Callous George

It is mid-morning down at the shopping center. A great congregation of the gang has gathered. Even that old standby, Cap-with-Tag-Guy, has made an appearance. He is stoically silent as always as he leans upon the nearby wall listening to his Sony Discman as he gyrates to the music.

"Hey chicken man," George tells Ferret laughing hilariously.

"Don't call me that," Ferret replies, sullenly.

I can't help but smile. George can be so unruly sometimes.

"How much for some breasts?" George then asks as he laughs even harder. "I like my breasts spicy."

For those of you new to the blog, Ferret is a long time friend who is now working over at Kentucky Fried Chicken. George loves to pick at Ferret about his crappy and menial job.

"If you don't shut up," Ferret says, "I am going to tell everyone about Pookie stealing your wallet yet one more time last night."

George clammed up quickly. I was interested in hearing about George's latest faux pas with Pookie.

"How much did she steal?" I ask George.

"I let her borrow it," George says, finagling the truth.

"Uh-huh," I say, not believing a damn thing George just said.

Ferret had enough of being berated by George and walked off just as Rosa was walking up. Rosa glared at George with a eat shit and die look.

"Here comes yo girlfriend," George says of Rosa to me.

"I wish he would go away," Rosa says to me quietly out of earshot of George as she sits down next to me.

"Been selling yo pussy lately?" George asks Rosa coarsely.

"Fuck you, you drunken lush," Rosa replies, not missing a beat.

George laughs. Big S is sitting next to Rosa and me upon the bench and he chuckles as well.

"George, have you been drinking?" I ask.

"Nope," George replies. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Let's walk back to your house," Rosa tells me as she gets up and grabs my hand.

"You better pull out your wallet cause you are gonna have to pay for a piece of that honkey ass," George says of Rosa, brusquely, as he laughs once again.

I glare at George with a piercing stare. I don't take kindly to him berating Rosa about her past. George doesn't have much room to talk as he has quite a few skeletons in his closet as well.

"I almost kicked that son of a bitch's ass," Rosa tells me, angrily, as we were walking home.

"Don't mind George," I say. "That is just his version of having fun."

"I don't know what you see in that old lush. It certainly isn't funny," Rosa says. "He is just not good company."

It is hard to explain me and George's camaraderie. We have been friends for years now. I have a sneaking suspicion that George had had a few drinks thus loosening his tongue today. George sure did go a long way this morning in burning the remnants of the bridges between him and the gang. He will sober up and hopefully realize how much of an asshole he was.

The Road More Traveled

The midnight hour has long since passed. I look at my watch as I walk and it reads 3am. I am on mile three of my nightly hike and am running out of steam. My old nemesis, schizophrenia, has hit me hard tonight.

"Does it ever end?" I say to myself as I hike. "I get so tired of dealing with this damn disease."

Thus is the cyclical nature of my mental illness. It ebbs and flows much like the tide – many times hitting me when I least expect it.

"I now know why so many schizophrenics commit suicide," I say, furthering my conversation with myself. "Death is the only peace of mind from this terrible affliction."

My paranoia strikes hard as I walk down a darkened back street on my way to my home. Haunted by my vivid imagination and the misfiring synapses of my mind – I am tormented by the voices in my head.

"You deserve to go to hell," they say. "You are a terrible person. God hates you."

Shadowy figures meld in and out of the darkness. I shudder in fear.

"You deserve to die," the voices continue. "Why don't you just end it all? You would be doing the world a favor."

I look at my watch again turning on the indiglo feature to light its face. The time is now 4am. The last hour has passed by in what seemed like a millisecond. I am walking by that little convenience store run by the Middle Eastern men. A lone neon Budweiser sign blinks in the window beckoning for me to come inside and buy a few beers. I am drawn to that mesmerizing light like a moth to a flame.

"One beer won't hurt," I tell myself. "Alcohol will calm the voices and let you sleep."

"No, dammit!" I then say as rationality hits. "You may never be able to quit drinking again you fool."

The voices in my head play on my foibles and increase in intensity. I finally arrive home, take a shower and sit down to write this. A lone tear erupts and rolls down my cheek as I try to capture in words what happened tonight. The nightmare that can be my life and the intensity with which it is lived is more than I can bear. It is times like these that I would normally turn to mind altering substances to change how I feel and alter my reality for a brief few hours – anything to feel better or just different.

"One day at a time," I tell myself as blissful and escaping sleepiness overcomes me. "Take it one day at a time."

Beauty comes in all Forms

There she was – standing at her front door waiting on me. She looked gorgeous and I almost couldn't believe it was the same Rosa I have been hanging out with for the past many months – the same Rosa who was once homeless, smokes cigars, wears men's t-shirts, blue jeans, and old women's boots.

"Dear god girl," I said, astounded, as I got out of the car to open the passenger's side door for her. "You look ravishingly beautiful and fantastic."

"Thanks," Rosa said as she smiled broadly and blushed – eating up the positive attention.

We arrived at the Italian bistro after a short drive and they gave us a small and secluded corner table in the back of the almost empty restaurant. Upon the table was lit a single candle creating a romantic and cozy ambiance of subdued light. Italian arias were playing softly on the sound system. I ordered us an appetizer of fried calamari, fried vegetables, and marinara sauce – and soon, after that, the main courses arrived.

"How are your clams and linguini?" Rosa asked as we sat eating.

"Great," I replied. "You want to try it?"

"I'm not much on seafood," Rosa said, turning up her nose to my clams.

Rosa's chicken parmesan looked and smelled delicious as well. Rosa didn't leave a bite on her plate which pleased me to know she enjoyed it so much. The only mar on the dining experience was the length of time it took our server to bring our check after eating. That is one of my pet peeves about sit down restaurants. I finally got up to catch our server and ask for our check. He brought it out to us shortly afterwards apologizing profusely.

"Thank you," Rosa said as I was driving us home. "Thank you for treating me like a lady. Not too many men have done so in my life."

"You're welcome," I replied, having genuinely had a wonderful evening. "I only wish I could afford to do this more often."

"Next time, I will treat you," Rosa said. "You know – women's lib and all."

I smiled as I reached over to hold my best friend's hand. The evening would prove even more interesting as it progressed after dropping Rosa off at her home, though.

I left Rosa's house and managed to make it to my nightly AA meeting just in time for it to start. I was very pleased to find a young black man in attendance. I have been hoping that if more black people were to come to these meetings then George and Ferret might be tempted to attend as well. Calamity struck though as one of the curmudgeons that is the group's old-timers had to rain on the proverbial parade.

"Hi, I am Carlos and I am an alcoholic and an addict," the young black man said as we went around the room introducing ourselves.

"There are other meetings for addicts," Bob, an old timer, spoke up and said – interrupting the introductions. "This is a closed meeting for alcoholics only."

The young black man looked extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable at first, and then haughtily got up and escaped out the front door of the meeting hall.

"Screw this shit," we all could hear him mumble huffily as he left and slammed the front door.

I grew so angry. These stodgy old-timers are the bane of our local AA group. They are one of the main reasons I have been driving the long drive to a local college town to catch my meetings – meetings filled with young and compassionate people with a finger on the pulse of the modern alcoholic.

"I thought that was terrible, Bob," I said, speaking up, causing the whole room to grow uncomfortable and await Bob's reaction. My hands were shaking I was so nervous for doing that and I surprised myself because my social anxieties would normally cause me to shy away in horror at doing such a thing.

Another lady in the group agreed with me and got up to leave. Old Bob crossed his arms in a defensive posture as he sat and stayed steadfast in his opinions and views. I was tempted to get up in protest and walk out as well.

The meeting ended and I walked out of the meeting hall with a resolve to never visit this certain chapter of AA again. I am going to miss my good friend Wanda, but I just can't take people in genuine need getting thrown to the curbside like that due to some goddamned technicality. There are many more AA meetings in the area with which I can grace my presence. I just hope that one young man didn't go off and get drunk or use because of one stodgy old fart in AA. This is not the first time this has happened with this very same group. I wash my hands of them.

