Two Jobs, One Week

Have you ever had one of those weeks where you’re just wanted? My simple interview turned into a four-person meeting. I spent so much time interviewing that I barely made it back home before my transfer expired. Arriving back at my apartment, I witness landlord Bertha W. arriving. Normally, I’d avoid her, but I’m on a mission.

I enter the apartment building right after her and surprisingly I don’t run into her. Tossing leftovers in the microwave, I jump on my computer and map out my next destination: drug screening. I’m not even there for more than a minute before she’s knocking on my door. “Hi. Come on in,” I respond.

“I’m not coming in there,” she insists.

Suit yourself, I think. Leaving the door open, I return to my computer, concentrating on choosing which of these drug-screening labs would be the quickest route. She predictably walks right in as if she owns the place...oh, that’s right, she does.

“I see you’ve made headway in packing up,” she says. Astonishingly civil today, I attribute it to the dress shirt and tie.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I just got a job offer from The Discount store and I now have to take a drug test,” I say.

“Well, I hope you’ll pass.”

“You know I will,” I persist.

“I don’t know. You still have to be out by the end of the month. I’ve given you enough chances.”

“I know,” I reply, not looking up from my screen. Thankfully, she leaves on that note, allowing me to concentrate on my trip planning. She seems much more courteous than in the recent past. It makes me think there may be a way to convince her to allow me to stay and pay back the back rent. But having to plan for all contingencies, I know better.

The Discount store offered me a full-time position, two days in the photo department, and three days on register. They want to give me more time in the photo department, but it’s not currently available. There’s also the matter that I have no actual photo department experience, but I convinced him that my experience building my own darkroom, high school and college darkroom experience, and my professional wedding photography experience convinced the interviewer that I was competent to do the job. I also expressed that I believe I could service the company well in the electronics department selling digital cameras. He was very receptive of these ideas. He asked me my rate of pay at The Deli and Pizza Joint, and he responded, “Oh, I think we can to better than that.” Far out, my smile expresses. He did show concern about my current employment at The Deli, but I assured him that this is the place I intended to work full-time and that The Deli hired me on the spot, meaning I worked the same day I was hired. I will gladly adjust my schedule to accommodate The Discount Store.

I have to wait a week for the background check before I can start working. The drug screening comes back in a few days. The interviewer asked me about the DWI I disclosed on the application. “What consequences became of your DWI? What have you learned from that mistake?” he asks.

“I learned that I’m through with drinking and I’ve been sober for nine months,” I fib. No need to discuss my latest relapse and its consequences. With corporate don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude, he doesn’t dig deeper. Most people would ask if you’re in A.A., attending meetings, maybe even ask if you have a sponsor, but I’m glad he didn’t expand. I want to keep this interview positive.

After reviewing the possible schedule I’ve been asked to accommodate, I may have to drop most, if not all, of my hours at The Deli. No need to alert them until I’m officially hired. Working a normal first and second shift at The Discount instead of the third shift at The Deli solves another problem: where to sleep. By working only first and second shift, I can either sleep and eat at The Mission, or find shelter at a halfway house. Working third shift leaves me no bed.

My plan this morning was to sleep in, go to the interview, and visit The Pizza Joint to see if I can get my morning job back. Having spent most of the day dealing with this new job offer at The Discount, and running on only three hours sleep, I decide to buy something to treat myself, go home, and relax. I passed so many liquor stores, and with money in my pocket, I was tempted. However, I decide on Kung Pao Chicken. It wasn’t until arriving home that I discover my choice was poor. I don’t recommend the Tia restaurant at the corner of Selby and Dale. I ate this over-priced meal, the entire thing, and then fell fast asleep thinking of the one-liner; “Jeffrey Dahmer once ate an entire Chinese family and was hungry an hour later.”


Without Wax,

Are These Men Sober?

Just for fun! Thank you MS FIT!

My feet hurt from working on them for over ten hours at the new Deli job (no pun intented). So, I'm going to let these guys do the foot work. But, I don't feel too bad. I earned nearly $30 in tips and brought home two sandwiches.

But I must sleep fast, since I've got six hours to sleep before having to prepare for my interview at the Discount store in the morning.

Good night.

Without Wax,

Two Weeks Sober

Deli Sandwich
Originally uploaded by ew4n.

Heading out this morning, into the chilly wind, the short bike ride to the bus stop did not prepare me for the day’s accomplishments. Starting the morning with a large meal and packing a large lunch, I examined my wallet to verify I had both bus fare and enough money, combined with today’s Suburb Plasma donation, to buy 500 minutes of pre-paid cell phone time, now down to only three.

Looking into my wallet, I can’t help but calculate how many 1.75 liter bottles of whiskey I could buy, and amazed that I’d lasted two days without buying at least one. Many A.A. people speak of the subconscious planning the next relapse. I remember not too long ago when I we never nervous about thinking of a drink; it just would never happen. Now, it’s on my mind constantly. It’s Saturday and the liquor stores are open, which later will play a role in the day’s events.

I’ve gotten so used to this bus route, that near the end, I looked up from my novel, examined the surroundings, then my watch, and feet we had gone astray. We’re not in the right place for this time. Placing the bookmark, I move to the front of the bus where I discover the on-going conversation with the driver and a rider iss actually a training session. “How late are we?” I ask the driver.

“We’re not late”, replies the student.

I explain my reason why we are, stating that we’re not even at the next checkpoint, and we’re ten minutes behind. Both driver and student are dumbfounded. Okay, whatever; I just have to book to my appointment. I arrive just on time.

Donation goes off without a hitch. Again, I look into my wallet: I’ve got $60.00, three bottles of whiskey. I’ve been waiting two weeks to recharge my cell phone. Without that phone, I can’t get a job, call A.A. for help, nor communicate effectively. Right now, all I’ve got is e-mail. When I’m homeless in a little over a week, I’ll have little opportunity for e-mail access. Scarfing down my lunch on the bus, I think of how to best to spend the rest of the day.

Back in Saint Paul, the first stop is Wal-Mart to purchase 500 minutes of cell phone time. They charge $48.67 for a $50 phone card, which comes to $52.08 after tax; the best deal in town. What’s left is just enough bus fare for Thursday’s donation. Come Saturday, I’ll be able to pay the gym bill, so I’ll have some place to shower and change. The Monday after that, I’m going to try to donate locally at City Plasma. If they suspect I’ve donated someplace else, they’ll defer me for a week. But, I have to try.

The rest of the day is devoted to job searching. I apply at a nation-wide discount store on location at their kiosk, since I’ve tried online and they don’t have Internet job applications. There’s even a Website devoted to complaining about this national discount chain’s lack of online job applications. It’s a good thing I was dress fairly well, because as soon as I completed their job application, I had an interview with the hiring staff. They are looking to hire immediately, and I’ve found that there’s an opening in a few weeks in the photo department; something I might be able to move into.

Sprinting home for a pit stop, I change shirts, and plan to hit the small local retail outlets for job applications. Rushing to avoid running into my landlord, since she called and left her daily mentally degrading voice mail, I know she’s on her way over. I quickly change shirts, and prepare to walk out whatever door she doesn’t knock on. This apartment, unlike most efficiency apartments, has a back door. She usually parks near the front, but today, she didn’t. I hear her rapping on the back door and I silently squeak out the front. I don’t want to deal with her crap today. I’m on a roll. I want to look for work with a good attitude.

Finding four small retail stores that are hiring within walking distance is a good sign that school’s back in session. An ice cream parlor is hiring. My old pizza job is looking for a morning cook, so I’ll stop by there tomorrow and speak with the manager again. The Deli next door is also hiring for 3rd shift; I’m told to fill out the application and come back at night to speak with the manager. And finally, the local liquor store is hiring. Okay, not the best choice, but I’d rather be selling it that drinking it. I’m told the hiring manager will be in early Monday morning.

Evening comes and I’m back at The Deli. It’s late at night and, to my surprise, they’re still open and full of activity. The late evening crowd is a little too jovial; I witness one man bitch-slap another, and you’d think a fight would break out. But it didn’t, so I guess he really is his bitch. Speaking with manager Ryan B., who’s a hard-working man, I discover that he’s looking to fill out his employee roster. He asks if I’m willing to work 40 hours, and I agree. It’s a little busy, but he takes the time to go over the schedule and finds several openings for me. “Can you work tomorrow night?” he asks.

“Sure can,” I reply. I’m given a W-4, the menu to study, and a firm handshake.

“I’ll give you an extra $20 just for memorizing the menu. See you tomorrow night.” I’m employed! With a mental check of my wallet, I’m tempted to purchase a sandwich to go, but that would deplete my bus fare. Not wanting to beg for one, I think of the tuna sandwich I can make at home. I’ll probably go home tomorrow night with a meal.

Closing my thoughts, I’ve staved off a liquor purchase, recharged my cell phone, started The Deli job at night, and possibly will be working at a large discount store next week. Now, if I can only convince my landlord to keep me on. Because there’s a conflict with my new job: I can’t sleep at The Mission at night if I’m to work at night.

I'm looking forward to my next A.A. meeting.

Update: The discount store called for an interview Monday morning!


Without Wax,

Suburb Plasma

When all else fails, punt. City Plasma doesn’t want to allow me to donate for over two weeks while they send out my blood to an outside lab for testing, fine. I found another plasma bank in the suburbs on the Internet. I researched their Website; found out everything I thought I needed to know to attempt donating at this plasma bank outside the capitol city limits. Only having 10 minutes left on my cell phone, I decided not to call for answers, since all they’d have to do is put me on hold and my phone would be useless. A pre-paid phone with no minutes disables voice mail. There were some unanswered questions, but then, aren’t there always?



Monday:
Suburb Plasma is open Monday through Saturday, and closed on Sunday. My plan was to map the closest bus route at three one-hour intervals, leaving approximately at, 8:30am, 9:30am, and 10:30am. No matter how you slice it, it’s a three-bus, approximately 90-minute ride with a five to ten minute bike ride kicker.



The second bus leads me from the darkest parts of Saint Paul to the structurally blissful downtown Minneapolis. I’m dropped off on Nicollet Mall with a long wait for my last bus. I’m in awe of the way people are dressed, some stylish, others in business attire, still others in wild summer outfits. Everyone’s busy, talking, and happy. Yes, there are black people here, not as many as downtown Saint Paul, but they’re all wearing ties.

I hear dinging to my left. It’s the light rail, just yards away! This is the first time I’ve seen it in daytime. I rode it one night, but you really have to see it in the daytime. I have thirty minutes until my next bus; maybe I should ride it for a few minutes, then back. Well, maybe next time.

IMG_2633.JPG
Originally uploaded by Peter Lemon.

To my right, I see the Federal Building with its parabolic inverse arch of windows. This building housed the Minneapolis Central Library between the time the original was torn down and the new one erected in its place, which is just down the street.
All of these changes in architecture were just starting when I used to work downtown as a Software Engineer. I’m really missing my digital camera now.

Halfway there, I realize I forgot to bring a postmarked utility bill for proof of address. Oh well, I’ll just use the ID I have from The House. Although it’s not my real address, who cares? In retrospect, I’m thinking: Are you stoned or stupid? Being sober, I don’t even want to entertain the alternative.

My bus arrives. After a short ten-minute bike ride, I arrive at Suburb Plasma. My first impression is, so plasma banks do actually look clinical. Suburb Plasma looks just like a regular doctors office you’d find at a clinic. City Plasma, on the other hand, looks more like a fast-food joint (i.e. White Castles). There were young healthy Caucasian looking donors in the waiting room instead of poorly dressed, malnutrition blacks or white-trash smoking outside waiting to be screened. The staff members treat you with respect and are very professional. At City Plasma, if you’re not being hit on by staff, it usually means their simply having a bad day. It’s very relaxed there. If there’s not a non-politically correct comment being floated every few minutes, it’s usually because they’re actually dealing with an emergency. I mean, you can say things in there that would get you fired or sued for sexual harassment in the corporate world. It’s really like a singles bar, only drawing plasma instead of pouring alcohol.

The only differences that really matter is that they don’t appear to have any qualms about accepting people living in treatment facilities. This is good, since my latest ID has the address of The House, which is a halfway house. That and they pay less: $20 + $30 for two donations per week compared to $25 + $35 at City Plasma. That’s $50 instead of $60 per week. Beggars can’t be choosers.

In the process of my initial mini-physical, it comes to mind that there’s going to be questions about the injection sites in my arms. I just won’t tell them about the low protein levels. They ask me how I got the injection sites and I tell them about City Plasma. They contact them and discover I’ve donated six days ago. I cannot donate until after seven days from donating at another facility. I go home empty handed.

Tuesday:
After checking in, having passed the customary verbal and blood screening, I continue onto the initial mini-physical. No more than five minutes in the nurses office and I’ve misspoke. The nurse was asking why am I traveling all the way out to the suburbs to donate instead of donating at City Plasma. Not wanting to reveal that my quarterly blood screening came up low on protein, and eventually having to lie about having just recovered from binging, I said I was looking to move to the Minneapolis area and that “I spent the night there last night.” Why I lied about that, I do not know.

Well, this opened up a huge can of worms. “Where did you spend the night?”

After actually spending the night at home, I found myself recovering from this lie pretty poorly. Fumbling for another lie, thinking of Mark J.’s place, a recovery center that could easily pass for on office building or apartment, I gave the street name. Well, it turns out that although that street is named after an adjacent suburb, when it passes through Minneapolis, there’s nothing but recovery centers dotted along its path.

Why did I lie, why did I lie in the first place? I thought. She was about to permanently defer me when I convinced her to have her manager talk with me. After a lot of non-eye contact ass covering, we agreed that I would simply come back with proof of residence in the form of a utility bill postmarked less than 30 days ago.

Seeing that I’d traveled so far twice to donate, the manager paid me $20 for the effort, what I would normally be paid had I donated. That was very kind of him; something City Plasma would never do. They asked when I’d like to schedule the next visit, maybe Wednesday, but I opted for Thursday since I had job interviews that day. I’d planned on donating Tuesday and Thursday, the usual 48 hours apart.

On the ride home, I thought why this happened, why I lied in the first place, why I didn’t trust good people anymore. All I could come up with was that I was in such an untrusting mood after being hounded by my landlord, Bertha W., everyday. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but her constant daily borage of complaints, letting herself into the apartment without being welcomed, while I showering or sleeping, pounding on the door everyday asking for rent; it’s just got me in a paranoid mood.

Wednesday:
Having thought long hard about making up bogus mail for a previous address, I came to the conclusion that this would be simply digging a bigger hole for myself. Suburb Plasma keeps calling to confirm the appointment and I simply let it go into voice mail since I’m now down to eight minutes on my cell phone. Answering their calls and actually talking to someone in a vain attempt to cover up with another lie was just as horrific as facing the truth. The manager said that if I lied about my address, than not only will I be permanently deferred, but that City Plasma will also be notified.

City Plasma does not have my current address either; they have June W.’s address. It was the only picture ID I had at the time. I still have it and considered using it, but Suburb Plasma states on their Website only a valid drivers license will be accepted. Since mine is clipped, I’m afraid that will lead to my DWI, alcoholism, and eventually deferment. That’s why I used the ID I had for The House. On their Website, they don’t disclose that if you’ve ever been to a treatment facility, you’d be exempt. Had they recognized the street address of The House on my ID, they would’ve deferred me.

Seriously tempted to simply take that $20 Suburb Plasma gave me, buy a huge bottle of whiskey, cancel my appointment and crawl into that bottle, I instead resolutely decided to purchase a $10 cell phone card and some grocery staples (milk, butter, bread, mayo, mac & cheese, etc.). I put off the $10 cell phone card a day. I went home, made some mac & cheese, sealed the windows and turned on the gas...well, made mac & cheese, my comfort food.

Thursday:
Heading out for my Suburb Plasma appointment with proof of my current address, decide to buy the $10 cell phone card, but the usual stores don’t have that denomination. With time running out, I head for the bus stop for my second bus (it take three buses to get there, but the second bus stop is not too far away). It happens that there’s a cell phone store at this bus stop that has a $10 cell phone card. I’m early and can catch the next bus, so I’ve got time. Should I buy the phone card, call Suburb Plasma, explain my situation, plead pure stupidity and mistrust, and ask if I would simply come clean, give my actual current address, may I donate. I take the chance of never donating anywhere ever again.

That can’t be. Coming clean, telling the truth, being honest; these are things that will get me in trouble? How can that be? All I’m trying to do is donate plasma, something most people would never consider doing because of the implied risk.. Something is telling me this is not right. The clerk at the cell phone store is jerking off his computer for some customer. The first bus is arriving. I can buy the card, make the call, and catch the next if they say all if fine.

Or, I can give it up. I think, Thy will be done, not mine. I get on the bus. Whatever happens is meant to be. Diving into my Angels and Demons novel, I put the consequences out of my mind.

I get off the bus, jump on my bike, and the chain derails. I just roll my eyes. Is this a sign? I quickly put the chain back on and make it there just in time. I find some new people working the front desk. I take a deep breath, take out my bills with current postmarks, and approach the counter. “Excuse me, I’d like to update your records for my current address.”

“Certainly,” the clerk responds. As he asks for verification, I catch an error: he forgot to include my apartment number. He apologizes.

Okay, so that wasn’t so hard.

The rest of the mini-physical goes completely normally, mostly because I didn’t have to deal with the same nurse. We even joked about AIDS being discovered in 1977, when both of us were going through puberty and wishing the bar scene wasn’t so dangerous when we grew up. I have two much older brothers who frequented bars, brought home women, and enjoyed good clean fun sex. I looked forward to this pleasure, only to find that by the time I was of legal drinking age, the stakes of the game were raised, mostly due to the AIDS scare. I answered all questions truthfully, except for the fact that I’m an alcoholic.

