All Sparks Will Burn Out

Fuck!

Today is WECARE.

I get up at Five O'clock and goof around on the Internet with a cup of coffee. Then I check through my paperwork, making certain that I have my appointment letter, and then I get ready. I am slow and deliberate. I am definitely not in a hurry here.

But that's not what the Way thought. It was flawless. The second I got on the train platform the train roared into the station. Every stop was smooth, no interruptions, no slow downs, no long stops. I'm standing on the Houston Street platform faster than I can blink an eye. This is not all that good. I look at my watch. I'm thirty five minutes early. I climb out of the station into another cold New York morning and head to Vandam Street and find the usual bunch of cretins loitering around in front of the building. What is really up with these people? Are they for real? Why in the Hell do...or why would you want...to hang around in front of the building? Is someone out front passing around ten dollar bills?

I get inside and there are two lines. One has two people on it, the other has all of New York City bunched up in a corral. A sign says 'Without ID' is pointing to the bunched up side, the other side has: 'With ID' pointing to it. Shit. I don't know what this means. What ID are they talking about? Well, if you don't know, normally you don't have. But what the fuck. Act stupid and someone will appear from nowhere to tell you how you are wrong. I go up behind the two person line, reach the front desk, sign in, get a pass and head to the elevator for the seventh floor. No one stopped me. I walked by two security guards who didn't even ask me for ID. They must have mistaken me for a worker there.

Up on the seventh floor, I am the only person there, along with the recep- tionists behind the desk. I approach and await until I am noticed and then hand over my appointment letter. I am asked to take a seat...and that's all there was to it.

Soon, others appear in the waiting area, but before it even begins to get crowded I am called in. I meet up with Miss Charliqua Lovebisquit. She is soft spoken, literate, quick and smart. She informs me of all that is expected today from me, and all that she will cover. I am not to leave for home until all of these things that she lists, are taken care of. She is also thorough. Quick as lightning she is typing on the keyboard and asking me questions about my doctors and contact information. Wherever I lack, she is on the Internet scouring and coming up with the information. I am amazed by her skill. Charliqua is done with me in a little less than an hour, after making several appointments for me to see a cardiologist and Nephrologist before I come back to her next month.

I use this opportunity to ask her a question: Just what is it that Social Services cover? The answer: Food, cash, medicine and rent. That was just great. Just peachy. I will be out in the streets again if I tell WECARE to talk a fuck long walk down a short furnace. Charliqua gives me a stack of papers both to sign and to take. I am fucking miserable. Down in the fucking dumps as I stand on the Houston Street platform, waiting for the 1 Train to take me back home. I was going to go to my anxiety therapy but fuck it. I was not in the mood. I was dark and silent, and wanted to put all that in my writing. So, I went home, snagged a Subway sandwich, and since I was at it, I bagged a Portable.

Now get this for luck. I go online, find nobody there...it's a big wasteland. So I begin writing, open my portable and had one drink with my lunch. Just one, and then someone rings my doorbell. I get up and open the door. It's Sugar Plum and another woman outside, smiling and hopping up and down in excitement as if I won the Publisher's Clearing House prize. What? It's time for your apartment inspection. I think about it, and then open the door. Shit. I have nothing to hide....Sugar Plum walks right in and goes straight to the counter where I LEFT THE PORTABLE IN PLAIN SIGHT!! AWWWWW GOD! "What's this?" She asks, holding up the bottle with a laugh. Ummm, I can explain that. She was suddenly very concerned. "Please Hobobob, sit down a second," she points to the side of my bed. "May I sit here?" Yeah, sure. "What pushed you to set you off like this?" Nothing. I just wanted a drink. "Yeah, but you look like something is bothering you...what happened to you today?" Nothing. I went to WECARE and... Sugar Plum sighs and rolls her eyes. "OH GOD, no wonder you're drinking," she says. "WECARE!" She turns to her friend who is standing against my closet as if standing guard. "What did that so-and-so case worker say to you?" So I told her. If I stopped going to WECARE, I'll lose my benefits, which means that I'll lose my rent subsidy, ergo, the room, ergo, back to the fucking streets.

Sugar Plum frowns. "No. That's not true. She has it wrong. You don't lose your place here. You don't get put out like that. No." She goes on to explain that the state will still pay, but I had to get a job to cover as much of the rent as I could. But only up to thirty percent of my pay. Now that was promising. The long and short is that I'm not on the streets with the loss of my benefits. That was good enough for me. I lose my therapy and my med coverage, but that's just another hurdle. She goes on to tell me about an organization called Fountain House that provides all kinds of services for people down on their luck like me. She praises it strongly. Then she stands, goes over to the Portable and lifts it up as if it was the tail of a dead rat and turns to me. "So, would you mind if I pour this out?" Hell yeah, I paid good money for that, and THIS I DID SAY. "You don't need this, you really don't." The fuck I don't...this I didn't say. I just look at her. There was no way these two were going to walk out of this room without doing something to that bottle or else they will think that they failed.

Go ahead, I sigh. With a sense of glee, Sugar Plum screws off the cap and pours the bottle into the sink. "I'll just torture you here," she says, the bottle gurgling empty. "Now that's better. You'll feel great because of this, trust me." I feel great already, I groan. The ladies file out of my room, wishing me well. I wave them off, shutting the door behind them. Yeah, I feel great already alright. I feel hollowed out, like a Halloween pumpkin. I try to write in my book, but instead feel tired and crawl into bed, going to sleep.

I wake up later with a mean hangover and a bad taste in my mouth, as if someone shat in it. I eat to change the taste and get online. I work for awhile, then look at the clock. Sugar Plum and her goons leave at five. So, I waited until Seven, grabbed a Duane Reade Bag from in the room and strolled over to the corner liquor store, this time buying a bottle of wine. With great ease I got it past the office and back to my room. That, with a little cheese supplemented my dinner for the night.

I worked on my novel: THE EDGE OF DARKNISS.

Why the wine, you might think? Well, like I said, I was in a dark mood today. I still am, and I want to use this mood for my writing. I'm also in the mood to drink. At Forty Seven, I think I get to make these decisions for myself: good, bad or indifferent. I get that choice to make. Just because I felt kind hearted and didn't want to disappoint Sugar Plum in allowing her to pour out my bottle of hooch doesn't necessarily mean that I agree with her.

I enjoy my cheese and wine.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/03/all-sparks-will-burn-out.html
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