Mornings

For the last few months, a good portion of my time has been spent at the Southwest Behavioral and Methadone Clinic.  In fact, every morning except for blessed Sunday, when I get to sleep in, I grace this "Hope Inspiring Place"(That's their slogan) with my presence. It has definitely given hundreds of people a new chance at life, both heroine addicts and crazies alike.
I show up six days a week at 8:30, which gives me plenty of time to wait in an unpredictable line in order to receive my medicine for the day (Methadone, not Goofballs, though some would say they're one in the same.); I have Spanish Class at 10:30, and therefore have to take the bus from the East side Safeway shopping center, to the lower West side of town in order to get there.  The line is unpredictable for two reasons: The first is that there are no appointments made to collect Methadone in the morning, the doors are open from 7am to 11;30am, which means that sometimes when I come in I'm the only one in the building besides Julie, the sweet nurse who pours our methadone and provides us with Jolly Ranchers and a reassuring smile to start the day.  Other times, there is barely even standing room available in the waiting room, and it takes an hour of wait time, before you can score your drugs and be on your merry way. (Its still much more efficient than waiting sick all day for the dope dealer to return from Mexico though. And much much cheaper... Healthier too!)
Anyways, the second reason why this crackhead line is unpredictable is because of the people it is compiled of.  Please don't think I am acting a snob- I actually don't mind the wonderful characters this place can sometimes provide.  Not only are half the people grumpy ex heroine addicts who have a severe dependence to dopeamine, which makes them grouchy as hell when they don't have it.  But the other half of this daily clusterfuck is added to by the "Crazies".  Southwest Behavioral also offers mental help to low income families.  So you have the rockers, screamers, laughers, and catatonics added to the loud and angry ex junkies, and it makes for a cocktail of in-credulousness  mostly just because of the fact that it all works together with almost no problems!
Last month when I showed up for my dose, there were two cop cars parked out front. They were committing a schizophrenic patient to the mental institution. She was this tiny woman with wild gray and gold hair and a fiercely disillusioned temper. "Fuck you Ramona! crack an egg on my head see how it feels you devilbitch Fuck You! Its Gramps whose hiding something GET HIM! Fucker stole all the Twix! Call me Lucy- Short for Lucifer! And YOU my dear, ARE GOING TO HELL!"  The poor women dug her feet into the muddy snow, trying her best to keep from getting in the cop car- kind of like a scared wild carnivore, one that is sick and starving  and needs help but won't risk capture.  It was heart breaking really.  I guess it really makes you realize how lucky you are to have a fairly sound mind and capable body.  Whenever I get down on myself for my addiction and depression issues, I think about this women, or others like her, and then I think about how I could Have been born some kid with a cleft palette and cerebral palsy, born in a cardboard box to starving parents who live in some third world country.  Yes- in the lottery that is life, you and me definitely win.

The Ice Man Cometh

The First Weekend In February...

So there I was, minding my own business, watching Netflix and eating Eggos with my boyfriend, when we heard it- That optimistic singsong chime that has forced parents to handover their spare change to tiny begging hands for the last fifty years- The Ice Cream Truck! And it was right there on O'leary st (our street), just jingling along, just audible over "My Cousin Vinny" so that my boy friend and I looked at each other with pie eyes before lunging out the door with our pocket change.  Our driveway is really long so we were panting by the time we got the the street (we smoke, a lot.). We were also quite puzzled, since the brightly painted vehicle spewing loud music just seconds ago was now no where to be seen or heard.  It was rather chilly outside and in our lust for sugary treats we had forgotten our coats, so, laden with disappointment, we trudged back to our barren apartment.  For a few minutes once we got back, we sat in silence, contemplating the reasons behind the disappearing ice cream man. 

"Fuck that! Lets go find the bastard. Get your coat." My boyfriend, who, in all honesty is kind of a candy fiend, grabbed the keys to our crappy blue ford truck and walked out the door, Superman sweatshirt in hand.  I, not one to turn down what will surely be an adventure, grabbed my black leather jacket and hopped in the "Blue Menorah". 

We didn't have to drive far, actually we just followed O'leary st two blocks down before we saw it, full of sweet sugary goodness, parked in the driveway of a run down house, that was brimming with trash and rusty nails.  We parked inconspicuously across the street, and waited for the truck driver to return. The side door of the house opened, and a skinny Mexican-the Driver, followed by a fat Caucasian probably the owner of the slum, stumbled out.  The white guy handed the Driver a wad of rolled up green bills.  The Driver smiled and disappeared into his truck.  He came out with a small brown bag (what it was full of, we'll never know. But I'm guessing it probably wasn't ice cream.) and he handed it to the chubby man standing in the doorway.  They exchanged niceties, before the driver got back in his truck, careful not to turn the music back on until he turned onto another street.  My boyfriend and I just giggled to each other as we drove to Safeway.  We were still smiling about our adventure on the way home, and that night we ate a pint of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream... each.  What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday