Short Jose is not there when I return.
Mini Me and Kimberly are in the Tech Office. They are confused by my discharge papers. It doesn't say that I went into Detox. It just says that I REQUESTED Detox. I explain to them the deal that Jose gave me. If I come in and blow clean I can stay the night and see Kelly, the Ten Year Old, in the morning.
Of course they don't believe a word out of my fucking mouth, so they call up Jose himself and get the deal from him.
I blow good, and they send me upstairs for my meds. I handle that and a piss test, of which I pass with some colors. My urine tester comes back with some cockamamie response that confuses the Tech, a jamoke with a bad attitude. Nurse Gail has to straighten him out and pronounce me clean. I get my meds and come to the corridor leading to the dorm where all of my shit is packed up in neat, clear garbage bags and lined down the hall.
Now this is discon- certing, and it's made to be so. They want you to understand that you are a guest here under their rules. Can't follow the rules and your bags are packed. I take my time. I am tired and have to return all of my things back to my bed area. As I repack I realize that I have too much shit. I'm going to start throwing things out, until I can fit my life in one bag. That's the way I came in, that's the way I'm leaving.
Exhausted, I complete this labor of pain and collapse in bed, finding sleep right away. I'm out like a light and sleep like the dead. When I awaken there is a crick in my neck and my face is distorted, like a stroke victim. It's practically Nine O'clock in the morning when I rise, and I slip my feet into my shoes and head into the dining room for the Morning Meeting.
Kelly, The Ten Year Old, is the ringleader of this circus, and is pleased at the turnout. She seems genuinely in a good mood. We plod through the meeting, wasting time with assoholic announcements, and a mumbling speech from the Client Representative. A client that seems bored with his position. This farce soon comes to an end and everyone files out of the room. Short Jose, comes up to me, shaking my hand: "Hobobob, don't leave. Kelly has to talk to you."
I nod. I wait. Kelly the Ten Year Old, or so I call her, because she is so young that she looks like she could be ten years old. Although she is the size of a typical woman, her features are soft and youthful. And so when she speaks to you, it's like a child trying to chide an adult. Kelly, the fTen Year Old, soon makes her way through the thinning crowd to address me: "Mr. Hobobob, we have to talk." I follow her up to her office, and close the door behind myself. "Okay," she begins, "What happened." Well, you guys know the story, so I gave it to her straight. I just left out the part about the portable. "Well, now, what should you suppose we do now?" I don't know. What is it that you DO now? " Well, should we send you to Detox?" I hunch my shoulders. I wouldn't like that shit, mainly because I'm detoxed already. This would be little more than a pu
nishment and not some aid as they try to pass it off as. "If you are late again, and I mean by five minutes, you will be discharged from the program." That's cool. Did you just think that up? I think this. "You need to see your ILS more and go to your alcohol program." Meeting more with my ILS is like talking to Buddha. There is actually nothing to say to the smiling guy. We'll just meet more often to look at each other. "You need to have a relapse plan worked out between the two of you, and there will be more random testing of you." Sounds like a plan. Can I go now before you think up more asinine shit? "I'm serious about this Mr. Hobobob. We expect you to live your life sober. If you fail another breathalyzer you will be sent to a Twenty Eight Day relapse program. Consider this."
All to stay in the Box. I really stuck my ass in a hole this time. Luxury comes with a price. Now I see why my brother clings so tightly to the streets. Coming to a shelter, makes you weak, frightened and fat. I nod. I'm down with the program. Can I leave now? "Have a nice day, Mr. Hobobob."Gee thanks. I slip out and down the stair. It's over and I'm not in Detox neither on the streets. But I also cannot be without a plan. Yeah, that's right, a list of shit that will not happen. But it makes me feel like I have control over my life. I makes me feel safe. My plan? To ask my doctor, Dr. A., about his shelter when I see him in the morning. I think I'll need something to fall back on faster and sooner than I thought.
"Our shelter is very small," Dr. A. says. "It only has a few beds. You come in, sleep and then leave. They operate out of Grand Central Partnership." I nod. Does it have somewhere where I can lock up my printer? "I think there's room for that." He looks up thoughtfully. What are the hours that I'm supposed to be in or out. "In at 9:00PM, out by 6:00AM." Man, that's some tight shit. If you're late? "There's no beds." I'll have to hit the streets. I know how that is. There is no paradise like the one you're in I suppose. If I leave the Box, I'll have to leave my printer behind, leave everything behind. End up exactly how I was when I came, like my brother is now.
I don't think I would like going backwards. I don't think that I would love going back to the streets. But as I was once told at DWI class: if you're caught on a DWI pop, chances are you will again. The only factor is time. And I'll be damned if they weren't right. In this case too, it'll be only a matter of time before either I'm late, or caught on a breathalyzer rap. I'm not catering any illusions on that score. I'm just wondering what would come first, my apartment, the jag or the boot.
It's nearing a year since I first walked through the doors here,and the promise of an apartment is turning out to be more of a fantasy. Without Social Security, like the rest of these mugwomps here, I'm doomed to sit and rot until I finally do something to get kicked out. BRC is not making any money from me, so they're giving me the high hat.Get ready, I failed just short of a year. Next year when I fail, I'll still be here, and they'll kick me out. Promise you that.
I'd better start throwing my shit out little by little.
Damn! I'm going to miss that printer.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/09/proven-until-guilty.html
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