The Softer Side of Rosa

I was sitting down at the shopping center at lunchtime today. I had just stopped by the little Korean restaurant and ordered stir fried chicken and rice foregoing Rodger’s Barbeque. I was deftly eating my lunch with wooden chopsticks as Rosa sat next to me on the bench near the dollar store.

“Don’t Koreans eat dogs and cats?” Rosa asked, brusquely.

I smiled and cringed at the same time.

“If they do, then this is some damn delicious canine and feline,” I replied, amused.

I immediately thought of my blogging bud Abbagirl and her mother’s delicious Korean cuisine. What Rosa said was terribly non politically correct, but she didn’t mean any harm. It was an ignorance brought about by not visiting much of the world other than the states and this little corner of the world we live in.

“Wine me and dine me tonight,” Rosa then said.

“You mean a formal date?” I asked.

“I want to go to the little Italian restaurant down in the Valley for dinner,” she said. “I have been craving chicken parmesan.”

“How ‘bout I pick you up at five,” I said, glad to have something interesting to do for a change.

“I am going to knock your socks off tonight,” Rosa said, gleefully. “You know that shirt you bought me at the mall? I am going to wear that with some dressy pants and will put on makeup and lipstick. You won’t even recognize me.”

I hadn’t seen Rosa so excited by something in a long time. I was glad to give her something to look forward to tonight. Despite Rosa’s burly demeanor and appearance, she is still a woman at heart. I have often been seeing the softer side of her recently as we have become closer and closer friends. She puts on a masculine and steely persona from years of living a hard life, but that front seems to be breaking down lately.

“Are you going to dress up?” Rosa then asked.

“I am going to knock your socks off as well,” I said as I smiled. “I will wear my favorite button up shirt, some khaki pants, and my leather dockside shoes with navy socks just for you.”

“We are going to have so much fun tonight,” she said, giggling as she gave me a hug. “I can’t wait.”

I left Rosa sitting on that bench smoking cigarettes to walk down to the bank to withdraw enough cash to fund tonight’s dinner date. Oddly enough, I am looking forward to this as well. The last date I went on was with my ex, Carolyn, and we ended up fighting and arguing for most of the evening. I realized it was the death knell for our relationship which ended shortly afterwards. Let’s hope I and Rosa’s date is without such negative drama. I am sure we will have a grand time.

A Pill for Every Occasion

One of the perks of having a father who is a pharmacist whose best friend is a doctor is that medications are readily available. My father feels there is a pill for every occasion. Last night as I was taking my nightly medications for my mental illness, I told him of not being able to sleep for months. He gave me two Librium and I slept like a baby through the whole night for the first time in the longest time.

“Don’t take both of them at once,” he told me knowing me all too well.

I walked home and took both of them before bed anyway.

My mother is on a plethora of medications for her schizophrenia. They cause her to sleep around the clock - severely reducing the quality of her life. Personally, I would rather be crazy than live such a life, but I would never dare tell my father that. My mother is complacently medicated much to my father’s relief. It is all rather sad if you think about it.

At one point in my life, I was on the same medications as my mother. I slept all the time and could barely hold down a job. My then wife would grow so exasperated with me.

“Something’s wrong in that you need to sleep all the time,” she told me.

“It’s my Zyprexa for my schizophrenia,” I replied.

Rachel didn’t believe me so I talked her into taking one pill just to prove a point. She slept for twenty four hours straight and never again gave me a hard time about sleeping due to my medications.

De Rigueur

I was reading Cheryl's blog this morning and she was writing about worrying that she sounds like a broken record as far as her blog is concerned. I worry about the same. My days constitute of the same routine: I and Rosa going to get breakfast, lunch at Rodger's Barbeque, hanging out at the shopping center in the afternoon, my nightly AA meeting and then taking George on our nightly drunken express. I am a creature of habit and have to live this way to do well with my illness. I am thinking of only writing when something out of the ordinary happens. I realize the blog is getting boring and my writing has been milquetoast lately. I try so hard to write about the mundane in an interesting way, but I have found myself struggling with things to write about lately. I don't want the blog to become the daily conversation between Rosa, George, and I unless that is what you all want to read which I doubt. Let me know what you all would like to see on the blog. I need your input. If you get enjoyment out of the blog then I do as well.

The Ladies of the Night

Spent most of yesterday working on computers. My friend Charlie brought me his wife's computer that had quit working. I immediately knew what was wrong and changed the power supply and got it working again. Charlie was overjoyed when he came to pick it up and take it home as I had saved him hundreds of dollars. I also put together a new and much faster computer yesterday for myself and am pleased. I finally just broke down and charged some computer parts to my credit card. My old computer is on its last legs and will now become a file server for my music and videos. That's about all it is good for.

Rosa called me last night as I was crawling into the bed. We ended up talking for what seemed like hours. She asked me a hundred questions about my former marriage.

"What was your ex-wife's favorite thing to do?" she asked as I was lying in the bed on my cordless phone.

"Rachel loved to eat out," I replied. "We spent a fortune eating out while we were married. I would have rather we stayed at home and cooked."

"What kind of food?"

"Anything Asian or Chinese," I replied. "We would drive all the way up to Atlanta just to eat sushi or bento boxes."

"I never did like Chinese," Rosa said. "It always looked like something a cat threw up."

I laughed.

"Why couldn't she have children?" Rosa then asked.

"Rachel had polycystic ovary syndrome," I replied. "Her ovaries were filled with cysts interrupting egg production."

"Did you own your house?"

"I took out a mortgage and bought our house just before I and Rachel got married," I said. "I gave it to Rachel in the divorce along with the payments. Rachel got our new Volkswagen as well. I didn't want it or the payments. It was a chick car."

It was my turn to ask questions.

"What was your daughter's father like?" I asked Rosa. "And were you two married?"

"Oh, hell no," Rosa replied. "We were never married. Peter was a bastard who loved me and left me. I haven't seen him in twenty years."

The conversation then took a nose dive into the gutter as I and Rosa got to talking about her past prostitution days.

"What was the the weirdest thing about being a hooker?" I asked.

"Weird men wanting anal sex," she said. "I drew the line at that. Nobody was sticking their strange wanger up my poop chute."

I burst out laughing.

"Was it scary?"

"It could be," Rosa said. "I was so hooked on crack that I would have done anything for my next fix, though. The thought of getting your next rock overcame your fears. You got used to it."

"What was the worst thing about prostituting?" I then asked.

"The police," Rosa said. "The police would harass us ladies of the night. When I lived in Atlanta, their police were the worst – bunch of corrupt bastards. I spent many a night in jail waiting on one of my working girlfriends to come and bail me out."

"Did you make good money?"

"I made damn good money," Rosa said. "I would charge $20 dollars for a blow job or hand job, and $40 dollars for a missionary style screw. I smoked it all up in my crack pipe, though."

The midnight hour had arrived and I yawned deeply. Rosa told me goodnight and that she would see me in the morning. I hung up the phone, rolled over, and went to sleep for a few hours. I love I and Rosa's talks. She has lived such an interesting life.

No Beer after 2am

It's early Sunday morning on Mother's Day. I am on the last leg of my nightly three mile jaunt. I stop by my favorite convenience store for a demitasse break and to see my favorite clerk.

"I love Sunday mornings," the clerk says exuberantly as I step up to the counter to pay for my cup of coffee.

"Why?" I ask, intrigued.

"We stop selling beer at 2am," he says. "All the drunken crazies go home and go to sleep."

I smile. I know the drunk and crazy role all too well.

"Had this one guy come in at midnight," the clerk furthered. "He was so drunk he could barely stand up. I wouldn't sell him any beer and told him to leave. He said he was coming back in the morning when I get off to kick my ass. Can you believe that?"

