Loiterers and Whores

What the fuck?!!!

What the....? I turn my head to the right in the mirror. Is it light striking high, making a sheen? Nothing changes. I turn my head to the left, frowning, probing with a finger. Damn! I have three gray hairs in my fucking beard. Where did THEY come from? Awww shit. I slump in my own body, my shoulders sagging. How did age sneak up on me like this? I'm really pissed off. My whole day is shot. I think about it. Maybe I should just pull them the fuck out. I look at them, then I make one of the biggest decisions in my entire life.

Let youth go. Grow old gracefully. I sigh and wash my face. I have an appoint- ment today at WECARE. I walk into my room and dress in some light clothing. It's fucking hot outside. Hotter than a whore with gonorrhea! Oh man, I'm NOT looking forward to riding the Way. Underground, shit, it's like walking though Hell's living room with Satan being some old lady, whose pocketbook, with a sharp edge poking you in the ass in a crowded train. You want to scream at her, but being bearded, Black and broad, it just doesn't work in the eyes of the rest of the passengers.

I take a book, and my appointment letter and ride down to Vandam street. I walk up to the roach motel, and as usual, you have a score of men and women just loitering outside in the front of the building. Aren't they supposed to be inside, suffering the stupid classrooms? Of course they should, but they don't. They're not stupid. They see all through the charade. There's nothing in those rooms but time killing activities. Prison labor calls it 'Make Work'. These people just say fuck it. They sign in in the morning and then hang out all day in front of the building and them come back at lunchtime and the end of the day to sign out.

I wait in the waiting room, reading and to my surprise, I only got about a dozen pages into the book before my name was called. Less than an hour. I follow my new social worker to her cubicle and answer questions. Then I sign a wave of paperwork. The social worker turns to me and tells me that I'll hear from Social Security in three months. Then I'll either get an award or declined. From there I can ask for an appeal and go before the Judge. I heard of this before. I need a lawyer, right? You can get one, she says. That's up to you, but we are no longer in the loop. You never have to come back here again.

I blink. What did you say? You will not have to come back to WECARE ever again. You know, I wanted to slap the shit out of myself, but I was afraid that they'd take that as being my medications failing and call the guards to restrain me for pickup to Bellevue. I rose and floated out of the cubicle Hell, the waiting room, and out the front door. I crossed the street and looked back at the Roach Motel and blew it a kiss goodbye. I felt so good and the day was so bright, I walked over to Sixth Avenue and then North, Uptown. I walked past the traffic on 14th Street, the cramped stores on 23rd Street, the maddening crowds on 34th Street, the lights of 42nd Street, Columbus Circle at 59th Street, the wide avenue and construction at 72nd Street, the boutiques at 80th Street, my neighborhood, starting at 92nd Street, and my home at 98th. It took about three hours. I was hurting so bad when I got home, I barely made it through the door. Every muscle in my body seemed to cry out. I took a painkiller, crawled into bed, and rocked my ass to sleep.

I don't know what I dreamt of. I guess my sleep is always too short for something relevant.



Maybe my life is too short to be relevant?

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