Drowning

drowning.
Originally uploaded by ~lady j.

I always wonder, due to my constant relapses, if anyone reading this blog wonders if I’ve died. I should be respectful and update it more often. I’ve been a bad boy lately.

I am ten day sober; had my last drink February 11, 2010. To be sincerely honest, it’s not for any other reason than City Plasma was closed down last week for their kiosk upgrade; lack of funds. While closed, no other donation center can sign up new donors, since they cannot verify any one's last donation. Suburb Plasma has a two week waiting period for initial appointments. I made one, but I’ll cancel it now that they’re only paying $50 per week instead of City Plasma’s $55. I should really shop around for other plasma donation centers. I will donate tomorrow at City Plasma and receive a whopping $20.

I don’t know if I want to blow half of that on a fifth of whiskey or not. I haven’t called my sponsor in weeks. Everyday I’ve had the urge to get drunk over this last week. I could’ve borrowed the money and gotten drunk, but I didn’t. After I got caught trying to hide in the Sober Barn during closing time, I thought they’d never let me back in again. I snuck in the first few times, and then they just let me stay after that.

So, what is the Sober Barn? It’s the place I spend my mornings, surf the Internet, play online poker, and develop their Web site. I use open source technologies to develop their Web site: Apache, MySQL, PHP, Eclipse, XDebug, Joomla, Ubuntu Linux, VirtualBox, HipHop for PHP, C++, and Java.

I’ve moved Darkness (my ten-year-old Pentium 4 desktop computer) to the computer lab I’ve setup for them. In this small lab, I’ve setup three other similar computers on a wired network, but also with WiFi, shared printer, and firewall. With little money I make here and there, I’ve upgraded Darkness’s CPU from 2.0 to 2.66 GHz, 80GB hard drive to 400GB, and installed a DVD-RW optical drive. It’s my legacy development machine with dual-boot Windows XP Pro and Ubuntu 9.10 Linux. Now, if I can only scrounge up two PC100 512MB DIMMs from an old server, I could double his system memory to 2GB (his motherboard’s limit). That will help me run Ubuntu Linux in a VirualBox within Windows XP.

Regarding the load of geekdome you’ve just read: it’s the only thing that is keeping me sober right now. This is a subject I really should devote to an entire post, but most of the above technology I have learned, or relearned, in the last three months. I’ve been in self-teaching mode.

I’ve been Homeless and jobless for one year. I’ve been living in downtown shelters since being kicked out of Rat House in October. I’ve discovered the Sober Barn and have been hanging out there days.

Lost yet another camera…really miss having a camera; I mean a really love photography. These point-and-shoot cameras, though, are really starting to annoy me with their utter lack of image control. I’ve fallen in love with several cameras, but if I had the means, I’d buy the Canon EOS 5D Mark II digital SLR. Besides being able to take stills at 21 mega pixels, it can shoot 1080p HD video at 30 fps! With a two hour battery life, you could make your own professional HD movie. At $2700, it’s one tenth the cost of an industry HD video camera without the excellent still camera lenses. It is truly innovative.

Which brings me to the featured photograph: I feel like I’m drowning most days…Which leads me to drowning my sorrows in whiskey.


-- Without Wax

Employed, At Last!

With all the promises that have been fulfilled in sobriety moments before calamity, you’d think Wax had grown accustomed to it…and he has. But one week before leaving his transitional house, The House? Still he’s grown to expect the unexpected.
          For four months he’s been searching for a job, first in his chosen profession, then later, any sober job. What he landed is a compromise: Call Center Representative for a major local bank, FastBank.
          He was a little hesitant to apply, seeing that he still owns them some money, and even more surprised when they made an offer. They’ll end up with an amends.
          Two interviews was all that it took; first with Human Resources, then an hour long one with his boss. The HR interview reminded his of the standard corporate questions he’d been asked at The Department Store, with the typical disgruntled customer situations. The last interview went extremely well.
          Meeting in her cubical, Emily C. started the interview apologizing for everything from the meeting room being occupied, to her first time interviewing candidates; yes that’s right. It turns out that FastBank is trying out a new method of interviewing: having the actual boss conduct the interview. They’re just switching from a system where HR would handle all contact with new employees all the way through to the middle of training. Then boss meets employee, and if you weren’t a fit? Can you say, ‘square peg in round hole’?
          Well, that wasn’t a problem at all for Wax and Emily; they got along like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The communication was excellent, understanding similar situation they’ve experienced, and completing each other’s sentences. The only problem was that of sexual tension. Emily’s full-figured body, pouting lips, and succulent brown eyes may be an issue for Wax; something he’ll have to keep in check. After all, it’s not politically correct today to have an affair with your boss, even if she is female.
          An hour commute is an issue. Mannish House, the sober house he’s planning on moving into this weekend is in the other city. He’ll be working downtown, so bussing isn’t an issue. In fact, his new employer discounts bus fare to $35 per month. However, because of the state’s sober recovery rules, he must move from the transitional housing to a sober house. His chosen sober house isn’t on their list. If he has to choose a different one, why not move much closer to work. The only problem is he’s got ‘til this weekend to be accepted by one. The sober house he wants to move into is ideal, except for location. That is to say it’s distant from work, but he knows the area well. The advantage of living closer to work is that it’s a much more effluent neighborhood. He could find more side work as a computer repairman.
          Compensation is a little on the shy side: $10.90 per hour. His last job at The Discount Store was merely $10.76 an hour, and that’s after being promoted to manager. At his new job, he’s starting at the bottom as CCR with slightly more pay and a clear path for advancement. The job also has financial incentives for superior performance. There’s also an IT department he could slide sideway into. His new boss even questioned why he didn’t choose that and would help with the transition; she’s clearly a boss that thinks of her subordinate’s career path. His answer was intended not to prolong the employment start date: “One should walk in the shoes of the user before implementing software that solves their problems.” For the most part that is true, but he really needed this job now, and didn’t want to suffer the delay and complication of being hired by a department with much more rigorous standards. His technical history needs much more explaining and training before he’s comfortable with that transition. But dreams of making that transition at FastBank are much closer (one floor up) than with The Discount Store (one metropolis away).
          Money will be tight. With an approved sober house, the county will pay for first month’s rent and deposit. The second month’s rent will be due just as his first paycheck arrives. Until then, he’ll have to feed himself with plasma money; kind of a regenerative cycle. Most sober houses pay for utilities, cable, even Internet, as with Mannish House. So, if he hits the food shelves and uses blood money for the fresh vegetables, milk, and toiletries, he should survive until things get caught up financially. Of course, that’s not going to dissuade him from playing poker at the casino this weekend.
          Today’s photograph is of a young man waiting on a bus bench with a homemade guitar constructed of plywood. When asked if he’d built it, he replied, “No, I didn’t. I don’t know who did.”


Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

Prediabetic

The fear of becoming fully diabetic has played a major roll in Wax’s goal to stay sober and respect his body. Crossing that line between prediabetes and diabetes is just one of the consequences facing his recovery. How this plays into his immediate needs is critical too.
          Now that he’s got a new doctor that has cleared him for plasma donation, it has really helped him both financially and with his self-esteem. The story there goes that six months ago when he tried to donate at City Plasma, they deferred him for having glucose in his urine. Not knowing what that meant, and feeling overwhelmed, he turned to the bottle. Being one week sober before attempting to donate plasma wasn’t enough for his body and so he wrongly thought to punish himself by binging. City Plasma said that if he went to his doctor with their specific request for diabetes clearance, he could donate. Not having health insurance, and not wanting diabetes to become a pre-existing condition, what he should of done six months ago is what he ended up doing now.
          He discovered that there are many resources for information and testing available without having to go on record as diabetic. Urine glucose testing strips are $14 over the counter. A diabetic friend of his gave him an old glucometer and test strips to monitor his blood sugar. The hospital, where he went to treatment and was diagnosed prediabetic, trained him on how to avoid becoming diabetic with diet and exercise. Unfortunately, the same doctors would not clear him for plasma donation. They didn’t want to stake their reputation on someone who could in the future become diabetic. Because of this attitude, he avoided their recommended clinic and went with his own health care provider. With enough time for his organs to heal, proper diet, and some light exercise, he was ready to attempt another physical at City Plasma.
          He’d been donating for a month at Suburban Plasma. Although he took all the proper precautions of eating well and testing, they didn’t test him for glucose. They assumed since he’d tested negative a year earlier, there’d be no reason for him to become diabetic. Protein and iron were all they were interested in.
          When it came time to attempt donating at City Plasma, he ate a salad for breakfast, tested himself, and passed their tests with flying colors. This upset one of the older nurses who think he’s trying to put one over on them.
          The cause and effect relationship between alcohol and diabetes is unclear. I would like to revisit this subject with more reference and a clearer understand of the subject at a later time. As far as he is concerned, his alcoholism caused his prediabetes.



Without Wax,

John’s Gone!

