The Pig…

The trains just weren’t running today.  I saw only two long freight trains and one short local in the two hours of sitting on my favored bench behind the bank. I sat reading my Model Railroaders and smoking.   I did get to see an old dilapidated GP-38-2 from the seventies pick up a string of pulpwood cars in the wood yard. That excited me as the GP-38-2 is my all time favorite diesel locomotive.  Disappointed, I finally walked up to the Piggly Wiggly which is just up the street.  I parked on a bench, ate some cheese and wheat crackers, and began people watching.  There was an interesting little altercation when the police were called when a man had been found to be stuffing steaks down his pants.  I couldn't help but laugh and feel sorry for the young Hispanic man at the same time.  He must’ve really wanted a barbeque bad.  I can distinctly remember the look on his face as he stood a few feet from me handcuffed.  A look of being lost and bewildered. He feigned that he couldn’t speak English as the police officers questioned him.  There is always something interesting happening at the Piggly Wiggly.  It is in a high crime area. 

This morning reminded me of all the times George and I would sit out in front of the Piggly Wiggly drinking beer years ago.  Slop would be panhandling and Ferret would be up to his usual drunken antics.  Cap w/Tag Guy would be standing outside selling crack mute as always.  Clara would usually show up midday after drinking all night and sleeping behind the dollar store in her little nest of dirty blankets.  She would beg me for a few dollars so she could go inside and buy another bottle of cheap wine.  Sometimes, she would feel generous and pass the bottle around to us as we would take drinks of that acrid swill that is Wild Irish Rose.  George always called it cough syrup, but that didn’t stop him from drinking it.  Occasionally, they would chase us off saying we were loitering – the manager blustering obscenities at us calling us vagrants. I lived like a homeless person then, except I had a home.  Old habits die hard as they say.

I just called dad and asked for my medications early.  He said he would call me when he got home.  He was at Ponder’s nursery picking out new plants to line the edge of the fence in the backyard.  My father’s busyness astounds me.  He is twice my age and I couldn’t do half of what he does.  I would be lazily at home on my day off after working for days.   His days off are spent cleaning and improving the house and yard.

Dad and family are going to D.C for the 4th.  It is my sister-in-law’s birthday as well.  Dad told me last night he wished I was going and it shocked me.  Usually, they don’t want me to go as I can be hassle medication issues and all.  I have to take extra medications to make it through the airport and all that travel.  Dad will laugh and say they have to dope me up for the trip.

A Trainy Easter

It is Easter morning and I am hanging out at the railroad tracks.  I am sitting on the bench by the railroad museum.  Not one train has graced my presence since I've been down here.  The train crews must have Easter off.  Disappointed, I walk on up to the shopping center.  It is closed.   It reminds me of how disappointed I always was when I was homeless and holidays arrived. The holidays always left you with nothing to do and reminded you of how lonely you were. 

I walk on around the shopping center and pass by the spot where Clara used to sleep.  It makes me think of her and the fact that I haven't heard from her in months.  You can still see the remnants of her addictions.  Beer and liquor bottles, and old discarded and empty packs of cigarettes.

On up the street from the shopping center, I pass by Rosa's dilapidated home.  She is soon to move into another apartment when it gets ready.   Her new apartment is being quickly remodeled.  I entertain the thought that I will call her today and see how she is doing.  "Nah," I think when I muse over it.  I don't want to sound desperate.  I don't want to exhibit weakness.

A mile later and I am walking by Joyce's and Mr. Ed's house.  The sun is hanging high on the horizon and the once chilly morning has turned into a gorgeous day.  I see Maggie sitting in the fence and sigh with relief.  She hasn't gotten out again.  My little jaunt is over as I walk inside and pull off my pull-over.  Maggie comes tearing into the den to thoroughly sniff me -- the smells on my clothes being a roadmap to where I have been.  It is good to be home.       

Fun Times...

Ferret was in a rare good mood this morning.  He has been so dour lately.

"I am going to get a home," he fiercely told me as he sipped on a 40 ounce of malt liquor this morning. "I swear. I am."

"Good," I replied. "You can do anything if you put your mind to it."

"How did Clara get a home?" Ferret then asked.

"I got her a ride down to Columbus and she went into a program for homeless alcoholics at the Rescue Mission."

"Do they take men?"

"Yes, they have a men's program.  I almost went to join myself about a year ago when I couldn't quit drinking."

"It has been so cold lately and I feel cold all the time.  Always shivering and having to wear layers of clothes.  And I stink."

I was expecting Ferret to ask me to take him out to the truck stop for a shower, but he didn't.  You can smell him -- that acrid smell of underarm odor. It is starting to affect his ability to go into public stores and places.  He hasn't taken a bath since he became homeless. 

Dexter has been so overjoyed about having a job.  I was happy for him today.  I was asking my mother the other night if she remembers teaching him.

"Oh, Dexter was terrible," my mother said. "A terrible student.  He wouldn't sit still. They finally put him in 'special' classes for special people."

I told my mother the legend surrounding Dexter about him stealing pork chops out of someone's home.

"Did he go to jail?" Mom asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "Just for a few hours, though."

My mom just laughed.

"I shouldn't be laughing," she said snickering. "The poor boy just couldn't help it.  He is a good kid.  He just needs a helping hand."

I wanted to say Dexter was a man now.  Quite a big man.  And no longer a boy.  He will always be that little school boy to my mother though.  I wonder if she thinks the same way about me?  

It's Interesting...

