It’s always a total trade off when you think that there’s something lacking in your life but you really don’t want to change a thing because it’s actually sort of working.
Last night I was at the People’s Café in the Haight with a couple a fellow ex-dope fiends that once in a while I’ll actually admit to knowing and we were kind of conversing in a vague uninteresting sort of way, though for some reason I kept thinking that both of them looked a little glum around the edges. As the conversation droned on the subject of girlfriends came up and the guy on my right said that he had just been dumped by his girl and he said it with a quiver in his voice, which was so amazingly pronounced. Yet at the same time he was trying to hide it and I thought that at any minute he was going to start crying so I didn’t make fun of him like I usually would have. But then the other one immediately proceeded to explain why it was that he had just ended a relationship of his own; and then basically irreverent of each other’s plight they both went on in a sort of duet of sentimental remembrances as to why it was they were both in the predicaments that they were. Though neither of them were really listening to the other because after all maybe that’s why they’re not still in their perspective relationships—but what do I know?
However, as nice as it is to be out and about and have a quiet cup of espresso with a couple of acquaintances, it was hardly what I’d call a good time, what with me being forced to listen to each of their pathetic discourses on what their love life consisted of and why neither of them can maintain anything close to a healthy relationship. And looking at the two of them on either side of me like mismatched bookends with their greasy hair pulled back in ponytails and pained expressions, I was trying my best not to picture just what kind of woman would even be seen with either one of them let alone invest any length of time in prolonged bouts of fornication. Having failed miserably at this, I shook my head to dislodge any further disturbing images from arising and somewhere around the second agonized utterance of “Why’d she have to leave me?”, I decided that I couldn’t take anymore, though I was beginning to come to the realization that there was no accounting for the generous nature of the female species. And even more apparently, this sitting around and ruminating on failed trysts was obviously something that these guys did on a regular basis and who was I to intrude on their happy times? So I quietly excused myself and exhibiting an uncharacteristic paroxysm of empathy I threw in for good measure that I had a hot date with a beautiful babe and then I got up and left.
Unfortunately the reality was that I really had no place to go, only at that very moment anywhere was preferable to being there with those two serial monogamists. Yet the actually relief that I felt was from thinking that for once I was somewhat pleased with myself for being single and unattached and without all the pain that love sometimes brings. And yes, of course, I’d like a girlfriend but only in selfish lonely sort of way and definitely not in the “someone who could finish my unspoken thoughts” kind a way, because if that really was the deal then given my erratic ways of thinking she’d have to be just as warped as I was!
Fortunately just walking out the door of the café made my current mental dilemma subside as it was a gorgeous night with a bit of a moon and while walking down Haight Street, I happened to look up into the large bay windows of this beautiful Victorian flat above some newly opened ice cream parlor and with a tad bit of envy, I could see its exposed beam ceiling being illuminated by some tastefully installed recessed lighting which seemed to be competing with the flickering illuminations from a fire below, hopefully in a hearth. That made the whole scene seem so longingly comfortable.
The Haight’s a great neighborhood to live in with its shops and cafes and bad parking and I’d oh so like to live some place like that. Yet in San Francisco unless you’ve got five roommates and a job that pays well you’re not gonna be living anywhere besides an urban hellhole like mine. But whenever I do look around other neighborhoods I’m continually seeing beautiful buildings and apartments that I’d die to live in and that of course evokes the idea that dead is probably the only way that I could be living in one of them. Which is quite the depressing notion in itself and again I have to think happy thoughts before I can continue on my way.
But there of course sitting at the curb in front me is my disintegrating two-toned, rust and silver Honda. Wherein once seated comfortably inside, I immediately gun the accelerator and she barely starts up and then its time for pumping up and down on the waning brake pedal in order for there to be some sort of pressure in those aged hydraulic brake-lines, so that hopefully I will be able to stop at a red light or two on my way home. But it never fails, as I’m either adjusting the driver’s side window to stay shut or waiting for the engine to warm up, that I find myself dreaming of a nice new vehicle—one to cruise in, and that’s as about as feasible as winning the lotto without buying a ticket.
And its always like this where I’m wanting one thing and then the thought of having it is actually ridiculous as to who can afford these things and yes, I could sell out somehow and, well, actually I can’t. But that’s besides the point and another post all together, but I could go back to hammering nails on a construction crew as the pay is twice what I’m getting now and then all these material desires of mine would be fulfilled. Yet what good would that do in the long run, and I’d still be out there ten years from now so that I could keep buying more. Because we all know that getting the immediate stuff is only just the beginning and like an addiction it keeps getting bigger and demanding more and pretty soon I’d be complaining about my five car garage not being large enough to hold all my rides!