In more ways than one, John L. left us a while back. But tonight, he was way gone! Some explanation is in order.
          John L. is a bad ass old dude who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Probably because he’s been shit on by everyone he’s ever trusted. For some reason, he trusted Wax…but Wax never shit on him. Whenever he’d try his tough stuff on Wax, He’d give him shit back, but only in jest, but that’s only because Without Wax is too old, cranky, and wise to take shit anyway.
          John seeked him out during his first laptop purchase. How he knew Wax was knowledgeable about computers, will never be known. It was an old Dell Latitude Pentium III he bought from some girl in treatment for $100, all the money he had at that time. It arrived with a virus that was sucking up all of the CPU cycles, slowing the machine to a crawl. She said she wiped it clean, but she must not have done a very good job. Wax tried repairing it, but quickly realized it would probably take a re-installation of the operating system, a job he was not willing to do without getting paid. He also instinctively recognized that John was not your common layman when it came to computers: he was a moron. Not wanting him as a non-paying, high-maintenance client, Wax never revealed to him this ultimate solution. He later found someone else to re-install his operating system. Ryan C. the cook offered his father’s assistance it in exchange for word-of-mouth business, that never came to fruition.
          One late evening after he’d spent all day online for the first time at school, he came back home and started dicking with security settings in Internet Explorer. Both he and Wax were tired at the time, but he even more so due to just having taken Seroquel. Wax was too tired try to repair the damage John may be doing and just told him, “Just press the ‘Default Settings’ button and put it to bed.” This guy is definitely high maintenance. After this re-install went off successfully, Wax hadn’t heard much about him.
          It wasn’t until a week ago when he was moved to one of the three beds in Wax’s room that he had a premonition of tonight’s events. John complains about everything, and you’d think he’d be grateful to not be sharing a room with Stan W., a notorious snorer. But no, he just complained that the weekend advocate was incompetent. You could say Wax was less than comfortable with the move.
          Wax started to get to know him better after playing Texas Hold’em Poker with him. He eventually won, but they settled for him lending Wax his bus pass while he bought him Jolly Ranchers. He was on a two week restriction for relapsing on meth, and so couldn’t leave the house. He considered the dollar he’d won in poker a wash for his delivery service.
          Yesterday, the power cord on his laptop’s A/C adapter shorted out and he’d asked Wax to repair it. He told him he was too tired after donating plasma and needed sleep. He left pouting, which made him finally realize how immature this elderly addict was. This in turn caused Wax to revisit his own immaturity, how it’s measured, and when, if ever, he will eventually grow up himself.
          And as before, he found someone else to attempt a repair on his power cord. Attempt would be the word, because the kid who worked on it only made his job harder. Yesterday morning, he spent half an hour repairing the cord on his power adapter. He looked at Wax, this bad ass bald man and said, “I can’t pay you anything,” as he assumed.
          Wax replied, “I know what it’s like not to have a working laptop.” He smiled ear to Ross Perot ear. It was understood he’d be in debt to him, not a bad position to be in with a guy who can get things.
          With three days left before he’s out of the house, and no job, he was feeling some pressure. I guess that was excuse enough to do what he did tonight. The only question is: when did he start drinking? His drug of choice is meth, and being less than a week off restriction, he easily found some. He was acting kind of hesitant when he showed up at Nina’s Café, but Wax thought nothing of it at the time. Neither did drinking cross his mind when he sat down on his bag of bottles on the bench, thinking back now, one of which could’ve easily been vodka. They played online Poker, but not together since that’s not technically possible.
          When Wax arrived home, he was already in bed. He crawled into bed himself an hour later and quickly fell asleep. He was abruptly woken at 1:00am while he was singing along with the movie ‘300’ he was watching on his laptop. It was obvious from his joviality that he was more drunk than wired on meth, especially when he clumsily ran into a coat rack. Snowball, our cat, finally had enough of his drunk ass and crawled into bed with Wax.
          As sleep gave way to the realization that John was truly not sober, the thought that they’re in a sober facility and this is inappropriate slowly entered his conscience. But, since he was having a good time, in a pleasant mood, and not bothering his sleep all that much (at least not for what he had to do that next day, which was donate plasma), Wax wasn’t too concerned. He was obviously drunk and would eventually sleep it off. It was only at one point when he gave him his DVD of ‘300’ that he actually disturbed him. He gave Wax the impression it wasn’t his though. The fact that he told him three times that this was in trade for his service to his laptop that it occurred to him that he might have been drunk at Bella's Café, since he’d told him four times that he wasn’t actually there, but at an A.A. meeting.
          My other roommate, Red F., an elderly black gentleman who finally had enough of his drunk ass, tried to pick a fight with him. Red is a skinny old man who’d easily get his ass kicked by John, and was pissed off at his racial comments. He eventually woke Ray S. (who was probably sleeping with his hearing aids out) up who promptly kicked his drunk ass out.

(to be continued…)


Without Wax,

The State of Sobriety

Mr. Wax had many much more important goals to accomplish today than journaling, but when an overwhelming feeling came over him this morning, he set out to post his thoughts online. It had just been too long; a month and a half, almost two months since he’d posted anything really revealing. So, he promised himself to commit to one post per day, six days per week (on the seventh day, this bloGod™ would rest). Heaven knows, as well as his PDA, he’s built up enough material to write about.
          It’s been just over four and a half months since Without Wax has had a drink of alcohol. His feelings about this accomplishment are mixed, but mostly he thinks it’s not a great deed. He’s had a lot of help along the way. What’s helped has been the typically recommended support, like a healthy minded sponsor (that would be Stewart L.), fun and friendly meetings (Mar League), and a sober environment (The House) to which if you relapse, you’ll have severe consequences. What really worries Wax is how he’ll respond to relapsing out in the real world. His job really had a major impact on his lack of sobriety last time, so this too will be looked at closely.
          Suffering from wet-brain for the first three months of sobriety has caused him to avoid writing his thoughts out, since they hadn’t come as clearly as they did last time two years ago. Thoughts of readership dropping off had actually influenced the mind of Mr. Wax, not typically an admitted motivation for blogging. We miss your comments. Feeling afraid of journaling web-brained non-sense kept his from really wanting to document this clearly embarrassing stage in his recovery. Not feeling clear headed enough to ambiguously express his thoughts in words was not a major motivation. Not knowing if and when it would end scared the shit out of him.
          Using dreams for him have been more entertainment lately than cause for anxiety. He clearly remembered that buying a $7.99 0.75 liter traveler’s bottle of vodka would cost him exactly $8.75 with the extra 2-1/2% liquor tax added to the already 7% state sales tax. These are normal calculations Without Wax would go through when unemployed and broke in order not to embarrass himself at check-out. Even though his favorite liquor store regularly caters to such drunks, he still didn’t want to tarnish what little of his reputation he had left, as if he’s leaving his options open for future employment or something. One such local (within walking distance) liquor store actually refused him at the door after drunkenly slipping on ice across the street. He showed him: next time he attempted to buy liquor there he dressed in his best suite and approached from the side of the building. He was treated with respect, unlike the way he treated his expensive suite by stripped it off as soon as he arrived home, just to get that first drink down. When he woke he’d realized there was no need to budget since he had enough money for a large bottle of his favorite Jack Daniels.
          Housemates come and go with varying reasons. They all come to get sober, but we soon learn that’s not the most important thing for many inmates…err, residents here at The House. Speaking openly of embarrassing reasons to stay sober is at a premium here; for that you must find a good outside meeting. Many residents relapse and come clean, get on two weeks restriction and become resentful. This is one consequence that Wax would wane gracefully. So many other consequences keep him sober: June W.’s disappointment, sponsor’s grilling, homelessness, and the sheer falling from grace. The one thing he can really appreciate now is that consequence factor into his decision not to drink; this never happened before because, frankly, not many people cared. When asked bluntly if she cared about him, June’s response was hesitant, and less sincere than he’d expected. She said she loved him, but isn’t ‘in love’ with him any more. That wasn’t the answer he was hoping for.
          Darla V. was an experiment in futility. Can Wax seduce a woman half his age and get her to move in with him? Sure, if she a pot head.