I could believe it. I worked at this same store on third shift for over a year. I have vivid memories of the drunken shenanigans some of the patrons would pull after midnight and before. Nothing would surprise me after being a convenience store clerk for so long.

"He's long home in the bed sleeping off that drunk," I replied, trying to assuage the fears of my friend.

I finally found the bottom of my cup of joe and bid my favorite clerk goodbye. He was still talking as I escaped out the door. I was thirty minutes from home and headed that way.

Earlier in the evening had found me at a totally un-noteworthy AA meeting. George picked me up and I jumped into the driver's seat and we headed for the country on the drunken express. George broke with tradition last night and was drinking wine instead of beer.

"Why are you drinking wine?" I asked George as I drove.

"It was on sale," George replied, nonchalantly.

George had finished his second bottle when we arrived at a little small town on the outskirts of the county – those empty wine bottles clinking as they hit each other rolling around on the floorboard of the backseat. George had been quiet for awhile and then drummed up a conversation.

"I made $175 dollars at work yesterday," he said with a sly and drunken grin as he slurred his words.

"Holy shit!" I replied. "That is almost a quarter of what I draw in disability every month."

"It was a fluke," George said, drunkenly. "But it allowed me to pay off some debts I owed. Every time I would drop someone off, the phone would ring for someone else needin' a ride."

George's job is volatile income wise. One day he will make a hundred dollars – the next, he will only make twenty. I have often asked George why he just doesn't get a more mainstream job with a stable income and he told me he doesn't get along well with management types.

George was just finishing his third bottle of wine as I drove back into town. It was time for me to take him home and go about my nightly hike. George's mother will not let him bring alcohol into the house so I watched as George poured out the last few inches of wine left in that green bottle.

"Night man," I said as I handed him his keys.

"See ya my little white brotha," George said as he held out his hand for me to shake it.

I walked on home after shaking George's hand to get my backpack and gear for my walk. It was a pleasant night with all's well that ends well.

Rolling Back the Clock of Life

The Sun peeked over the horizon this morning with a dazzling array of orange, red, and yellow amid bright blue skies with nary a cloud. I was sitting with my best friend, Rosa, in a local diner eating breakfast around 7am. The waitress had to come out to draw the blinds on the windows the sun was so bright to the east. I and Rosa both squinted until the shadow of those blinds overcame us with relief as they were drawn.

"I drank a six pack of beer last night," Rosa said eating a spoonful of her buttery grits with a wedge of half eaten toast in the other hand.

"What brought this on?" I asked, surprised, as I looked up after putting my newspaper down on the table. Rosa had my attention.

"I don't know," she replied. "I guess I just wanted to feel out of the ordinary. I am not much of a drinker though."

"I could have used a six pack myself last night. I was having a tough night."

"Remember the last time we drank?" Rosa asked.

"Vividly," I replied as I cringed. "We ended up in bed."

Rosa smiled coyly as she ate her last piece of bacon. The waitress then brought our ticket and I paid. Rosa and I left the restaurant and began the journey back to my home. I could feel a nap coming on.

"Do you ever think of me in that way?" Rosa asked as we passed over the small creek next to the dollar store.

"What way?" I reply. "Oh, you mean sexually."

I blush.

Rosa laughs and says, "You are so modest. I like that about you."

"My medications for my schizophrenia completely blunt my sex drive," I respond. "It is a known side effect. I can't remember the last time I was aroused so don't take it personally."

"We need to see about getting you on some Viagra," Rosa said as she reached out for my hand.

I burst out laughing.

"I am sure my father would just love me coming into his pharmacy and filling a prescription for Viagra. I can be the schizophrenic love machine."

Rosa giggled like a little school girl. I liked seeing this softer side of her. It was as if the clock of life had been rolled back twenty years. We were talking like teenagers again. We soon arrived back at my house and Rosa started to watch an old Batman movie on television. I and Maggie crawled into bed and took an hour nap. Now, I have the whole day ahead of me with a weather forecast of thunderstorms. It is going to be a damn good day. Hope you all have a great weekend.

No Gods of my Understanding

I sat surly and attention deficit in AA last night. I wanted to be anywhere but there and kept looking at my watch. That hour passed by excruciatingly slow. One elderly lady talked for twenty minutes about her pets and the hell they have been giving her lately. Yawn.

"This is when you need a meeting the most," I thought as I sat there drinking really bad coffee as I fiddled with the dollar bill I would later place in the donation basket.

The meeting ended with the entire group standing around in a circle reciting the Lord's Prayer. I couldn't wait to bolt out the door and light up a cigarette. My good friend Wanda was sitting next to the door of the porch puffing on a cigarette as well.

"You never share in these meetings anymore," she told me. "I haven't heard you share in weeks."

"I just haven't had much to say," I replied, apologetically.

"Well, when you share it really helps others."

I don't need this shit.

"I'll try to share tomorrow night," I replied.

There really aren't too many bad things going on in my life at the moment to bitch about. I have those minor quibbles with my father and his role as the family fixer, but other than that things have been good. I shudder to think if this is the calm before the storm as it often is. My natural tendency for self destruction often occurs when the pasture is greenest so to speak.

"Have you been working the steps?" Wanda then asked of those fabled twelve steps.

"I stopped at step two," I replied. "I just can't believe some mythical power higher than me is going to take away the urge to drink."

"It's a God of your understanding," Wanda said, correcting me and growing frustrated with my lack of belief.

"I just can't understand any gods," I replied.

I could see from the look on Wanda's face that she was growing exasperated. She had that "this guy is going to drink any day now" look I see often in AA. The people in AA think their way is the only way, but if you look at the statistics, the numbers that get sober with AA are abysmally small. I would love to see the results of a double blind research study with sugar water as the magical elixir placebo as it compares to going to these meetings.

"Who do you consider your higher power?" I ask Wanda.

I already knew the answer.

"My lord and God, Jesus," she replied.

I sighed as I put out my cigarette in the ashtray and bid Wanda goodnight. I walked home thinking about the steps and they just seemed so daunting to me. It reminded me of the trouble I had with college and those rigidly set paths to certain goals.

Step One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.

I took comfort in that I could at least get one step right: step one. I doubt I will ever get beyond step two. There is just something terribly distasteful about not taking responsibility for my past addictions and throwing it into the hands of some grand mythical pooh bah in the sky. I will take my chances with reality. I've had enough delusion in my life due to schizophrenia to last a lifetime. I don't want anymore.

Money Falling off Trees

I was so overjoyed to see Rosa out and about after lunch today. We were sitting down at the shopping center with the threat of thunderstorms on the way. A person who wrote me who reads the blog says I am codependent with my friends. Maybe I am, but it is a good codependent. I wanted to reply that they were a surly old judgmental cow. lol

"Are you still carrying around that drunk every night?" Rosa asks as she sits smoking a cigarette.

I was so glad to see her feeling her old self. Rosa hates George.

"Can you believe George's mother, Mrs. Jones, is paying me $20 dollars a night to do it?" I say.

"You're shitting me!" Rosa exclaims. "That is a hundred dollars a week!"

"She inherited some money from a relative that passed away," I reply. "That is how she could afford to buy George that new Buick."

"Money seems to fall off trees for you," Rosa says.

"I know," I reply. "I am pretty lucky, aren't I?"

Rosa and I then broke into a discussion about homelessness since we have both experienced it. I was telling her about the homeless guy and his recent forays into getting a home.

"He always blames everything and everyone else for his homelessness," I say.

"Well, from what you have told me that guy is a total idiot," Rosa replies.

"Oh, he is brilliantly smart," I reply. "He knows how to play the system to his advantage. He doesn't have to work. He gets three meals a day and shelter. Every time he decides he is tired of the streets he eventually manages to find a home."

"He is homeless by choice then," Rosa says.