It's interesting how someone with no home and little money can more likely get help for an addiction.  I have often noted this glaring introduction to reality when I tried to reach out for help these past few years.

"Oh, you have Medicare." or "You have a disability income." or "You have a home."

Somehow, this precludes me from getting help.  Clara was a terrible, irascible alcoholic, and homeless when she sought help.  She was able to secure some housing via section 8 and get in an outpatient program for alcoholics down in Columbus, Georgia.  There was help there available for her.  James Christian is homeless in NYC and has recently been able to get into an outpatient program for homeless alcoholics. 

I am not complaining, mind you.  I have far greater resources than those two.  I just can't afford treatment for my alcoholism.  It is up to me and my program with A.A. to stay sober. 

I noted tonight something amazing about Rosa.  She had a terrible crack cocaine addiction.  It was devastating and left her on the streets for years.  Now, she will walk all the way to the clubhouse, like she did tonight, for an N.A. (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting.  It is freezing cold, a very long walk, and she could have easily stayed home and watched TV.  She is working her program and I need to set a better example for her than just these online A.A. meetings I have been attending.  Rosa is amazing to me to have gone through what she went through and to still be sane and whole as a person.  Miracles are worked everyday in the programs of A.A. and N.A.  I want to be one of those miracles.     

Aimlessly, We Wander...

This afternoon found me aimlessly occupying the bench next to the dollar store. Rosa was with me. She loves to hang out down there and smoke cigarettes. We had just eaten a lunch of tuna sandwiches at Rosa's house.

"This is just like my homeless days, except there are few homeless people," she told me.

"You are forgetting Ferret," I replied.

"He's homeless by choice. He doesn't count," Rosa responded.

I laughed.

I had heard from Clara this morning and was telling Big S about it.

"She has turned her life around," I said. "She is still sober, going to outpatient treatment, and attending A.A. meetings."

"Damn," Big S replied. "That is hard to believe. She was worse than Ferret when it comes to drinking."

"Believe it, my friend," I said.

Now, Rosa has expressed some jealously over my and Clara's relationship. I have to be careful about what I will say. I didn't tell Big S much. He was glad to hear what I did have to say though. The gang forms a close bond with each other -- kind of a poor man's truce. We all look out for each other and help each other.

"Did you and Clara date when we were broken up?" Rosa asked.

"No," was all I said, and I quickly changed the subject.

Ferret was no where to be seen today. Probably sleeping off this morning's early drunk. I could picture him wrapped up in his sleeping bag in his tent in that little clearing in the woods. The thought made me long to go camping.

Solitude Interlude

I couldn't sleep tonight. My bout of insomnia found me down at the park near midnight, drinking coffee from my thermos, and enjoying this warm December night. Fog had rolled in off the grand Chattahoochee. Halos of light circled each street light casting an eerie hue. The Cinematic Orchestra played on my mp3 player. All was right in my little world. I sat in the dark for the longest time as a few lonely cars paraded past on the highway. I felt so alive and vibrant.

Talked to Clara last night. She was in good spirits. The sober life is treating her well.

"We're still having our Christmas Eve date, right?" she asked.

"Can it be the eve of Christmas Eve?" I said. "I promised Joyce I would cook a meal Christmas Eve."

"Okay," Clara replied, sounding disappointed, but still excited.

"How are you, doll?" I then asked.

"Oh, I am okay I guess," she replied. "I work all the time and don't have much time to myself. I try to stay busy. I miss you. I miss our friendship."

"I miss you, too," I said. And I did miss her something terribly.

We finally said goodnight and I hung up the phone. Right before bed, Joyce came over to see my Christmas tree.

"Oh, I just love it!" Joyce exclaimed. "I want one now."

"Let me know and we will go get you one," I replied. "I will help you decorate."

"How much did it cost?"

"Only thirty dollars for the tree," I replied. "And the tree stand was twenty dollars."

I think Sunday will find Joyce and I down at Ponder's Nursery buying a Christmas tree. This Christmas spirit can be so contagious.

Adolescence

I've known a lot of homeless people. Ferret and Clara come to mind as the most pertinent examples. There seems to be common themes. Substance abuse and/or mental illness are the most glaring causes of homelessness. I was homeless mainly because I was an alcoholic who couldn't get sober no matter how hard I tried. I lived to drink and lived for the next drink. I couldn't afford rent with my drinking problem when confronted with my paltry income. I made a conscious choice to be drunk and homeless, than sober with a home.

Another thing I have noticed with homelessness, is the petulant and childlike qualities a homeless person will exhibit. It is as if they never grew up. I've been reading The Homeless Guy for years and it never ceases to amaze me what he will write and say being a 46 year old man. I often have to remind myself that this man is not much younger than my father yet he cannot feed or house himself. Like Clara and Ferret, The Homeless Guy is blown around on the winds of change subject to the charity of others. And get this... he still complains constantly about it. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.

I saw these same patterns in me as well when I was homeless for six months. Everyone else was to blame. I loved to blame my ex-wife for my problems. Things like... I wouldn't be homeless if she didn't divorce me and took our house. Go ahead and get out the world's tiniest violin and play it. Luckily, unlike Clara, Ferret, and The Homeless Guy, I had a wealthy family who bailed me out when things got too rough. I had to pay a dear price though. I essentially gave up my autonomy and freedom to have a home. My behavior is carefully monitored and controlled by my family through conditioned responses. If I try to go against the set established rules then I am threatened with various aspects of my life taken away. I am sure Pavlov would find me an interesting subject to study much like his dogs.

Winter Wonderland

I woke up thinking of snow and ice this morning. Brrrr. Our neighbors to the north got some pretty decent snowfall to start off December. Some even got an ice storm. It is that time of the year that I habitually frequent weather blogs and weather websites that went neglected all throughout the summer months. I become a man obsessed.

"Don't you want it to snow?" I asked Charlie last night as we were sitting in my den watching the weather coverage.

"Dammit! Hell no!" he exclaimed as he laughed. "I don't want to have to drive in that mess!"

I had dreamed I was homeless and it snowed last night, and I was having trouble keeping the snow out of my tent and sleeping bag. I woke up feeling bitterly cold and immediately walked into my hall to turn the heat up.

Part of the morning was spent down at the shopping center. The sky was drab and overcast as I walked down and managed to finagle some spare change out of Slop for a soda. Slop was talking incessantly about football this morning. Yawn. I am just not into football this year. I could care less.

"Blah, blah, blah. SEC championship," he said. "Blah, blah, blah, Auburn Tigers."

That is exactly how it sounded to me. In one ear and out the other. Like a bunch of garbled gobblety gook. He finally asked me about Clara, breaking the monotony of football speak.

"She's doing fine," I told him. "I want to go see her badly."

"You're in love," Slop said as he grinned feverishly.

"No I am not!" I exclaimed as I blushed.

I walked on home thinking of Clara and her new life. Nestled in her safe and warm apartment. Spending her days working in that thrift shop and going to AA meetings at night. It seemed like such a very pleasant existence -- so very pleasant. I was almost envious of her and her good fortune. I wondered if I was in love with her. I have missed her friendship so dearly and those lazy summer days spent down at the shopping center seem so far removed from my life these days.

Meet Me Halfway...

I met Clara halfway to Columbus, Georgia late last night. It was a spur of the moment encounter I so enjoy.  I was pulling up into a convenience store's parking lot as she got out of a friend's truck and ran over to greet me. She looked so well, and had gained about twenty pounds. Her cheeks were rosy, and the color had returned to her skin. That old alcoholic pall had been cast away.

"Tell me about your living arrangements," I asked her as we sat in my car, smoking our cigarillos.

"I only have to pay 1/4th of my monthly income for rent," she said. "I got totally lucky in finding that apartment. The waiting list is usually two years for section 8 housing."

"Are you happy?"

"I have good days and bad days," she told me. "I still struggle with the drinking. I had a slip up a few weeks ago."

"I struggle, too," I replied. "So you are not alone. I hate to say it, but we will probably deal with these urges for the rest of our lives."

"It gets easier, though," Clara said with a smile. "My successes build upon themselves."

"Have you met anyone?" I then asked.

"Just friends," Clara replied. "You know what they say about relationships and being new to sobriety."

"They (AA) tell you to wait about a year."

We talked for a long time about AA. Clara got on to me for not going regularly and she is right. I need to get back to going, but my social phobias have been acting up lately. She seemed so well though -- so full of life and vigor. I was so excited for her. It is going to be a good Christmas, and I promised her I would take her out on a Christmas date in celebration of our sobriety during a time that would usually find us hopelessly drunk. She has come a long way since this summer.

With sadness, I watched as Clara left me to reunite with her friend who had grown impatient.  It was a long drive home near midnight as I thought of my once homeless friend.  We've both seen and gone through so much in our short lives.  I wondered if it was our cross to bear to struggle so.  Seeing her gave me hope in that old scourge alcoholism had relented some.  That's all we can do is keep hope dear and continue to abstain.  One day at a time is all it takes and meeting makers make it.  Remind me to get to an AA meeting today. Seeing a sober and happy Clara makes me yearn for the magic you can only find in those meeting halls.    

Largesse!

Determined to scrounge up some money, I placed a large computer desk, unassembled and still in the box, on my front lawn by the road. I hung a sign on it saying, "Fifty dollars and it is yours. Originally $129." Within moments, a man in a truck stopped to look. I walked out to talk to him in the cold morning air.

"I'll give you two twenties for it," he told me.

"Sold!" I said, and I helped him load the heavy desk into the back of his pickup truck.

Excited and with money in my pocket, I walked down to the diner for a feast. Merl's diner was hopping with patrons. The clink of dishes being washed could be heard in the background as the low mumble of many conversations played out around me. A perky young waitress walked out to greet me and take my order -- her eyes a deep blue with blonde hair pulled into a bun on the back of her head.

"What 'cha havin' honey?" she asked with a heavy southern drawl and a pad and pencil in hand.

"The breakfast special. Scrambled," I replied.

Soon, a plate piled high with breakfast foods sat in front of me and I dug in. I especially enjoyed the buttery grits and crumbled my crisp bacon into it for extra texture and flavor.

I paid for my meal and then walked across the highway to sit on the bench by the railyard. I pulled a Model Railroader magazine out of my backpack and read for the longest time as I smoked cigarillos and drank my to-go cup of coffee. I turned to look at one point as a big CSX freight went roaring by on the tracks. "I want to model that someday," I thought to myself, engrossed in all things trains. It was such a fine morning filled with things I so enjoy.

I then left the tracks and walked up to the shopping center. Big S was already sitting out front with his hands folded over his protruding belly, looking like some African American Buddha. We talked for a moment about George and Clara.

"He finally quit drinking," Big S told me. "He's in the early stages of cirrhosis."

