The Zero Sum Option

Dr. L is inquisitive as usual.

I told her about the debacle with the party and the subsequent failing of the breathalyzer. She is not amused as I am. "What made you go and get the portable before going to the party?" I scratch my head. I dunno. I was just jumpy that I was heading there in the first place. I'm jumpy and skittish around crowds of strangers. I wanted to loosen up. "Do you think that you could have loosened up without it?" Oh Hell no. Not a chance in a million, and on top of that I'm glad that I did because I was asked to read and network. She is taken aback a bit. She is used to me drinking for entertainment purposes, but this is a new issue, a new outcome. "Maybe once again, it is the lifestyle that you are living that's making life difficult for you. It seems to have gotten you into the bad graces of the Shelter...." The Box. "...the Box. Could that be what you wanted?" I dunno.

I don't know anything about that night. I just know that I ducked the bullet and tomorrow will be a new day with them looking over my shoulder. You may wonder how I get the dialog for these discourses between Dr. L and myself...or any of my doctors for that matter. I record them. Ever since I got that micro recorder, I've been putting it to good use, recording our sessions. Just so's you know. I'm giving you as clear a picture into my therapy as I can.

I make it to the Box after my usual stay at the Madison Starbucks with OBSIDIAN. Once there I talk to my parents, and they, as usual, warned me of the evil, twisted threat that is the Internet. The spawn of Satan, and the Deceiver of all men. Evil incarnate which can produce nothing but pain and suffering. I thank them for their astute insight. Remember, these people are in the Stone Age and still use VCR cassettes. My father bought a lifetime supply before the technology became obsolete.

I tell them that I love them dearly and head for the Box, fearing finding my gear once again in the hallway in garbage bags. They weren't there, but Kevin was, unpacking his things. He looks up to me when I enter. "What happened to you?" He asks. I tell him. Hey, what happened to you, I ask. "I went back to Bellevue on Monday morning and went into detox. I spent three days in there." Hmmm, I skip the part that I returned directly back to the Box. I told him instead that I slept out in the street. He felt sorry for me.

Igor is in his bed when I get home. Someone new is already in BK's bed. He seems jovial, trying hard to make new friends, he is Black and calls out to me: "Hey Brother," he holds out his hand. "Jor-el." I nod, shaking his hand, Hobobob. He nods back, in a vacant, empty sort of way. That's as far as the conversation goes.

Igor is pissed. When Mr. Franklin comes in, he complains. "They're sending me to some kind of program for drug addicts and alcoholics. And they want me to go to programs for drug and alcohol addiction, and I don't have any of these problems." Mr. Franklin hunches his shoulders, "What do you want me to do?" Igor is adamant. "Can't you do something? I mean BRC is just trying to get rid of me because of my history of homelessness." I wanted to correct Igor. The same place that he is slated to go, BRC tried to get me to go months past. I fucked that up royally by going AWOL that night before my interview. Like I said, I think I'm sabotaging their efforts to fuck me over. Mr. Franklin stops and looks at Igor tiredly. "And what do you think I can do? What did your counsellor say?" Igor: "He says that there is nothing that he can do for me. I have to go there." Mr. Franklin walks off, "Well if he can't help you, I can't."

I wanted to tell Igor that he could help himself. Go AWOL. I think I realize now the reason for the level of retribution that I received for my coming in late and failing the Breathalyzer. They were going to give me the same zero sum option, which is no option at all. They were going to threaten me with the same program. Again. And I fucked them up. Again. Now, because of the breathalyzer, they have to give me ninety days before they can push me into that program. Ha ha ha. It's so clear to me now. That's why I'm under contract for something so small. They're ready to boot me by any means necessary, because I ruined their plans. If I don't fuck up, they'll have to keep me. That also means that I had better keep my nose clean, because any slip up will give them just cause. And at the end of ninety days, I'm certain that I'll be faced with Igor's option once again.

Crafty motherfuckers.

I am also doomed to return to the street, because I'm not going for the program option. That wasn't why I allowed myself to be conscripted into this farce. I wanted an apartment, just what they promised me. In ninety days, three months, it will be in the middle of winter in the city. December. And I'll slip back into the Streeter ranks. This much will happen. Unless I fuck up earlier, which I don't intend to do. I expect them to turn the screws further and tighter to force me out within those days. I just feel it.

Igor is the odd man out this time. Next time it will be me. As soon as my time runs out.

Crafty motherfuckers.

I've got less than ninety days. I'd better come up with an exit.

Damn. I'm going to miss that printer.

Hobobob