And before I know it I’m home and turning off of Fourth Street into the alley looking for a spot to park my car under the freeway; while to my right there’s a couple crackheads fighting over god knows what in a dimly lit doorway and it’s hard to imagine not wanting to get out of this neighborhood. And with the rumble of traffic passing overhead as my soundtrack I can still see the moon in the sky above the alley that runs between two old brick warehouses, but this ain’t the Haight and there’s really nothing else to look at. So I cross Third Street and maneuver around the piles of debris while keeping my eye on the oncoming cars, the dope fiends behind me, and the area around the front door of my apartment building.
And when I finally get there I try and open the front door and its locked, and its never locked! Then I notice that new call box with a keypad and a phone and its all turned on and illuminated and all of a sudden I’m remembering that memo slipped under my apartment door last week saying that tonight was going to be the night that this new security system was to be in place. They even issued me my own ID number, which of course I’ve forgotten, like who ever thought that they’d really do this and like when they said they were going to even. And now I’m stuck out here with no way to get into my apartment—those mother fuckers! God damn it I’m so tired of living here!
Silently as if from out of nowhere except in reality it’s only from the dark recesses of the freeway construction there materializes one of the local crackheads who says “Forgot your code huh bub? For a dollar I’ll let you in!”
And ain’t that about a bitch. But I’m not going to sit out here all night waiting for someone to come out and besides the memo said that we weren’t to allow anyone into the building if we didn’t know them, though how we’re supposed to stop them is still a mystery that I’m not even going to try and solve.
So sure, “Here’s a dollar, let me in!”
And with that he walks over and punches in the pound key and a four number code and the door opens!
There’s something to be said for living in a neighborhood full of degenerates and as I walk up stairs to my apartment I find that I’m suddenly in a very good mood.
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Wednesday, February 9th, 2005 at
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Its not really a question of abuse these days, its more like what’s already been done was abusive – that is if you really want to go get all technical about it. But none the less no matter how you choose to view it this liver of mine has been quite abused. And now as it seems to be going through a midlife crisis of its own as it occasionally wants some random bits of attention or at least a few soothing words of encouragement while it chugs along processing my bile. Unfortunately however I am so unbelievably ignorant about this whole liver deal that when I was recently experiencing excruciating pains on my left side I decided to go see my doctor and complain about my liver acting up.
Ok, so I don’t know where my liver is. Big deal! Its not like I studied anatomy in high school or even something remotely like it. I took acid in high school and majored in smoking pot so if I come off a little too moronic it’s the acid. Well, at least that’s the best excuse that I can come up with and I’m sticking to it.
So anyway, here I was with my primary care doctor who’s surname has got ten letters and only one vowel leaving me forever slurring it around trying to pronounce it as if I have a clue as to what it should sound like. All the while pointing down at who knows what on my left side. Which is obviously my non-liver side and there I was making a fool of myself yammering on about it. Yet to show you what a compassionate professional this man is he didn’t laugh or point out my mistake until after I had finished stating that my liver hurt and couldn’t he do something about it?
Wherein with a concerned look on his face he then ever so politely indicated that that indeed wasn’t the region where little mister liver resided. Though I might also add that being the sneaky buggers that all members of the medical profession have always been he didn’t say – “but that’s where your pancreas rents space”. Or to save me a little face he could have said – “most people often mistake such pains that just turn out to be their kidneys mulching”. But no! Those bastards want to keep all that knowledge to themselves and who can blame them after slogging through a tediously boring ten years of medical school and internships and having to be some hot shot surgeon’s suture flunky. But what would have been the harm in affording me a quick lesson in organ placement, as in the long run what was I going to do? Open up my own practice or better yet operate on myself or others? I hardly think so!
So anyway there we were as he looked disapprovingly over his glasses at me and while typing excruciatingly slow on his computer with two fingers he asked if there was anything else that I needed looking at? Like what? Oh ghee I forgot, my heart tends to stop here and there and you know now that you mention it I haven’t had a bowel movement in a year or two? Really now, what did he expect? That I sit at home and wait until I’ve got more than one ailment so that in the name of saving ecological resources I try and economize my trips to the hospital?
Yet having said that the truth is that there is this bit of weirdness going on about my finger tips wherein they tend to crack and bleed but I had sort of chalked that up to a slight case of stigmata, and fearing that the cure would be nothing less than redemption from a holy inquisition I remained auspiciously silent. And while no doubt relieved from the burden of having to diagnosing yet another malady of mine that overbearingly concerned “I’m the doctor” look of his once again overtook his face and as he handed me a typed form he leaned over close to my ear and said. “Here, be a good little compliant patient and go downstairs to the lab and they’ll draw some blood and we’ll have a look at your liver functions and then in a week I’m sending you for more test in the radiology department.”
