So...I have never been an ex-con
parolee waiting for somebody, somewhere, in some office to decide my
fate, you say. But the idea intrigues me. I want to know what it is
like. What do you do. Must be a fascinating lifestyle. More fabulous
than Ru Paul. I would really like to try this out, but maybe there
is someway for me to experience to wonders of being an ex-con, junky,
parolee, hobo, without siting through the five and a half years of
prison. Or any amount of prison, for that matter. As a matter of
fact, I don't want to be an ex-con, junky, parolee, hobo. I just want
to know what one does with his day. It must be great to have all that
free time, to go where the winds take you, float along, carefree like that guy from the Free Bird song.
It is great. Let me tell you how great.
We will start with the wake up, though you aren't supposed to. I read a book that was supposed to teach you about writing, and they were asking several professors several questions on what to do and what to not do when an aspiring writer. I break everyone of these rules. When asked the question about what makes an imagination snatching, compulsive page turning opening, almost all the professors said to avoid the "Alarm Clock" method. They said "Dawn Broke" or "Woke To The Alarm" or "The Smell Of Breakfast Cooking" or "The Sun Through The Window" and a multitude of others I have forgotten and still probably use are all variations of the "Alarm Clock" method of opening your story. They say this is the most overused tactic by beginning writers. The idea behind this is that people think because their story is about their character's day that they have to start at the starting point of that day. The alarm clock ringing. Or in today's world, the cellphone beeping. Just because Joe was hit by a bus at 3:17 in the afternoon doesn't mean we need to know that his alarm went off at 6:15 in the morning, he hit snooze twice--seven minutes each time, for an additional fourteen minutes--and woke up at 6:29, rubbed his eyes, scratched his nuts, brushed his teeth with non-whitening plain old Colgate, read the paper, but just the obituaries and arrest log (A habit I picked up in prison, because most people I knew eventually ended up in one of them.), went out, stopped by the park to feed the squirrels and watch the spice heads hide in the bushes from the people they imagine are following them, read twenty-seven pages of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, stopped by the health food store and purchased a box of organic, free range, fair trade, vegan, non warlord supporting, Socialist, lactose-free tea, stepped out of the building and off the curb, and got hit by a bus. The story is that he got hit by the bus. What was he thinking about? What was he smelling, hearing, seeing at the moment of impact? Maybe something happened earlier in the day, which had his mind wandering, which would make it worthy of mention? The catch-22 is that the details make the story. Without small details, all you have is a guy getting hit by a bus. Not a very long or interesting story. The trick is to find out which details are relevant. Maybe his favorite WWE wrestler had died the night before and his mind was in mourning. But him waking up had nothing to do with the bus, so it is scratched.
That was as far off topic as you can get. An example of doing exactly what I am telling you we are not supposed to do. But this is different. This is about the minute, boring details, which I will do my best to make entertaining for you. And, as we all know, I rarely follow rules,
SO, I wake up. I usually wake up many times a night, because I can't sleep for more than a few hours at a time. If it is 5:00 am or later the front door is open, so I go outside for a cigarette. Most days I wake up at exactly 5:00. Then I go back in and lay down for another hour. Recently, it has decided to be freezing at 5:00 am, so a little warm up under the blankets is necessary after the smoke. At 6:00 am the attendant walks by and says, "Six A M guys. Wake up call," and turns the lights on. There is a choir of bullshits and fucks at this point. Many of the residents have just fallen asleep. Some have stayed up all night playing Candy Crush and texting on their phones. and have yet to sleep a wink. I get up for good now. You don't have to be out of bed until 6:45, but the full throttle assault of the fluorescent lights gently coaxes most residents out of bed at 6:00, with the exception of the opiate junkies who can sleep through anything. I put on my sweatshirt, grab my phone to check for the, usually drunken, late night messages I have received. On the weekends this number goes up considerably. I stop by the pot of watered down coffee for a cup, then head out to the smoking area.
The smoking area is on the side of the building. It is about ten feet wide and fifty feet long, surrounded by a six foot wooden fence and trees. This helps to keep the prying eyes of the neighborhood from having to look at the undesirables. Some of the neighbors call the cops if someone over at the shelter farts. Their presence is an almost daily occurrence, but much of the time they know nothing is going on, so they just cruise by to appease the caller. I can understand not wanting a homeless shelter in your neighborhood. I totally get it. But this isn't a quiet street. It is a major thoroughfare, a bus route, and zoned commercial/residential mixed. On top of that, the people who stay at the shelter didn't put the shelter there, the county did. So blame the people you elected, not the people using the services they provided.
I spend the hour between 6:00 am and 7:00 am watching the news and smoking cigarettes. At 6:45 the attendant walks around waking everyone up. This is when the second chorus of bullshit and fuck begins.
Today is a new day. Tried to write this yesterday, but couldn't get in the mood. Couldn't put 100% into it, and felt like I would be cheating my loyal readers if I pushed on. So I tried to write something else, but failed there as well. It is Monday. The Halls of Justice have five business days to work their esoteric magic. Something could happen. Hope prevails once more.