"Exactly," I reply.

"What kept you homeless?" I then ask Rosa.

"The drugging," she replied. "Paying rent ate into my crack money and crack was more important. When I got clean and moved down here to get away from my old using buddies, I immediately found a place to stay."

"Same for me," I reply. "I was more interested in drinking copious amounts of beer all day and not taking my medications. I was crazy when I was homeless. When I sobered up my parents gave me a home."

"Do you realize how lucky you are that your father bought you a house?" Rosa says.

"Yeah," I reply. "But I do have to pay a price for it. Dad can be so overbearing."

"You are a Saint for putting up with him," Rosa says. "I would have told him to stick it where the sun don't shine."

I laughed. Rosa doesn't take shit off of anybody.

"Well, let me go get my haircut," I reply.

"Drive by the house afterwards," Rosa says. "I want to see how it looks."

I told Rosa I would and walked on home to get my car. If you have read for a long time then you know one of my biggest phobias is going to the get my hair cut and styled. Wish me luck!

Chemists try to Cure Crack Addiction

Chemists at Georgia Tech and the Mercer University School of Medicine have been trying to discover a drug that will help cocaine addicts break their habit. The team, led by Dr. Howard M. Deutsch, published their findings today in the Journal of Medicinal Chemistry.

Their strategy is to make a drug that gives addicts a sensation similar to cocaine without any risk of a deadly overdose. By replacing cocaine with a less dangerous drug, doctors will be able to slowly wean the addicts from their habit. Methadone has been used for years to help heroin addicts quit spiking up. The FDA more recently approved the drug Chantix to help people quit smoking.

[...]

Read more...

The Project

"You are going to be my project the next few weeks," my father told me this afternoon as I was taking my medications over at his house. "We're getting your mind straight and now we are going to work on your appearance."

"Oh, shit," I thought. This was going to be another of my father's grandiose plans to reinvent Andrew.

"Tomorrow, I want you to go get your hair cut and styled," he said, handing me forty dollars. "After that, I want you to start jogging with me every night."

"I have my job," I protested. "George's mom is paying me to drive him around every night."

I didn't mention the George drinking part.

"Why can't he drive?" my father then asked, much to my chagrin.

"He has a drinking problem like me and we don't want him to get another DUI."

"I never did like you hanging around that George," my father then said.

If it were up to my father, he would actually go so far as to pick my friends for me – no doubt, the boringly middle class automatons from his circle of friends.

"I want you to start dressing up everyday," he then said. "Take pride in yourself and your appearance for a change. Quit wearing those old t-shirts and blue jean shorts and for god sakes go buy you some new tennis shoes."

I was growing frustrated with this conversation. I hate "dressing up." My father can be such a busy body.

"I also want you to go down to the eye doctor and get some new contacts that you can wear. I will pay for them. You look better without glasses. I will get your mother to make an appointment."

Like I said, dad was trying to reinvent me. I had the choice of acting surly and non-cooperative or giving in and bowing down to my father's wishes. It is best not to make waves I decided. My father is one of the most headstrong and stubborn old goats I have ever encountered and I just didn't have the will nor the fortitude to contest him and his plans for me.

"Dad has put me on his reinvent Andrew plan," I told Rosa later on the phone.

"I get tired of how your father treats you," she replied. "You are thirty five fucking years old!"

"He means well," I said. "He just wants me to be upper middle class acceptable."

"Putting on airs you mean," Rosa replied.

I laughed.

"Yes, putting on airs."

A Sick Friend

I grew very worried when I didn't hear from Rosa yesterday. It is not like us to go a day without talking. I feared she had had another round with her crack cocaine addiction and was at the crack house. My worst fears were abated when I drove over to her house this morning. She was alive, but just barely.

"Sweetheart, I have been worried like hell about you," I said as she opened her front door after I knocked. "I didn't hear from you yesterday and you aren't answering your phone."

Rosa looked pasty and white – like death warmed over.

"I've got the old stomach flu," she said. "I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday."

I walked into Rosa's kitchen to check her cupboards and fridge for anything light I could fix for her. She badly needed groceries and didn't have anything to drink.

"I'll be right back," I told her as I left to go to the grocery store just up the street to buy some stuff for her.

I arrived back at Rosa's house after spending $30 dollars shopping. I pulled out a big pot from under her stove and started some homemade chicken noodle soup. I poured in cans of chicken stock and then emptied foil packages of white meat chunked chicken, sliced celery, carrots, wide egg noodles, and an onion. Rosa was also overjoyed that I had bought her two twelve packs of Sprite which is a soft drink that is easy on a sick stomach. Soon the smell of the chicken noodle soup was wafting throughout her house.

"Thank you so much," Rosa said as she stood in the kitchen next to me drinking a lukewarm Sprite. "That soup smells delicious. I am starving. I hope I can keep it down."

"That is what friends are for," I replied as I stirred the soup one last time and put the lid on. "Let this simmer for about an hour."

"Can you do me one more favor?" Rosa then asked.

"Sure," I replied. "You name it."

"Can you go by the convenience store and buy me some cigarettes? I ran out the day before yesterday and felt too ill to get out of the house to buy more."

I left and bought Rosa four packs of cheap cigarettes down at Fat Albert's and took them back to her. She surprised me with the haste at which she opened up a pack and lit up. Rosa was desperate for some smokes. I bid my friend good bye and told her to call me tonight to let me know if she was able to eat and was feeling better. The stomach flu is just one of those ailments that has to run its course. She will be fine in a few days.

The Bogeyman of Chambers County

George was pretty quiet tonight as we embarked upon the drunken express as I call it these days. It didn't help that I was pretty quiet as well. George had probably drunk a six pack of beer before we even made it out of town.

"Pull over," he said as we were leaving the county. "I've gotta piss."

I pulled off the side of the road way out in the countryside. It was a beautiful night as I left the car running and got out to stretch my legs. George carefully walked down next to the woods to relieve himself. I was looking up at the stars noticing that the summer constellations were making their first appearance when George took off running and hollering.

"Fuck!" George hollered. "There is something in the woods!"

George finally stopped - breathing heavily - and told me to move the car where the headlights shone down into those woods.

"It's just deer," I said loudly. "They are harmless."

"I'm tellin' ya something big, dark, and black was moving in dem woods," George replied.

"Come on," I said. "Get in the car and lets head on."

George jumped in the car, shutting and locking the doors, and then buckled up. I was still smiling as I put the car in gear and drove off. George regained his composure and cracked open another beer.

"You gotta watch out for those kamikaze deer," I said with a grin.

"Shut up, man," George replied, his pride bruised. "I swear that wasn't no deer."

"Uh-huh," I said as I drove on. "It must be the bogeyman of Chambers County."

George was none too thrilled at me making light of his fear. I thought it was funny. There is nothing in the woods of Alabama that can hurt you except other humans. George would have been a mess if he would have been homeless in the woods as I was in the winter of '04. I drove until George had drunk enough that he was falling asleep in the passenger's seat and then took him on home. I will never let George live down tonight.

Rendezvous with Rachel

It is well after midnight. My ex-wife has come over with our Boston terrier, Otis. We are lying in the bed after making love.

"Have you missed me?" she asks.

"I've missed you more than anything," I reply as I brush the hair out of her face.

Otis and Maggie are in the den. You can hear them play fighting loudly.

"I got promoted at work," my ex-wife tells me. "I am now head librarian."

"Being a librarian was always your calling," I reply. "You still read a book every few days?"

"You should see my house," she replies. "You almost can't walk there are so many books. I've started selling them on E-Bay. I've actually made a few hundred dollars."

"Do you regret us getting a divorce?" I then ask wistfully.

"I don't know," Rachel says as she sits on the edge of my bed as she puts back on her bra. "I miss you, but I don't miss your drinking and crazy ways."

"It was pretty bad, wasn't it?" I say.