Radiology? What, an x-ray of my liver? Frigg’in barbarians these doctors are, always with the radiation and not to sound too ungrateful here, but what about the pain in my left side? What was that, phantom cirrhosis of the organ that’s not there or maybe its just a wee bit of anthropologic paranoia from my over reactive imagination? But then whose the doctor here anyway and what do you say to a nice prescription of valium so as to calm my fraying nerves during these moments of turmoil?
*Note to the reader: If you’re ever going to attempt to obtain any pharmaceuticals of the narcotic/euphoric nature be sure and never tell your doctor that you were once a dope fiend! They have tendency to remember such remarks no matter how casually one elicits them and forever ban you from attaining such substances, at least from them that is.
So anyway with a stern pragmatic warning on substance abuse still ringing in my ears off I went prepared to be pricked and prodded by some inept nurse who would never have made it as a junkie because if that was the way she found her own veins she’d a never gotten herself high. Yet for some blessed reason this time I got the reigning hematologist from the Joan C. Edwards School of Medicine who could spot a throbbing vein from twenty yards away and had me bleeding into a few million vials in no time flat. And while usually I am oh so happy to have another seemingly depleted artery back in business this time after the room started to spin a little I wasn’t too pleased so I grabbed my arm back and said enough’s enough you vampire! Which caused the entire lab crew to burst out laughing and with a little condescending pat on my head she made me go lay down and drink a grossly warm carton of high fructose orange juice.
Unfortunately it was the kind with a lot of pulp floating around in it, the type that claims its natural and all. But which I have a total aversion to as those strands of goo tend to tangle up in my tonsils and I just couldn’t take it anymore. So in a fit of noncompliance I stumbled out of the room and while gagging back tepid citrus bits I dashed out of the lab with a catheter needle still attached to my right arm and an IV line dragging limply behind me.
Now its Wednesday morning and like the printed directions that my physician had sent me home with have instructed me to do – I’ve fasted all night. Which means no usual morning coffee, which means no ability to focus and which means even less of an ability or even a slight desire to make anything close to good judgment calls. As is glaringly obvious because I’ve just driven erratically across town in a rather surly mood and now I have to sneak into the hospital through the back door, because last week the security guard manning the front door told me when I ran out in a spastic fit to never come back or he’d kick my ass. Which at the time I thought that that was a pretty harsh statement to be made from a guy who worked in a profession purportedly for healing people. But then maybe hospital security personnel don’t have to take that same Hippocratic Oath like doctors do? Or maybe it was just because I had been busy struggling to detach the IV and unintentionally had sort of screamed making a slightly disturbing scene as I dislodged its massive twenty gage needle from my arm on my way out the front door?
But whatever the case it had me taking the backstairs two at a time so that I could make it to the 3rd floor’s – Sonogram & X-Ray Department and while keeping one eye out for menacing sentries I enter room 5 and sit down to await my appointment. Wherein after a short wait a very attractive woman called my name and ushers me into a semi-dark room with a computer consol attached to a machine hovering over an examination table and she asks me to remove my clothes and I do so reluctantly before lying down on the pristine like white starched hospital linens that cover the top of the gurney.
And then she says. “Lay back and relax, I’m going to rub some warm lotion on you.”
And you know there’d been times when I’d have thought – cool! Or at least – way cool! But this wasn’t one of those times. And no matter how good looking this woman was I wasn’t feeling it and what’s the deal with the warm lube smeared across my stomach and I didn’t even know her name and why’d I have to be completely naked in order for her to look at my liver?
Then she turned off the lights!
There is nothing and I do mean nothing sensual like in the least about having a woman, attractive or not, press a big rubber spatula like object back and forth across your stomach while she murmurs “inhale” and “very good” as the warm gel sets up and begins getting cold and even though it was pitch black in the room I had my eyes squeezed shut as I impatiently waited for this ordeal to end. However in all fairness I must say that at least she didn’t gasp in horror when my overly abused liver decided to make its debut appearance on her computer’s monitor. Though even after she was all done and had walked out of the examination room I just laid there feeling pretty used and slightly gooey as it wasn’t over yet – I still had to somehow slip out of the hospital undetected without that thug of a security guard catching me.
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Thursday, February 3rd, 2005 at
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It’s about four in the afternoon and I’m standing out in the cold by the liquor store on the corner across the alley from my apartment building talking with Delirious Dan, a prominent member of the local wino community. We’d been discussing the appalling decision of certain distilleries to sell their wares in plastic bottles instead of the traditional glass ones and Dan had stated matter-of-factly that he could taste the difference no matter what anyone else said. And somehow the conversation had veered off to Dan telling me about when he first started to drink as a teenager. Laying down one of those “how I became what I am today” kind a background tales from the past, and as usual I was pretty interested because as fucked up as Dan is he still makes some amazing observations and when slightly coherent he can be funny as hell.