There’s a very important reason why plasma donation centers are not willing to take alcoholics. An alcoholic can become positive for Hepatitis B from liver damage alone. I learned this in treatment, where they tested me for the disease, and which it came back negative. So, when asked if I’d ever tested positive for Hepatitis B, I honestly answered, “No.” My urine test passed with flying colors. They’re looking for common recreational drugs, alcohol, and unusually high or low levels protein and/or insulin. This means that my liver and kidney are functioning well enough to donate plasma.

So, this last relapse was not as much damaging physically as it was financially. Actually, I think it was more of an emotional and spiritual hit than anything else. I lost my way.

Donating plasma in the suburbs is more like you’d expect a clinic to look like. There were no movies playing, so I read my book mostly. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off the actual machine that extracts the plasma. It’s a vertical machine with all its parts exposed. The process extracts your blood, separates out the plasma, then returns your blood cells, then repeats. It did this a dozen times, which is twice as often as City Plasma’s machines. You can watch how your blood mixes with the anticoagulant. Then it spins in a centrifuge in order to separate blood cells from plasma. They have a different twist in that the centrifuge has a filter was well. I could tell it made a difference because my plasma, as well as others around the room, was much clearer. The staff was also much more knowledgeable. At the end, you can watch the 500 ml of less-than-body-temperature saline (0.9% sodium chloride) drains back into your body to replace the 880 ml of plasma extracted.

I check the bus schedule, and I’ve got just enough time to check voice mail using the center’s phone. Afterwards, I signed out, made my next appointment for Saturday, and as I was unlocking my bike, the cash register clerk ran me down and gave me the $20 I’d earned, but forgot to take. After all that, I’d forgotten the money.

I bike to the bus stop just in time for this hourly bus. Feeling light headed, I eat a tuna fish sandwich I’d prepared before hand and slices of a cantaloupe that June W. gave me the last time we saw each other. You know, cantaloupe doesn’t taste as bad as I’d thought it would.

On Saturday, I will donate a second time this week and earn another $30. Overall, they will have paid me $70 for the week. Subtract from that the $13 in bus fair, that’s still $57 for the week. I’ll wait until Saturday to buy a $50 cell phone card worth 500 minutes, the best deal available.

With the rest of the time left on my bus transfer, I head to The House to eat a free dinner. I talk to my old advocate there and he informs me that starting September 1st, alumni are no longer allowed to eat meals. That coincides with the time I’ll be living on the streets again. I guess I’ll be eating at Salvation Army.

I’m in the neighborhood, so I stop in at the gym to check my account. I’m a few weeks late on my quarterly payment of $27 and am not allowed to use the facility until I’m paid up. I ask if I can make that payment a week from now and they agreed; this will have me pay up through October. This is important, not only for the physical exercise that really helped me stay sober, but also to be able to shower and dress for work at any time of the day. If I can afford it, I could also rent a gym locker.

With a full stomach, money in my pocket, and a little more hope for the future, I head home. I do not stop at a liquor store, nor do I feel the need to. I slept hard for the first time in a long time.


Without Wax,

Eviction Decision

I was prepared to move out tonight, but something happened that made me change my mind. When I went to donate plasma yesterday, I was deferred. The reason is that one of my blood samples tested low for protein levels. I know why: a donation I had given after a dry-out day when I didn’t eat. The test results won’t return from the lab for two weeks. That’s about $150.00 I won’t earn from plasma donation over that time; money I desperately need right now.

If I’d had that money coming in, I could live on the street, shower at the gym, look for a job, sleep and eat at The Mission. But, now that’s not possible. I have $8.00 in my pocket. I need a job before I can leave this place. If I had the plasma money, I’d feel like I could survive on the street. So, I’ve decided instead to use this time to stay sober, find a job, and take the financial hit incurred by a court eviction. That gives me 18 days to improve my situation before the sheriff evicts me.

I spoke with several people at the plasma bank about low protein levels. The nurse said, this might be due to malnutrition. But, it’s what Dave W. said that most concerned me. Dave is an employee at the plasma bank that I’ve known since I started donating. We are movie buffs and talk about them all the time. Whenever I discuss certain movies; old flicks, party films, complex plots, etc; he occasionally has memory problems due to too many drinks. He used to donate, until he started working at the plasma bank. That’s just policy. But I found out today, that’s not why he started working there. It’s because he couldn’t donate anymore. He had several consecutive low protein tests due to heavy drinking and not eating. When you drink heavily, you can’t eat food for days.

Dave W. was a binge drinker, but I do not see him being an A. A. He talks about having a beer after work from time to time, but I don’t think he’s binge drinking any more. If he was an active A. A. member – a friend of Bill W. – I think I’d be able to tell.

I made this decision sober. I did not buy whiskey. Even though I had enough for a small vodka bottle, I did not buy any on Saturday.

I came to this decision after packing up the storage unit. I’m not ready to be homeless yet. I hope I made the right choice.


Without Wax,

Apartment Last Days

I’m seven days sober, haven’t been to a meeting in weeks, lost my sponsor, haven’t looked for another for fear of rejection, am unemployed, have nine cell phone minutes remaining, and although I have an eviction notice for the 31st of this month, my landlord, Bertha W., wants me out today, Saturday. She claims, yesterday, not to have filed for a court eviction. Up until know, I was under the impression she had already filed, since whenever I’d ask Bertha if she’d filed eviction, she’d reply, “I’m not telling you.” The only reason I believe that she hasn’t filed a court eviction is that she said yesterday that she didn’t want to spend the $250.00 necessary. That’s money I will eventually have to pay back. I’ve never had a court eviction, and if I can avoid one, it would make life much easier once things start going my way. She has a renter that wants to move in before the end of the month. My inability to make rent has added to her financial woes because she has a 3BR that hasn’t rented in two months. She evicted them also.

Bertha is retired and rent probably makes up most of her income.

I’m leaving to donate plasma this morning so I can earn $35.00. Trudging commented, “If you are anything like me, the self pity thing can really get you drunk.” I’ve been thinking about it. With that money in hand, there’s a liquor store down the street from the plasma bank that has a 20% off sale ending today on Black Velvet. I could buy two - 1.75 liter bottles after donating. I’ve been thinking about it. I used to think about it until recently. It sucks that I now think of drinking after getting money in my pocket.

June W. is coming over this evening to pick up some property that I think she should have. I will not drink around June, but that doesn’t mean I can’t save it until after she leaves. Right now, I don’t want a drink, but that could change.

Bertha is offering me two storage closets in the basement to store my stuff, but know her, there’s a catch. Like paying back rent until I can have access to it. Who knows, she may even charge to storage. I may never see anything I store in there. She’s really flaky and sneaky that way. She took the mattress back just so she could store it in the garage. I’ve been sleeping on the floor. She let herself in while I was out of the apartment without my permission. I caught her while she was leaving, but didn’t have the will to do anything about it, like call the police. It’s not her mattress either, it’s property from some other former tenet (probably evicted). Her garage is filled with former tenets’ property.

What I want to do with this money is save it to add to the Tuesday’s $25.00 plasma donation, and then purchase a $50.00 pre-paid phone card, giving me 500 minutes. The $25.00 card only gives you 160 minutes and isn’t worth it, so I’d rather wait.

I also have to consider a $27.00 payment to the gym to cover the next three months. If I’m going to be homeless, having a place to shower and dress while homeless can be critical to sustaining unemployment.

So, I have choices to make. Most important of which is whether to clear out of the apartment this weekend, or wait until the end of the month and risk court eviction. If I stay, I could more easily obtain a job before loosing the apartment. If I leave now, I can eat and sleep at The Mission, while looking for a job.

I may be able to apply for Rule 25 again and move back into The House for three months while looking for work. I wouldn’t be on the street, tempted to drink.

It would be wonderful if I felt my Higher Power looking over me, but I don’t and haven’t throughout these last few months. Probably because I haven’t been making meetings. The pink cloud’s way gone.

Well, it’s time to motor. I’ll most likely post again tonight.


Without Wax,

A Letter to June

Amazing what a mind can do when sober, eh? I learned a lot about myself in the process, and a lot more about June W. She is a fine lady, and I only wish I'd learned that sooner, because I missed out on such a wonderful life with her.

The most painful thing about becoming sober was remembering all the terrible things I did to her. I embarrassed her at family functions while she attempted to cover up for me. I hid alcohol from her. I even slept with my mouth away from her so she wouldn't have to smell my breath constantly as we slept.

We used to be so close. I know I'll never be as close with someone ever again. She knew everything about me once we married, I figured it was time she knew about Without Wax. Now you know all of me.

I broke my anonymity and showed June W. this web site. She read the whole thing in one day. My mind spilled out in so many words as I recovered from this terrible addiction. My words were not meant for her ears. These words, all of them, were not meant for anyone’s ears. I just had to let it out.

People encourage me to forget June and move on. I’m 42. You don’t just forget the one lady in your life that has taught you that the most decent effect you can have for a person is to remember them for what they are worth. If you walk away from a person like that, it still has a lasting effect.

June has this problem that she always complains about: Why do people always come to me for answers? There is one simple answer: Because you give people direction. Your answer may not always be the right one, but it’s not the answer that was needed; it was the direction. Given all the information, she could probably give the correct answer every time, but then, who ever gets all the information.