People sent text messages to ask why I hadn't posted yesterday. Still surprised at how many of you care what I say. Thank you. The suggestion was made (Miss Seventh Grade, again. Damn you, woman. Maybe your payback is enjoyment in reading about my misery? And telling people about my gray, denim, Levi jacket! So pimp. Wish I still had it.) that I write about my shitty day. Or days I suppose, but when you are in the situation I am in they all seem like one. And since that is what this blog is about, it should be easy.
We left off at about 7:00 am. This is when I do the necessary hygiene. Brush the teeth, wash the face, etc. Cram into the eight by ten room I share with three other people, and try to get dressed. This is also the time that the hacking begins. The other residents wake and instantly start exhuming the contents of their lungs. It sounds like a Tuberculosis (can't believe I pulled that off without spellcheck) ward.
We have chores. There are evening chores and morning chores. I usually opt for a morning chore, if there are any left by the time I get around to checking the list. At 7:30 the morning chores start. None of these tasks takes more than five minutes, but people are constantly being wrote up for not doing them. I always end up with the morning bathroom, because I don't mind it. There are no showers allowed in the morning, and the bathroom was just cleaned at 10:00 pm, so it isn't too bad. The worst part is the wads of rolled up toilet paper that is lying next to the toilet every morning. I am not sure who does this or what is inside it. I don't want to know. I turn the other way and quickly sweep the suspicious material into the dustpan.
Chores done. 7:45 am. Everybody out! Off, freaks! Into the world!
This is where the fun begins. What to do with your day? The ideal answer would be to find a job and get out of your current, dismal predicament. But if you are in my situation that option is out. It would do me no good to find a job while still hoping to leave this backwards, hillbilly state. (Bloomington isn't that bad. I like to make it sound worse than it is.)
So, job hunting is out. What then? Lots of coffee shops and text messages to sisters, parole officers, old friends and family who are wondering if my recent posts are a sign that I have finally taken the plunge off the edge of sanity, and various government entities. You, in your busy life, filled with family obligations and employment commitments, would think endless free time would be a blessing from the gods and goddesses. It fucking sucks. If I was on vacation it would be one thing, but I am in a vision of purgatory worse than the fourteenth century monks could come up with. Maybe Dante's Inferno. I never read Purgatorio, doubt anyone has, or the Paradisio. Hell makes for much more interesting reading than heaven.
I leave the shelter and go to the coffee shop, pull out my laptop, and look to see what has happened in my sphere of Facebook. Answer any messages and emails, etc. Then I start to write something. I distract myself with YouTube and other wastes of time. I message with other bored people. (People who have jobs. Nice to see boredom is not being monopolized by the unemployed.) I search for lame things on Google. I watch skateboarding videos. Then I get back to writing. Then I chat with someone. Then I get back to writing. Then I get another cup of coffee. A pattern of write and goof off continues for most of the day. These are the two benefits of all this. I can actually get some writing done, and can catch up with people.
The past few days have been spent in frustration and anger. More than usual. Hope was shattered by a dog fearing parole officer, right when everything else was falling into place. Lately it seems every solution is met with a roadblock. I don't want to remain in the shelter, but all the rooms/apts in this town want either a long-term lease or students only. So I decide to go to a hotel and pay for a weekly rate. The only affordable/unaffordable one is booked this weekend, so I would have to leave on Thursday and be homeless for real. Or pay $150 dollars each night of the weekend for a shitball motel.
I am trying to stay miserable to write this miserable story, but I just got good news, so it is difficult. I need to get back into character.
After I get too geeked up on coffee, I go get something to eat. This can waste an hour or so, if you are indecisive enough with the menu. After lunch, library time. Get some more writing done and illegally download some movies and music. Friends will be on their lunch hour, so plenty of texts to distract myself with. Write my (almost) daily blog, post it, and then check the stats every minute to feed my narcissism.
Get bored of the library, then what? If it is a nice day, go for a walk. Maybe go back to the coffee shop for a refueling. Today I am meeting my daughter for dinner.
At 5:15 pm (recently lowered from 6:15) the Funny Farm opens its doors back up. Go back to the shelter, watch the dope fiends play, watch an illegally downloaded movie, text lost friends, and sleep.
I'm sorry. I can't do this. This has fallen apart. It was supposed to be miserable, but I am in an optimistic mood right now. I owe you all some misery later.
The smoking area is on the side of the building. It is about ten feet wide and fifty feet long, surrounded by a six foot wooden fence and trees. This helps to keep the prying eyes of the neighborhood from having to look at the undesirables. Some of the neighbors call the cops if someone over at the shelter farts. Their presence is an almost daily occurrence, but much of the time they know nothing is going on, so they just cruise by to appease the caller. I can understand not wanting a homeless shelter in your neighborhood. I totally get it. But this isn't a quiet street. It is a major thoroughfare, a bus route, and zoned commercial/residential mixed. On top of that, the people who stay at the shelter didn't put the shelter there, the county did. So blame the people you elected, not the people using the services they provided.
