Cred

I got a job at the newspaper plant, jogging papers in the bindery department. I was still at The Eclipse, the 'dual diagnosis' residential treatment house, which was nearby. This is all upt'town.

During my last year of drinking I knew I'd wind up at the plant someday, if I lived past my hermitage. Walking by, I'd see the workers on their smoke breaks, where all the cars line up to pick up the afternoon paper or the New York Times.

After so much communal living, being committed, etc. I figured work there would be like any other institution, where I'd probably meet the same loons I knew from Second Floor North and A.A. and N.A. meetings.

It was true. Even the first day I was relaxed. It was part time, about 25 hours a week. This gave me enough flow to move to an Oxford House once I was kicked out. (I was in No Hurry. The Eclipse was co-ed, after all.)
___
Life seemed to come to terms with me, rather than the other way around. Those first four or five months committed were fun, or interesting, or better than C-span anyway. I got my heart broke a couple of times and almost got into some fist fights.

I was up for the latter. Some little red-neck turned on me, after some weeks of friendship, and sneered, "You think you're better than the rest of us, don't you?"

I might have said 'yeah'. I don't remember.

Dang, I was sick of people thinking I was Mr. Phoney just because they'd see me spending my free time reading. And these were historys of comic strips, ffsake.

Jackanapes.

I'd slipped and used too many five dollar words in a meeting, or something. Also, he'd confided a terrible secret to me, and I think he changed his mind and wasn't so comfortable having me as a confidant. So, I wondered about there being an attempt on my life, too. He eventually split, at midnight, and shook my hand goodbye.

I sound sort of tough? You have no idea. I am a world class worry wart, and a school yard pussy all my life. I do have some physical courage, or at least I know how not to appear frightened when, for instance, I'm being tested in a jail. I don't flinch easy. I don't avert my eyes.

Never been hit in the face. Slugged a lot, of course, by two older brothers.

It's these people who frighten me, the ones who give me the hairy eyeball and finally confront me with an accusation of good breeding. Which I got, see.

Anyway, working on an assembly line in a factory gave me some cred, I supposed. So I arrived last winter at this Oxford House, which I'll be talking about a lot on this scroll.
____
Ex-cons read. So do hobos. Ex-cons play chess, as do hobos. So, I don't get a lot of krep here, except for being a slob in the kitchen sometimes, and for yelling at some meetings so loud I have an eyeball hemmoragh (I HATE BEING MISUNDERSTOOD, DO NOT MISQUOTE ME OR I YELL! ALSO, DO NOT HYPERBOLIZE MY POSITION ON THE ISSUES.)

Oxford House has saved me. Freedom works, of course. Plus the rent is cheap.

Yes, I'd go with the ex-cons over the pre-cons anyday...

Thanks for visiting. You can visit the Oxford site by clicking the logo up there. I never have visited it, but you might be interested if you're in early recovery and looking for a home for the crooked.