Quandary Part 1

It was after midnight but the place was lit up like a baseball stadium. I had planned for this unwelcome deterrent by paying an employee to steal a janitor uniform from an unsecured locker inside the bus station days earlier. I had purposely not shaved or showered that day to look as unkempt and in the role as possible. This was going to be a quick score but the getaway would be dangerous. We were going to steal $100,000 from my drug dealers boss.

The plan started forming weeks earlier when I went to the flop house to pick up my usual supply from my main guy. I had put in a lot of low level work, and had built up a reputation with him over the past year because I was always on time, always had what I owed, or communicated with him if anything wasn't right. I was going to leave that house with a quarter pound, or 112 grams of meth. By itself, it's possible to pick up 10 years Federally if I were caught with it. Have that quantity near a pistol or a sizeable amount of cash, 20 years no problem.

This particular night my guys boss was there making his weekly delivery. I knew him by his nickname but we had never been formally introduced. King was a giant Native man that had been in and out of prison and in the game his whole life. He stood to introduce himself and towered over me by what seemed like a foot. Covered in Native tribal tattoos from head to toe, he looked deep into my eyes. Was he reading me? I struggled to maintain myself but I was able to keep my cool. He was a very intimidating man, but he said he had heard good things about me and wanted to show me something.

He pointed to a gym bag on the floor and motioned for me to get it for him. I obliged, half expecting a gun in my face when I turned around, but he just took it and set it on the couch. He unzipped it and I saw what looked like emerald city inside. Two kilos of meth, almost five pounds, was just sitting there. I wasn't nervous or afraid even knowing if the cops came through the door right now, all of our lives would be completed from behind bars. He said, “Now you have access to anything you will ever need. You’ve proved yourself time and time again, and you have earned this opportunity.” He went on with the standard talk about me being brutally murdered if I ever fucked him over or ratted him out to the cops. He said he knew a lot of my friends, and could easily have people find my family if I were ever to go astray and spend his money on my desires. We locked eyes again and I nodded, and we shook hands.

I left the house with a pound of methamphetamine. I slinked out the front door and around to the unlit back alley which I would take down the block to my car which I parked far away from the actual meeting location as to not arouse suspicion from police with traffic coming and going from the stash house.

It was so dark it was nearly impossible to tell in which direction I was walking. Aside from the usual paranoia of being up for too many days, I was sure I was being followed. Somebody pacing me. Maybe it was just my echo bouncing off of the bushes aroun-- That’s when I felt a blinding pain on my right temple. I tried to run but I was already crumpled in a heap on the cement. I knew who and where I was, and I knew what I had. My first and only thought was that I was getting robbed but I couldn’t even fight back because my arms and legs were limp. It was quiet, but I could hear somebody or something pacing around me. Whatever it was it was breathing excitedly, like a hyena circling an injured gazelle. And then he said, “Listen very carefully, and do everything I say or I will gut you right here.” I felt cold steel against my stomach. I was fucked.

To be continued.

The Future

I write a lot about the past because it's easier to see things in my head that have actually happened versus trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. The future-- something we try not to think or talk about in A.A. One day at a time we say. But in real life  it's something that I need to start doing.

I know I don't want to be a machine operator forever, but I also know that I have absolutely no desire to pursue a higher education. Really it just doesn't appeal to me, and me think is be good smart enough. I do often think about the good olde days in kitchens, and I dream of somehow, someday, being able to afford to go to culinary school.

I already have many skills that could easily land me a job as a dishwasher or a prep cook at a Denny's or wherever they might hire a 3-time felon, but I'm getting too old to start at the bottom again.

I could stay here in the noisy hot factory and churn out book covers all day for years. But I see what this place and others like it have done to people long term- robots, they're God damned robots!

I prefer a work environment where I can be not only hands-on, but creative. That's what I love about cooking, I can create something that makes people happy, and I enjoy the process of it all.

That's what we should all do, right? We're supposed to do for a career what we would do in our spare time. I can tell you that I do not laminate paper in my time away from work. I get some joy out of the work I do but it pales in comparison to a mediocre day behind the grill. I want that back.

I want to be excited about being early for work every day. I want to think about food and what I can do to make a restaurant better when I'm at home and lying in bed at night. I want to be in the weeds: tickets hanging off the printer to the floor, plates in the window, board full, every hot piece of steel purposefully cooking various meats, shouting everywhere, sweat pouring from top to bottom, somewhere in the background an old Aiwa stereo pumping the same 100 classic rock songs we've heard for our whole lives. There's a real sense of accomplishment at the end of a busy night in a good kitchen. And it's not something anybody will ever tell you, you just feel it. You feel completely torn down and wiped out but you want to do it again.

Of course there's the drugs. I've only briefly worked as a sober cook and the people I worked with were high, drunk, and could often be found in the cooler wielding pistols and mumbling incoherently, all while smoking a cigarette next to the produce. The triggers would be constant, and the perils around every turn, but something tells me I'm very close to being ready to get back in.

Since I doubt I will ever come up with enough money for a Culinary Arts degree, and my old loans have been defaulted for years, my only real option is to start out low down and work through the shit for years. But even at the bottom, where I've been so many times, I can see the top, and I know how to get there. Work, work, work.

Stay tuned, I see a career move within three months...