I spend the hour between 6:00 am and 7:00 am watching the news and smoking cigarettes. At 6:45 the attendant walks around waking everyone up. This is when the second chorus of bullshit and fuck begins.
Today is a new day. Tried to write this yesterday, but couldn't get in the mood. Couldn't put 100% into it, and felt like I would be cheating my loyal readers if I pushed on. So I tried to write something else, but failed there as well. It is Monday. The Halls of Justice have five business days to work their esoteric magic. Something could happen. Hope prevails once more.
People sent text messages to ask why I hadn't posted yesterday. Still surprised at how many of you care what I say. Thank you. The suggestion was made (Miss Seventh Grade, again. Damn you, woman. Maybe your payback is enjoyment in reading about my misery? And telling people about my gray, denim, Levi jacket! So pimp. Wish I still had it.) that I write about my shitty day. Or days I suppose, but when you are in the situation I am in they all seem like one. And since that is what this blog is about, it should be easy.
We left off at about 7:00 am. This is when I do the necessary hygiene. Brush the teeth, wash the face, etc. Cram into the eight by ten room I share with three other people, and try to get dressed. This is also the time that the hacking begins. The other residents wake and instantly start exhuming the contents of their lungs. It sounds like a Tuberculosis (can't believe I pulled that off without spellcheck) ward.
We have chores. There are evening chores and morning chores. I usually opt for a morning chore, if there are any left by the time I get around to checking the list. At 7:30 the morning chores start. None of these tasks takes more than five minutes, but people are constantly being wrote up for not doing them. I always end up with the morning bathroom, because I don't mind it. There are no showers allowed in the morning, and the bathroom was just cleaned at 10:00 pm, so it isn't too bad. The worst part is the wads of rolled up toilet paper that is lying next to the toilet every morning. I am not sure who does this or what is inside it. I don't want to know. I turn the other way and quickly sweep the suspicious material into the dustpan.
Chores done. 7:45 am. Everybody out! Off, freaks! Into the world!
This is where the fun begins. What to do with your day? The ideal answer would be to find a job and get out of your current, dismal predicament. But if you are in my situation that option is out. It would do me no good to find a job while still hoping to leave this backwards, hillbilly state. (Bloomington isn't that bad. I like to make it sound worse than it is.)
So, job hunting is out. What then? Lots of coffee shops and text messages to sisters, parole officers, old friends and family who are wondering if my recent posts are a sign that I have finally taken the plunge off the edge of sanity, and various government entities. You, in your busy life, filled with family obligations and employment commitments, would think endless free time would be a blessing from the gods and goddesses. It fucking sucks. If I was on vacation it would be one thing, but I am in a vision of purgatory worse than the fourteenth century monks could come up with. Maybe Dante's Inferno. I never read Purgatorio, doubt anyone has, or the Paradisio. Hell makes for much more interesting reading than heaven.
I leave the shelter and go to the coffee shop, pull out my laptop, and look to see what has happened in my sphere of Facebook. Answer any messages and emails, etc. Then I start to write something. I distract myself with YouTube and other wastes of time. I message with other bored people. (People who have jobs. Nice to see boredom is not being monopolized by the unemployed.) I search for lame things on Google. I watch skateboarding videos. Then I get back to writing. Then I chat with someone. Then I get back to writing. Then I get another cup of coffee. A pattern of write and goof off continues for most of the day. These are the two benefits of all this. I can actually get some writing done, and can catch up with people.
The past few days have been spent in frustration and anger. More than usual. Hope was shattered by a dog fearing parole officer, right when everything else was falling into place. Lately it seems every solution is met with a roadblock. I don't want to remain in the shelter, but all the rooms/apts in this town want either a long-term lease or students only. So I decide to go to a hotel and pay for a weekly rate. The only affordable/unaffordable one is booked this weekend, so I would have to leave on Thursday and be homeless for real. Or pay $150 dollars each night of the weekend for a shitball motel.
I am trying to stay miserable to write this miserable story, but I just got good news, so it is difficult. I need to get back into character.
After I get too geeked up on coffee, I go get something to eat. This can waste an hour or so, if you are indecisive enough with the menu. After lunch, library time. Get some more writing done and illegally download some movies and music. Friends will be on their lunch hour, so plenty of texts to distract myself with. Write my (almost) daily blog, post it, and then check the stats every minute to feed my narcissism.
Get bored of the library, then what? If it is a nice day, go for a walk. Maybe go back to the coffee shop for a refueling. Today I am meeting my daughter for dinner.
At 5:15 pm (recently lowered from 6:15) the Funny Farm opens its doors back up. Go back to the shelter, watch the dope fiends play, watch an illegally downloaded movie, text lost friends, and sleep.
I'm sorry. I can't do this. This has fallen apart. It was supposed to be miserable, but I am in an optimistic mood right now. I owe you all some misery later.
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