Sleep all day, out all night
I know where you're goin'
I don't think that's actin' right
You don't think it's showin'

-- Funk #49 by Joe Walsh

          Darla would get home at 4:00am and sleep until her shift the next day at 10:00am, or for twelve hours if she had no work that day. The first thing she’d do once she woke was make her morning call for ‘trees’, her anti-police slang for marijuana, like they wouldn’t know. It was the most important thing to her, to get high, priority #1. That’s when you can tell someone’s truly addicted. Having someone like that in my life was safe for me to use. Her car was car-jacked at gunpoint when she was in an area she was not supposed to be looking to drugs from dangerous people. Shit like that doesn’t happen to people normally. She’d constantly park her car in a tow-away zone and have her dad pay hundreds of dollars to get it out of impound. When Wax told her he was being evicted and checking himself back into treatment, she was the only one in his life who wasn’t proud of him. In fact, she gave him a look like, ‘rehab’s for losers.’ He wasn’t too concerned that she too would have to find some where else to live, but then she never contributed to rent even when it was necessary. She won’t be missed.
          To him, she was confirmation of his masculinity and sexual prowess; that he could seduce a woman half his age. Never mind that he’d never done so fully present, neither him nor her. When he picked her up at Hunan Garden that night, he bought her Long Island Ice Teas while he drank club soda. He remembers feeling this power he’d never experienced before, making advances sober, considering many alternative ways to pursue this chance encounter and calmly, wisely choosing just the right thing to do or say…and remembering it the next day. When she stumbled off her barstool, he’d sensibly convinced her to allow him to drive her car home. It relieved him of the guilt of getting her too drunk to drive, but shifted the burden on him. Not having a valid driver’s license caused his heart to jump into his throat when he passed a cop car going the opposite way. Just as he noticed the cop, she’d asked him to make an illegal U-turn. This is how many DUI occur: someone drunk gives bogus directions and the driver obliges. Had he been drinking as well, he’d have violated probation and her car would be impounded. She was most likely carrying, so she might have been arrested too.
          There’s a simple way to avoid all this clatter and cutter and ridiculous ritual: just do the right thing. That’s what he’s decided on doing from now on.
          Although his sponsor doesn’t give much credit to Rubik, his cube has had a profound influence on his pre-employment days. Even before the fog of wet-brain cleared, in his first two weeks of sobriety, he’d remembered how to solve the 3x3x3. It took him a while to recall all the moves from childhood, but when it came back, it was like a flood. Solutions 8 – 10 minutes at first, but his personal best of just under two minutes was his ultimate goal. After achieving this, he was hampered by both the speed of the cube itself and the tedious solution he’d memorized. The latter is something he’s working on with help from the Web, but as for speeding the cube, he located several Web sites, Instructables being one of them, that had given conflicting ways to clean, lubricate, and in general speed up the cube. Today he’s come up with what he thinks is the best solution so far: disassemble the cube, sand all surfaces with 400 sand paper, spray with Teflon silicon lubricant, and let it dry several hours. His personal best was 1:34, but now it’s down to 1:24 and dropping; and that’s only because he’s not used to how loose it is. Suffice to say, it has been a tremendous source of confidence for him…and a wonderful conversation starter to boot. However, he’s having second thoughts about bring it on an interview next time…he doesn’t think it helped.
          Diabetes has been a major concern for Without Wax. He’s still surprised that after all the damage he’s done to his organs (liver, kidneys, spleen, etc.), there isn’t more damage. He’s not diabetic, not yet. He’s been diagnosed prediabetic, which means his glucose levels are high, but not high enough to be considered diabetic; so he’s borderline diabetic. If treated like type II diabetes, he’ll avoid becoming diabetic. That means eating less, avoiding complex carbohydrates, and exercising. It could be managed by taking diabetic medicine, like Metformin. But, if he can avoid such medicine by doing the other things, he’ll lift a large burden from his liver, since it has to work overtime. How Metformin works is not fully understood, but it is the most prescribed drug in the United States. It often causes gas. He is now seeing a primary provider doctor who has not decided on medicine just yet, but wants him to loose 50 pounds.
          What’s important to him is that he’s healthy enough to still donate plasma. He’s been going way out of his way to donate in the suburbs. It takes a full six hours out of his day, twice a week; something he wouldn’t be able to do once employed. But now that his doctor has cleared him for plasma donation, he’s off the deferred list at City Plasma. One of the nurses there, Rehan N., really has it out for him; she swears someone once heard him talking about living in a sober house. Being an alcoholic or addict excludes you from donating plasma. He believes that being an alcoholic is an anonymous affair and none of their business. And she basically believes he’s lying to her, which he is, but can’t prove it. All the other nurses really take a liking to him; he uses this to hit on them. This is dangerous on several levels: he really shouldn’t start a relationship, but most of all not with an employee of City Plasma who could discover he’s living in a sober facility, which would end his plasma donation probably everywhere. He donates for three important reasons: $260/month, his health and sobriety, and the service commitment…in that order.
          The distraction of beautiful women has started to overwhelm him quite a bit lately. Having coffee at his favorite Internet café has its benefits: beautiful women. At first, he thought being so overweight would be a major turnoff, but all it has done was make him more insecure. Now that he’s become more confident, he’s finding women are more likely to start up a conversation. One thing leads to another and the flirting starts…and we’re going to leave it at that for now.
          The most important thing for him right now is finding a job. He’s got feelers out there, but no bites. If he doesn’t find a job in two weeks, he’ll be out of The House. If he moves into a place, he’ll no longer qualify for General Assistance (GA), which pays for first month’s rent and deposit. He has a sober house lined up, but he’s agreed with the landlord not to move in without a job. The GA lady says if he moves in to a sober house without a job, he no longer qualifies for assistance. So, in short, things would be much better for him if he gets a job soon.
          The effect of his housemates leaving constantly has had little influence on his sobriety; he’s learned to stay with the winners. Most leave just because they can’t handle living with 27 other addicts and/or alcoholics, but many relapse. He’s had several roommates relapse, one of which happened in the room with a bottle of vodka, but that’s another story.
          His 4th Step is due today, but he’s putting it off in order to blog. He feels this is something he has to get off his chest before he gets resentments and fears off his chest in his fourth. It’s waited this long, it can wait another day.
          As far as his sponsor is concerned, again this is a totally other story that deserves its own post.
          He thinks of June a lot, can’t help it…thinks of what it would’ve been like, what it could be like with a sober him. Was she, is she attracted to addictive personalities? Would it not be fun for her any more with a man who cannot drink? He has to live with these questions for the rest of his life.
          What he has realized is that he really does want this anonymous feedback on this part of his life. The personal face-to-face feedback at meetings is important, but there’s a value to anonymous emotions expressed here. He only wishes his comment count would increase, so please contribute.
          Oh, and about the photo, he thought it would make a fitting tribute to his last visit to Suburb Plasma. This is what Midwestern adolescent suburbanites do for fun on a Friday night.



Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

Not Too Bored

Exhausted from working late, coming from donating at City Plasma, I’m approached by a panhandler at the Saint Paul downtown bus stop. He is a black man wearing, what appears to be, everything he owns. His direct advance causes me to mentally locating my pocketknife (outside backpack pocket). “Excuse me sir, could you spare a few dollars for a bed down at The Mission?”

Having panhandled for Mission money in the past, I sympathize with the man. However, if he simply was honest about his need for money, like say for booze or crack, I’d me more inclined to donate. 4:00pm is the cut off time for buying a bed a The Mission, wanted to say. “I’m sorry, I just got done paying rent,” I replied. A white man carrying a grocery bag is a prime target for panhandlers I guess.

... and I’ve run out of time, must leave for work...

When I started this blog over a year ago, a goal of mine was to show how a man like me stayed sober. By not posting to this blog, I haven’t really done that lately. I would also not recommend the method I’m currently using, which is not going to meetings, not seeking a sponsor, and working my ass off at work. However, tomorrow will be five months sober, so I’m not doing too badly.


Without Wax,

Don't Have To Drink About It

Briefly, I didn't get the promotion. I was disciplined for staying late to fix a major problem with the printer. I basically feel unappreciated. I really want to find a meeting.

However, I must run because something good has happened: My protein levels have risen high enough for me to donate at City Plasma!

So, all have a safe and happy Halloween. I, on the other hand, am going out tonight to capture party animals in costume. I know it’s neither safe nor sane, but I really missed St. Patrick’s Day with my camera.


Without Wax,

New Job at One Month Sober

After a surprisingly good rest last night, I woke up early, skipped the shower, ate breakfast, and left The Mission to plan my day. Having a few hours to relax, I delved into my next novel, Dan Brown’s Deception Point. After finishing his prequel to The Da Vinci Code, Angels & Demons, I’m starting his second of four novels. I’ve read all the others and wait impatiently for his follow up to The Da Vinci Code.

