Conversation With a Middleaged Crackhead, Part One

Tags: Bobby's demon, crack, coke, cocaine, rock, graveyard shift, veterans shelter, homeless veteran, sober living facility, Department of Veterans Affairs, creepy case manager, antisocial social worker, disrespectful resident assistant, RA, The Yellow Shirts, veterans swagger, walk of shame, The Invisible Man, mannequin, drug fiend, porcine

Its alive:
The Return
of
Bobby's Demon
With Bobby
In Tow

Came in from working a graveyard shift in Montebello, CA and crashed on my bunk at 6 a.m. Bobby's bed was still made and empty. His damp laundry was still sitting in the chair. Sometime later that morning a case manager came in to the room:

"Jarvis! James! JARVIS! Wake up Jarvis!"

"Uhhhh?"

"Where's LaRosa? Jarvis!"

"Uh? He's not here."

"I can see that. Was he here last night?"

"Dunno. I was at work. I worked graveyard shift last night. Trying to sleep now."

"Was he here Saturday? Wake up Jarvis! Did he come home Saturday night?"

He had me there. I couldn't skate on that question.

"Umph, No."

"No? Was he here Friday night, Jarvis? Wake up! When was the last time you saw LaRosa?"

"Huh? Uhhh, Friday evening."

"Friday?! Is he gone, Jarvis?"

"Yeah," I admitted, mostly so I could get my sleep by getting rid of this rude, ill-mannered, disrespectful, could-care-less-about-my sleep case manager, "he's gone."

I went back to sleep. Minutes later, a Yellow Shirt, the much dreaded and despised Resident Assistants, came in to my room and yanked Bobby's sheets and blankets off the top bunk. I went back to sleep.

The next time I awoke, it was Bobby himself in my room, emptying out his drawers for packing.

Something I didn't tell you about Bobby. He's fastidious. Organized. Deliberate. And a little prissy. Most vets, when they get kicked out of here, scoop up their belongings, toss clothes and toiletries haphazardly into a large trash bag, throw the bag over their shoulders and swagger down the walk of shame like they'd just disowned the place instead of the place having just disowned them.

Not Bobby. Bobby was folding and tucking when I woke.

"Well, look who reappeared," I said, "The invisible man."

"Yeah. I gotta get this stuff organized, bro. When'd they take my bedding down? Saturday?"

"No," I answered, "I don't think they even knew you were gone until this morning."

"No shit?" Bobby said, surprised, as he continued to fold and tuck his clothes into a large suitcase.

"Yeah. If I'd known those bastards were THAT lax in their bed checks, I'd have put a mannequin in my bed long time ago," I said.

While Bobby and I were having this mundane conversation, I looked at Bobby and could tell he was still spinning from the crack. In fact --now you're gonna think I'm crazy, but I saw what I saw-- I saw IT: the thing, the drug fiend, the demon, whatever you want to call it.

I just saw a quick glimpse of it while Bobby was standing profile to me, but I saw IT! It was like a semi-transparent overlay over Bobby's face. I saw its eyes and its thin, narrow nostrils and its bulbous jawline. It was sort of porcine and sort of squirrelish.

I saw IT! And I swear that for just a few seconds, while Bobby was still standing profile (sidefaced) to me, IT turned its head and LOOKED AT ME! ANNOYED! It was ANNOYED with my presence! Oh jesusmarymotherofgod! So that's what a crack demon looks like.

END OF PART ONE OF THREE