I am The Reverse Welcome Wagon here at the Camp Hi N Dry homeless veterans shelter. When guys get kicked out of here for dirty drug or alcohol tests, they need a ride off the property and here I am, willing to drive them away.
I drove Wrongway Lettner away. I drove away vets who weren't even here long enough for me to learn their first names. Usually I drive them to civilian homeless shelters or cheap crack motels or bus stations.
Today, I gave Don "Wild, Wild West" a ride off the property. He slammed some speed this weekend and tested dirty Thursday.
"Slamming" speed is injecting it, what Don calls "Level Three" speeding. Level One is snorting, Level Two is smoking, Level Three is slamming and "You don't wanna know what Level Four is," Don told me this afternoon as I was driving him and his worldly possessions over to The Bridge, a nearby shopping mall where Don intended to treat himself to a movie before he faces the fact that he has no place to sleep tonight.
I'm going to miss Don, the crazy rat bastard fukola marine.
The case managers are going to let Don keep the $1,000 worth of electrical tools they talked some other charity outfit into buying for him a few weeks ago so he could get the electrician's job-- a job that paid so much money that Don couldn't resist spending some of it to slam the speed.
"We didn't think you'd last this long," one of the case managers told Don today. They were so impressed by his longevity (8 weeks) that they let him keep the tools if he promised to get into yet another drug program, any drug program out there (and there are MANY here in what may be the drug usage capitol of America) . . . any drug program not connected to them.
I have been here 13 weeks. I've taken just as many drug and alcohol tests as anybody else here. I keep testing clean, which probably raises suspicions with the powers that be here: "He doesn't look crazy and he's not doing drugs," they might be saying, "What's that Jarvis guy's angle?"
The case managers here are so crooked that the only way they can navigate is at an angle.
I finished my third and final "Transition" class last week. That meant that I qualify to make an appointment to make another appointment to be "screened" by a VA caseworker to see if I qualify to enter into a contractual agreement with the VA to be able to approach property management here to submit an application to become a tenant at a minimum of $355 a month, more likely $400.
All this to rent a tiny room with no kitchen or toilet or air conditioning.
I won't even bore you with the myriad of bureaucracies it took me to qualify for the transition classes. It was a bunch. Lotsa guys didn't make it, like that ponytailed dude just out of Chino (prison) who kept saying in the morning job search meetings that he wanted to be a hitman for the mob or sell drugs for the CIA. He met some plump woman at the Redline train station and she whisked him away . . . a dubious 'catch' (for her) in my opinion.
Lotsa guys didn't make it this far. Like the guy with the Hitler mustache or the guy with the big, big, really big head or the bald headed ex-truck driver from New York with tufts of red hair only around his ears or the guy from Jersey who was too jittery from being wound WAY too tight for this century; guys who were here only one or two days and guys who disappeared after a few months . . . they didn't make it.
This place is like the TV show "Survivor." There are all sorts of tricks and traps and political intrigue and set-ups to get a guy kicked out of here, like the staff is trying, TRYING HARD, to trip you up, to test your mettle.
I'm hunkered down. The Pig has a full tank of gas and my blankets and pillows are still in the back seat. Just try and emancipate me, you tricky VA muthafuckahs. Try it.
I drove Wrongway Lettner away. I drove away vets who weren't even here long enough for me to learn their first names. Usually I drive them to civilian homeless shelters or cheap crack motels or bus stations.
Today, I gave Don "Wild, Wild West" a ride off the property. He slammed some speed this weekend and tested dirty Thursday.
"Slamming" speed is injecting it, what Don calls "Level Three" speeding. Level One is snorting, Level Two is smoking, Level Three is slamming and "You don't wanna know what Level Four is," Don told me this afternoon as I was driving him and his worldly possessions over to The Bridge, a nearby shopping mall where Don intended to treat himself to a movie before he faces the fact that he has no place to sleep tonight.
I'm going to miss Don, the crazy rat bastard fukola marine.
The case managers are going to let Don keep the $1,000 worth of electrical tools they talked some other charity outfit into buying for him a few weeks ago so he could get the electrician's job-- a job that paid so much money that Don couldn't resist spending some of it to slam the speed.
"We didn't think you'd last this long," one of the case managers told Don today. They were so impressed by his longevity (8 weeks) that they let him keep the tools if he promised to get into yet another drug program, any drug program out there (and there are MANY here in what may be the drug usage capitol of America) . . . any drug program not connected to them.
I have been here 13 weeks. I've taken just as many drug and alcohol tests as anybody else here. I keep testing clean, which probably raises suspicions with the powers that be here: "He doesn't look crazy and he's not doing drugs," they might be saying, "What's that Jarvis guy's angle?"
The case managers here are so crooked that the only way they can navigate is at an angle.
I finished my third and final "Transition" class last week. That meant that I qualify to make an appointment to make another appointment to be "screened" by a VA caseworker to see if I qualify to enter into a contractual agreement with the VA to be able to approach property management here to submit an application to become a tenant at a minimum of $355 a month, more likely $400.
All this to rent a tiny room with no kitchen or toilet or air conditioning.
I won't even bore you with the myriad of bureaucracies it took me to qualify for the transition classes. It was a bunch. Lotsa guys didn't make it, like that ponytailed dude just out of Chino (prison) who kept saying in the morning job search meetings that he wanted to be a hitman for the mob or sell drugs for the CIA. He met some plump woman at the Redline train station and she whisked him away . . . a dubious 'catch' (for her) in my opinion.
Lotsa guys didn't make it this far. Like the guy with the Hitler mustache or the guy with the big, big, really big head or the bald headed ex-truck driver from New York with tufts of red hair only around his ears or the guy from Jersey who was too jittery from being wound WAY too tight for this century; guys who were here only one or two days and guys who disappeared after a few months . . . they didn't make it.
This place is like the TV show "Survivor." There are all sorts of tricks and traps and political intrigue and set-ups to get a guy kicked out of here, like the staff is trying, TRYING HARD, to trip you up, to test your mettle.
I'm hunkered down. The Pig has a full tank of gas and my blankets and pillows are still in the back seat. Just try and emancipate me, you tricky VA muthafuckahs. Try it.
This is great, we definitelty have a lot in common.
ReplyDeleteHave you visited to Detroit?
You should - you'd find it VERY inspirational. I'll link you later today.
http://cracktivist.blogspot.com
Thanks. I hope people understandthat crackheads are funny but rehab is serious.
ReplyDelete