While reading this excellent novel, I think of sending a text message to June W. about my one month of sobriety and first day of work. But before I can, she sends me a text message:
GOOD LUCK TODAY! Stay calm,
You will be GREAT!
-- June

This refers to our last in-person conversation about how we both this might be the causes of loosing four previous jobs. My inability to know when I’m being over-confident, appearing too cocky. Just stay alert, pay attention, let people know when you understand enough to work on your own, and always remember to be of service to all around you. No one likes the carry the burden of a slacker. By doing your job fast, efficient, and friendly, you help everyone on the team.

Playing a shell game between my old apartment’s storage, and the lockers at The Gym and The Mission, I planned to get the right stuff in all the right places for this evening’s Job Orientation Meeting at The Discount Store. I wanted cleans cloths and shower supplies at The Gym, along with my laptop. My bicycle was moved from The Gym this morning to The Mission. I accomplished this today with one fare and six bus trips within the allotted two and a half hour expiration of a transfer. With all appropriate tasks performed, I finally had a huge lunch at The Mission, took an extra long shower at The Gym, dressed for work, then walked my laptop across the street to The Café to relax before heading off to my first day on the job at The Discount Store.

Fighting for hours at The Deli is something that makes me uncomfortable since that’s how I lost hours at The Pizza Joint. Unfortunately, Wednesday mornings are when the schedules are made, and Wednesday night is when I find out my schedule for The Discount Store. I guess it doesn’t matter, since any hours I get at The Discount Store will trump The Deli. After making a call for hours, I find they haven’t even scheduled me for anything this week; just the same as The Pizza Joint. That’s unfortunate, since I’ll miss out on tips and will have to rely on plasma money until I get my first paycheck.

However, this does make things at The Discount Store honestly simple. I currently have no conflicts with the other job. The Discount Store knows of my other job, but not the other way around, and I’d like to keep it that way. So, when I talk to the manager of The Deli, I’ll have a schedule I can work around.

I’m ready.


Without Wax,

Negative Drug Test Result

Monday morning begins with trekking to City Plasma to learn the results of my blood work, and hopefully allow me to donate. I could really do with $25.00 today as well as being able to donate locally instead of spending five hours traveling to Suburb Plasma.

The dreary drizzle sets the tone for today’s news. Instead of cycling, I choose to walk it the half-hour in light rain. It gives me time to prepare myself for the bad news, which could be either they won’t let me donate because I’ve donated in less than a week at another plasma bank, or my blood work results indicate low protein levels. Needing the money, I can’t help but feel depressed. I haven’t heard from The Discount Store yet; I was hoping I’d hear good news by now.

Bertha W. called me for her eviction reminder. Oddly enough, she’d stopped calling daily since she learned of my recent job offers. It may be that that old witch as a conscience after all. However, after speaking with her, she’s convinced me that she will not sway when it comes to me leaving at the end of the month, just a few days away. My neighbor said he’d talk to her and try to convince her to change her mind, but she’s accepted money from the new tenet. I don’t think she’ll go back on her word. Frankly, I’m not ready to move out and live on the streets again.

Arriving at City Plasma, I sign in as normal, hoping that everything will go as normal. An hour later, I’m told that my protein levels are still slightly below normal. I’ve been sober for three weeks, so I take another test. This time, they say to come back in one week instead of two. This is very bad news.

I return home, get the mail, and I’ve got a letter from The Discount Store. Fearing bad news, I get settled in the apartment before opening the letter. The interviewer said that the store would not contact me directly if I was turned down, but rather the corporate office would do so, probably by letter. If I were accepted, the store would call me. So, I’ve been waiting for a positive local phone call, but fearing a Minneapolis letter or phone call.

Opening the letter, it reads:

RE: Negative Drug Test Result

That’s it, I’m buying a bottle and just get plastered. I read on...

The Discount Store has received information confirming that your recent drug test is negative.

That’s it, negative. Everything is showing up negative today. I might as well get drunk and call in sick to The Deli! I read on.

You have passed the drug test.

Oh, that’s right. Negative test results in medicine are positive news. Taking a deep breath, I go to fix lunch and prepare for work this afternoon.


Without Wax,

It's My Blog And I'll Play What I Want To

I have no idea why I like this video. Oh, that's right, I'm a read blooded American male.

I was in the midst of journaling a very depressing thought that occurred to me, until I came across this video and felt like sharing. It shook me out of my depression. Although the job prospects have been pouring in lately, I’m less than optimistic about my future.

I really won’t feel comfortable until I’m hired full-time at The Discount Store. The Service Station career path is tenuous at best. The Deli is going to be another Pizza Joint as far as fighting for hours every week. I need a predictable schedule. I don’t mind working extra shifts; I’m more worried about not depending on hours.

For example, I have three days until I work again at The Deli. I’ve got money in my pocket. The readers that comment on this blog know what’s next. If you do your algebra, money + free time = booze - lost time, the common denominator is a degraded morale. This is how it happened the first time when I was working at The Pizza Joint. I lost hours, had money, and decided to buy a bottle, my first. I thought, I’ll just sober up when they give me some hours. I liked wallowing in my self-pity so much that I never picked up the phone and asked for hours. Now I know you have to fight for hours at these food service jobs and be ready to work at the drop of a hat. You don’t have the luxury of a day or two to sober up.

