During more than one phase of my life I was utterly unable
to take care of myself in the most basic of fashions. I’ve written about to
them to some extent, but one phase in particular keeps coming back to me so I
thought I’d try to write it out.
There is a great deal of desperation involved in trying to
maintain some form of dignity when you’re essentially homeless. In this case I
wasn’t living on the streets, but with friends in a small trailer home in
Lanesboro. I had lost my job as lead cook at the Pedal Pusher Café for stealing
and I was not capable of getting out of the town to get another job, so I
stayed put.
My two friends, I’ll call them Dan and Luisa, had recently
moved in together and would eventually be married and start a family of their
own. Living with them was my only and last resort.
I had very little to move because everything I owned was
either torn to shreds or didn’t exist. I was able to fit all of my belongings
as a 30+ year old man into an eight by eight room with plenty to spare. I had a
television, a bed, a bag of dog food for Willie, and some rags that would serve
as clothing.
For years I had spent every dime I had on cigarettes, pull
tabs, alcohol, and weed. I shit you not, that was it. So my assortment of
clothing was minimalist at best. The clothes I wore when I moved in would serve
as my outfit for months. It consisted of a pair of black chef pants that had
the front crotch ripped out as a result of a super-glue prank. A pair of boxers
that had the ass end chewed out by my dog. I wore the boxers backwards so there
was some coverage over all of my parts. The shirt I don’t recall, but if I had
to guess I’d say it wasn’t brand new. And the socks-- I think the best way to
describe the socks is to bring to attention those gloves Michael Jackson wore.
My toes would stick out as well as my heels. Luckily, I had stolen a set of
coveralls from the boss at the job I was fired from, so I was able to cover it
all up when I went out. For months I wore this uniform and it never saw the
inside of a washing machine. It was pathetic.
I did go out nearly every day. Not to look for work, but to
the public house. I found out that people in the bar early mornings are
generally lonely, and would offer to buy me a few drinks. Most days I would
leave as soon as I heard the roommate get up for work, and make the miserable
journey past my old job to the Pub just down the street. I would sit down at
the rail and ask the bartender/owner for water, and I would wait. It must have
looked pathetic. I never had a dime when I went in but nearly every time I was
able to leave with some level of buzz. All of my habits were supported through
this informal version of begging.
Looking back, I know there was little I could have done
about getting a job in that town during that phase of my alcoholism. But I
found a way to do less than little. I
had really dug a deep hole stealing from a reputable business in a small town--
word got out quick. I dug myself even deeper by not owning up to what I had
done, and making no effort whatever in searching for any available work. And I took advantage of friends who were
hardworking, and for some reason still willing to put up with me living with
them even through all of this. I am grateful for them always.
Clearly, that man has long since changed. I’ve been through
some pretty rough patches even after those cold few winter months’ years ago in
Lanesboro, but nothing ever quite like it.
