From Which You Came

I got up this morning feeling anxious.

No pain, just anxiety. I was wondering where the makers of the Box would take me today. I was picturing a TC. What would a TC look like? Would I know a TC if one jumped out of an alley and bit me in the ass?

I got up and got online first. Which is the first thing that I always do. Then I got ready, donning on a pair of retread pants and sweater, socks and tee. I even shaved and brushed my teeth. I was a million bucks when I finished. And I waited. My escort arrived and gathered us all together, a father rooster and his little chicks. There were three of us going to the housing interview. I wondered, are they going to go to a TC too??

We hopped the train and headed uptown to the Upper West Side of Manhattan and walked several blocks to the non descript building tucked neatly between two similar ones. There wasn't much of anything on the outside save a glass door and a doorman behind a window. We filed in and headed back into a conference room, where we waited. I read, finally finishing my book Significant Others with a level of disappointment. I wanted the book to continue.

A jovial, abundant but not fat woman came in and introduced herself. She was quick, and organized, taking our apartment 'packages' and explaining to us how and what order we will go in. I ended up picking the third straw. We were also not the only ones. A couple came in, escorted by their case worker, as did another woman.

A suited gentleman with a clipboard arrived next and called us all to our feet. We followed him into an elevator...all of us, crushed together like rush hour, and rode up to the fifth floor. As I stepped out into the corridor I could not help but notice how clean and free of graffiti the walls were. The floors were cleaned and polished, the air, fresh. We were led to two doors which opened up into bathrooms. Large, clean, antiseptic with tub and shower. We all were afforded he opportunity to peek in.

Then he led us to one of the sample rooms. Firstly, it was small. Like a stateroom. On the left of the door were cabinets, a counter, a sink, microwave and a small refrigerator under the counter. Nice. Directly ahead and to the far right corner of the room was the bed underneath a large window with a rough brick wall as it's scenery outside. Against the right wall and in the near right corner of the room was an ample table. It was a comfortable room, large enough to live in. I was pleased.

We were returned to the conference room and there we waited.

I fretted. Yeah, I sat there wishing that I had a double helping of LAMICTAL flowing in my bloodstream. I was a hot mess. Soon, I was called in and I followed behind the hefty woman who asked me my full name and what name did I like to be called. I wanted to say 'asshole'.

She opened a door into a small room where two others sat. The room looked too small to hold us all, and with all of the spaces available for them, I supposed, this meeting place was something thrown together. I was introduced to the psychologist, seated in the middle. A long, lanky woman with dark hair. The third was a male of military comportment, with the crew cut hair, impeccably dressed, and stern features. He nodded in my direction. My arms went akimbo, and they laughed, gesturing to a chair. How was I supposed to know? It was like invisible in the room.

We sat together so close that our knees should have been touching. They made nice for a minute, and then pulled out the machine guns. Their questions came in staccato bursts, grilling me like meat about everything. Everything. Did I use drugs? Do I drink? Did I relapse? Have I ever been arrested? Did I ever hurt anyone? Would I? How long was I homeless? Do I owe money? Where did I grow up? Did I live in an apartment? Did I ever pay rent? What was my favorite booze of choice? Shit like that.

The questions went on and on like a rain of blows until they stopped abruptly. The heavyset, jovial woman, still jovial, asks if I have any questions. Yeah, sure. Next time will lube come with the anal penetration? Well, no, I didn't ask them that. I asked only where the laundry was. And that was it. It was pretty straightforward, like I fell into the pit of seventy seven swords and knives.

How did I do? How do I think I did? I was never good at snap exams in school. I was never good with giving answers because I'm always concerned that I'll give the wrong ones. I think I gave a list of wrong ones in this instance. I'm not on the ball. I can't read my inquisitors. I'm walking blind. When I'm in these situations I know that things will go South. I just have that feeling. I can't shake it. But I put my best foot forward. I gave them the best and most truthful answers that I know how. I gave it my best shot.

And in all truth- fulness, it's Turkey Shoot. It's all a stab in the dark. Not all get out of here on their first try. There are many here that have gone on more than one housing interview. There may be more couples trying for the SROs than most. There might have been fewer apartments than rumored. They were rumored to have at least ten. Still, there are too many wanting too few.

That's why they call it a homeless crisis people. That's why there are so many people living in the streets. While I was sitting there, an old friend comes in. Someone that I haven't seen in a long time. He was also a resident of the Box and was also looking for an apartment interview. Which means, in translation, that we were not the only six people coming in to be interviewed. There probably were many, many more.

I came out, grabbed my gear and headed downtown to the library, to leave my baby with Electra, and then further down for my therapy.

Now comes the hard part. The waiting. I'm struggling with my racing thoughts. I'm having a hard time focusing. It took too long to write this post. I can't seem to write much of anything because my thoughts drift back to all the benefits of living inside a room with four walls and a door that can be locked. And especially the Upper West Side. It was like showing a pirate gold.

Well, I sat at the edge of my bed, pounding away sluggishly on the keys, squeezing every word out of my head. This day is done. There is nothing more that I can do for it by worrying about it. It's time for me to call it a night.

I climb into bed, stick my headsets into my ears, and put on the Smashing Pumpkins.

I drift off.

Hobobob