I gave June all the information about me that I could at the time that I moved my life from California to Minnesota to live with her. The only thing I did not give her was the only thing I did not know about myself: that I am an alcoholic. She does not know the true meaning of this statement. But the statement, in itself, is only taken in context. To walk the path is different from knowing the path.

I’ve met many people, in person and online, that have walked the path, but I’ve never met anyone that truly knew the path. I don’t think it’s possible. But I do believe that once a person takes God into his heart, and understands that the world does not revolve around himself, and that there is no clear path in life, and that the only way out of alcoholism is to simply do the right thing, and teach this, and speak of these words out loud so others can feel our strength, that there is a way out of this terrible existence that we used to call a life.

I know it sounds like Bible thumping, but it’s not. I found that God exists, even though I was an atheist. I am now a former atheist. God does exist. He has a plan, but it’s not yours; Thy will be done, not yours. If you want to know his plan, apply for the job, otherwise, take his heed. But I do believe that God exists inside us all, not in the heavens. You need only look inside yourself to find him. He is there. I can prove this, I know:

Take the worst thing that has ever happened to you. If you stop, look inside yourself, and ask yourself, “What is the right thing to do?” You will find that when you calm yourself down, you will find the answer. The answer may not be what you want, or what you’re willing to do, but, there is not doubt, it is the right thing to do and it is the will of God. He will guide you, because his will is of honor. The honorable thing to do is a clear path. Never stray from it. Because, when you are honorable, and your word is good, it strikes an emotion in men to follow in your footsteps. Believe me, if you walk the walk, and talk the talk, you will become a leader of men that believe in saving the others. I’m not talking about sinners, I’m talking about addicts. No alcoholic can be saved by anyone else but another alcoholic. The alcoholic must see into the friend’s eyes and see that they have actually been there; sometimes embellishing stories. But when an alcoholic talks to another, they know...they know they’ve been there.

SincerelySober was born out of necessity. When one becomes sober and discovers that alcohol is not what he's meant for, his mind sharpens; sometimes too fast. I took too many things for granted while sobering up.

I thought the world would simply open up for me. I mean, ‘hey, I’m sober. I can do any work.’ But work didn’t come. In fact, it turned out that I had less skills than someone that had drank their way through high school.

The true fact is this: Technology and alcohol do not mix. I made my way through jobs even though I was an alcoholic. Want to know another true fact: Employers want consistency. There are people that are hard workers, people that get the job done, workers that spend unpaid overtime to complete the job, then there are alcoholic; and I’m one of those.

Try getting a job after someone discovers that fact. It doesn’t matter what your belief in God is after that, most corporate companies will not hire you after they learn of your weakness. You see, corporations know that if they ‘fire’ someone for alcoholism, that they really need to put them through a program first. So, no one in the corporate world will ever let someone go for addiction. Why would they? They’d have to put up with recovery, and they don’t want to do that.

No. Better loose the non-starter than fix the problem.

I had this one meeting with an executive at a company that I worked for in Minneapolis. It scared the hell out of me. He openly said he was an alcoholic at a company party out in front of everyone. And he looked at me: I could see, in his eyes, the fear. The fear that I would succumb to this disease. I knew I was history. Two days later, I was fired. It was the best job I ever had in the Twin Cities. I got married, we had wonderful vacations, June was happy. But I lost focus.

The truth is I can’t believe I made it this far. I fucked up. I dropped the ball. It’s good thing I didn’t have children, because I would’ve fucked them up too. Or maybe not; children tend to right you. I always wanted to give my father a child that could take on our family name, but I don’t see that in the future. The Wax family name will end in cyberspace.

God does have a plan for us, I just don’t think I’m in it.

June, I don’t know why I could not be honest about my addiction, but I know that most people reading this understand. I know you know I’m smart, but I wish I was smart enough to overcome this addiction before I lost you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, June. You really were.

People reading this blog say I should move on, get past June. Well, I have one answer for them: How do you get past loosing the most wonderful woman you have ever had a chance to meet, live with, marry, dream with, lay with, dream with, spoon with, laugh with, bitch with, complain with, live through 9/11 with, worry about, comfort, understand, take care of cats, and totally feel comfortable with?

I fucked up and dropped the ball. It’s in my nature. My mother failed, I guess I should too.

My oldest brother, Hank W., said he’s living with a young woman. Maybe he’ll marry; pass on the family name. But, that’s not for me. I have failed. I have no family, not father, no mother, no in-laws. I will disappear without any notice.



Without Wax,

Twister

June W. has been in three twisters.

Before I moved from Southern California to Minnesota, I watched that movie over and over. I thought about what it would be like for someone to experience this type of trauma. Although she never experienced the fictional loss, she felt the utter fear.

I watched it recently and felt the love for her again, strongly; and the pain of failure. I messed up. I didn’t know how I messed up at that time, because I was under the influence, but know now.

We had a connection, like no other. She is a fine woman, a lady, and my best friend. If it wasn’t alcohol that destroyed our relationship, then it must’ve been a lower power. My higher power, my father, is my guide. But, if there’s a strong force, there must be a weaker force. Everyone talks of the higher power. No one ever talks of the evil force, the lower power.

I was sober for more than eight months, and it struck me. It waited, until I was weak. It didn’t take over my body, which is still in tack, but it took over my will. No, not my will. It was much more sneaky. It took over my desire not to fight off the first drink. Well, after that, it was all over. The first drink had me.

Back to June, she is the finest lady I’ve ever met. She is a thoughtful, pleasant, organized, shapely, eyes to die for, smile that will sell snow cones to Eskimos, and a personality that just draws you in.

If you ever loose a woman like that, you just know you’ve screwed up. She is well liked by all who know her. She has good contacts with her family. She is strikingly beautiful. She is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

And I screwed it up by drinking. I will never find a finer lady than June.

After what I’ve done to her, I can never expect her to ever say the words, “I love you”, again. She hasn’t, and I know why. Guys, if you ever find a fine lady like the one I’ve described, you better take a look at what you’re doing wrong, because don’t ever loose her. She is fine.


Without Wax,

First Relapse

It was so weird when it happened.

The woman is gone. She left when all failed. No big deal. She smoked pot and I didn’t want it in my new place. She was a taker, not a giver.

My attempt to improve my situation was an all-bets-are-off attempt to save my property, my sobriety, and employment all at the same time. It was too much. If God had a plan for me, he never let me in on it.

It hit me all too fast. I can't expect that any of my property will be saved. I'm in a worse situation than I ever was when I was on the street.

It was so weird when it happened. I was so happy and proud of my own sobriety. Then, all of the sodden, I thought, ‘How fine would it be to have a shot of bourbon?’ This thought haunted me for a while. But, it was the combination of not being employed, not making rent, and not making meetings that drove me to, ‘the experiment’. Mother Puss Bucket!

It was last Saturday, when I donated. I intentionally rode to a liquor store and bought bourbon. I spent most of the week with it. She was my lady, my relaxation, my diversion. Then the withdrawals set in, and the terrible memories of how my body reacted. And how I reacted to how others reacted to me when I was in withdrawal. And how I should hide it...then the fear set in.

This is not a fear of anything real. It is a fear that manifested in the mind. It’s really hard to explain, but here I go:
It’s the fear that anyone and maybe everyone knows that you’re high. When you never really know when the high ends, you never know if you’re completely straight, and you never know if you’re speaking the truth about a certain situation in time and space. Even if you want to tell the truth, you never are sure if you are telling the truth in this time and space. You can never know if you are being clad forth honest. And without this certainty, how can you convince someone of your true intentions?

It sucks.

And now I second-guess my own. Well, not most. But, the ones I cherish the most, I will not disclose. A man must fight for what he knows, or die.

Honor is not what no man can give you, or none can give away. Honor, is a man’s gift to himself. Never worry of the giving of it. It lives and grows in you. You know when you’ve done the right thing. It may hurt at first, but if thy will be done, your path may be laid.

Women are the heart of honor. You should never hurt a woman, or malign a man, or stand by and watch them do so. Once a man’s word is given, it is so. Honor is a man’s gift to himself.

People think, in these situations, that you're in a fight-or-flight mode. But, it's different for us: It's fight-or-flight-or-inebriate. No one knows how this solves our problems, but it does, at times. But, If you've never found a solution in alcohol, you'd never fall back on it.

The details are a health hazard. I relapsed last Saturday. I drank a 1.75 liter bottle of bourbon and lost most my memory. I didn’t eat much after that. I tried to bounce back, but didn’t really do much of a good job. I dried out, but not very well. I didn’t eat much.

I went to the plasma bank to get more money in order to buy more bourbon. I was suffering from mal-nutrition. I donated, went to the local liquor store, bought whiskey on sale, and then rode home.

I took a swig on the ride home...big mistake. I pulled over, took some pulls off it, and then continued to ride. On the ride home, I derailed my chain. It took a while, but I got it back on.

When I arrived back home, I almost lost conscience. I took a hit on the road and after the donation; it was too much for me. By the time I had arrived home, I was feeling light headed. I really felt like I would go into alcohol deprivation. It’s happened to me before. I felt it coming on.

I drank water immediately. I ordered food. I still felt light headed. I knew I’d pushed it further than my new body had ever experienced.

I ordered a sandwich from Jimmy Johns. After eating it, I simply fell asleep. It’s a sign. I have pushed my old body past the point of a young man’s recovery.

I still have a body that can work. I can donate. I can work out; but my mind still wants that bitch.

I have failed.


Without Wax,

Communication

It seems to have dropped off. I lost my landline, my cell phone is low on minutes, and no one is responding to e-mail.

I'm tired.


Without Wax,

Body Heat

Tick-tock, the lightning strikes. There’s no procrastinating, and no reason. When riding a bicycle, the same amount of rain hits you while moving forward as if standing still; or so that’s the theory. As a child, I’ve always ask my friends, “Do you get hit by more rain drops moving forward into the rain than you do avoiding the rain?” They always thought I was nuts. They may be right.

When lightning strikes, plans fail: more on that later.

The rain falls mainly on the plain, which is where the tire cycles, which is where the mud flaps up onto the back of your shirt. You know, I don’t mind rain, it’s the laundry that upsets me. Okay, it’s hot, and sweaty, and smelly, and sticky, and water runs down my hair like the Amazon, but the mud sucks. You can’t avoid it on a bicycle. Even when you do, and you cover your rear tire, it still flicks up onto your back. I ware two shirts; I took one off; it’s a good shirt that doesn’t deserve the mud I need to ride through.

I must’ve timed my plasma bank arrive instinctively well, because they had a catastrophic power failure just before I arrived. I must explain: I’m out of work and donating plasma is the only income I have. I spend my days looking for work. It pays for some food, but it doesn’t pay rent. I never thought it would, and never wished it to. I want to keep a job. But for one reason or another, I keep loosing them. I’m smart; I analyze why, but I can’t figure out why I keep switching jobs. I don’t know; I just don’t know.

A power fail is what I had the evening before, but I never felt it. Designer Girl thinks I’m smart, and that may be true, but you can only protect yourself from nature so much. She thinks that if I simply stay at home, I won’t be able to avoid the natural disasters that would normally come to us all if we were out and about. Actually, I wouldn’t mind being caught out in the rain with Designer Girl: she’s my kind of messed up. And I’m sure that statistics say that more alcoholics die of gun shot wounds than line workers of lightning strikes.

In all honesty, I admire Designer Girl. When I read her blog, I feel I’m ready to spill my guts; then I think about drinking; then I balance the two and feel like saying what is truly in my sole. Case in point:

My Father: I think I failed him. I should’ve given him a son to pass on the Wax family name. However, my older brother, Candle, didn’t either. I asked him about that recently. He has a 23-year-old girlfriend who lives with him. I’m like, “Dude! Knock her up! What’s the problem? Dad would approve! Give her our family name!” Didn’t work. Father would approve; hell he knocked my mom up thirteen times. As it stands, there are no offspring to pass on the Wax family name.

My Father is my higher power. As his youngest son, I could pass on the family name. And, yet again, I feel I’ve failed him. At eight and a half months sober, I could teach my son so much about life; if I had a son. Or I could fail. The truth is that you cannot raise a child without a family. I have none; at least I don’t think?

So, I arrive at the plasma bank late, luckily enough to avoid a catastrophic power failure. Power is Saint Paul has been waning. I’ve monitored it from my computer system. I have a UPS (Un-Interrupted Power Supply) with an AVR (Automatic Voltage Regulator). I bought this product, namely: CPS1250AVR with no clue as to what the ‘AVR’ in it’s name stands for. Well, I bought a fine product. AVR stands for Automatic Voltage Regulator. As it was blinking, I was looking up in it’s manual what the friggin’ blinking light is all about. It turns out that if I launch PowerPanelPlus, it’s monitoring control panel, it shows me that we, in Saint Paul, are not really getting 110v, but more like 98v at times. My UPS only let me know that we had problems through its little control panel: “Oh, by the way, power outage is imminent, but I’ll supply the right voltage until it fails.”

How fucking cool?

Okay, back to the real problem. I drink. I love to drink. I thought I...

Okay, I love bars. I like the atmosphere. I like the banter. I even like the fights. But, I like fine bars.

I love the way that a fine woman crosses the line from time-to-time in a bar. It slashes the politically correctness that you see at the workplace in half. Men and women want to play; it’s their nature. Warning signs like: “I have a boyfriend”, are there as road signs; Veer away. Stop signs should be obvious before the word, “No”, is ever given, but when it is, it’s law. When a woman says, ‘no’, it’s for a reason, her reason, not yours. It translates to, ‘stop’. It does. I’m sure this battle will last for ages.

I’m at the plasma bank and I’m told of a horrible experience. Just one hour before I had arrived, they had a power outage. The power went out and 19 donors had to be disconnected without a replenish of their blood cells; they can’t come back to donate for eight weeks. And these were good people; people I like to lay with when I donate. They wont me back for two months. If I’d come early, I’d be one of them.

See, when you donate plasma, you’re really donating the food that you eat, not so much your blood. If you eat well, then yes, you’re donating your food. But you can tell...when someone doesn’t want to eat well, their plasma turns colors: clear piss yellow means healthy water drinker; dark brown means, drink more fluids; green means you’re on the pill, or you have some other imbalance. I’m always clean.

If I’d arrived one hour earlier, I would’ve experienced their power outage. That means that I would’ve lost my blood cells needed to donate for eight weeks. That’s $240.00 that I desperately need. So, I’m praying all the time I’m donating. All 19 donors lost all their cells: They cannot come back to donate for eight weeks! I cannot afford that. If I’d come, just one hour earlier, I’d have no income.

I spoke with June N., she’s not so mad at me any more. But I don’t blame her for her mistrust and anger. I mean, really, when a drunken husband does everything to destroy a life (and by life, I mean with him and her) in order to gain access to the finest vodka, there is definitely something wrong.

AVR light is flashing. That means...I have to look it up. AVR is Automatic Voltage Regulator. It means that the voltage coming into the house is lower or higher than normal. AVR in the UPS sets it right. This is cool. So, I launch the PowerPanelPlus utility and sit here all night long watching how the power grid is failing and how my little UPS is correcting it.

I wish I had such a simple task.

If lightning strikes, my UPS will be the first worrier to bare the brunt. But I doubt it’ll survive a direct hit.

Their will I.

If you hit me once more, I’ll go into battle mode.

Time to defend. Back off, sell all, go lean, get your backpack set...and give up all that you feel comfortable about.

It’s either live lean or die...and I’m not ready to die, just yet.


Without Wax,

Time To Reinvent Myself Yet Again

Borrowed from Interment.net
I am worse off now than I was one year ago today. No, I didn’t have an eviction on my record, but I will now. I can’t rely on the county to house me, but I can always go back to the Mission. However, both June N. and Kelly M. have relieved themselves of my property, to which I have no place to store it any more.

It’s as if I wish the promises never happened.

June contacted me, and we had a wonderful time together...and she is very pleasant, at times; but she had one reason to contact me: to get rid of my stuff. Well, now I can’t store my stuff and must live on the streets once again. I don’t know if she’ll re-store stuff or not. But I know that I would have been better off if it were in her hands.

Now, all that I own must fit on my saddlebags. And if I loose functionality of my bicycle, I won’t have the tools on hand to repair it.

And I’ve helped no one. All I’ve done is logged my pain and misery. I can’t see past the solution. You can be the most honorable straightforward man, and yet still not make a difference; in your own life or others. I know I’m not going to live long, but I know I have rare knowledge of this disease that can help someone. How many Software Engineers that have developed state-of-the-art anti-virus software have fallen so far as to not constitute a job at fast food? How many? How many people in your life do you know that have fallen so far? Out of them, how many actually picked themselves back up? How many know how to live of the streets? Sleep under a bridge? Disinfect a computer virus? Build a computer from scratch. Develop database software back-ends in Oracle or SQL Server with an ODBC connection to a Java or C++ bridge. Know the difference between a FAT16, FAT32, and NTFS file system and boot tracks, and know how to edit them in hexadecimal.

I stand alone.

Most men like me fail to the tune of methamphetamine. It’s a terrible drug, and one that solves none of their time restraints; although it appears to. No, alcohol calmed me down enough to code.

As for religion, I have none. In this capital city of Saint Paul, Minnesota, finding a sponsor for a former atheist is difficult. I have none. I now do believe in God, but since I haven’t, I’m shunned. So much for new beginnings.

I don’t know what will happen to me, and I don’t know if it makes any difference anymore, but I now know that it does not matter to anyone.


Without Wax,

Dill Bread From Scratch

(Bread photo courtesy of www.freefoto.com.)
Well, after another day of waiting at day labor, applying at local retailers, donating plasma, I decided to treat myself to a little grocery shopping. Believe me, this was hard because the only place I could find yeast and dry milk (in small quantity) was right next to a large discount liquor store; thankfully, they close early. At last, I bought the final ingredients needed to make use of the bread flour June N. gave me: dry milk and yeast. It made all the difference.

All those lame Adkin bread kits I got from the food shelf produced a mass of dough that took three times longer to toast and wasn't light at all. I tried everything to get those Adkin bread loafs to rise in the bread machine, to no avail. I highly recommend against using Adkin bread kits.

With nothing more than a single measuring cup, I measured all the ingredients needed to accomplish the task. In bread making, wet ingredients need to be accurately measured. Using the Internet, I discovered that 2 tablespoons == 1/8 cup. Since the recipe called for 1 cup + 2 tablespoons of 80°F water, I could easily exactly measure 1 - 1/8 cup water, using the bread thermometer for correct yeast temperature. I also discovered two serving spoons that approximated teaspoon and tablespoon dry measuring tools. This is critical for measuring the sugar, salt, dry milk, and dill. The 2 tablespoons of butter was easily measured from the marks on the butter stick wrapper.

I have yet to slice it. The smell woke me up, filling the apartment with the aromatic odor of dill bread. I just now checked on the loaf and it nearly pressed up against the glass lid, which means it had an excellent rise process. It practically fell right out of the baking pan. I placed it on a makeshift cooling rack, put together from parts from the toaster oven. It’s so light; I can’t wait to slice it!

This is a small success in a rather unsuccessful week. I wish I still had my digital camera so I could photograph it.


Without Wax,

No One Called on Eighth Month

Probably because the phone got disconnected today.

Happy Sobriety!


Without Wax,

From Scratch...

I keep asking myself what I will become. I thought I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t. I must reinvent myself all over again, yet I don’t know what I should be. I thought I could be a symbol; show people how to do it, how to become sober. But I failed.

My mistakes have been chronicled. I have neither sponsor nor sponsee. I met the love of my life, June N., and learned how she fell out of love with me. I know now she will never love me again. I can only image why.

The pity party has started. I’ll start going back to meetings nearly every day, but since I’m not religious, I doubt I’ll have much support. See, Saint Paul is a church community. Either you fain religious affiliation, or you are shunned. Yes, in the process of becoming sober, I learned to believe in God, but I am a former atheist. You mention that term to a sponsor in this town and you can kiss you chances of being sponsored good-bye.

I don’t want to sound like a complainer, but I am journaling this for a reason. I failed, and I don’t want anyone else to fail like I did. I want someone to learn from my mistakes. And just to know, just because someone is sober for nearly eight months doesn’t mean he’s succeeded. There is more to sobriety that just staying sober.

When you build yourself up from scratch, you have to remember all the people you’ve hurt along the way. And just to let you know, I never completed my fourth step. I was once at that point where I could trust enough to work through it, but I didn’t. I lost confidence, and trust.

My sponsee-brother, Mark J., wants me to move to Minneapolis with him, but I’m scared. I know Saint Paul so well. I don’t want to leave. I won’t leave. I will find a way, a path to follow; a new path. I just hope it’s the right path, because I’m really friggin’ tired of starting over from scratch.

But, I have something I didn’t have before: my health. My body works. My mind still works. I still have a relationship with the woman I can’t stop loving, June N., and I learned the most important lesson of all: a man’s word is his honor.

Honor is what no man can give you, and none can take away. Honor is a man’s gift to himself. Never worry of the giving of it; it grows in you, and speaks to you; all you need do is listen. Women are the heart of honor. We cherish and protect it in them. You should never mistreat a woman or malign a man, or stand by and watch another do so.

All I know is that I’m thankful that I had a father for the short time that he lived on this Quiet Earth. Friends of mine didn’t even have that luxury. But I learned a lot from this fine man. I learned a direction. He’s a fine man, and I could be too. I still need a little work.

But just let me say this one thing: I’ve had every drug in my body at one time in my life. Alcohol is the most addictive. I kicked all other drugs, but alcohol is the hardest. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not writing this to brag. I just hope my experience will help someone else.

I’ve been alone most of the last days at the new home, and I know I should get out more, but I feel like I should be alone. I don’t know why. Maybe to re-invent myself.


Without Wax,

Thy Will Be Done...

...not mine.

I give myself to thy to do with me as thou wilt. I know no other way. Not knowing my future doesn't really sit well with me. I can't sleep at night any more.

I want to give up, but I don't know how. My father wouldn't have given up, and I don't know how. But fighting for me has never succeeded. I rented this place with no job, barely enough cash to get in the door, and a wing and a prayer. It was too soon, I know, but I had no other place to go; no other move. In this chess game of recovery from scratch, I botched to middle game.

And I’ve been considering bourbon as a friend. Play the tape forward and it only spells disaster.

See, I’ve gotten and lost four jobs since graduating from The House. I thought this last job at the pizza joint would be permanent, but the weather caused a big slow down in business, so I lost hours. It’s nothing I did, but still I feel like I’m spending more time looking for work than actually working.

I’m tired; I’m really tired. I don’t know if June N. is willing to store my property again; she just got rid of it. I have no other place to store it. But I know I’m going to have to live on the streets again until I can earn enough money to rent again, if anyone will allow me to rent again. I will now have a court ordered eviction on my record. No one will ever rent to me again.

No wonder I can’t sleep.


Without Wax,

Eviction

Well, I didn’t make it. The job I had did not have enough hours. I can’t keep up with the bills. My landlord has filed for eviction. Not only that, but I’ve never had an eviction, so now I’ve got that on my record. I’ll never be able to rent again.

To ad insult to serious injury, I used to have friends that stored my property. I have no place to store my stuff. So, I’ll probably loose all my property.

I’m basically screwed. I don’t know where my property will go. I will have to go back to The Mission to live. And I’m worse off now than I was when I started to get sober.

I figure I’ve got two weeks before I’m escorted out of this place I just recently called home.

Without Wax,

Start of My Demise

All is not well.

I did nothing for my seventh month of sobriety. I haven’t been to a meeting in a while. I haven’t really even updated my blog in a while; although I’m working on my next post in my head.

All this started when my digital camera took a dump. Like the time when my laptop failed, I simply opened it up and started looking for the problem. I got as far as you see and started to realize that I may not be able to repair it myself.

It failed when I was plugging in the USB cable in the dark. I didn’t think I had it in properly, so I jiggled it. After that, it never started up again. I think I shorted something out. I’m going to continue working on it, but honestly, I don’t think I can repair it. Maybe a camera repair shop would have more luck, but I can’t afford that right now.

Actually, what halted my repair was that as I was testing voltage on as many leads as I could when I noticed a (relatively large) capacitor. It’s the black cylinder in the upper right corner of the posted picture and is used to store up energy for the flash. On it reads, “350v”! Sure enough, I checked the voltage and it reports 240v, so it’s still charged. Cross those contacts and you could create your own firework display.

It hit me pretty hard, because photography really makes me happy. I do own a 35mm SLR, which I love, but I can’t afford to develop film right now. Maybe it’s enough just to load it with film and shoot when I can.

Any images that you see are either from the Internet, from a camera someone lent me (like the photo in this post, obviously), or archives shot from before my digital camera failed.

So, it’s made me sad, out of balance, and I’ve noticed a lot has changed in my life since. More on that in the next post...


Without Wax,

I Just Saw Crash

I just saw Crash. You know, Crash. Not the old one with Holly Hunter, but the new one that won the Oscar for Best Picture. It’s an amazingly brilliant film that exposes the racial biases we all still share, even after Martin Luther King, Jr. taught us about our America.

If you haven’t seen it, you must; then talk.


Without Wax,

I Asked Darla V.

I did it. I asked Darla V. if she would join me. I know. I know it's wrong and early and all that, but I see something in her that I need.

And I don't feel like dieing anytime soon. I need her help. I don't know what she has to offer, exactly, but she knows me and comforts me.

I don't know guys. I think that she knows what I'm trying to do. She gets pissed when she thinks I'm doing the wrong thing, and says nothing when she things I'm seeing straight.

But I asked.

I'll know soon if she wants to try this with me.

She doesn't know about this blog at all. I stopped telling people personally about this blog.

It's a big step and I need your help. I don't know if I should do it alone anymore, or with her, or whatever.

I don't want to do it alone anymore.

And she bought her a new bum

Wee little tigger buttoms, in the cold.

Tuna Rice 3

In the end, all tasted good.

I know it was cheap, but it was a nice trick.

Night all,


Without Wax,

Tuna Rice 2

Well, it actually worked. Maybe I pioneered a fine way of making a cheap meal.

Without Wax,

Tuna Rice

June B. always told me I was good at rice. I'm making good of the rice I've got left. I just mixed tuna with rice, in cooking. The balance of rice water, oil, meat, and whatever else might accept the moister is the real balance in cooking wonderful rice. I think I did it.

I just did it.

I'll let you all know how it worked out.

Without Wax,

I Had So Much Energy

I had so much energy, then it happened. My will got the best of me.

I had this dream, a using dream. I drempt I drank. All was well, but...it came out of noware. It was strong. I don't like this feeling. I mean, really, I've achived so much, yet where the hell did this come from?

Without Wax,

Pale Male

I just watched "Pale Male" on PBS. Oh my God, what a wonderful thing to watch. I know it doesn't belong in space, but it reminds me of what I'm trying to do in Saint Paul.

Day Six, the hawkaholics go to sleep, then one of his babies flies, and they catch it on film. It is awesome!

This is sweeet!

Without Wax,

She, listening...

I'm listening...

...And I don't like it.

The Dream

One night…

…I had a drink.

It was late. I hadn’t drank in a while…

…I thought of a lady, not the one I missed, but another…

…but she was special, non-the-less.

It’s not that she was blonde, or pretty, or shapely. It was nothing like that…

…But she was honest.

She had birthmarks, but no freckles. She didn’t have a body to kill for, just an athletic body. She made me feel like I was doing the right thing.

I was strong, and right, and I made people around me feel like they were strong and correct for how they thought and acted and did, …and they were.

Then I woke up.

And I was sober.

But there was no girl. She called…I mean, a girl called, but not the girl of my dreams.

A girl that drank and smoked and danced; not nearly the girl of my dreams. She had experience; something I missed; lacked. Yet nothing I yearned for.

But I accepted the call...and woke. I didn't drink.

Something else happened

I saw my Grandson.

It was a gift He recoginized me. Oh My God, saw me from the back seat.

I've been embarrassed

First work week.
Wonderful week with Angel.

Two PPP, Canadian bacon, mushroom, & pineapple, then pepperoni, Italian sausage, & Jalapenos.

Kind of hoping June doesn’t call me back to take me up on the offer to repair her wireless network, although I know she needs it. She thinks she can fix anything, now that I’m gone, and will settle for me falling into the tech-support phone conversation, but we both know this is a hands on job.

Digital camera is on the fritz, pretty bad this time. Much worse than the old laptop problem I fixed, but still doesn’t stop me from tearing it down to it’s silicone bare bits.
Watching Crash.

Still can’t make rent. Been out of work too long.

A.A. community is failing me.

Tim is showing me everything. He’s training me for manager. He’s expecting a baby boy any day now.

I have to work Friday at the exact time one of my favorite food shelves is open; what a dilemma.

Ms. Smith gave me one of the few available storage units.

Get a call from Redneck Robert while over at Julian’s place next door.

Excuse me while I take this call from my sponsee brother, Michael. I haven’t spoke with him is so long, and so we fire off a list of updates, most of which are in this post. I say something about June and he meantions how lucky I am to have…stops in mind sentence before putting his foot in his mouth. I end the sentence with was lucky. Yada yada…

{reference Big Book about how alcoholics attract the best women.}

Speak of the devil; June is coming in on call waiting. It’s the call I’ve been waiting for, so I barely start to explain to Michael, and he completes my sentence. I flash over to her call.

It’s what I’ve been waiting for. She needs assistance with her network topology. She’s angry and all. I put up with it. I finally fix it. She agrees to see United 93 with me.

Now I have to go get ready for my home group where I will ask my sponsor if he will present my six-month medallion. I have a feeling he won’t.

Saw David from Holly House and his girlfriend Christy. She just bought a new Grand Prix to replace the car that was totaled in an accident where David was in the passenger seat and was sideswiped by a teen motorist who had run a light. He broke ribs.

Six Month Celebration

Just getting home from work, Anthony H. appears on the caller ID. I already know what it’s about. “I’m sorry Without, but I just can’t sponsor someone who’s...”
“...Not working the program, I know,” completing the sentence. Yet another pretentious sponsor, I almost voice. Do-gooder Christian’s make the worst sponsors for former atheists, and the others are so hard to find.
“That’s alright,” I say, “I’ll just go without a sponsor for the time being.” This shuts him up enough for me to fire back, “So, are you going to pin night anyway?”
“Uh, umm, I, ah, I don’t think.. .”
“Didn’t think so,” I kill the tension. “I gotta go. Bye now.”
I sigh of relief; I realize I’ve got two hours to kill before leaving for pin night, where I have no idea who will present me. Even though I’ve got Nathan A. as a backup at my home group, The Mar League, I make phone calls with a tinge of desperation in my voice searching for a replacement. The closest I get is my first sponsor, George D., who returns my voice-mail less than an hour before the meeting starts.
“I’d love to, but I’m in Anoka,” which is a suburb of the Twin Cities too remote for this late a request. He sincerely continues, “but I am honored; I really am.” And he really is. George is one of those people in the program who doesn’t lie. When he doesn’t want to do something, he’ll tell you exactly why without mincing words, so I know he’s sincere. He should’ve been the one to pin my six-month medallion on me. He earned it. Like June L., he’s one of the people I feel I failed the first time around.
On the bike ride over I think of all the vengeful comments to make finally settling on nothing at all. After all, the group as a whole never failed me. That’s the nice thing about A.A. groups: they’re always there as a whole, even if the occasional individual member may drop the ball.
Anthony H. arrives late with infant daughter in tow. The speaker has already started. I glance at him and he gives me his infamous all-is-well, ear-to-ear grin. With a Mona Lisa smile, I flash him the okay sign and raise an eyebrow in question. It takes a moment for it register, then the fear cracks his patent grin and for the next hour he sets off scrabbling to find both someone to hold his young daughter and someone else he can borrow a medallion from, I can only guess.
The speaker was good and helped me relax. Pins were presented, a six-year here, a 25-year there, then the time came for moi and Anthony too looked relaxed.
Anthony H. and I go back to when I tried getting sober the first time two years prior, which was really just a trial run. At that time he maintained the phone list for Mar League, and I decided to help him out with it, which he mentioned.
I kept it brief and to the point. The group was there for me, I said. Sponsors on the other hand didn’t even justify a mention. Sponsorship is too important a role for any one alcoholic to pass judgment on in an acceptance speech.
I do remember saying this though, “When the going gets tough, I no longer reach for bourbon. It’s like I don’t even desire it anymore.” I mention how I know I’m working the program slowly compared to others and left it at that.
I partook of the wonderful potluck dinner people brought. While eating, I sat with a group of happy sober party people. We had a lot of laughs. I’m a slow eater, so when almost everyone else had left, a stranger approached. He congratulated me, and we spoke of deep things. He seemed very sincere, so I asked his name, which he gave as Marcel O.
“So, how much sobriety do you have?” I calmly ask.
“A few weeks,” he answers. Holy crap, I think to myself. This guy needs help now. So, I jotted down my number on a napkin and gave it to him with instructions to call me at anytime, day or night. I didn’t ask for his.
I ended the evening by rolling up my sleeves and washing dishes, my tie getting soaked. There was a lot of dishes and three of us to help: one original washer, myself, then a dryer who rotated out a few times. We made it fun. I love getting wet. I guess that’s why I was born under the sign of Aquarius.
As a consolation prize, I ended up with a case of diet soda, which I never drink, but figured Darla V. would. However, that brings up the age-old man problem of how to tell your lady you acquired a diet product without telling her it was intended for her alone. This isn’t even subconscious: I want her to loose weight. Men, subtle hints are the only way to go. Anything more will only get you out of the frying pan into the preverbal fire. So, I brought it home with the intent of leaving it in the fridge and letting her have at it. She does not yet know about my inability to stomach diet soda. I miss her and hope to see her this weekend.
On the ride home, I’m reminded how important it is for me to purchase a decent headlight, as a drunk pull away from a curb right in front of me. I wave as I pass, hearing his curbside inebriated cohorts laugh at him.


Without Wax,

Six Month Lump

Six months sober and all I get is this lump in my bed? God does work in mysterious ways. I’m not sure what his plan for me is, but I’m glad he sent me Darla V.

I had plans Saturday night to see Da Vinci Code, but my date cancelled at the last moment sighting a friend needed counseling. I got the call while trying to help my ex-wife June W. purchase a laptop on eBay. Feeling sad about not having anything to do, I asked June if she’d spend the evening with me. She declined.

However, at the last minute, Darla called and asked to come over. She wanted to discuss a business proposition. I asked her earlier if she’d be photographer’s grip at weddings. I showed her my portfolio and she was impressed.

We ended up falling asleep in each other’s arms. I was a complete gentleman, making her dinner, then breakfast. It was very sweet. I had a lot of fun with her and I guess she did too, because she came over the next night, not intending to spend the night again, but we both were so comfortable, we fell asleep in each other’s arms again.

So now I guess I owe you the entire story behind Darla V. I’ll save that for another post. Other than my ex-wife June, Darla is the first lady friend to visit my new apartment and the only one to sleep over.

I feel so guilty that I didn’t make a meeting over the weekend, haven’t spoken to my sponsor. Suffice to say, I have stayed sober for six months! This is my first six months sober.


Without Wax,

First BLT

There’s something about making your first BLT in your new apartment that brings one back to their adolescent roots, that singular defining moment when you escape the grasp of your parents domination to either fall on your face or land on your feet. The place may be small, a mess, lacking the luxuries of home, but it’s mine. In a sense, that means I am home.

Hungry for something new, avoiding the obvious cravings for bourbon, I turn to food. And let me make this clear: I’m 200 lbs. and holding! If I wanted to loose more weight immediately, I’d do it. But I’m having whiskey cravings, so food will do as my cross-addiction for now.

