Mixed Residential Complex

I'm woozy.

Dr. W. increased my LYRICA a couple of milligrams. In ten minutes it made it hard for me to write emails in the morning. This stuff is supposed to mellow me out, cut the nerves, and damnit it does. I am probably the mellowest man on the Earth in ten minutes. I feel so good today, I pack up and out an hour early to walk from 98th st to 72nd. No an easy feat.

I run downstairs and notice that the cafeteria is still serving Breakfast/ Lunch. I stop and walk in, signing the form that I took a meal, and Snow White is sitting right there. "Hobobob! So good to see you. Don't leave! I need you to sign something!" I stand, cursing myself. I walk over to the kitchen window, and two knuckleheads are in there. This is what gets me about the people in the kitchen. They are all touched in the head. They really are. It's like they get them all for a slow farm.

One annoying thing about them is that their stupid. No, really. Breakfast/ Lunch is divided into meal plans, A, B and C. Each has different stuff in it. It says on the wall in the kitchen exactly what's supposed to be in each bag. Easy as that. There's no science to it. But these knuckleheads walk around in the kitchen asking for what you want. "Water? Potato Chips? Sandwich? If you say yes to something not in the meal plan they stop, THEN they refer to the meal plan on the wall and tell you that you can't have that.

Here's the problem. If you forget something they'll forget it. Case in point, today: this woman in the kitchen is walking about, asking me if I want this or that. I say yes to everything and she hands me my bag. What she missed, which is clearly on the meal plan on the wall, was my bottle of water. Dayum. I wanted water, and since stupid me forgot to check the bag I walked away without it.

While I'm dealing with saying yes to everything the kitchen woman asks, Snow White comes up alongside of me with her papers for me to sign. I am instantly confused Shit. It's early in the morning, I just got out of bed and now I'm asked to multi-task. I sign all of the forms, take my lunch, and head for the hills before something else intercepts and delays me.

I hit the bricks. The time is 9:10. I have a Ten O'clock appointment with Charliqua Lovebisquit. I worry that I would be late to hit the Way, but I want to take this walk. I really do. I march like a fucking soldier and made it to the 86th street station which is about half way to my destination. Should I soldier on or stop and run down the stairs, get on the Way, and get my ass to WECARE? Hmmm.

FUCK WECARE. I need exercise. I march on checking my watch. Time now 9:23am. I head downtown again, and make it to 72nd street. To my surprise it is no effort. It just took time. I think about it. With enough time, I could walk all the way to 42nd street. I looked at the time before hitting the Way, 9:39am.

The second that I get downstairs the 1 train roared in. I shot the rest of the way to WECARE like a guided missile, signing in at 10:07am. Then, get this: I wait until 10:50am before my name is called. Now what the fuck do they have me come in at 10:00am for, if they're going to make me wait to damn near 11:00am? As I follow Charliqua, she apologizes profusely for making me wait, but she was in a meeting. I nod...now I'm not so angry. We reach her cubicle and right away she goes into how wonderful Dr. A is. He is, isn't he? He must be a great doctor. That's why I go to him.

She doesn't even care that I didn't make the cardio appoint- ment. I am shocked. She starts to wrap up my case. She will have a determination for me in a week. And that was it. No shouting, no disappointment, no penalty. Just like that. I walk out of the building, still stunned either from dealing with her or the LYRICA.

I take the Way up to Starbucks and find it too crowded to catch a seat and get on the Internet. I head to the public library instead. I find OBSIDIAN and sit right behind him for about an hour and a half, without his knowing. Then I answered his email as to where I was to his surprise. I love to joke around.

We leave and head to Starbucks, where we do our thing until 10:00. Then I come home. Once again, heading down the block, I notice something. I pass a beaten down man, who walked somewhat like Quasimodo, wore baggy clothes, although clean, and was moving slowly down the street digging through the garbage. I enter into my building and press the button for the elevator. The elevator opens and what I can only describe is a thug comes out, dressed in leather and a wife beater shirt, walking with the practiced swagger. Following him was the one eyed whore that I met in the small bodega down the street. Tonight she doesn't stare at me in passing. I enter into the elevator and press my floor when just before the doors closed in steps in the guy who was outside going through the garbage cans. He presses the button for his floor.

I shake my head. I live with the dregs of society. I'm not saying all, but I am saying that my home is once again the projects, it's just in a better neighborhood.

And a much better building.

Hobobob