"If you were only like you are now then we would still be married," she replies as she gets up to put the rest of her clothes on.

"Well, I need to head home," she says. "I have to be at work early in the morning. I love you."

"I love you too, doll," I say as I walk her into the den as she puts Otis back on his leash to leave. "Tomorrow night?"

"I'll see you tomorrow night," Rachel replies. "Let's go up to Newnan and eat at our favorite Chinese restaurant."

I suddenly wake up, breathing heavily. It was one of the most realistic and vibrant dreams I have had in years. I can still remember how Rachel's skin felt as we lay unclothed in the bed and the smell of her hair. I sit on the edge of my bed as I light a cigarillo trying to decide if what I just experienced was a good dream or a nightmare. I do know it made me miss my ex-wife deeply. I will never be able to get back to sleep now. It is time for coffee and breakfast as I put these vivid memories behind me.

Staying the Bachelor

"I've decided I am just going to stay single for awhile," I told Rosa honestly as we were walking back from Rodger's Barbeque after eating lunch.

"Is this about A.A.?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "They are right in that relationships can cause things to get complicated and fucked up for someone new to sobriety. I don't want to go back to drinking."

We were halfway across the Chattahoochee when I stopped on the bridge to lean upon the guard rail and look down at that swirling green and turgid river water. Rosa leaned up next to me. The traffic flew by us on the bridge pushing gusts of wind that whipped our clothes and hair into a frenzy.

"I'm always here if you change your mind," she then said. "I appreciate you being honest and forthcoming with me."

"You know what?" I said as I looked up at her. "If things were different and I wasn't some ex-drunk basket case then I would sweep you off your feet."

"Those things don't matter to me," she replied of my alcoholism and my mental illness. "I love you just the way you are. You are one of the better men that I have met in my life. But I understand why you must stay single."

"I appreciate you saying that," I said as we started back walking.

Rosa reached out to hold my hand and clasped it firmly.

"Friends forever?" she asked as we stepped off that bridge to make our way to our homes.

"Friends forever," I replied as I looked at her with a warm smile.

"Today's going to be a beautiful day. I can just feel it," Rosa said.

"It already is," I replied as we crossed the railroad tracks and disappeared into downtown.

_______________________________________

Things of note…

• Today's actions were taken in part by the many wise and insightful comments from my blogging friends yesterday. Thank you for the comments and this post was dedicated to the women who visit my blog. It pays to be forthright and honest with a woman, doesn't it? I was extremely surprised things went so smoothly with Rosa. She took it really well. I guess she really does love me.


• I dropped my $350 dollar Canon camera the other day and ruined it. On my meager income, I will never be able to afford another until next Christmas. So thus ends pictures for quite awhile and tolls the end of my photo blog. All my funds are going into buying myself a new computer these days and I have saved up $285 dollars.
  


• My friend Cheryl asked me in an email about my father giving me a hard time about Rosa eating on my restaurant tab all the time. Actually, he is just glad I will go and eat. My social anxieties tend to make me shy away from busy restaurants such as Rodger's. So he is glad I have a friend to go with and am getting a "home cooked" meal everyday with vegetables.
  

Ghostly Visages

My pain pill induced one of the more vigorous nights of insomnia I have experienced in weeks. I had forgotten why I – as a schizophrenic – can't take such pills. They cause me to hallucinate and stay up all night. Tonight's wonderful experience (sarcasm) with Lortab and schizophrenia was that of shadowy darkness with shadowy figures coming in and out of that darkness. I was walking the streets on my nightly hike and everywhere were ghostly visages haunting me. I would see something move out of the corner of my eye in my peripheral vision and it would make me shudder with paranoia and fear. These experiences are so hauntingly vivid and real to me, but are purely imagined.

I finally arrived at my favorite after-hour's park and sat trying to collect myself.

"God, I wish this would pass," I said aloud – scared. "I wish I would have never taken that pill."

My hands were shaking and my heart was beating vigorously as if I had just undertaken a marathon. I covered my eyes trying to stop the shadowy figures from haunting me and invading my mind. It can be the most uncomfortable of existences.

"It's going to be okay," I said as I sat there on that cold bench rocking back and forth as I held myself in the cold night air.

I've had this same experience before. When I had my motorcycle accident and broke my arm and shoulder, they had me on injections of Demerol to dull the terrible pain I was experiencing. I grew delirious with hallucinations and delusions. That was when what I call ghosting was at its most intense and extreme. Ghosting is common for me where I see the ghostly visages of cats or animals lazily lying around everywhere. They are black and white and lack color, and are usually innocuous. That was also the time I thought my ex-wife was embroiled in making pornography films and was also pregnant with my child (Rachel was barren). I thought they were shooting such films in my home and would walk upstairs to stop them only to find empty, silent rooms as I stood alone. Rachel was flabbergasted by my pleading calls on the phone for her to stop such vagaries and take care of our child.

Some hours have passed and I am feeling better now. I have often found that time and solitude can often cure what ails me as I have given my system time to metabolize that pain medication. Please remind me tomorrow not to take that pill and to explain to my father what happened tonight. I am afraid my addictive personality will cast all cares to the wind and take another pill come medication time. Let me go crawl into the bed and see if sleep will overcome me. I do so need some rest…

White Pills of Bliss

Arrived home from I and George's little jaunt out into the countryside in his new car. That car drives like a dream and has a silky smooth V6 with loads of power, but it guzzles gas. I had forgotten how much I love spending time with that old drunken fool. George had on his finest Hawaiian style shirt and a pair of khaki pants and his captain's cap. He was dressed to a T in familiar George fashion. We drove out into the country on the back roads to escape the city and the police. That way, George could piss anywhere along side of the road. I know all too well how drinking copious amounts of beer can make you piss like a racehorse.

"When are you and your old lady (Rosa) going to get married?" George asked at one point.

I smiled at George's playful bluntness.

"You didn't know?" I asked, playing along. "We are already engaged."

"You're shitting me!" George exclaimed.

I laugh and say, "Yes, I am shitting you, you dumbass."

"Well, you spend all your time together so you might as well be married."

I and George then had a long discussion about Rosa and why the two of them don't get along.

"She always wants to borrow cigars from me and it pisses me off," George said.

"Rosa thinks you are a cheap bastard that's why she doesn't like you," I reply, thinking of all the countless numbers of beers I have bought George over the years. George is pretty cheap towards Rosa.

We then talked of how it would be embarrassing for me to date Rosa because of my family. I feel terrible about it, but it is true. My father was aghast at me dating an older woman such as my ex-girlfriend Carolyn. He still has high hopes for me having children one day even knowing I could never handle offspring. He would be in horror at me dating a 46 year old ex-prostitute, ex-con grandmother who smokes cigars. I had to smile even thinking about it. My brother and sister married the picture perfect upper middle class mates – much to my father's approval.

I finally arrived home to four messages from my father about tonight's medications. I had forgotten all about them.

"Where in the hell have you been?" He asked, so worried.

"Oh, just driving around with a friend," I replied. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Come on over and take your meds so I can go to bed. I had a hell of a day at work today and am tired."

My father had called my dentist earlier in the day about a molar I broke a few weeks ago. It has started to hurt and I was popping aspirin and Tylenol like candy and this worried him. I couldn't get an appointment until June to get it fixed so my dentist called in a prescription for Lortab to my father's pharmacy so I had a surprise in tonight's medications – a little white pill of bliss.

"You sure will love this," my father said as he handed me my medications to take along with a plastic cup of water.

"You sure I can't have another in case I get to hurting during the night?" I asked as I smiled devilishly.

"Shithead," My father said affectionately. "I bet you would just love to take two. Go get some sleep and quit taking all those Tylenols. You are going to ruin your liver."

I walked on home waiting for the effects of that Lortab to take hold. I have completely forgotten about that broken molar and am on cloud nine. It is going to be a fun night. See you all in the morning.

