Give a Crackhead Ten Bucks…

That same black girl from the other night that accosted me for a cigarette was sitting outside on the retaining wall swinging her legs like a child by the convenience store.  She must live in the neighborhood right behind the store.  When I was teenager, I could’ve thought of a hundred better things to do with my time than this I thought.

“You gonna give me a cigarette today?” she asked smiling when she saw me as if nothing ever happened the other night.  I guess she had forgotten she had told me to, “fuck off!”

“Smoke thou shalt not! Cancer it doth cause!” I replied laughingly mocking her.  She was so rude to me the other night that I decided to have a little fun with her.

“Just one cigarette!” she pleaded.

“Why don’t just give a crackhead ten bucks and they will buy you a pack,” I told her. “Crackheads are everywhere around here!  Look! There goes one right now!” 

The woman I pointed at looked like your stereotypical crackwhore.  She had the bulbous Adam's apple and bobbing chickenhead so characteristic of them.  The dark circles under her eyes and pallid skin gave away her drug habit.

The girl said a few more obscenities to me as I walked off ignoring her pleading with my beer now in my backpack.  I turned, lit up of a cigarette, and smiled devilishly mocking her.  I was being so bad tonight and felt so cheeky.  Payback is hell as they say.

I think the park was glad to see me when I arrived after a short walk up the street.  The mockingbirds were singing joyously.  That long crescendo of a cicada’s shrill call rang out.  My usual cadre of black boys were playing basketball in the court.  I sat down on my bench and began my first beer – my sunset brews. I donned my headphones and began to listen to my radio.  This is quickly growing to be one of my favorite nightly rituals.  I only bought two beers tonight feeling adventurous. I really don’t have an excuse to drink anymore other than I like the pleasant soft buzz it imparts – this peaceful, numb feeling.  My anxiety has decided to leave me for the time being.   It has been two days without anxiety and that is just amazing!

It’s Business as Usual…

It’s business as usual for mom as far as I am concerned.  She called me this evening and told me to come get my diet Cokes.  I told her I could pay for my own now, but she insisted on us sticking to our routines.  “I like doing it for you,” she said. “I don’t have much to do in my life.  I like the routines.”  She also bought me more of my drink mixes and left them on my kitchen counter sometime today along with another giant jar of creamy Kroger peanut butter.  I am sure Maggie was thrilled at seeing her.  Her only frets are my disability and she is obsessing over that.  She says they are going to review my eligibility to return to work full time.  I told her that was against the law and one of the good things Clinton did when he was in office.  They can’t punish you for returning to work part time.   It will not trigger a review.  Mom will still fret, though.  It is her nature to do so.  She frets about absolutely everything these days. 

I am $75 dollars richer this evening as we speak.  I earned every damn penny of it.  That was one physically taxing job.  I am glad it is finished!  It came up a cloud at one point as my grandmother would always say and I sat in my car listening to NPR until it passed.  You could see the sun while it was raining and my grandmother would always say the devil was beating his wife with a frying pan.  One nice thing about the rain was that it really cooled the temperatures off as I finished the job late this afternoon. 

The man wants me to come back Sunday to trim the shrubbery on the front and sides of his house for $25.  I told him I had to work all day tomorrow at my regular job and that’s why I couldn’t do it sooner.  I also told him we were going to get his yard in tip top shape if he just keeps paying me good money.  He laughed and offered me a beer.  I laughed as well feeling good about the whole affair.  I couldn’t drink, though, as I was driving.  His lawn needs mowing so I hope he will ask me to do that next. 

Sunset found me in the park which is quickly growing to be one of my favorite places to be in the evenings.  I was glad the days of the nightly medication ritual are finally over.  Maggie will miss dad’s visits, though. She loves him dearly and so do I. Dad will never just come over to my house to visit with me like mom will, though.  I have to go see him.  Dad always made me a nervous wreck every night during that medication ritual. That’s one less bit of anxiety I have to deal with at the end of the day. 

The late evening cicadas were singing and it made feel lonely for some strange reason tonight. I am usually enthralled by their singing.  I’ve really been longing for a companion this week feeling eligible for the first time in years.  I eventually would like to get married again and possibly have kids.  That would have never ever happened if I stayed on my previous course in life.  Who wants to marry a guy who can’t even support himself or make basic decisions about his life?  I find myself thinking of what would make me enticing to a mate.  A nice home.  A good car.  Decent looks.  A job.  Money.  Sanity.  All pieces to a puzzle I am slowly putting together. 