I was sad to hear that about my old friend. George's doctor had warned him countless times though.

"Where's Clara been?" Big S then asked me.

"She is living in section 8 housing down in Columbus," I replied. "She called me the other night. She is going through an outpatient program for alcoholics. She's got a job at a thrift store."

"I never thought she would get her act straightened out," Big S said with a chuckle.

"Me neither," I replied. "I am proud of her. She sounded so well the other night."

I then left Big S to walk on home. I had grown cold and the temperature was still hovering around freezing. Maggie greeted me as if I had been gone for years as I opened my front door and peeled off several layers of clothes. Home Sweet Home. It is going to be a grand day!

A Journey Daunted...

Walked back down to the convenience store a moment ago. I was so desperate and had 2 dollars and 75 cents to my name. It would have bought me a forty once of malt liquor. A cheap drunk. Daunted, I left thinking of my anxiety attacks and walked down to the shopping center. I missed Clara. I missed Rosa. It made me think of young Derrick in our A.A. meetings when he said he drank because of pain.

"I got a gun and was going to rob the convenience store," I remember him saying one meeting. "Anything to escape the pain of my life and my alcoholism. I was hoping a cop would shoot me and put me out of my misery."

He started going to A.A. and became a different man. So sure of himself and caring of others. His brother stopped him on that cold and dark night -- a night that turned around his life -- a night that almost ended in disaster.

I walked by Clara's old homeless sleeping spot behind the dollar store and the Korean restaurant. Crumpled old empty packs of cigarettes and a healthy collection of beer bottles greeted me. I need to drive down to see her -- to know she is okay.

I came home and called my father. He was at the Auburn game and was about to walk into the stadium.

"I love you and War Eagle," I told him.

"War Eagle!!!" he replied with a resounding air to his voice. "I love you too."

We talked mainly of football and it was good to hear his voice. I wanted him to tell me how proud he was of me subverting yet another drunk. He didn't. I didn't tell him. I didn't want to burden him with yet another problem. I come and burden you all.

My neighbor, Joyce, is mentally ill. She is having a terrible time this weekend. I need to go over and see about her, but I am afraid of what I may find. She acted extremely strange yesterday when I talked to her. I wonder if people feel the same with me? Eggshells is the word that comes to mind. I am so afraid of bothering her when she is feeling ill. My father alluded to her illness over the phone, but couldn't tell me the specifics by law and being her pharmacist.

Thunderbird

The morning started out innocently enough, but went downhill as the sun rose high in the sky. I found myself standing in the line of the convenience store with four green bottles of Thunderbird wine in hand and an uneasy feeling. I almost felt nauseous knowing what I was doing, but the urge to drink was just too strong. It is a compulsive urge that is hard to describe. You can't think farther than the moment at hand -- an acute lack of foresight and conscience.

"Did you get them?" Clara asked me anxiously as we walked back up to the shopping center. She had been waiting outside the store for me.

"Here," I replied as I handed a bottle of wine to her.

Impatiently, she unscrewed the cap and took a long drink after looking around for the police. I walked quietly drinking my wine, as well, feeling defeated. It was far too early in the morning to be drinking, but I always was a morning drunk.

"What are you doing today?" Clara then asked me.

"I am supposed to take my mother out to eat to a new restaurant tonight," I replied. "My father is in Florida for a football game."

"Doesn't look like you are going to be doing that!" Clara said with a laugh which only further deepened my surly and foul mood.

"Why do you drink?" I abruptly asked Clara in a moment of candidness.

"I just get bored and it passes the time. There is nothing to do when you are homeless," she said. "How 'bout you?"

"I drink to hide bad feelings and emotions. I drink to hide my pain," I said, finishing a bottle of wine -- that alcohol making my head swim.

I wanted to just go home and drink my Heineken and my last bottle of wine. I left Clara to trudge the thirty minutes home drinking wine as I walked. I didn't even care if someone saw me -- imbibing in broad daylight -- garnering many steely stares from passing motorists. I just no longer cared about anything. I was kind of hoping I would get arrested so I would have to stop drinking.

As I passed my mother's Catholic church, I said a prayer looking at the cross out front -- a prayer asking for healing and to cure me of this inescapable urge to drink. God didn't answer me back though. I was only consoled with an empty feeling. At least, the pain and the turbulent emotion I had been experiencing and feeling all morning were gone. I felt like a blank slate.

Sometimes I get winded by the truth. Suddenly, just out of the blue, every now and again, it hits me hard. It did just then, on my walk back home. This is normal for you, I thought. You're an alcoholic and alcoholics drink. Remember what they say in A.A. about being powerless over alcohol and you are. I never thought I would use a twelve step from A.A. as an excuse to drink. I chuckled to myself at the thought. I stepped into my bathroom upon arriving home to look long and hard at the man staring back at me. Sad eyes. Weak smile. So much history in the lines upon my face. It suddenly occurred to me what I was doing, how I was living -- how completely insane it is to be living like this, drinking my life away still, after all this time. And I almost just turned and ran in repulsion. I just couldn't bear it.

Technorati Tags: Alcoholism, Homelessness, Religion, Alcoholics Anonymous

Keenly, I Walk

The rains of yesterday were a distant memory on this gloriously sunny morning. I trudged through my neighborhood on the long thirty minute walk to the shopping center -- keen to tell Clara I had ordered her a nice goose down sleeping bag. My Google check having arrived and being much more than I thought it was going to be. Dew glistened in the grass on the side of the road like little twinkling diamonds in the rough. Mesmerizing me. These days I seem to see beauty in the most mundane things -- an artist's eye I hope to nurture when I start painting in a few weeks.

