a walk after dinner, to the store and back.
I played some cribbage with Warren, and lost horribly.
I ate a big double cheeseburger with an egg on top, then I conferred with Mr. Vasquez, was briefed actually, on exactly what would be going on tomorrow during my morning Christmas shift.
As I conferred with him, Luis Carter, our duty driver for the week, came into the office and reported that one of the men he had taken to the Casa outside A.A. meeting was no where to be found when he returned to pick them up. A man who was still on his initial thirty-day restriction period. Robert and I asked him who that might be.
Luis said, “Your friend and mine, Rudi Johnson.”
This meant that Rudi, once again, was terminated from this program. He was A.W.O.L. he had generally fucked himself over again.
We addicts tend to do that a lot.
Until we get tired of it.
Or until we die.
Whichever come first.
As I’ve said, all I can do is learn from him, from his mistake. Not that being thrown out of here is a mistake in itself. Most people generally survive the experience and get along quite well without the help of the Salvation Army. But remembering Rudi’s history, he has relapsed, almost instantly, on the other two occasions he has left.
Who knows? Perhaps he bought the winning lotto ticket and is now on his was to the French Riviera.
In whatever case, I wish him well.
I returned to my lonely room and read some of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. The part about Step Four.
December 25 Christmas Day Day 104
Christmas Day!
I had the six a.m. to two-thirty shift. I came down to the desk this morning to discover that we had had a mass exodus the night before. Four guys were A.W.O.L., including the guy I had saved a few days ago, David Earl.
The Shift went well. Major and Mrs. Johnson came over for breakfast. Afterwards, the Major called us up one at a time, and presented each of us with a $15 gift certificate for J.C. Penny. We also received a solid brass razor, a Christmas stocking filled with goodies, two different kinds of hair conditioner (you can never have enough), aftershave and cologne, and toothpaste. I got to help give out the gifts.
It’s better to give than receive.
We had tournaments! Spade tournaments, pool tournaments, and bowling tournaments. Let’s not forget about bingo! The merry making never stopped.
I lost at bingo.
After work I called my sister’s house in Bullhead. My mother had told me of my sister’s desire to have everyone over to her house to celebrate the day. There was no answer though. I hung up after four rings, before her answering machine kicked in, and the call charged to my mom’s credit card, which by the way, I have the number to, and use whenever I see fit. With her permission, of course.
I called my mother’s house collect. She answered and accepted the charges. A change in plans had been made, and everyone was at her house. My mother, my grandmother, and my sister were there, my mom and sister busy making dinner. My young niece Keri was not there at the time. I don’t know why. I told my mom about my recent promotion, if you can call it that. She seemed pleased. She hoped that I would soon get on the payroll. I get the feeling that she thinks everything will turn out alright for me as long as I have a job. She’s very big on being employed (everyone but her, that is). I don’t know if she would understand that a job, or the getting of one, is pretty much the last thing I have on my mind right now.
What do I have on my mind?
Funny you should ask.
Staying sober, day by day, is on my mind. Getting through each day as best as I can. ONE DAY AT A TIME. That’s all I care about right now. I may not be a shinning example of what the A.A. program recommends, but I try. And it’s working.
So far.
My sister and my mother both let me know that they liked and appreciated the gifts I had given to them for Christmas, and asked me if I could tell them exactly what they were supposed to be.
I did choose rather ambiguous gifts from the thrift store.
I advised they use their imaginations.
My sister asked me if we had real beds here at the residence. I could instantly picture what she must have thought it was like here. A large, dark, cavernous room, with rows and rows of cots, filled wall to wall with lonely, desperate, stinking, dirty men. Water buckets and mops here and there. People sleeping on cement floors.
Just like our modern, state-of-the-art jails.
I let her know that, yes, we had real beds. Even sheets and pillowcases.
My grandmother asked me where I lived. She suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. Her mind has been stolen from her. I can’t imagine a worse fate. She can’t remember things very well, and gets confused and angry about it. When I told her where I lived she told me she had been through Pasadena a few times, and that she would probably not get a chance to visit here again.
She’s right of course. There’s no reason for her to come here again.
She’ll most probably never leave Bullhead City again. She has nowhere else to go, nowhere she needs to be.
I told her that if she watches the Rose Parade on T.V. on New Years Day, she could see Pasadena once again.
She said she would.
She will not remember the conversation I had with her three minutes after it was over.