So maybe there’s something about the BLT that inherently defines when a place becomes your home. When you’ve cleaned up, packed away enough crap, and organized enough stuff so that you can make decent a BLT...well then you’re home.


Without Wax,

She

Puzzled by a toy I got at a booth at the River Place Job Fair, I just cannot stop playing with it. There is no discernable objective to this game except to totally enthrall the user to a point where he cares about nothing else. I think they refer to these as an executive toy. Given the outrageous salaries, I can’t justify an executive I work under wasting our company’s valuable resources mentally masturbating the rich and philandering.

So when I was asked to answer the downstairs phone at The House, I was fairly annoyed. “And what’s so friggin’ important that you would interrupt a man in the middle of solving one of the World’s great puzzles?”

“Hello, Craig?”, the female caller asked.
Oops, I thought. Not one of the guys upstairs calling me from the outgoing phone; not a practical joke. With giddiness’ in my voice, I try my best to recover, “Yes, this is he.”
“This is June. I got your number from Lisa. I want to arrange to return your property,” the caller said.
“Ah, huh,” stalling for the time my mind needs to recognize the obviously familiar person on the end of the line.
“If we could agree on a time this week, would that be possible?”
“I’m sorry June, are you from Ramsey?”
“No, this is June.”
Why isn’t this registering? I feel I should recognize the voice. “June.”
Silence.
I should be grateful a woman is calling me at all, being that I rarely speak to anyone but men. However, vaguely familiar, I cannot for the life of me recognize the voice. Come on, think; How many Junes do you know? If not Ramsey County Human Services, then from where, and who’s this Lisa? “June…”, stalling for either one of us to complete this utterance with a surname.
Silence.
Oh come on! Who? What? Lisa? June and Lisa? It couldn’t be. “June.”
“Ah, huh,” she replied, recognizing familiarity in my voice.
Lisa is June’s best friend. It couldn’t be. “June Wax?”
“Ah, huh,” she repeated.
Now it’s my turn to be silent. “June Wax!”
“Yes.”
“You are June Wax?”
“Yes.”
“How come your voice is different?”
“I don’t know?”
What does one say to an ex-wife, who you’re still undeniably deeply in love with yet wish to conceal, and haven’t spoke to in six months? “June Wax.” Oh, there’s an intelligent reply. The brilliantly rehearsed first comments are somehow missing from my psyche.
“Hi.”
“Wax,” I provoke.
“Yes.”
Major grin grows on my face hidden by the landline, “You kept it.”
“Of course I did,” followed by an implied, you know why.
She kept my Father’s name. She starts playing in my mind’s ear. I’m all of the sudden unaware of my surroundings, transported away from The House back home with her.
“Thank you.” I can hear her grin across the line too.
“Listen,” she interrupts the moment, “I called because...” She pauses.
I wait.
“...I want to return your stuff to you.”
“Okay.” Hearing the obvious tension return, I realize the cause of unrecognizable voice. Yet, after all the inebriated arguments we’d gotten into, you’d think I’d remember.
“I just want to be fair.”
“How have you been?”
“Ummm...I’m okay,” she replies. “You?”
“I’m good. I’m happy,” not wanting to brag that I’ve got just over three months sober.
“That’s good. Listen the reason I’m calling is that, well, it’s Spring time and all...”
“Planting season,” I interject.
“Yes, and I, umm, need the space in the garage, so if you could get your sh...stuff out. I just want to return your stuff to you, yah know. I just want to be fair.”
“Yes, that’s fair. I didn’t know you had any of it.”
“Yes, Kelly and I went to the old house you were living in and retrieved everything.”
“Oh my God, really?”
“Yes, I’ve got your tripod.”
“You do? The Bogen? I thought that was long gone.”
“I couldn’t find your camera bag.”
“It’s over at Kelly’s,” not wanting to reveal the fact that I’ve had the digital camera bag all this time and have been documenting my sobriety from the other side of the lens, “the 35mm is tucked away safe.” Not really as safe as I’d thought, as I’ll later find out.
“Good.”
Why now, and how did you get this number? “It’s a good thing you called me when you did. I’m about to leave this place.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“Yes, just wait Without...”
“What the f...argin’ ice hole?”
“Let me explain. I got this number from Lisa almost three months ago.”
It all comes back to me now, like that old man pissing into the wind. When I’d first got here, at The House, missing my previous roommate Mark J. to talk out every friggin’ time I’d miss June W., I called her best friend Lisa P. and told her everything: That I missed June; I’m in a safe place, a half-way house; and that I’m sober just a few weeks. “My number is still in her caller ID memory after three months?”
“I had her write it down, just in case,” she said. “Lisa called me right after you’d called her.”
“Oh.” That explains why the technologically challenged Lisa got June W. my number.” If you haven’t noticed the implied switch, June N. is now known from now on as June W., since she didn’t keep her maiden name, but rather mine.
“Why did you do that?” Am I being too bold? Now my head is spinning and drawing blanks. Ah, that’s right. I’m fishing.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d need it some day.” Bait cast, but no tug on the line.
“Ah, huh.”
“I tried calling Lisbet, but she wouldn’t give me your number, address, any way to contact you.”
“Lisbet H.? of course not. She’s my P.O. She’s on my side.”
“What does that mean?” her tone turned harsh. I understand completely why June is confused. She thinks the state is all on the woman’s side when it comes to domestic disputes. If you step back and take a look at the big picture, the city and county jurisdiction favors the female in these types of disputes, but really only in their own self-interest. They want to reduce local crime, which is the same motivation as the state, only a P.O. (probation officer) is trying to prevent her client from getting into trouble; again self-interest. She wants to reduce her caseload. Dealing with misdemeanor DWI clients is a breath of fresh air compared to her normal cases. The fact that Lisbet calls me to do nothing more than vent, in the guise of checking up on me, is testament to that, not to mention flattering. I often fantasize about a thirteenth step with Lisbet, but that’s just my red-blooded all-American Boy Scout character defect at work.
Sensing that explaining my exact thoughts on the matter would offend her, I simply put it this way: “Lisbet works for me. She wants to make sure I stay out of trouble. You’re my trouble. There’s no good reason for her to instigate what may escalate into an all out War of the Roses.”
“Ah, huh.”
“It’s not in her best interest.”
“Oh.”
“Why now?” I pose.
“Because Lisa said you may be leaving about now.”
“Damn straight. I’ve got two more days here.” I leave this hanging in the air.
“Well then how will I get a hold of you?”
“Call my cell.” Yah, I still remember something about dating. You lie out the bait and wait for a bite; attraction rather than promotion.
“It doesn’t work. I tried it.”
“I have a new one,” leading out the line.
“You do?” Surprised that I didn’t leave it with Lisa.
“Of course,” waiting.
“What is it?”
Yanking the line to set the hook, I give “651-555-1234.”
It’s odd how an ex-lover still shows compassion after all those heated arguments. This is a woman who clearly cared a lot for me and may still harbor strong feelings, but is undoubtedly hurt. This is evident from her initial harsh voice, which has since softened.

We spoke without incident for at least an hour, playing tug-of-war with each other’s heartstrings, yet mindful to stay civil. Being transported out of The House for this time to a much better place has clued me into the fact that I had a lady like no other man in this House has or had ever. An ex-wife I cannot complain about. I once told this to a group of fellows sitting around watching some boring movie, probably at a scene, which invoke a majority of bitches and moans about ex-lovers. If memory serves, I said, “I have no complaints about my ex.” This hushed the room for a bit, until one man confessed, “Sorry to hear that.” It’s true. It’d be a lot easier to work my program if I had something about her I could bitch about, but I don’t.
By the end of our conversation, I’d recognized her voice again. I left it with the ball in her court by saying, “I’ll wait for you to call in a few days after I get settled, okay?”
“Okay,” in a somber tone.
She still plays in my ear, only this time without tears.
The promises do come true.

This occurred a little over three months ago. It took me this long to finally journal it.


Without Wax,

It Feels Like Home

I'm sitting here with my three runny sunny side up eggs, three garlic toast, two thick slices of bacon, fresh coffee, and a smile of my face. I'm watching Jordan Two Delta (Scarlett Johansson) tell her best friend, Lincoln Six Echo (Ewan McGregor), "Your eyes are lying." The Island is my current favorite movie. The point is that I made this breakfast with money I earned in a kitchen I rent alone watching my movie on my own TV. I'm connected to the Internet by an ISP I paid for, not a borrowed signal. This is the first time I've ever had to pay for broadband; at home it was expensed to the company. I don't share this apartment with anyone and although it's a little scary being alone at this point in my program, I feel comfortable. Progress rather than perfection.

I am nine days shy of my six month sobriety milestone. I feel scared. There are so many things that I'm juggling up in the air right now that I just can't go into it.

I must go now, but will be back online tomorrow. I know it's been a long break from this blog. It's hard to explain in a short post. But please understand this: If you feel like responding to this post, your words will be charished. Whether by comment or e-mail, let me know...just what you're thinking.

Thanks you,

Without Wax,