Letter 17

Dear Renelle,

You are well, I hope. The chaotic confusion/lack of any discernable logic that apparently "runs" this place continues to manifest itself (in many transfers in the wake of the early A.M. raid), but my celly and I remain largely unaffected. During our visit you raised a question as to how much I recall of the time when I was living--a stretched definition--with the woman I'd met in/through A.A. I believe you'll find (hopefully) well, it's easier by far to just "put it out there."

I'd "graduated" a Salvation Army rehab. program, against everyones' expectations! It's so easy to get "asked" to leave and not return, even for a violation as minor as one's hair not being properly worn. I'd graduated and decided to extend my stay until things looked right for me to leave. I'd been working at the main residential building as a houseman/custodian/laundry man--6 days a week for 6 months. 

It was Saturday, a half-day for me, and a day when the floor washed their sheets. Without being asked to, I began putting all the beds in the room I slept in back to a picture of perfection. Someone interrupted, and I noticed they were serving lunch. A guy about 65-70 years old, very wise in a grandfatherly way, that I'd spoken with many times, came and hovered over me while I ate.

Regarding this guy, he'd been asked to work in a created position, with no authority. Reason being, he was elderly, didn't have any real job skills in demand, was easy-going, and didn't cause any problems.

I don't like being under any scrutiny when I eat. It's my time, I figure; I'll relax for a minute or so. I invite him to sit, ask him what's on his mind. He says, "Is that the way we make the beds here?" I'm leaving the next part(s) out, as it's a bit lengthy, but basically, because of the way he interacted with my mild response, I was forced out of there.

When that had taken place, I found myself with nowhere to turn for help (not having the ability to call Mom), dragging my bags down the sidewalk of a busy street toward a fast-food restaurant, as I was hungry and had more money than (good) sense. The A.A. club was only a small distance from where I rested, and I needed to get the plastic bags I had full of my clothes off the street so they wouldn't tear up more. I made it down to the club, and "stored" my things temporarily before anyone else arrived.

I announced my needs at a Noon meeting, and again at the 4 p.m. meeting without response. Now, the "shady" part of my nature took over, telling me no one cared to help me; I'm going to lose all of my bags anyway--why not give them to someone--and so forth. I was in a store near the club buying cigarettes and noticed they sold drug paraphernalia, so I bought a pipe for myself. 

Already I'd made the decision about what to do with my money on a pre-conscious level. I had a bit of time until the next A.A. meeting started, so I made my way down a block or so from the club and bought $50 of crack. The watch I had was packed in the bags, so I didn't know what time it was, returned to the club (on the paranoid side), late for the meeting.

I came to the Chairperson I'll call Ms. X and asked her to call on me as I was going to repeat my needs. Again, I'll leave the next parts out for brevity's sake. After the meeting ended, she approached me with an offer of help I wasn't in a position to ignore. So I retrieved my bags and all, and went with her to her apartment as the club had had its last meeting for the day.

I was tired from toting my bags around. She asked if I had any issues with dogs. I answered no, depending on how they're cooked. I got moved in, on a "trial basis," but the apartment complex was a hotbed of drug activity. I got a couple of dealers lined up while I was still getting squared away with the situation. She let me use her phone to call my mom and let her know I was O.K., but would need rent money if I wanted to stay past the "trial."

Her apartment looked like no one bothered cleaning it at all, to me. Accordingly that turned out to be part of the "trial" period. The dog was a Rottweiler/Mastiff mix that outweighed me(!), but had an easy disposition--no problems there.

The next day, after a sleepless night, I went out to walk through the complex and figured out who/what/how/and why. The woman I now was living with didn't go out much because it wasn't a good idea to expose herself willingly to the type there; also for the compound reason of a preteen daughter that was born addicted to crack, and the fact that Ms. X only had one eye, though she lost hers through drinking and fighting.