She said that she loved me, and that she would pray for me.
I told her that I loved her too, and then we hung up.
I went for a walk soon after that. I just wanted to get out of the residence for a while, but it turned out to be much more than a simple respite. I walked through the park on this sunny and brisk afternoon. I remembered what it was like to live there. What it was like to walk through the Park while living there. With little hope, defeated, almost resigned to my fate. I remembered feeling imprisoned there. The parking lot where the Ryder rental trucks in which I had slept, was empty today. I thought that if I were living in the Park now I would have a tough time of finding a relatively safe place to sleep. I stood for a few minutes near one of the benches I used to sit at for hours, reading, drinking, smoking, and thinking. I did not wish to sit down.
Oh, how I missed the good old days.
It’s so strange, but part of me really did.
I walked up to Colorado Blvd. This is probably the only day of the year one will find it practically deserted. All the shops and restaurants were closed. The only place displaying some activity was the movie theater across the street from the old Salvation Army residence, on Delancy St. I remembered what it was like to walk down this street while I was living in the Park. How ashamed I been because my clothes were so dirty, and everyone else looked so nice. I had no razor to shave with, no place to go. Everyone else looked like they had nice places to go to when they finished walking around. I remembered being very hungry a lot, and having no money to buy food with. I remembered spending days in that movie theater, illegally moving from one movie to another, just so I could spend as much time as possible forgetting who and where I was.
I walked by the Hughes market, where I had been thrown out of on at least two occasions, for attempting to steal alcohol. I remembered the humiliation I had felt.
I walked across Green St. to the magnificent lawns of Ambassador College, to a large cone shaped tree. I don’t know what particular species this was. I looked at that tree for a while. I had once, not too long ago, spent an entire weekend hiding under the branches of that tree, looking at the happy and prosperous people walking in and out of the Hughes supermarket, being bombed out of my mind on gin I had stolen from the market even though they had told me they would call the police if they ever found me in the store again. I remembered the sprinklers being turned on in the middle of the night, and I remembered not caring about sleeping in the cold mud, not caring about what happened at all, whether I lived or died. I remembered waking up in a panic once while under that tree, near three a.m., reaching out for my bottle, wondering if I had any booze left, because I knew that if that bottle was empty, the booze that I had drank earlier would keep my brain awake, and I would be unable to reach the escape that sleep brought to me. That was the worst of things. But my bottle was half full, and I greedily drank what remained, and passed out again, to face my consciousness later at a more reasonable time.
That weekend under the tree was just before I moved to the Park. I was much better off in the Park. I at least, had my wits somewhat about me in the Park. Under that tree I had nothing left, and finally reached the bottom of the bottom, the lowest low, and glimpsed its emptiness and despaired.
While standing and looking at that tree a security guard from the college drove toward me in an electric cart, and gently asked me to remove myself from the lawn.
I moved on.
December 26 Wednesday Day 105
After I returned from my little trip through lousy memory lane, and after I lost horribly at bingo, I went upstairs to my lonely room, and while eating different flavored chocolate torts, I opened the last of my Christmas presents that my mother had brought to me from Arizona. I had opened one earlier in the day, supposedly from my grandmother… shirts of various, multi-hued colors. Very nice. So I had two left to open when I got back. One was again from my sister and niece. The festive looking package contained an organizer, a notebook separated into three parts. It has an address book, a note pad, and a three-year calendar. A pen and a check book calculator too! Very handy. I’m using it to write my Fourth Step. So ironically, the first entry into the note pad was about my sister, Cheryl, and all of the resentments I’ve held against her throughout the years, like kicking me out of her house the last time I was in Bullhead.
Of course, I realize that she was perfectly justified in doing so. I was drunk as a skunk the last time I was there. That doesn’t mean I still don’t resent it.
My last present to open was from my dear sweet mother. It was the mini-tape recorder that I had asked her for. I spent about twenty minutes learning how to operate it, and learn its operational secrets.
Then I tested it. I tested it on Mr. Vasquez. The first and only tape recording I have made on it so far goes like this:
MR. VASQUEZ’S VOICE OVER THE PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM: “may I have your attention in the residence pleeease! Tonight’s VCR movie is about to begin in the small TV room Tonight’s feature is: “The Fourth War.” On a scale of one to ten… a hefty nine and a half!” Voices in the background can be heard going, “Oooooooooowwwooooww!” then circles of laughter. “Thank you,” Robert ends.