A Drive with George

I got to drive George's new metallic tan Buick at lunchtime today. We drove way outside the city limits as we talked. He came by to pay me back some money he owed me. I have never seen someone so proud of a used car. George drove a string of pieces of shit that were constantly breaking down for years and deserved this. This car is very nice and almost new – it even has a new car smell.

One of the conditions for George's mother buying him this car was that he was not to drink and drive in it. George said he has struggled deeply with this.

"It's my favorite time to drink," George told me of driving.

"Call me and I will drive you around," I said. "I have nothing but time on my hands and would enjoy the company."

I worry about George and I worry about our friendship. A rift has formed between us in my newfound sobriety. We were much like Rosa and I spending most of our free time together. George was my drinking buddy and we would talk for hours and shoot the shit over a case of beer.

"How about tonight?" George then asked. "I will buy us a bag of McDonald's cheeseburgers and we will drive around over a case of beer."

I smiled - glad George took me up on the offer. My A.A. friends would be howling in protest though that I will be hanging out with an old alcoholic friend who is still using. I trust myself though and I will be driving after all.

"I have A.A. at seven so pick me up at the meeting hall at 8pm," I replied. "I wish you would go with me. I still can't get Ferret to go."

"A.A. screws up my drinking," George said. "That time I went with you made me feel like a drunk and I ain't a drunk."

A.A. will mess up your drinking for sure. If I even think of drinking, the faces of my A.A. friends pop to mind.

I drove me and George back to my house and he left to continue with his fly-by-night taxi service. It worries me that an alcoholic man's livelihood is dependent upon driving around everyday all day. The temptation to drink for George is just too great. Maybe I can help my friend in some small way. There will be those that will say I am enabling him. I am only doing what I would want a friend to do for me when I was still using and drinking heavily.

A Terrible Dilemma

It is going on 7:30am. I and Rosa are walking through downtown heading back to my house after eating breakfast. It was a long weekend and we didn't get to see much of each other and I relish this time with her. It is a cool and blustery morning bespeaking of winter's past. A backdoor cold front blew through yesterday upon the heels of thunderstorms. We needed the rain badly.

"How was your meeting with your daughter?" I ask as we walk past the convenience store.

Rosa, her daughter, and granddaughter spent time together this weekend.

"Oh, I was a nervous wreck," Rosa replies. "But I didn't make a fool of myself. My granddaughter is precious. I cooked all weekend and we drove up to Atlanta and ate at The Varsity."

"I am so glad things went well," I say sincerely.

"I just wish you could have been there," she replies.

I pull out my pack of cigarillos handing Rosa one. I light up and then hand Rosa my small box of wooden matches. She struggles to light hers in the blustery wind.

"I thought we were finished with winter," she says of the weather as she pulls on her cigar after finally lighting it.

"I know," I reply. "It feels like fall, not early May."

We walk quietly for a few hundred yards. I can tell Rosa is in deep thought. I finally break the silence by speaking up.

"A penny for your thoughts?" I ask.

"I am just thinking about you and this chick you are enamored with," Rosa says. "George keeps carrying on about it. Says you call her the Celtic beauty. That is a pretty affectionate term."

"We are not dating," I reply, defensively.

"Yet?" Rosa asks. "Would you date her?"

I don't lie, but answer in a roundabout fashion.

"They say you can't date in A.A. during your first year of sobriety," I reply. "I am supposed to stay single for a long time and so is she."

"That didn't keep you from dating Carolyn," Rosa says, rightly.

"I know," I reply. "I am only human."

"And that is what I like about you," Rosa says. "You don't bullshit and I get a feeling you are bullshitting me about this woman."

I grow quiet as we walk just a few minutes from my house. Rosa was right. I usually pride myself on my honesty with my friends and I was being deceptive.

"You know I love you, don't you?" Rosa finally says as we walk through my neighborhood. "Just don't play games with my heart."

I grab her hand and keep walking. I am faced with a terrible dilemma – an overly feminine young woman with whom I am attracted to physically and an overly homely looking much older woman with who I am enamored with her personality. I am worried I will lose Rosa's friendship if I start dating the Celtic beauty and I don't want that to happen. I don't envy myself of the choice. I realize I love both women deeply. A conundrum indeed!

Chapter 13, an Unlucky Number?

Tonight's A.A. meeting was pleasant. I have been having some misgivings about the program and it was nice to have some of my fears assuaged by an innocuous and non-confrontational meeting. I'm struggling with the whole cultist atmosphere A.A. imparts and the agnostic in me wants to revolt. There is just something distasteful about not taking responsibility for your addictions by turning them over to a higher power. I kept thinking of my Celtic beauty who was not there tonight and maybe that will keep me going. I am honestly smitten by her beauty and personality.

Had a mostly quiet day working on my book. I finished the 13th chapter today with a hoped-for total of 30. Papa and the children managed to get in their crucial crop of cotton and sell it only to have calamity strike when their two prized mules grew ill. I am still debating on where to take this story line. I may even trash chapter 13. I don't want the book to become too morose, but I want to maintain the suspense that such an occurrence would cause during the Great Depression. Buying two new mules would be akin to buying a brand new car in depression era dollars. Papa would have to put up his house and next year's crop for collateral and times are already lean. Don't worry...the book will have a good ending. My grandmother lived a wonderful life.

Comedy actor Inman dies aged 71

Actor John Inman, most famous for the comedy Are You Being Served?, has died in London aged 71, his spokesman said.

You may remember John Inman from his famous role as Mr. Humphries on Are You Being Served? He was my favorite character and will be sorely missed. Rest in peace, John.

A Canvas of Twinkling Jewels and Deep Dark Azure

Sat in that darkened park that so entices me to visit for most of the night. Nearby was the little roadside barbeque stand near which you could still smell the dampened ash of Saturday's grilling. My stomach grumbled as I thought of a quarter of a barbecued chicken smothered in tangy southern-style sauce. I would have to wait until Monday to fulfill that culinary fantasy though.

The night seemed darker than usual – the moon hidden by thick billowing clouds alit by the light pollution of the city casting an eerie orange glow. I could only see a few feet in front of me as I fumbled with my radio to find a better station. Ah, there it was – 890 AM out of New Orleans - with my favorite show, Coast to Coast AM. I listened for a long time as I drank hot and rich coffee from my thermos as the guests talked of Mayan mysticism and the metaphysical aspects of their ancient calendar. I chuckled at the seriousness in which the callers undertake the subject when discussing pure bullshit on this show – it's like Jerry Springer for intellectuals.

Ring. Ring.

I am startled by that sound. It is coming from my backpack. I had forgotten Rosa had given me her cell phone to keep overnight in case of an emergency during my walk. I curse as I fumble with the phone, finally pulling it out, and hit the answer button.

"Hello?"

"Can I speak to Rosa?"

"She's at home asleep," I reply.

"What an odd time of the morning to be calling," I think. It must be one of her old using buddies. He sounded like an older man with a gravely and raspy voice.

"Tell her that I called," he said and hung up.

I chuckled. He didn't even tell me who 'I' was. Probably best to let that sleeping dog lie. I don't want Rosa undergoing any old temptations.

I pull on my backpack after drinking the last of my coffee. I light a cigarillo with a wooden match like Clint Eastwood in those old spaghetti westerns and begin the journey home. The clouds have cleared some and a few stars are peeking out between breaks in the cumulus. I throw my head back and gaze almost becoming dizzy and giddy like a small child with a toy telescope seeing the magnified moon for the first time. Natures wonders never cease to amaze me and I think of all the people sleeping soundly missing the most peaceful and comforting time of the night – serenaded by nature's breezes upon a canvas of twinkling jewels with nothing but a horizon awash in the most beautiful deep dark azure. I almost didn't want the walk home to end. Good night.