Running on three hours sleep, I came home from Suburb Plasma, ate a big meal, and fell asleep. When I woke, I’d turned on the TV to discover Northfield’s being pelted by baseball-sized hail. The clock reads 8:14pm, past closing time for liquor stores. I felt sad instead of relieved. Remember last time you tried to drink between plasma donations? Yah, shut up. My protein levels dropped and I had to find another plasma donation facility.

Wednesday I had an interview with The Service Station way out in the suburbs. Although the store I applied at is walking distance from home, I have to trek all the way out to the ‘burbs for an interview. It took five hours of travel for a one-hour interview, but these are the things unemployed men do, especially when they don’t have a car. The bus route that takes me to the interview in the morning does not take me back until 4:00pm. So, I mapped out a return route that would involve some cycling until I got to a bus route that would take me back home.

I was asked the all too common question for a man of my age: “Are you looking for a manager position?” I am, after all old enough to know Doris Day before she was a virgin. Instead of shying away from these questions, I entertain them, as I did in this interview.

All went well during the interview. I’d parked my bicycle far enough away from the office so that my interviewer would have no idea I don’t have a car. There’s a service station adjacent to the office the interview is held in. When it was over, I jumped on my bike, pedaled off, then when I was far enough away I looked at my map. There was something wrong. From the bus map, it appears that the bus should’ve dropped me right in front of the office, but it turned the other direction. This threw off my sense of direction. Since I had to pee, I thought I’d return to the service station, get directions, and relieve myself. I got directions and found a line for the restroom. I thought of leaving my bike helmet on the bike so I don’t look geeky, but thought I wouldn’t have to wait long. Out of the restroom comes the gentleman I’d just interviewed with. He said, “Hi,” but then hung his head as he returned to his office. I could tell I’d just blown it. Corporate people like that don’t hire assistant managers who can’t manager their own lives enough to own a car. I don’t think he’ll be calling back.

Oddly enough, another manager from the same company called about the other Service Station I applied at. It turns out, although both these service stations with the same name are just a few blocks away, they’re not managed by the same company. If the other guy doesn’t call back, I might call this one. Again, the interview is out in the suburbs, only I have a feeling the bus route will be kinder. Another advantage is that this other service station is closer and in a nicer neighborhood.

The problem with The Discount Store’s background check is that it could take too long. If I’m hired by them before the end of the month, I might be able to convince my landlord not to evict me. It’s what I’m most worried about.

Well, it’s time to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll call the Deli for hours on Friday and Saturday, big tipping days. I’ll also do some chores, like dishes and laundry.

Good night,


Without Wax,

Minneapolis Central Library

Minneapolis Central Library has got to be the most restrictive library in the entire Minnesota library system. I only have an hour before my bus transfer expires, so I thought I'd check out Dan Brown's
Deception Point, then update this blog. Well, they don't have that book. And I can only use the Internet for 30 minutes, as opposed to 60 minutes in Saint Paul. Since I'm short on time, I really didn't want to get into it with the clerk about why someone who lives in 'The Other' Twin City couldn't obtain a Minneapolis library card, nor use their existing one.

I have a Ramsey county library card, which I understand is the problem. I explained that Saint Paul is in Ramsey county, but he thinks for some reason I should have a Saint Paul library card. Whatever bureaucratic bullshit floats your boat. It's a shame that such a beautiful library should be wrapped in red tape.

60 minutes is not enough time to explore this facility. I'll have to come back another day and spend the entire day here.

Every exterior wall is glass. Most of it clear, but some are etched with snow and tree scenes. I just hope no one gets the idea to throw rocks.

Job hunting update info: A large service station franchise interviewed be yesterday. They asked if I'd like to be assistant manager full-time with benefits. They're going to call me back after a background check and make an offer. Then I'd go for training. There's a lot more about this company and the interview that I'll expand on when I return home.

Right now, I'm running on three hours sleep after working ten hours last night until 3:00am. Unfortunately, I only earned $9 in tips since a lot of co-workers were clocked in, even though most weren't really working. Therefore, our tips got split pretty poorly. It sucked, because when I called for work, the guy making the schedule said that a new hire called to cancel last night, so I took his shift. Then he comes in anyway for a bit and he gets a full share of the tips.

I'm in between transfers right now, coming back from donating plasma. I have money again, and the urge to drink is stronger once again. If I don't bug The Deli today, I won't work until Sunday. That's three days of drinking...YAH! No! I have to donate Saturday morning, else I won't get paid $30. Just a sip, I'm thinking. Stinking thinking is what it is. I'm tired and should just go home, put in some laundry, a good movie (maybe rented from the library), make soup, and crash.

Sounds like a plan.

Signing off!


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,

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,

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,

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,

A Full Five Months

Like many a recovering alcoholic in Saint Paul, when the weather gets good, the drunk get cycling. Unlike the West Coast where I grew up, cycling in the Midwest has seasons. There’s only one A.A. that cycles all year round here and he’s a few clowns short of a circus. But many of us embrace the new spring freedom and happily mount up.

Lately I’ve tried combining two modes of transportation with mixed results. Our buses have bike racks. Being the procrastinator that I am, I’ve become quite the racer when it comes to buses. If you can’t catch the bus you want, why wait for it? Just run it down! I’ve discovered that the two modes of transportation have three comparative points worth mentioning:

1. Buses must stop at red lights where bicycles can negotiate them,
2. A bicycle is like an express bus in that it doesn’t make all stops,
3. Buses power up and coast down hills where bicycles crawl up and race down.