MY VOICE: “See what my mom gave me for Christmas.”
MR. VASQUEZ: “Hummmmm, let me see. What is it?”
ME: “A tape recorder.”
MR. VASQUEZ: “A tape recorder?”
ME: “Yes sir.”
MR. VASQUEZ: “How come the wheels are going round?”
ME: “Because it’s recording.”
MR. VASQUEZ: “recording what?”
ME: “Whatever you just said.”
Mr. Vasquez squinted up his face as he whispered, “Jeeeesuusss.”
Today was one of my long workdays. I kept pretty busy, did a little writing. Mr. Vasquez and I made sure the chapel was nice and warm for tonight’s services. We got through the night. After work, I immediately went upstairs and went to bed. Shortly after five in the morning I’ll get up and do it all over again.
December 27 Thursday Day 106
I did it all again. Up at ten after five. Art Svensk, who is filling in for Wolf Pandolfi while he’s on vacation, came into my room and woke me. I said, “Thank you, Art.” He said, “We gotta get some traps,” and walked out.
I showered and dressed, smoked a cigarette, then went downstairs. I donned a pair of work gloves, and walked out into the cold morning air to take down the bar in the thrift store parking lot.
At devotion time, I checked upstairs for stragglers, and chased down Frank Dominguez.
I gave Ruben Perez and Tommy Bommorito their insulin, delivered the paperwork, and made a dorm inspection. Warren was sick in bed. He has the flu, he told me. More virus action. The cooks in the kitchen are delighted that Warren has the flu. I don’t know why. Every time Warren walks into the kitchen, Rico Montgomery rushes up to him, saying, “Warren! Everything’s working okay. Please Warren, don’t fix anything! Please!”
I am coming down with a cold as well.
One of the Major’s pet peeves is cigarette butts littering the parking lot out front. The men, when smoking, are supposed to stay near the two areas were ashtrays are provided. None do. I don’t. Ed Reitz caught me flicking a butt out into the street, and asked me to pick it up. I did. I felt like a fool. I told him I was going to quit smoking tomorrow. He seemed pleased.
I went out later and tossed another cigarette butt into the street.
Cool defiance.
Nothing much happened during the afternoon. Gerald Montgomery checked out of the program. He gave no reason. I wish him well.
I did a little writing.
At substance abuse we were shown a video in which Richard Dryfuss explained the perils of using and abusing cocaine. He spoke mostly of “crack” cocaine, the type that is smoked. I found it particularly interesting because I have never smoked cocaine. Others have told me that I was lucky never to have smoked it. Crack is extremely addictive they say. I’m glade I never did.
I once spoke with Mr. Dryfuss. He was in Santiago, Brazil at the time, probably filming the movie, “The Moon Over Parador.” I had had a hard time finding him. Everybody thought he was out by the pool at his hotel, but he wasn’t. I found him in his room. He may have been hiding. He said to me these words, “That’s me. I’m Richard Dryfuss.” I had said to him, “I have a person to person call to Richard Dryfuss, from the United States…”
I skipped out of the A.A. panel. I can do that with impunity now, because I’m a big time lead desk person. I don’t need to hear those persons drunk-a-logs. I remember mine all to well.
The night crawler driver, Lee Jefferson, and my deskman, Clarence Bliss, got into a little argument. They didn’t like the way each other spoke over the radio. Poor radio etiquette I guess.
I made my rounds at ten, chasing guys out of the weight room, bowling alley, and laundry room.
Ron Davis, who had been on a weeklong pass to visit his grandmother in Detroit, and whose pass expired this evening, did not show up by curfew, so I marked him as being A.W.O.L./A.C.O. (A.C.O. = Administrative Check Out, as opposed to V.C.O., Voluntary Check Out).
Art Svensk came in to begin his shift at a little before eleven. I asked him why we needed traps.
“For the rats,” he told me.
“There’s rat’s over in the warehouse?”
“Big ones.”
December 28 Friday Day 107
I woke to the sound of pounding on my door. It was Mr. Vasquez this time. He wanted to ask question about some of the paperwork I had done last night. He also told me that Ron Davis had come in this morning. His flight had been delayed, so he was allowed back in. Good.
I went back to sleep for a little while. I was a little tired.
I had lunch when I got up, then wrote in the lobby.