Processing…

Still trying to catch myself and process all that has been going on the past few days. Have doubled up on my Risperdal at night to combat my symptoms and it seems to be helping. My mind is in shutdown mode and it is hard to take it all in. The paranoia is still there - like some unwelcomed guest that will not leave or go home.

I drove over to my new home today and thought I was being followed. What normally is only a ten minute drive, took thirty with my weird route to dissuade my followers – the police – men in black suits with dark sunglasses. Prying eyes seem to be upon every corner and citizens are looking out of their houses to watch me pass with phones at the ready in their hands – waiting to call the police. Is all this happening? No, but you can't tell me that when it occurs. My surreal reality is just as vivid as real life at hand.

Left my new home this morning and drove over to our pond. The sun decided to make an appearance today after a week of mostly cloudy skies. Those glorious rays shining down upon me made me smile and brought forth a bellowing feeling of gladness from within. God's country and our pond were just as calming and peaceful as I always had remembered them. Squirrels ran through the big hardwoods lining the pond as fish broke the placid surface of the water in search of an easy insect meal. I berated myself for not bringing my tackle box and fishing gear so I could cast in a line with a lure. Some corn meal coated and pan fried bass or bream would have been a nice and economical supper garnished with coleslaw, hushpuppies, and French fries. I could see numerous fish at the water's edge as if they were taunting me.

Managed to create an uneasy peace with my father last night. I told him he must give me a little space when I get to feeling ill. He was comforted by the fact that I came over and voluntarily took the numerous pills I have to take every night. We had a long discussion about what really started World War II and the consequences of the Treaty of Versailles at the end of the First World War that left Germany economically crippled. German citizens were actually carrying wheelbarrow loads of German marks just to pay for sundry items such as bread. Hitler's desperate rise to power arose out a sense of desperation from a populace carrying little hope. War breeds jobs and economic vitality for the victor. Hitler's plan backfired though when the juggernaut that was the 1940s US military geared up and entered the war. It is eerily similar to Bush, 9/11, and the rush to invade other countries to protect our "freedoms" from nonexistent weapons of mass destruction. Oh well, my paltry words will do little to persuade a public so jaded by the frenzied propaganda machine that is modern media.

On the outside looking in…

It's an overcast and cool Friday afternoon. The shopping center is bustling with activity as people get in their last minute shopping before the stores close at seven. The sidewalks are choked with yuppie looking women surrounded by throngs of little rugrats. Rosa sits next to me and waxes poetically about her own daughter. We spend all our waking hours together these days. I keep wondering when she will grow tired of me.

"My daughter wrote me another letter," Rosa says. "She talked about being in prison and how it straightened out her life."

"I can only imagine," I reply.

"I've been in jail plenty of times for prostitution so I can't say much about it."

"Jail sucks," I reply. "I spent a night in jail for drinking and driving and learned my lesson as well."

"A pretty boy like you would get ass raped in prison," Rosa says. "You would be everybody's girlfriend."

I shudder to even think of what Rosa just said.

"When do you go see your daughter?" I then ask.

"The first week in May," Rosa replies. "She is driving here with my granddaughter to see me. I am so nervous."

"My social anxiety would be giving me fits," I retort.

"Don't put that in your mouth," A young mother says to her young son as they pass me and Rosa on our bench.

"I'm glad I and Rachel didn't have any kids," I tell Rosa. "That would have been one helluva mess."

"You would make an awesome father, though," Rosa replies. "I bet being a father would change your life for the better."

"Or drive me even crazier that I already am," I respond as I chuckle and smile. "Can you imagine me with teenagers?"

Rosa laughs and agrees. It certainly would make for an interesting family. But I would never want to pass on this affliction called schizophrenia to my offspring. My mother, her mother, and her mother's mother did. It made for some terrible and chaotic childhoods and lives. This line stops with me. I leave Rosa to walk on home feeling forlorn about the whole topic of parenthood. Somethings were just not meant to be.

Meals, Ready to Eat

Rosa got to experience her first military MRE today. A few years ago, I bought several large cases of the meals in case I ever became homeless again – spent a fortune. They have proved perfect for my little jaunts into the woods to go camping although they are rather heavy. They are even self-heating.

"This is really good," Rosa said with her mouth full of spaghetti and meat sauce.

"I told you you would like them," I replied.

I spent the rest of the afternoon unloading my car as Rosa helped. When my schizophrenia strikes, I get it into my head that homelessness is the only solution to my predicament. Hey, I know it's crazy, but I do have schizophrenia if you remember.

"Where were you gonna go?" Rosa asked me of my voluntary homelessness.

"Back out to the woods where no one can find me and force medications upon me," I replied. "I can be crazy and free and not have family watch me constantly."

I told Rosa how my father tries to punish me when I get ill or don't take my medications. He is a total control freak.

"You two's relationship is fucked up," Rosa replied.

"I know," I said. "I usually just ignore the bullshit and controlling nature of my father, but will speak freely when I don't feel well. It drives him crazy. I sometimes wonder who actually is the person with a mental illness in our relationship."

We finally unloaded my car and I came in to write this as Rosa settled down to watch Court TV.

Breakfast on the Lam

Found Rosa sitting down at the shopping center this morning. She was eating a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit as she drank a coffee. It was a beautiful day if rather overcast with a slight cool breeze.

"Hey sweetheart," Rosa says as I walk up. "I've been worried about you. You weren't answering your phone this morning."

"I unplugged it," I reply. "It was making me paranoid."

"I guess you made it through last night."

"I packed up my car with all my survival and camping gear to leave," I say. "I was going to become homeless again."

"Well, I am glad you decided not to," She replies with a worried look upon her face. "When do you get your next injection?"

"Monday," I say. "It's going to be an interesting weekend."

"Oh, George does have a new car, by the way," Rosa says. "His mother bought it for him and he has to pay her back in installments."

I smiled thinking of George. Nobody deserved a newer car than he. He drove those old junkers for years.

"It looks in really good shape, almost new," Rosa added. "He asked about you. He said he owes you some money. I wish you wouldn't let that old drunk take money from you."

"I'm headed across the river for lunch," I say ignoring the comment about George as I start to walk off.

"I am coming over this afternoon so look for me," Rosa replies as she slaps me on the ass.

"See you after lunch," I say as I smile from her deviousness.

That Old Demon Arises

My old nemesis schizophrenia hit me hard today thus no posts or writing. I spent most of the day in bed trying to sleep off the funks. My mother came over four times to check on me. Rosa, who has a key to my house, came over and crawled into the bed with me. It was very welcomed and I was having such a hard day that I needed the comforting company of another.

Had a spurious argument with my father tonight. I had missed my injection for my schizophrenia.

"Leave me alone," I told him. "Just leave me the fuck alone."

"I pay your bills. I do everything for you," he said.

"I didn't ask you too. You took all that upon yourself so don't fucking blame me. Just don't do it anymore."

"I am going to cut off your internet," he then said.

"Fucking cut it off," I replied as I slammed the door shut.

Twilight Joy

It is going on 9pm. Twilight still lights the horizon – one of the joys of living on eastern daylight savings time. A train is roaring through downtown and I am writing down the locomotive types and their numbers upon my scratchpad as I and Rosa stand next to the tracks.

"This has to be the most boring shit I have ever done," Rosa says loudly over the din of the passing train as she looks on with the most disinterested look.

"Hey," I reply, putting my pad back into my backpack. "You said you were bored and wanted to hang out with me. This is one of my favorite things to do."

"No wonder your ex-wife divorced you," Rosa says snidely as she smiles. "This is about as boring as watching plants grow."

I laugh and say, "Rachel divorced me because I was a crazy lush who wouldn't take his medications. She would actually go to the hobby shop in Atlanta and buy me trains."

"Well, from what you've told me, she was weird as hell."

I couldn't argue with Rosa. My ex-wife was pretty interesting.