“We’d go up in ta da hills and buy us a gal’in-a-dago-red from this ol’ ‘talian lady and we’d chug it and git ‘r-selves awl stinky – like stink’in drunk stinky, an then I’d a catch me a couple a moles!”
“Moles?” I ask.
“Yeah, those lil’ fur creatures that burrow unner the groun and I’d put ‘em in ma pockets and then af’ern I’d a pass out at ‘ome I’d hear my muther a scream’in for me to cum git ‘ese god dern moles out-o ‘er house. Heh, heh, heh…”
Ah! Obviously another fond pre burned-out brain cell memory from yesteryear because despite the ever present mischievous childlike grin that’s seemingly a permanent fixture on his face, Dan’s a pretty warped individual and been drinking alcohol in one form or another for a very long time. By his own admission, he’s about seventy years old, the last twenty of which have been spent living on the streets and drinking vodka out of bottles hidden away in brown paper bags. And I can attest to some of this, having seen him here on Third Street for the previous two years either out in front of the liquor store or passed out under the freeway.
“Ya know? Wish’in life was still that simple and din’t git so de’press. Sum days I wake up and it all I can do ta make it down ‘er an git me a bottle.”
For some reason that last statement takes me by surprise because I’d never really connected Dan, or any of the people I see out here on the street as suffering from depression like I do. Why that is I don’t know as it is probably a very normal symptom of living on the streets. But for some reason or another I just thought, well, to tell you the truth I never really thought about it at all until now and being someone that has suffered from depression for most of my life I don’t know why it would surprise me in the first place.
For years my depression immobilized me almost into inertia and if I hadn’t found the escape that heroin afforded me then I’d probably of committed suicide a long time ago. Unfortunately the nature of the beast of addiction is that most substances that help at first tend to finally hinder when one’s muse turns to obsession and all the other concerns about health and well being are neglected. And of course that’s what happened to me, so the past decade has been nothing but a battle to try and work out some sort of life without narcotics and to somehow maintain a healthy outlook on life, and somewhere in all that I began relying on medications to keep me undepressed and somewhat happy.
“Ther‘re days when it awl look so fuck’in bad an even shit face drunk I’m a cry’in ma god damn eyes out.” And I guess that having finally said this out loud to someone else it seems to overwhelm Dan and he looks away down the street and I can see his already watery eyes brim over as he wipes them with the back of his dirt encrusted hand.
Right now nothing in my life could be as depressing for me as living as Dan does or any of the other people whose tragic existences I happen to be witness to on an everyday basis. Like that elderly man that I can see from my apartment’s window who dresses in a corset and stockings while wearing a tattered old blond wig on his head and every sunny afternoon he sits alone on his balcony and drinks whiskey from a glass. Or that couple that’s got a spot cordoned off with their shopping carts in between the auto repair shops on Bryant Street; where at night you can hear them giggling as they watch their TV set that they’ve pirated the electricity for from off of the street lights. Or any of the other individuals that I only know by sight that endlessly roam the back alleys all night and day in search of something, anything that will take them away from here.
Unfortunately anti-depressants don’t mix well with the various substances that addicts tend to consume. Or more to the point can even hinder the chemical process that ingesting them usually provides. So in reality even a massive marketing campaign to get these neighbors of mine on medication wouldn’t really be prudent in the long run—unless they were willing to stop doing whatever it is that they are doing and obviously the inability to do so is the reason that they’re out here. I only have to look at Dan to know what it is that he is going through and I empathize with his plight, but in the end it is his decision, just as it was mine awhile back and not everybody is going be able to come inside after living outside in the cold for so long.
Yet ironically right behind Dan—shoved haphazardly against a telephone pole, is a newspaper rack with today’s paper sporting a large color front page photo of the president dancing away at his 40 million dollar Inaugural Ball and that obscene waste of money is just incomprehensible to me while I’m standing here on this dirty street corner talking to a man who hasn’t slept inside of a building for twenty years. And if that isn’t enough to depress someone, then I don’t know what is.
However its getting late and colder and I can see a patrol car slowly cruising the block toward us and so can Dan. So it’s farewells until another time and as we depart Dan shouts over his shoulder “Yeah, ya shoulda bin th’re! Back when I was a learn’in to git stinky. Them’s we’er sum good times!”
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Tuesday, January 25th, 2005 at
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