Mr. Vasquez had been trying to get a vehicle so he could escap… run some errand, but every time he picked up a key from the dispatch office, he would get himself involved with one thing or another, and dispatch would ask for the key back.
“Maybe they’re trying to tell you something, sir,” I offered.
Mr. Vasquez’s birthday was yesterday. He is now officially as old as the hills. I gave him one of my ties that I knew he liked. A red one.
As I wrote, I overheard him ask Kevin Rockoff for some white-out. Apparently he had dozed off while writing. He had intended to write the name Ron Collins, but it came out, Ron Collimorsss…
I began my shift. Mr. Vasquez finally got a vehicle and went to Tastee’s Donuts to place an order. We needed to actually buy some donuts, for New Years Day. Some VIP Salvation Army guy was coming to visit.
I gave my first new client’s orientation at six o’clock, whereupon I successfully orientated the new clients. No problems.
Dennis Smith’s father came to visit him. His father is a Major in the Salvation Army. Major Smith. He runs the Sacramento ARC. Very nice.
When Mr. Vasquez returned from Tastee’s, he directed me to page him when the ladies at the thrift store called to go to the bank. He would take them. I assured him I would.
Warren Bahr gave me some cold medicine. It would eventually keep me up until four in the morning. I think I’m getting hooked on it.
I want some right NOW.
Warren had lent Dan his bike to got to the mall, and while there, someone cut the lock and stole it. Someone long ago stole my ten speed bike too, a bike I had won in a contest at Disneyland. I hate it win things are stolen from me. That’s why I believe Buddha was wise when he rejected all possessions and worldly goods. He never had to hate.
Dan felt real bad about it. Especially since he had his own ten speed bike locked up in back.
The ladies from the thrift store called, and I went to Mr. Vasquez’s room and knocked on his door.
“Did they call?” he asked from the depths of his domain.
“Yes sir.”
“Why didn’t you page me?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be sure you heard the page.”
“Yes I would have,” he said. “I’m one hundred percent alert.”
He came down a moment later. It turns out he had locked himself out of his room though, and had to use the master key to get back inside.
Storm clouds began to move in from the southeast. As they covered the sky, I read from the book, Counseling Adults In Transition. The authors recommend having a job in which ones mental abilities are taxed, or the brain will atrophy. I wholeheartedly agree.
At ten o’clock I made my rounds then read a little more until midnight. Clyde Foster, a young black man who worked in the kitchen, did not make it back by curfew. I hope he’s alright. I finished the paperwork terminating Clyde at twelve-eighteen, then went to bed.
Clyde spoke fluent German, having been stationed in Germany while serving in the army. He also had a girlfriend who lives in Germany, who often called him on Sundays.
Her name is Barbara.
December 29 Saturday Day 108
I was secretly in love with Barbara, even though I had never met her, or even talked to her. I thought it charming that she would call Clyde every Sunday, from so far away. I was once in love with a girl from another country. Australia. She had the good sense to dump me early in the relationship, and to go home and continue on with her life, free of a dead weight.
For that’s what I was. That’s what practicing addicts are. Even though they pretend to be successful, even though they may be able to maintain a charade of sanity, able to get through on a day to day basis, they are deceiving themselves, as I was. I lacked the ability to deal with reality, and made my own which included no one but myself.
We deceive others also, some who care deeply for us. Their caring and love cannot cure us. They get sick believing they can, telling us we aren’t sick, and letting us continue to deceive ourselves, thus living the lie as well. Accommodating themselves, molding themselves to something that isn’t there.
My Aussie lady, Janine Cory, did not have that sickness. She left me. She cared enough for herself, loved herself enough, to leave me because I refused to help myself, even though, at the time, I had an inkling of my problem. Our breakup was very painful for both us, as we, I believe, truly cared for each other. I hope she is doing well. I hope she is content. I hope she is fulfilled, and has found meaning in her life. I hope she can remember me with some kindness. For my part, my thoughts of her are always fond. Besides being a lovely and caring girl, it was through her that my eyes were eventually opened for the first time. Through her I received the first chance to get my life, although I would not actualize that chance, make good on it, for years to come.
After she left I started attending A.A. meetings (somewhat reluctantly at first), and first admitted that I was an alcoholic, and will always be one.
I have forgotten that many times. Or chose to ignore it, so I have relapsed many times. I needed to test the truth, the undeniable fact of my addiction, over and over again. To suffer a little more, again, and again, until finally, the suffering just didn’t make any kind of sense anymore.