Vinnie, Vince, Vincent '98-'15

So much has happened in my life over the past two years. Fortunately for you, I’ve been writing about it and publishing it on the internet for the world to enjoy. Since I will be quite busy cooking for my BBQ tomorrow, I wanted to get this out today. Although I don’t technically have two years sober until tomorrow, I have faith I will make it without a drug or a drink until then.

Two years ago I walked into a courtroom looking exactly like this. In fact, this picture was taken less than 20 minutes after my 50-month sentence was handed down.I had ingested a whole gram of meth just before I walked in to the courthouse, and you can see it in my eyes.

Of course I stole this picture from the world wide web so there are some additions to it but you get the idea, I was a mess.

13 days later I was transported to St Cloud prison where they were able to capture this gem on film, and I was able to track it down for you.

The following pictures are reminders of where my life has been. They are not in any particular order, nor could I possibly remember when or where they are all from. And sadly, these are only about half of the mugshots I have accrued over the past 19 years as a habitual criminal, I'm sure if I spent a little more time I could have tracked them down.  So, here goes...

 This of course is the infamous picture that was all over the news from the meth bust in South Rochester.

 This is a picture of a male model that happens to look like me.

 So, I'm definitely going to grow this hair out and see if maybe I can track this shirt down at a Walgreen's somewhere to recreate this look very soon.

 Uhh. I don't know, man.

 Ditto.

 Fuck me.

 This is my favorite, and was possibly the result of a broken ankle, a fight with a cop, and a little arson charge.

It looks like I was pretty cracked out here, but this is what I looked like in my early teens. 

Then there's this one. It's my other favorite. It was taken on September 6th, 2015 two days before my release from prison. I hope it is the last picture ever taken of me in captivity. There's so much I've been doing and so much I can continue to do to make sure this is where the mugshots stop. 

Tomorrow will mark my two year sobriety anniversary. Some might say that I had an unfair advantage being locked up for the first 15 months, but I don't agree. There were plenty of chances to use or abuse inside, but I chose the road less traveled. I participated in A.A. meetings whenever I could, and I refrained from joining in with the pill-popper trade that goes on inside the walls. I put everything into the six month cognitive behavioral treatment I went through at C.I.P. because I knew that I needed to face this thing head on (Head on, apply directly to the forehead...) if I had any chance of surviving on the outs. 

And here I am.

Salmonellosis 4

This is the latest in a series of posts on my experience with Salmonella that starts here.

The Doctor told me that the next step would involve me using a special toilet. Actually, it was more like a small storage container that fit over the bowl of the toilet that I would poop in. He explained that I would make a deuce in the apparatus and use a small scoop to transfer the feces into a tube for testing. It sounded kind of gross, but simple enough. At this point I was willing to try anything to figure out what was wrong with me.

I went into the bathroom after being scowled at by a receptionist for asking for a “special magazine.” I don’t think she appreciated my sense of humor. I was given the bowl and was told that I would find the tube and spoon in a little door to the right of the seat. I dropped trou and took a seat on the stool. Hmmm, I racked my brain trying to come up with a better stool joke, but what actually happened I think will be more entertaining so I will move on.

I opened the door and found the supplies. There were two tubes and I would have to get some in both of them. As I’ve mentioned before, I was not able to produce much more than a tablespoon at a time during this sickness. I got out what I could, and stood up and retrieved the dish. I sat back down and prepared myself for the task at hand. I opened up one tube and grabbed the little spoon. When I say little, I mean this thing was tiny. I jabbed at the mucus-like feces and tried to pick it up. It slid off. I tried again, this time from another angle, and I got it up about an inch before my hand started trembling and it flopped down again. I imagined myself in the little electric vehicles in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex was coming. Every time I thought I had it, the giant dinosaur would take a step and everything would jiggle and fall down.

I don’t know if I was shaking and sweating from alcohol withdrawal or from severe desiccation or both, but I became agitated, frustrated, and I thought I was going to lose my mind in that little room. I used a common profanity that rhymes with fuck and I came up with a plan. I would make a simple funnel out of the paperwork that I had signed for all of the services I’d received so far. I had only one shot at making it into two small glass tubes. I rolled it up, made a crease so I could stop the flow, and I dumped in the poop. It worked. It fucking worked! I was so proud of myself I could have shit, if I could have shit.

I cleaned up and put everything in the little door for analysis. I would be given four more tubes to bring home to fill up later. That was the end of the day at the hospital. I had told them from the get-go that I had no insurance so we should only do what was absolutely necessary for diagnosis which is why I was not admitted overnight or until an official diagnosis was given.

The next day was Thanksgiving and I spent most of it alone. My awesome friends Curt and Sara brought me a turkey dinner which was more than I had eaten in over a week. I really wanted a beer but they would not let me have one. It’s good to have friends. The day after that, I had filled my tubes with feces and my even better friend offered to bring a paper bag full of my samples to the clinic a few miles away to be analyzed. I was really grateful for that and all of the support they gave me while I was sick.

The day after that, I started feeling better. I mean all of the crippling pain was just gone when I woke up and I made something very special in my toilet that had been building up for weeks. Then the Doctor called me and informed me that I had Salmonella and there wasn’t anything they could really do about it. I nodded, I don’t think he heard me.

I spent the next few days answering questions from the Department of Health because I worked in a restaurant, but we eventually determined that I got sick from the shitty goat that I just had to pet. Lesson learned.