Fist 'em Hard, Fist 'em Deep

I head to the library early.

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I get there before they open, so I kill time reading the AM New York in the Madison Avenue Starbucks. After reading the daily swill that we call news here in the big city, I look at my watch. It's after 10:00. I pack up my gear and head out and in passing the front door I see Electra asleep in one of the cushion chairs near the window. She is out cold, fast asleep. I don't wake her. I know how difficult it is to get sleep on the streets.

Instead, I head to the library and cop my seat. I'm going to be here awhile. Electra soon joins me and I keep my nose in my computer, working hard.

"There will come a time when these sessions will end," my Therapist, Dr. L. tells me. And when will that be? "Whenever you make a decision to either drink or not to drink. As long as you are in between, then I see we need to continue." So, let me get this right, I begin. If I walk in and say to you: 'I'm a drinking man and I want to be a drinking man for the rest of my life?' "Well then, there would be no need for me and our sessions then, wouldn't it?" She replies. Shit, I knew that, but I never thought of it. I happen to like my sessions with Dr. L. More than Dr. G, who's out with heart surgery. I dread when she returns.

The door opens and the HEAD doctor walks in. She's the coordinator. Tall, completely grey, wearing glasses. She swings the door open as if busting in. She talks in deep code to Dr. L., about filling out forms DD7 and QXy. She uses medical terms as if trying to shake me from the conversation with her jargon. Then she turns to me, "Do you feel that you need to continue with Dr. G?" Hmmmm, already I'm given a choice. I don't know, I say. I'm not sure. "Because you're already having therapy here at BMD, why do you need another at ADC?" Yeah, why do I need another at ADC? I say, not knowing what the fuck I'm talking about.

Then she starts to see saw, repeating herself over and over again, until she became tedious. She must have said to me: "Why do you need another at ADC?" more than four times. Can you turn the turntable off? It's skipping. Finally she reaches over and takes the handle of the door, closing it behind her. What that fuck was all that about, I ask Dr. L. "They're cracking down on appointment keeping here at ICD," Dr. L. says. "They want people to make their appointments." Oh, I see. I think about Dr. D, who I never go and see. I keep putting off going to his sessions simply because there are too many people there. They get under my skin. Make me crawl. I'd rather have dental surgery.

I piss in a cup for Dr. L. and head on my merry, returning to the Library and getting back online. It is not long before I see my brother again. We plan to go to get a bite to eat at the nearest deli and to cop a few portables. I'm still somewhat in the bag, sipping on my bottle of San Pellegrino all day long. For lunch I had bagged a lox and cream cheese bagel from the deli near my Therapist. Now I'm longing for another sandwich. Probably an after effect of all the booze in my system. I need to level it off before submerging it again. We go to a nearby liquor store and cop more portables and then the deli to bag a sandwich.

From there we head back to Bryant Park to eat and drink, and laugh at the people walking by. The hundreds of people who are oblivious to everything about them. If a meteor was to fall to the Earth, burning and spinning as it hurtled to the ground, millions would not even look up to get out of the way, or to scream at their impending doom. Not until it struck with unbelievable force would anyone care.

Across from us was a young man sitting on one of the wood and metal park chairs in a flower bed, leaning precariously to the side, head bowed to his chest, bobbing as if on a mean heroin nod. He tilts almost over before he snaps back erect, only to slowly bow his head once more and lean to the side to such an extent that the chair is cocked on two of its side legs. Only to snap back erect and to go through the entire process again.

I make gentlemen's bet with my brother that he'll totter and fall. Then we resume talking, glancing at him every once in awhile while watching the skirts walk by. Long lean legs, short black dresses, low cut décolletages. They are all hot, on a hot night, making a hot night hotter. They pile into an expensive restaurant in the center of the Park, at the back of the library.

We turn our attention back to our teetering friend. A clique of tourists are surrounding him, taking flash photos of his amazing feat of balance, waiting for him to rise up to two legs of the chair before snapping shot after shot. I guess I am wrong about all of New York being oblivious. The tourists are searching for anything to snap a picture of.

The young man reaches sleepily for a cigarette and lights it with an unsteady hand. Then he goes back on a nod. I double my bet, a cigarette always made me drunker than before. My brother now joins in, betting that the young man will not fall into the flower bed at his side. I smile, he begins to teeter.

The night grows late, as we bullshit. I look at my watch. It's time to go. I look at the young man. He is gone. What the fuck?? I lost a double. Fuck!! I just can't catch a break. My brother laughs. He had warned me that the young man was a pro. This was what he was into. This was the route that he takes. I bid my brother farewell and return to the Box. Playtime was over.

Upon entering I see Robert, sitting downstairs in the Bozo chairs. He is the dunce for the night, being prepared for detox and the pajama uniform for three days. What the fuck happened Rob. Now here is the dichotomy in his story. He is visibly drunk, his eyes wandering drunkenly, his speech seriously slurred. "I told my case worker three days ago that I had a few beers," he says. 'And she told the Techs here, and they pulled me for that." Three days ago they pulled you for the jag? I smirk. You are full of shit, I say to myself. He senses my incredulousness though. "No, I'm serious. I told her three days ago and they are jagging me for that. That's bullshit. That's supposed to be confidential. I'll get them back for that," he is livid, in a drunken way. The administrator of the DETOX ward comes out and actually places himself between me and Robert as if I wasn't even there. He hits him with a battery of questions. I walk the fuck off. I'm already polluted. I don't need a breathalyzer because of reeking of CH3CH2OH.

As I head to my bed and get ready to settle down, I prep my leftover sandwich, chips and soda for the refrigerator. On my way out of the dorm, Angel pops his head out of the bathroom and waves me over. "MY DUDE," he calls out. "Come here for a second." I turn course and head into the bathroom. Angel waves me over to the sink, opens a cabinet under it and produces a bottle of half finished wine. "It's very good, my dude, and they haven't found it yet," he informs. "I'm going to make this my personal bar. Just watch, my dude." Well thank you for showing me that, Angel. I'm worried now. Have I gotten the reputation amongst my dormmates of being a drunk under the nose of the Techs here?

The more people that know these things, the greater your chance of getting caught. I don't need that shit. Once bagged, I'm separated from my laptop. That would not be good. I might just tone it down for a month just to shake the Techs off my case.

I'm tired of the Brown World anyway.

But thinking about Robert, Angel and the Young man in the Park....

Can I be all that bad?

Hobobob