Stopped by the convenience store on the way there -- the beer was so tempting, but I purchased a harmless Gatorade instead. My favorite clerk had long gotten off for the day. No doubt sleeping. The little lady cashier was abrupt and surly making me want to respond in kind. Brusquely, I thanked her and continued on with my journey -- a journey of good news and good tidings.

Arrived at the shopping center to only find Big S. The rest of the gang was nowhere to be seen. He was sitting in front of the little Korean restaurant drinking his sweet tea from a straw. He had on his characteristic overalls which prominently displayed his Buddha-like belly.

"Seen Clara?" I asked, shaking his hand.

"She is panhandling over by restaurant row," Big S replied as he pointed to the east.

Near this shopping center is another shopping center where all the restaurants are located. An Internet cafe. Mexican. Chinese. Pizza. Barbecue. Steakhouse. A little English pub. All can be found the twenty minute walk away. Clara has learned that satiated shoppers are more likely to share their wealth after a good meal or a few drinks. She pounces upon them as they leave the restaurants for their cars. I was far too lazy to walk over there after my initial walk to the shopping center, though. Clara's good news would have to wait.

I took a seat down near the grocery store to smoke and finish my drink. I can see why the gang hangs out down here every day -- the shopping center being so vibrant, social, and the center of activity. If you wait long enough, something is bound to happen. It seems to draw interesting people out of the woodwork. I thought of all the interesting people I have met these past few years hanging out with George and the gang.

Back to blue skies again today after the gray of yesterday, cloudless. The last of this old year unfolding hesitantly as if it can't decide if it wants fall to start -- heading towards Christmas and the new year. The holidays will be here before we know it. I can't wait for Halloween, the smell of burning leaves, and the sound of my doorbell ringing as children come trick or treating for candy. Candle lit pumpkins on my front steps. The planting of fall mums in my flower boxes also being a favorite ritual of the year that I always shared with my ex-wife when we lived together.

I feel really strong and well today. A fitting reprieve from the dour doldrums I experienced for days earlier in the week. Felt like I could take on the whole world in one big embrace earlier as I sat at the shopping center enjoying my surroundings. Thus goes the teetering tenuousness that can be schizophrenia. Maybe, it was because my medications had run out for several days before I got my next injection. I don't want to dwell too much on the whys as I want enjoy what is. These little eyes in the storm should be savored and lived like no other moment in the life of a mentally ill person as sometimes the good days come only seldom -- like little oasis of light on a dark, moonless night.

Bags of Warmth, Lunches of Nourishment

Lunchtime found me and Rosa down at the shopping center. It was Rosa's idea. She insisted we go. She was bored, listless, and restless and wanted to be around others. There is always something going on down there -- a social panacea for us misfits and miscreants. The center was busy with patrons shopping and cars coming to and fro from the parking lot. You could feel a veritable electricity in the air. An excitement.

Clara was drinking beer and avoiding the police as she sat on a bench down near the nail salon. I walked over and asked her about where she slept and she was just drunk enough to reveal her slumber area. Her tongue loose from many a beer. Something you should never do when homeless. I guess she felt she could trust me.

"Behind the shopping center there is a hole in the fence," she said, quietly. "I crawl through and sleep on the old loading dock behind the dollar store. It is no longer used and is sheltered from the rain. Damn, it was so chilly this morning. I woke up cold and wrapped myself in my sleeping bag tightly. That concrete I sleep on can get damn hard and cold as well."

"Who bought you the sleeping bag?" I asked, curious.

"George got it for me. He said he wanted to talk to you about it since you camp all the time."

"I don't camp anything like I used to," I replied, much to my chagrin. "But I could have helped George pick a good bag."

I thought of George and his act of kindness. George can have his moments. I miss the old codger. I want to run off and spend days with George, drinking beer and raising hell like old times. I miss my dear friend even though he is a terrible influence upon me.

"You'll need a down sleeping bag for winter," I then told Clara. "It will keep you warm well below freezing. You just can't let it get wet. If it gets wet then it won't keep you warm."

"Can you get me one?"

"They're expensive," I replied. "I can order you one and you can pay me back. Sound like a deal?"

"Thank you," Clara said. "I will try and pay you back. You want a beer?"

It was all Clara had to offer. She reached into her backpack to pull out an amber 40 ounce bottle of Colt 45.

"No thanks," I replied, waving off her offer. "I appreciate the thought, though."

Clara unscrewed the cap and took a long drink of the tepid beer after looking all around to see if anyone was watching. It is illegal to drink in public here. A older lady walking into the grocery store saw Clara drinking and scowled with a menacing look upon her face.

I also saw my good friend, Ferret. He is back to his mouthwash drinking ways. The dollar store has mouthwash for $1.25 a bottle. They have gone up .25 cents, no doubt due to the amount Ferret purchases. One large bottle will get you completely blitzed. I am sad to report that I have drank it as well in the throes of my alcoholism -- an act of addictive desperation, so I cannot judge Ferret too harshly.

"I'm broke," Ferret said when I asked him why he was back to drinking mouthwash. "I can drink for days off of just five bucks. Five bucks won't even buy you a good six pack of beer. You sure as hell can't get drunk off of a six pack. A bottle of that mouthwash will fuck your ass up."

