Made the bus

Our monastic dorter can keep six men sober but never a seventh. This week the role of Marginal LikeliHood is being played by a heroin addict (H.A.)

I want to admit to my prejudices against this fellow, H.A. right off.

H.A. is a narco-hipster. He is cool, of the too cool for suburban school, school. I've never met anyone with such ironic and calm self-possession and inappropriate forward self-assurance.

During his interview with us ---there were five others that night---he was the only one who wasn't in the least anxious or nervous. He sat in the 'hot seat' and rolled a cigarette, as Greg The Pedant explained the Oxford concepts. My attention must have been else where when he took his seat, but when I turned back and saw that, for some reason I knew he was corrupt. Not as all addicts are corrupted, but that he was a live confidence dude.

Then, there's the neck tattoo, in cursive. I don't know if it's cursive writing I hate or that it's on the neck. It may just be my aversion to cursive, which I was never any good at.

When we asked what landed him in a treatment center, he said he was "just tired" of drugs.

Now of course it's more likely you'll get tired of the trouble you're in, not the substance you're willing to risk death or prison in order to secure a supply.

We wanted to know what was the last straw for him, but he seemed almost military in his declaration: his life project was to get off of junk.

Then sometime during the interview I realized he was a friend of my counter-part here, the Tramp Steamer. My nemisis.

Tattoos on knuckles. Robitussin jokes. Bugle tobacco.

So he was in residence here a five days when we had our first weekly house meeting. We learned then that he'd been arrested for stealing CD's from a retail store. They'd yelled "stop!" while he was in the parking lot but he didn't, so it was theft. People knew him at this store and this was why he'd gone into treatment. He didn't really know for sure there was a warrant for him though, so we should let him slide...

They picked him up on his 'graduation' day. Was he surprised. He loved telling the story. Ten cops peeking in the windows. Him making a joke to a friend, "I wonder if they're here for me?"

Then he bailed out with the rent money he was going to give us. The group gave him ten days to land a job.

Now it's ten days and he's nodding off a lot, or staying in bed, or he's away somewhere. He pees on the floor, he walks away from lighted smokes that fall out of the ashtray, he worries his roommate, who is also new.

The phone rings constantly: old friends...he has lots of friends.

His room is impressive, with a great CD collection and some rare posters. One of Johnny Cash, I like.
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Last night was to be his first night at Sonic, slinging hash, or whatever. But he didn't make it. He was riding his bike and got hit by a bus.

Or something happened, we're not sure.

He came home pretty shook up, and told the Tramp Steamer all about it. How the bus driver begged him for forgiveness and offered him money not to tell. This was at 5 p.m. at one of the busiest intersections in town.

Then H.A. fell asleep sitting up on the couch. Around 9 o'clock he decided to go to the E.R., I'm not sure how he got there, and then he was home at 2 a.m.

He'd got some crutches and a shot of demoral.

Yes, yes, there are a lot of questions.

My house mates called a meeting--- I thought to kick him out--- but it was to gently ask him to ask his doctor to lower his Xanax dose.

I asked, pretending to be ignorant, if he'd started work at Sonic yet.

"No, man, I got hit by a bus," he said very angrily. He scowled at the floor then.

My mind couldn't think of a response. I almost asked, "You mean when you were a kid?"
How ludicrous. Even if it happened, somehow, it's ludicrous.

It didn't occur to anyone to mention the lack of any sign of injury. No body-cast, for instance. He'd had crutches this morning but came upstairs for this meeting without them.

Where's the bike? Parked on the porch, looking brand new.

He contends his Xanax is over prescribed. Test him for narcotics, he's got that demoral in his system, what could we do?

I contend he is of the drug world and his hero is William Boroughs and his favorite movie is Train Spotters.

I asked about police reports, hospital records, etc. He lifted his arm, without looking at me, to show his hospital wrist band. Like making a power fist.

I asked to count his Xanax pills: all accounted for, dammit.

I asked how long he was going to be laid up. He declared that he was going to work tonight. It felt cruel, trapping him into saying that. After all, getting hit by a bus ought to be worth a few days off.

I left the meeting as my house mates assured him that this was just a difference of personalities, he'd have to learn to live with people like me in a sober house.