This gives the cyclist several advantages and disadvantages when it comes to racing the bus you’re interested in using to terminate your spring ride. Unfortunately, it meant never catching the bus that would take me to my one meeting that I know would score me a five month medallion. Saint Paul lies several hundred feet below surrounding suburbs, being that the Mississippi River runs through it. Although I was only five minutes late, and could easily make up the time by taking advantage of the first two points, it’s the latter that botched my efforts.

You have to dig your way out of the river front communities. I caught up with the bus by taking a few short cuts that the bus had to avoid in order in order to pickup as many fares downtown as possible. I was yards away from the bus when it made its critical turn out of town and up a steep hill. No problem, I thought, I’ll just catch up on the downslide. But there was none. In its place was another hill. That combined with the fact that I don’t really pay close attention to all the turns a bus makes while I’m riding it (and the fact that Jesse Ventura was right, drunk Irish men really did design the streets of Saint Paul – I’m Irish so blow me all PC types), I lost the bus, along with my sense of direction. It being an overcast day and all, I ended up heading south on a street I clearly intended to be heading north. Thankfully, a local fireman who happened to be out for a stroll pointed me in the right direction. He must’ve thought I was a drunken Irishman.

So, what planned on being a short bus/bike trip lasting only twenty-five minutes became a healthy hour and a half bike tour. Alcoholics are punctual and unforgiving folks when it comes to disrespecting meeting start times. Suffice to say, I didn’t earn a medallion for my efforts. Five month medallions are difficult to attain. They’re rare and I thought because I received a four month there that it would happen today, but alas it was not to be. Either it’s rarer than I’d thought or burbs don’t respect cycling: I parked in an empty bike rack.

Short but sweet; I did make the meeting’s tail end. You do tend to get more out of meetings when you can hear everyone speak. This will not repeat itself.

The bus rides that followed the rest of the day were typical for milestone days. I over heard a young man discussing the Camel Club, a since deprecated dry bar for A.A.s. I asked him about it in a way that wouldn’t reveal to a non-A.A. our true subject matter in order to respect what anonymity he felt like protecting. The way in which he responded did appear to be anonymous. We mourned the loss of the Camel Club.

On my way back from the meeting, after mounting my bike on the front of the bus, I’d taken the seat on the mostly empty bus near the front usually reserved for elderly, handy capped, and the full-legged lady in short skirt that any decent gentleman would care to relinquish his seat for. Such an opportunity presented itself when an older lady stumbled on the bus. Distracted by tying up my gear I failed to notice her getting on the bus, but couldn’t miss the waft of Whiskey breath as she passed. Being that she was voluntarily disabled and elderly, I offered my seat. This compounded her perplexity as she turned to confront me and promptly fell flat on her patootee. I reached down to help her up at her rejection, which quickly turned to comfort as I forcefully righted her to standing position rather quickly. In her drunken state, I believe it the most erect position she’d attained in hours; she thanked me. In an inebriated slur, she said, “I forgot my bag,” which was brown and promptly retrieved, she took my seat. From my own drinking days, I could easily identify it as a 1.75 liter plastic bottle of cheap bourbon, brown bag molded by grip around its neck.

I have a gift for guessing a woman’s age. I had initially thought her in her 70’s, but after closer inspection, discovered her to be much closer to my own age. Horribly aged by booze no less, she made a fool of herself. So much so that the young man I’d just been having a discussion with early regarding the Camel Club who was closest to the action said nothing when she fell just left of him. He didn’t bother to help her at all when he clearly was in range. I smiled gracefully, treated her like a lady as I helped her up, while giggling all inside. Most people don’t find alcoholism as entertaining as I do I guess.

I interviewed a new sponsor. I like him. We spent an hour in The Café and he agreed to endure my existence.

After nearly falling asleep at plasma, I decided against my better budget judgment to treat myself to a shopping excursion at Wally World. I bought only staples: hotdogs, milk, etc. It was my attempt to recharge my cell phone’s minutes that brought me to the counter that I made my next purchase. Loitering around this big bin filled with old and unwanted DVDs for $5.50 a pop was a beautiful young blue-eyed lady from Europe; excuse enough to play in the bin. There I found North Dallas Forty, a movie I grew up with and coincidentally was just thinking about buying the day before. It ads to a growing list of traditional seasonal movies: The Music Man for Fourth of July, A Christmas Story for well, Christmas, and American Flyers for spring cycling. This last one I just broke out of storage because I’m getting back in shape for cycling season.

It was this old movie that made me think of North Dallas Forty, you know, for football season. ‘70s drug culture meets the corporate world of football and all it’s politics; it’s a classic. The story is as true today as it was during the sexual revolution. Professional football teams pump their star athletes with drugs just to get them out on the field, and then penalize them for using recreational drugs. It’s the dramatized auto-biographical novel of a Dallas wide receiver made into a movie. It’s “far out.”

Five months is a lonely milestone I guess. No one remembered; no one called. I simply went home, popped in North Dallas Forty, and crashed on the sofa.

Without Wax,