I sighed, worried. Ferret is my friend and I hate to see him abusing his body in such a way.

"I'm starving and broke," Ferret finally told me rubbing his belly. "Could we walk down to the diner to get something to eat? I'll pay you back next week."

"You coming?" I asked as I turned to Rosa.

"You two go ahead," she said. "I am talking to Clara."

Ferret and me walked down to Merl's diner to get a burger and fries which is just across the parking lot from the shopping center. I was starving as well. We took our seats and I was amused when Ferret ordered two huge burgers.

"Honey, are you sure you can eat all that?" the perky waitress asked Ferret.

"I could eat three," Ferret replied, grinning furiously.

I worried that Merl would say something about Ferret's condition. He reeked of body odor and hadn't had a shower in weeks. A dirty, tattered t-shirt hung off his back and dirt stains adorned his khaki pants. He smelled of stale beer and mouthwash. He looked and smelled like your stereotypical homeless man -- like some wildman who emerged from the woods after being lost for months.

"We've got to find you a place to live," I told Ferret as we ate our delicious burgers, sitting at a back corner table.

"Don't worry about me," Ferret replied nonchalantly. "I actually like living in my tent by the river. I don't want a home. Fuck that shit."

"It's about to get cold, though," I said of winter, warning him. "You're going to freeze your ass off."

"I'm not going to go live back with Monte," Ferret said brusquely of George's cousin. "That nigger ain't tellin' me what to do any longer. He drove me crazy. Always wanting money from me."

Ferret and I finished eating and we parted ways as he headed across the highway back to his woods and his tent to take a nap, satiated. I can't help but envy my homeless friend sometimes. His life is so visceral and raw. So real. I feel like an imposter living my life with little hardships -- an easy life on easy street. I still feel a need to atone for the sins of my former way of living.

"You always get melancholy when you spend time with Ferret," Rosa told me as we rode our bikes home late in the afternoon.

"I envy him of his life," I said dodging traffic not wanting to say more knowing it would worry Rosa.

Rosa didn't say anything in return and it was a quiet ride up 5th avenue to home. Rosa wrapped me up in her arms on my couch as we watched The Weather Channel upon arriving. I talked to her about going camping to get this wanderlust and homelessness urge out of me.

"I don't know what I am going to do about Dad and my medications, though," I told her of my stumbling block to why I never go camping anymore.

"I will talk to him when he comes over tonight," Rosa replied.

I thanked her and held her close as we watched Mike Slidel talk of the disturbance in the gulf. I grew excited that we may get some interesting weather perfect to go camping in. The more adverse, the better as far as I am concerned. Rosa smiled and told me that I should have been a meteorologist. I agreed.

Gleaned from a Kind Soul

Last night at A.A. I gleaned a word of wisdom from a long time A.A. goer. "Walk," he said. "Feel like you are going to drink? Get out of the house and walk." That is what I did this morning. I got up. Ate a granola bar. And set out through my neighborhood in the chilly air to shake off these urges I was having. I donned my radio and made great strides early this morning as I passed by the many houses -- their occupants sleeping within. Fueled by my desire to be a sober man -- a respectable member of society. It really does work. I felt so calm when I arrived back at home. The urge to drink had left me.

Another A.A. goer last night also shared with me that he reaches out to newcomers when he feels the urge to drink. "Be of service to others," he said. "Alcoholism is such a selfish disease and we have to cast aside our old ways of thinking." I feel much too raw and new in my sobriety to be of help to a newcomer though. I could share my own experiences with drinking and maybe that could help.

As I was walking this morning, I thought of Clara and Ferret, homeless. The days are growing shorter and the nights much cooler. Soon, the first big cold front of fall will come roaring through bringing cold temperatures. There is already snow falling in the Sierras. I shuddered to think of my own forlorn days spent in the cold woods of Alabama when I was homeless. Frost covered mornings would greet me as I escaped my tent to start a fire and get some hot coffee percolating. I would long for the sun to rise and get high in the sky to warm me with its gloriously bright light. And to think, I have daydreams and fantasies of going back to that kind of life. They are just daydreams though. Grand fantasies of me living by my wits and drinking copious amounts of beer -- a life I cannot live. A life in which you have nothing to lose as you've already lost it all. Maybe that is why I fantasize about it. I have lost so much -- so much hurt and pain. Homelessness would be safe and comforting. There would be nothing anyone could take from me. I could scoff and laugh crazily at threats from my father or the heavy pressure society puts on me to conform -- to be normal and socially acceptable.

I have often thought lately, deluded, that the medications my father makes me take are mind controlling agents. Agents to make me conform to the whims of society and the myriad of rules and norms it places upon us. Isn't that what crazy or insanity is? Acting abnormally and not being constrained by all the countless rules and regulations that mold us into the dutiful citizens we are. The delicate social and societal dance we all waltz through everyday is interrupted by the unwell mind of a mentally ill person. When I was extremely mentally ill, I didn't care for this dance, nor knew how to go about it. No social pleasantries. No grooming. Even meals were forgotten and my delusions would spur me on to things that broke social norms. Exasperated, my family would send me to countless doctors and try countless drugs. I still struggle with the idea that I am just eccentric and not schizophrenic. A free soul amid millions of conforming clones. Once you are labeled insane though, there is no going back -- forever destined to play out the family and societal role of the one with an unwell and sick mind. Coddled. Tread around as if walking on egg shells. Lost in the system that is mental health care. Just another statistic among countless others struggling often without avail to conform to a society that exasperates us. I am envious of people like my father that make it look so easy.