Like a man who continues to stick his hand in a pot of boiling water, repeatedly, being badly burned every time. He tells himself that the next time will be different, that the water will be a little warm, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He tries again, and again, and again, until one day, his hand is so disfigured, he has endured so much pain, gaining absolutely nothing in return, that is doesn’t make any sense anymore. Even to himself! He who has spent a lifetime building a never ending supply of rationalizations and defense mechanisms that make it easy for him to keep on doing it. At some point it just doesn’t wash anymore, and reality hits him hard in the face, and I mean hard, really hard. When that happens, then the only thing that makes any kind of sense at all… is to stop.
Which is what I’ve done. Finally.
I wear a ring that Janine gave to me. It’s silver and has a black stone embedded into it. It’s simple and I love it very much. It’s the only piece of jewelry I own or wear. It comes from Australia, just like she did. I’ve worn it for over eight years.
At twenty till six, I received a call from the ladies at the thrift store. One of them told me they were a little concerned over there. Concerned about four guys who had entered the store, and loitered in the back. Jose Saucedo, a thrift store employee, went over to investigate. He noticed one of these guys pull what looked like a 22 caliber pistol from his pocket, and put it back in again.
They left without mishap after inquiring as to the stores hours of operations.
The ladies called me because they felt there was a distinct possibility that a robbery attempt might be made on the store as they were closing. It seemed to the ladies, and to me, that the perfect time to rob the place would be when it closed.
I told Mr. Vasquez, and he said he would go check it out. He is a very courageous fellow, although not too bright at times.
He later told me that he had scared himself silly by looking at his own reflection in one of the large mirrors placed in strategic locations throughout the store.
He did call the police, but no robbery attempt was made.
The police never did show up. They were much too busy harassing homeless people in the Park.
They did call an hour later, to ascertain as to whether we were still alive.
Lloyd Beacham, of TV channel changing fame (50 guys could be totally entranced, watching a cliff hanger movie, and he comes in and wants the channel changed), did not make it back by midnight curfew. Lloyd, a short, almost bald, black, irritating individual, did not take his program very seriously, I believe. Television viewing seemed to occupy most of his conscious thought processes, and he was quite adamant about exactly what it was he wanted to watch. And when. A professional pan-handler and two-bit con man by trade, I was not too broken up about his departure.
I do wish him well, though. I have the feeling we have not seen the last of Lloyd.
Earlier I had walked outside to smoke a cigarette. I was not standing anywhere near one of the ashtrays. While standing there, minding my own business, I saw something moving in the bushes at the far side of the parking lot. It looked for a minute like a huge, gray rat, but as it moved out onto the sidewalk I could see that it was an opossum. It swaddled out into the middle of the street, stopped, looked back at me and wrinkled his nose (or her), and continued on its way until it disappeared into the As-Is yard.
December 30 Sunday Day 109
After church I enjoyed a good cup of coffee in the canteen, then wrote.
It was a beautiful day in Pasadena. Not a cloud in the sky and no smog to speak of. Kevin Rockoff and I took a little stroll up to the mall on Colorado Blvd. I purchased a Levis Strauss wallet with my gift certificate, $14.49. We then roamed through the mall taking in the scenery.
It during this time that I discovered the secret of feminine beauty. Much like enlightenment, it came to me in a flash. A lot of people believe it has to do with the woman’s body, or face, or appearance, or various aspects of the “female façade,” but it doesn’t.
It’s very simple really.
But on to other things.
Kevin has a mail order romance going on with a girl named Vicky, who lives right here in Pasadena. They’ve never met. They know each other because Kevin answered an ad in a local singles column, and received a reply. They have talked on the phone several times, and plan to meet after the New Year. While I was in the lobby writing today, Kevin composed a letter to Vicky (who I believe is a nurse), and kept asking me to spell different words to him. I’m the last person he should be asking for that. Anyway, we stopped at the greeting card shop in the mall and Kevin picked out a card to go with his letter. The card read, “Don’t open this until you’re in the mood.” On the inside was printed, “It didn’t take much, did it?”
We also passed a video shop. There was a working camera pointed toward all of the after Christmas sale shoppers, and Kevin and I looked at our stupid, grinning faces for a while, the walked back to the residence.
We walked back through the park. We saw Lloyd Beacham there, with a quart bottle of beer in his hand.