"Come on," Rosa says as she grabs my hand. "I am leaving. You've had enough trains for one night."

Just an hour beforehand, I was standing around in a circle holding hands at the end of my A.A. meeting saying the Lord's Prayer.

Our Father, who art in heaven…hallowed be thy name…

The Celtic beauty was standing next to me with her hand in mine. It was a wonderful moment of intimacy and touch – her warm hand feeling soft as the finest silk.

Thy kingdom come…thy will be done…on earth as it is in heaven…

"I'm sorry about the other night," I tell her after finishing the Lord's Prayer as the meeting concludes and we walk outside to our cars.

"Sorry for what?" She asks as she stops walking and looks up at me with a confused look. I am a good foot taller than her.

"Sorry for coming on to you."

"Oh that," She says. "I thought it was sweet. You were so nervous your hands were shaking."

"I thought you would never talk to me again," I reply as I laugh trying to make light of my nervousness.

The Celtic beauty throws back her head and laughs as well.

"Silly," she says of me. "I just need some time in sobriety before I start dating again. My divorce drove me to drinking every night and I almost lost my job and life began to spiral out of control. I would date you in a heartbeat if it wasn't for that. Just give me some time."

I felt so much better after she told me that. I thought I had ruined everything and now the door is cracked slightly awaiting me to open it and come inside. I drove home with a big smile upon my face as I headed to Rosa's house which soon found us down at the train tracks and the start of this story. It has been a pretty damn good day.

On Writing Hardscrabble Times

My book is quickly progressing. Today's chapter centered on the family getting in their crop of cotton just in time to sell it on the market while the price was still high which was crucial to surviving the upcoming winter. Sally Lou's (the protagonist) hands were broken and bleeding from picking cotton for weeks and so were all the other eight children of Papa. The hired hands, L and Bear, helped as well almost being surrogate sons to Papa, Sally Lou's father, despite being two young orphaned black men – their mother having been killed in a tornado at the turn of the century. In an era were black men were treated as second class citizens, Papa treated Bear and L as men of equal stature and was chastised by the local white men in town for doing so.

"It ain't right to have niggers eating at your table and using your tableware," One man told Papa in town in this chapter.

Papa was a big, burly man hardened from years of sharecropping a farm and told the white man to watch his words. The man cowered and went about his way mumbling under his breath.

I think I have done a pretty good job in capturing the flavor of the south during the depression. My grandmother always told me times were hard then, but they had such an extremely close knit family that tempered the harshness of their poor reality. I hope to catch the essence of her early life in my attempts at writing this book. My father is going to love it. I have only let him read one chapter, the first, and he keeps asking me for more and has been invaluable in helping me flesh out my main characters. Well, let me get back to writing. Chapter ten awaits.

A Lambasting Reader

I received a lambasting email today about my smoking habit. They said I was using "government money" (my disability is funded mostly by MY TAX DOLLARS I paid into the system working for decades) to support my smoking habit. WRONG! My proceeds from the advertisements on this blog easily cover the $1 dollar a day, one pack a day habit I have. At first, I grew angry and defensive, but my rational side overcame my rashness when replying. They called me a burden on the health system.

"Statistically, you are more likely to die in a car accident if you drive a lot than I am to die of complications from smoking," I replied. "I rarely drive my car and can go weeks on one tank of gas. I like my odds better."

"My schizophrenia and the extremely expensive ($1500 dollars a month funded by Medicare part D) medications to subdue it also will cost much, much more than any smoking related costs over the course of my lifetime," I further added. "Should I off myself to save your valuable tax dollars? The only cure for schizophrenia is death."

It is well known in scholarly circles about the relationship of schizophrenia and other mental illnesses to smoking. There is something about nicotine that helps those of us that suffer with this disease to calm our symptoms. Don't believe me? Spend some quality time in the mental ward of a hospital as I have many times and you will find most that smoke. There are a lot of mentally ill people walking the halls with nicotine patches on their shoulders.

I will not do your homework for you, but if you are interested in the veracity of smoking as it relates to schizophrenia then just search Google. You will find countless scholarly studies that have been published in peer reviewed scientific journals about the link to smoking and mental illness.

Breakfast at A.A.

This morning we had our monthly A.A. breakfast meeting which happens on the first Wednesday of every month. The women of the group cooked sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, buttery grits, hash brown potatoes, and biscuits. It was delicious. We also had a speaker for the meeting and he was very interesting. He had spent his career in the Navy as a cook until he got court marshaled for doing untoward things while he was drunk. I have found that people from all walks of life come together in these A.A. meeting halls.

After the meeting, I was sitting on the porch talking to my favorite A.A. person, Wanda.

"Have you got a sponsor yet?" she asked.

"No," I replied, sheepishly.

"I wish you would listen to me," she said, motherly. "And get one."

"I wrote my ex-wife a letter," I then said (I took Annabel's advice). "I told her I still loved her and would send her money every month if I had a job. I told her I was sober, taking my medications, and doing well these days."

"Do you feel better?" Wanda asked.

"I don't care about how I feel," I replied. "I just want Rachel to have some resolution and peace. She will always mean the world to me."

Wanda is a nurse and soon had to head to work. She hugged me goodbye and once again urged me to get a sponsor. I told her I would try.

I then walked the long walk over to the shopping center. Big S was sitting out front.

"George has a new car!" Big S said excitedly.

"How in the hell did George afford a car?" I asked.

"He said his mother bought it for him."

"What kind is it?"

"Buick LaSabre," Big S replied.

I bid Big S farewell and walked on home. I can't wait to catch up with George to see if this rumor is true. George badly needed a new car as his Thunderbird was on its last leg. Let's just hope he doesn't wreck it while drinking and driving.

Picture of Rosa

I took this picture a few weeks ago as I and Rosa were sitting on the bench down at the shopping center talking up from the dollar store. FIWA wanted one so I called Rosa and she said it would be fine. She keeps hoping like George that my writings will make her famous. She doesn't realize how many people read this blog or she wouldn't let me do this no doubt. I love this picture and the story it tells.

Road Trip

"George told me you tried to ask a woman out the other night," Rosa told me as we were driving down to a nearby college town with a mall to go shopping.

"Damn George," I thought. You can't tell him anything without him gossiping about it.

"I just asked her out for coffee and to talk," I replied.

"Would you date her?"

"No," I replied, lying. I didn't want to hurt Rosa's feelings and felt something's were best not said. It didn't amount to anything anyway.

"You know I would be extremely jealous."

"I know. That's why I didn't say anything about it. I didn't want to hurt you."

We arrived at the mall after a forty five minute drive. I had a $500 dollar gift card for Belk's to spend from my birthday and also a $100 gift card from my brother for Red Lobster. I bought Rosa two very nice shirts.

"How do I look?" Rosa asked as she came out of the fitting room.

"You look gorgeous," I replied as I smiled, glad she looked so excited and happy. Rosa nor I can afford to go shopping much.

Rosa smiled sheepishly as I lavished praise upon her. I also bought myself four polo style shirts and two pair of shorts and we left. I still have $200 dollars left on that card. The prices were very reasonable and my shirts were buy-one, get-one-free.

We then headed for the Red Lobster that was just across the parking lot from the mall.

"I don't much like seafood," Rosa said.

"Then get a steak," I replied.

I and Rosa both got the thirty shrimp special despite her saying she didn't like seafood and I noticed she ate every bite. Rosa also got a margarita and I got one as well of the virgin varieties. We finished with dessert. I almost couldn't stand up I was so full. We really lived it up today.

"I don't know what I would do without you," Rosa told me as I was driving home. "It's weird having a cool friend who isn't also a crack head."

I smiled broadly.

"That is what best friends are for," I replied. "Just help me stay sober and I will help you stay clean."

I dropped Rosa off at her house and headed home. It was a really nice day and I enjoyed it despite my aversion to shopping.