A Call in the Dark

George called me this morning. It was the first time I have heard from him in weeks. I miss George deeply, very deeply, but just can't deal with his drinking ways. George and I would be best friends if he were just sober all the time. I have tried to get him to come to AA with me, but he refuses. He says AA is a religious cult for the brainwashed. I worry about George's health.

George asked me to come to a cookout this weekend at the lake.

"We are having lots of beer and burgers," he told me. "I would like for my brotha to be there. Bring that woman of yours as well."

I told George I would think about it. We talked for a while longer about what was going on with the gang.

"That homeless woman is still hanging out down at the Piggly Wiggly," George said. "They won't let her panhandle though."

It made me think of Clara, the homeless woman, and how different her life could be if she just chose a different path. Clara is one of the unlucky ones without a family to take care of her. George has his mother to pay the bills and feed, house, and clothe him so he can drink with abandon. Clara has no one and must fend for herself.

"I saw Ferret yesterday," I told George, changing the subject.

"That nigga is crazy!" George said as he laughed. "He is still sleeping by the river and drinking beer all day."

"Yeah, I know."

I asked George if he thought his cousin, Monte, would let Ferret move back in. George said only under the conditions that Ferret take his crazy meds and quit drinking. That is not likely to happen.

"Am I going to see you at the lake Saturday?" George then asked.

"I'll think about it," I replied, knowing I could never go.

I love burgers and beer and the temptation would just be too great. I don't trust myself. I got off the phone with George and thought of my friend for the longest time. George and I used to have the best times together. We were the odd couple. An older middle-aged African American alcoholic had befriended this young, schizophrenic malcontent. Each day would find us on a new adventure with the gang accompanied by our standard props of beer and cigars. Sadly, I had to shut the door on that part of my life and can only live it in my memories. Strangely, I feel I am missing out on a good time by being a teetotaler. Hah! There goes that stinkin' thinkin' again!

The Spoils of War

The scuttlebutt down at the shopping center yesterday was that Clara got arrested for "public indecency." She soon came sauntering up the sidewalk looking as if she didn't have a care in the world. I was glad to see her free.

"You're supposed to be in jail," I said as I laughed and she walked by.

"Yeah, well, don't believe all the shit Big S tells you," she said as she turned and grinned.

I looked over at Big S and he just shrugged his shoulders.

Ferret also made an appearance along with Dumpster Diving Dan. Ferret was trying to get Dan to "hook him up" on dumpstered groceries. What Dan finds in the dumpsters is meager pickings. I don't think he relished any competition from Ferret. He certainly didn't look happy at Ferret's encroachment.

"I don't see why that old man would want to be so stingy," Ferret told me.

"Taking Dan's food is like someone stealing your beer, see?"

I had to put it in words that Ferret could understand. Ferret doesn't remember the "dumpster wars" with the old pig farmer that was taking all of Dan's spoils. That was a vicious little turf war and Dan won, finally outlasting the Pig Guy. I still get a chuckle over that one.

Homeless Makeover

Clara is not an ugly woman. With some makeup and nice clothes she could look really presentable. She is in her late thirties and still has perky breasts and a shapely bum. "I couldn't have kids," she told me one day. "That's why no man wants me." I stifled back a remark about how she lives her life is why a man wouldn't want her, but who am I to judge?

She had gathered herself today and was doing better. "You hungry?" I asked her, wanting to buy her a meal. She flashed a wad of what looked like five dollar bills as she grinned furiously. "Been panhandling over by restaurant row," she replied. I sat with Ferret as we talked about our postponed camping trip -- our homeless homecoming.

"You know what I hate?" Clara said interrupting Ferret and me. "I hate when you ask for a few bucks and they give you their to-go box from the restaurant."

Ferret laughed. I chuckled.

"Do I look that homeless?" Clara asked.

Ferret didn't say a word because he always looks homeless. It would be akin to the pot calling the kettle black. Ferret hasn't had a shower in weeks.

"The torn t-shirts don't help," I replied, trying to be nice. "And you could comb your hair. It would make you look less homeless."

Ferret and me watched as Clara disappeared into the dollar store to buy a brush and a new t-shirt.

"What do you take for your schiz?" Ferret asked while Clara was away.

"A Risperdal Consta shot in the ass."

"That's what she needs," Ferret said. "She needs a healthy shot of something in the ass to calm her down and bring her to her senses."

I chuckled once again at Ferret's blunt words. Clara came walking back out brushing her tangled hair. She had put her new t-shirt on in the bathroom of the dollar store

"How do I look?" she asked. "Better?"

"You look much better," I replied, kindly.

She grinned and put her brush in her backpack and then threw her old and torn t-shirt into the trash can next to us. I watched as she trudged across the parking lot headed back to all the restaurants in the shopping center a half a mile from here.

"She's going to work," Ferret said as he laughed.

"Yeap," I said musingly as I smoked my cigarillo. "She probably makes more money than I do writing. Women panhandlers have it easy."

Lunchtime called and I also wanted to get back home to check on Rosa. I told Ferret good day and rode my bike home after assuring him we were going to have our "homeless homecoming" another day.

Worse for Wear

I thought I would go for a long bike ride today. Preparations were made. Bottles of water in my backpack. Snack bars in the side pockets. I was ready to go and set out in the abnormally cool morning air. I rode downtown and stopped at the tracks to watch a freight as I munched on a sweet and salty trail mix snack bar. My initial hopes were to get some of this wanderlust out of me. I grew tired though -- out of shape. I used to could ride for miles without tiring.