I won a game of bingo tonight, and got two canteen cards for it.
Then I watched the Sunday night VCR movie, “The Hunt for Red October.” This was the third time I’ve seen it. It is based on the book by Tom Clancy. By coincidence, I just happened to acquire Clancy’s latest book, A Clear and Present Danger, last night.
I went to my room and settled into bed at around midnight. My TV was on, and I was watching an episode of “The New Twilight Zone,” on channel seven. The episode concerned a small town whose occupants, one by one, were going crazy. Outside help was called for, and a doctor was sent to help find the cause of this mysterious outbreak. No biological reason could be found, but those afflicted could infect others it seemed. The doctor traced this “illness” back to one person. This person was a researcher, an archaeologist, who had discovered the true meaning of life, much like I discovered the secret of feminine beauty. All this man (who was quite insane) had to do to drive others mad was to reveal the meaning of life to them. To whisper it in their ears.
It worked every time.
December 31 Monday Day 110
This morning I slept in a tad. By the time I got up it was lunchtime.
After lunch I wrote in the lobby. It was a regular workday, so it was relatively quiet there. Mr. Vasquez was running around like a beheaded chicken, trying to get things ready for a few Colonels and Commissioners who were spending the night. Because of the Rose Parade, the Major says, the Pasadena ARC gets very popular one day a year.
I wrote and read for most of the afternoon, getting through the first two hundred pages of the Clancy book.
Tonight being New Year’s Eve and all, we played bingo. Five canteen cards a game, but I lost every time. Horribly.
I went upstairs to my room, and then came back down again. I went out to the As-Is Yard. It was dark now. Paul Wisely and Dennis Smith were stationed near the entrance waiting for people to come and park their cars there at ten bucks a shot. Those people who parked there would of course, then walk up to Colorado Blvd., and wait for the Rose Parade to begin in the morning. Turning our As-Is Yard and thrift store parking lot into a money making venture, was Mr. Vasquez’s idea, as it was during the Do Da Parade. It probably would have worked yet once again, and made a lot of money for the Salvation Army’s imperialistic expansion into Greenland and Ethiopia, if the Pasadena police hadn’t blocked off all of the entrances to Waverly Dr. and Del Mar Blvd, effectively isolating the center from the rest of the civilized world, and ruining Robert’s business aspirations.
Amazingly enough, there was one car in the As-Is Yard. It had gotten through the police barricade somehow.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I walked through the As-Is Yard, into the thrift store parking lot, where my friend Warren Bahr and Johnny George stood watch. They had three cars! Warren was standing outside, while Johnny was seated inside a shack, dressed in winter clothing, had covered himself with a sleeping bag, sitting in front of an electric heater, while watching a miniature television set.
I continued up to Colorado Blvd., to see what I could see. Traffic was heavy on Fair Oaks going north toward the parade route, and sparse headed south. The closer I got to Colorado, the more crowded and louder it got. Warren snuck up behind me, riding his ten speed (apparently he had pilfered another one). We walked the rest of the to the boulevard together.
It was a madhouse. People everywhere, up and down the wide street for as far as the eye could see. Traffic was heavy and slow, and it was probably a good idea to have your window rolled up, as the folks standing around on the sidewalks had a tendency to throw marshmallows in the vehicles, and shoot streamers of shaving cream onto the windshields. Most had brought their own lawn chairs and sleeping bags, and at nine p.m., it was already hard to find a place to sit. Lots of people, lots of police, lots of pretty girls, lots of craziness and noise.
I stood around and watched for maybe five minutes, as I smoked a cigarette. Then I returned to the residence.
I went up to my room again, then came back down. I went out front to smoke a cigarette, just as Commissioner Rader and his family arrived. I think he’s in charge of the Salvation Army in the western United States. He seemed a nice enough fellow. They would be freeloa… utilizing both of the residence apartments tonight.
I asked Robert to tell Wolf (who had returned from vacation yesterday) that I would leave my room unlocked, and he should come in to wake me at four-thirty.
I read in my room until eleven-fifty three. Then I went to my bathroom and smoked my last cigarette. After inhaling my last lungful of smoke for 1990, I extinguished the butt at exactly 11:59:59.
I then returned to my room and looked out of my window, and listened to the crowd on Colorado Blvd. Go wiiiiiiiiiillllllddd!!!
Part 2