I had over $200 left, enough to experience the "final frontier," and wasted no time getting some crack. Easy, it was directly down the stairs from her apartment. I'd go through all kinds of needless "fronting" in order to keep a steady supply up. As I continued to stay, I forged stronger friendships with a couple of drug dealers, so if one wasn't there for any reason, I wouldn't go without, thereby, at first, anyway, living two opposite lives. 

Pause here, for station-identification break.

Today is Wednesday and I don't have the letter Mom mailed yet. Our mail hasn't been dispersed for the day, but I've been looking with an ear to the ground for the two days previous, and don't know the reason it is delayed. 

On a more positive note, the notorious laundry facility didn't just lose my many requests for items I use daily, and I received most of what I asked for, which also got me out of pushing a mower over much of the property here. There's continuous confusion here, and we have no choice, essentially, but to do as we are told. I am at a loss to further define or explain this, as the policies apparently either are in a state of change, or are meaningless. Now, back to the regularly-scheduled program. Strike that last statement from the records.

You know that I really have nothing to do with the "time" here except thinking, constantly! I haven't received the needed information to proceed to the next step in getting the legality of my case questioned, so for now, all is as well as can be for me.

I've been considering a name/title for the collection I'm writing. See if it's something that fits. "Er--the continuing (mis)adventures of." Unfortunately, that's the extent to which I've applied my greatly-abused brain in that direction. This title has a great deal of subtextual meaning, both direct and implied. One of the more direct meanings is, simply, that I've been at different times "more than" others. I believe it cleverly plays on the words I write. 

All things considered, I'm "finer 'n frog hair." This must be taken into consideration; as of this moment, I don't have an ability to put anything in outgoing mail, due to a situation far beyond my control. There's no way I can demand an emergency letter/phone call, either, as I'm effectively shut down until next month from getting my one "free" letter for the month. So, unless/until I do receive mail tonight, all is ahead full stop. 

Now, I return you to the program already in progress.

Living two opposite lives had a noticeable effect on me, and I began to have certain "tells" about me. It's not difficult to plainly see when I've been smoking crack in the amounts I was--blistered lips, hair burnt off my hands, and the stress of being as paranoid as I was--was showing at all times. I needed to slow down, but the addiction called--and I danced.

Ms. X would have had to be absent not to see my struggle to keep my grip when I was around her. Added to the stress, her 16-17-year-old daughter moved back in to an already-overcrowded situation, bringing constant drama and even a good deal of resentment towards me with her. I could not continue on as I had. Some kind of break from the unimaginable, constant stress had to occur, and still, my addiction called the tune.

Finally, another chapter began. Ms. X had gone to pay the rent, but the owner of the apartments was in the office! As she paid, the resident manager told her she had to leave the following week because of illegally taking in boarders. No questions about this, God is represented by irony--strongly at times. The break I'd been after was granted by having to spend more (and almost exclusive to all parts of the opposite life I'd had) time with this woman, "beating the bushes" for a place to go to. 

We got a couple bits of good fortune: first, the resident manager looked in another direction while we maintained a residence there after time had run out (she didn't cause or take part in any disturbances); second, an apartment we could afford, not far away, became ours, i's dotted and t's crossed. 

James with Christmas Gifts He Sold

Christmas passed uneventfully, largely. However, as I'd received gifts and cash, I was off to run the old familiar course again. So, after selling gifts with no use, and together with the cash received, I called the "dope-man" to get a life-threatening amount of crack, yet told Ms. X I was on my way to a late A.A. meeting (Not!) and I needed to give others a ride (so she'd let me use her car), and it was ON!

I'd like to switch off for a moment, in order to jot down my redundancies. My first priority upon release will be to eat as much real food as possible. The kind of thing where "buffets tremble at my presence." When I've put on 5 lbs., I'll pause to attend to my second priority, which, if not already done, will be to see that I get to be a published author. I'm able to put my thoughts on paper now, having "time," and don't want to let this chance pass me by.

The "psychological warfare" campaign grows more intense hourly. "Confinement" is full--now guards are granted the authority to send inmates to "close management" if they feel they might represent a disturbance.