A couple of black boys were playing basketball on the court and talking jovially.  One kept bragging that he could shoot better than the other and the other protested vehemently.  I smiled as I listened to their banter and drank the single solitary Steel Reserve, my sunset brew, I bought tonight at the convenience store.  I bought only one as a concession to my blog readers and friends who care. I am really not an alcoholic and can drink one or two beers and be satisfied.   I no longer feel the pain and anguish these days that stirred me to drink with wanton abandon all those years ago. 

George Has Left the Building...

George just disappeared.  It has been three mornings since I've seen him.   Pookie got out of  jail and George went gallivanting through the underlife of our town.  I know exactly what happened.  George took Pookie to the crack house while he drank and she smoked up.   All on George's money.   She will no doubt steal his money again via his wallet after an amorous, but dangerous encounter de lah tey.   I am sure Mrs. Jones is worried as am I.  I hope he's going to work.  It would be a disaster for him to lose that good paying job with Wal-Mart.

I am no stranger to such things.   When I was married, I would get up some beer money and gather all my camping gear.   I would head to our woods in God's country and go on a three or four day bender at my favorite spot in the piney woods of Alabama.   I would just sit for days drinking copious amounts of beer and listening to talk radio.   Rachel would somehow always find me and bring me home.   So I understand George's thinking process right now.  

We had a much ballyhooed cold front move through this morning with a whimper.  I was getting my six Diet Cokes off of mom and dad's porch as it started to spit rain.  The rain increased as I drove home and just quit.   I looked at the radar online and the rain coverage looked kind of puny and pitiful.  I was disappointed and wanted some more gully washers. 

I stepped on the scales this morning and weighed 168 pounds.  That the least I have weighed in decades.   I am not intending to lose weight.   I think it is my medications.  I don't have much of an appetite and have to remind myself to eat.  Dad said yesterday, "You're looking kind of skinny these days."  They worry I am dabbling in my old nemesis eating disorders again. 

Room of Dreams

It's 2:00 AM. I am standing in my favorite convenience store holding a bottle of Gatorade. In front of me is a dingy looking fellow. He fumbles in his pockets after putting a twelve-pack of beer on the counter. My favorite clerk rolls his eyes at me as I stand in line.

"Will that be all, sir?" the clerk asks impatiently as the fellow straightens out a crumpled mass of sweaty and dirty one dollar bills and places them upon the counter.

The man mumbles yes and then leaves with his purchase forgetting his change.

"Drunk son of a bitch," the clerk spits venomously. "You see what I have to put up with all night?"

I nod in agreement knowing all too well. I was once like that dingy fellow with the twelve-pack of beer and the crumpled mass of ones. I purchased my drink and then walked up the few hundred yards to my favorite spot in the little park across from the mill – my quiet place of contemplation. I sat as I mulled over the previous day's events.

My support group went okay. Only three people showed and two of them were me and Rosa. The other lady named Mary is such a kind soul and was very understanding of ours being a fledgling group. I promised her things would pick up over time.

"Rosa, I am worried there are just not enough crazy people in the Valley to support a group like this," I said, driving us home afterwards.

Something about what I said struck Rosa as funny and she laughed.

"Oh, I think there are enough crazy people to go around. They just need to find you and many are in denial," she replied.

In this day of Prozac, Wellbutrin, and atypical antipsychotics, maybe people have found their panacea in drugs. Maybe support groups are passé. It genuinely worried me.

"You know that old Kevin Costner movie about baseball?" Rosa then asked.

"Field of Dreams?"

"Yeah," Rosa said, borrowing from the movie. "You start it and they will come. Just give it time."

I liked that analogy I thought as I swung through town to take Rosa home. I am building my own field or room of dreams. It certainly is a dream of mine to have a thriving group of mentally interesting people coming together in friendship and with a common cause to help each other. Maybe next week will bring more to the meeting. We need some kind of critical mass to build for it to grow. I believe these small groups are intimidating to newcomers. I know they would be for me and my social anxieties.