I moseyed on up to the shopping center and chained my bike to a post. Big S asked me where I had been. "Not far," I said as I laughed. "The tracks and back." George was also down there and we had a little talk about why he has been avoiding me.

"You've become militant about this whole not drinking thing," he told me.

"I just don't want to see you back in jail," I said. "You do remember who came and bailed you out the last time, don't you? Me!"

"I can't quit," George said in a rare moment where he let his guard down. "You, my doctor, momma all say I need to, but I can't."

I lit up a cigar and then handed one to George. He lit it up with his Zippo and took a puff.

"Just long as you are okay then I am okay," I told him. We shook hands and George gave me a hug. Soon, he was driving off with his next patron after they had finished their shopping.

Clara was no where to be seen today. I had hoped she was sleeping off yesterday's drunk. She was the proverbial wild woman yesterday flirting with disaster. I was amazed she didn't get arrested, but Big S said he had seen her earlier in the day looking worse for wear. The most desperate time you want a drink is the next day when the hangover hits. It is the only thing that will chase away what ails you and the hang over blues. I could imagine Clara sitting up against the back wall of some building nursing a bottle of wine to get through yesterday's ordeal and the next day's revenge a bender can bring.

Late in the evening found me at Ferret's campsite. He was cooking a strange concoction of canned beef stew and cream of mushroom soup over an open fire. "Come on and try some," Ferret urged me. "It tastes like beef stroganoff." My normally iron clad stomach just couldn't handle one of Ferret's homeless culinary masterpieces. "It smells like dog food!" I decreed, turning up my nose.

"Have just one beer," Ferret pleaded with me as we sat and the sun set to the west.

I cracked open one and drank it. I drink so little these days and that one ice beer went straight to my head.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Ferret asked, grinning broadly.

"It feels wonderful," I replied, salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.

I have always been terrible when dealing with peer pressure and succumbed. The next thing I knew, I had drank two more. I am a person riddled with anxiety both social and perceived and the anxiety melted away. Ferret and me both began to laugh and cajole each other about almost everything as we smoked one cigarette after the other.

"Camp out with me tomorrow night," Ferret said. "We will have a homeless homecoming."

It was tempting. I told him I would pack my big Kelty backpack and that I was going to do the cooking. Hoboes over a campfire sounded nice to me.

"Heineken?" I asked him as I got up to leave before it got too dark.

"Heineken, indeed," Ferret said as he grinned and then crawled into his tent to sleep off the twenty beers he had drank today.

As I arrived home, I thought about how insidious alcoholism can be. Cunning, baffling, powerful they always say of it in Alcoholics Anonymous. I toy with the idea that I can just drink a few beers and then quit. My bravado was bolstered by today's experience when I only drank three beers and stopped -- a wild and weird anomaly in my world. I am still debating on going camping with Ferret tomorrow night. It sure would be nice to let my hair down, though. Good night.

Crazy Drunk

"She's crazy drunk," Ferret told me of Clara, the homeless woman, this morning. "You think I am crazy then you need to take another look at her."

Clara was sloppy this morning, looking disheveled.  According to Big S she had sat up all night drinking wine and singing old songs drunkenly from memory 

"It's pitiful," Big S told me and that is a lot coming from a guy who spends his days sitting down at a shopping center panhandling.

"She's gonna get arrested," I said, realizing her path to the dark side is almost complete.

We all watched as Clara accosted a shopper within earshot with drunken brazenness.

"My car is out of gas," she said, slurring her words and briskly following. "Can you spare a few dollars?"

The patron's step quickened as they escaped Clara's grasp. They ignored her.

"Fucker!" Clara hollered out in desperation, thwarted. 

"Get a job and quit this stupid shit!" the young female patron hollered back, frustrated, as she glided into her safe car to drive away.

Ferret was drinking as well -- a forty ounce of beer in a brown paper bag chasing away last night's hang over.

"You don't get sloppy drunk like her," I told Ferret of his drinking.

"If I go to jail then it means I can't drink or smoke. Jail is for idiots," Ferret replied. "I pace myself."

I admired his honesty. He could have told me some bullshit about not being an alcoholic.

Loneliness overcame Clara and she sat down on the concrete beside us. Me, Big S, and Ferret were sitting on a bench next to the grocery store smoking and drinking coffee from the diner. We warily kept an eye on her as she sat talking to herself caught in the throes of drunken madness.

"I don't ask for much," she said to herself. "All I want is a few dollars."

She was mad at the way that young woman handled her. Her frustration could be heard in her voice.

"You need to go sleep it off," Ferret then said, surprising us. "You are going to ruin all our time down here when the police show up and they run everybody off."

"Fuck you, you damn nigger-ass motherfucker!" Clara said as she stood up and walked off huffily.

Me and Big S had to grab Ferret and keep him from getting up. He was fiery mad at her words.

"She's just drunk, man," I said. "She won't even remember saying it tomorrow."

"Don't let that stupid bitch get to you," Big S told Ferret, echoing me.

I ride down to the shopping center to get up material to write for my blog. I got more than I bargained for this morning. The drama was thick and palpable. It made me uncomfortable. It also reminds me why I try to stay away from drinking these days. It reminds me that I am one bad decision away from being in Clara's shoes. There is a tenuous line I walk everyday between drunken homelessness and homed bliss -- a line I no longer want to cross.