#48: What Are the Odds? Part 2.
The plots get even thicker.
In What Are the Odds? Part 1, I wrote about four friends who, in the subsequent 24 hours, would have the opportunity to make a major change in their lives that involved getting off the streets and/or getting off drugs.
I finished writing it around 6pm on Sunday, September 29. But I wanted to proofread it one more time, so I scheduled it to go out three hours later.
I did send it at 9:10—even putting the time at the top of the post to emphasize the immediacy of their stories. But, truth be told, I knew the lives of all four had already changed in the meantime.
So much for 24 hours.
Sally: As far as I knew, Sally’s major life change had already begun. Having successfully completely a month or so of rehab, she was on her way to a sober living house a hundred miles away. A friend had told me it’s the most successful program in the state.
During the day that Sunday, one person suggested she was still around, but he wasn’t my most reliable source in terms of minor details like time and space. However, in the three hours between writing and proofreading my previous essay, a few more people told me they had seen her. One said she was probably avoiding me ‘cause she was embarrassed.
A few days later, I saw her in front of the Co-op where, to my skeptical surprise, she greeted me enthusiastically. After telling me all kinds of great things about the sober house she was living at, I calmly asked, “So, uh, Sally, then why are you back down here?” She explained she had a court case from something that happened three years before and had to attend in person—but that all the charges had been dropped and she was waiting for her Medicaid ride back up north.
I asked her if she wanted some food at the Co-op and we both said, “Ice Cream!” simultaneously. (It’s all about sugar for addicts—a habit that seems to continue for a long time after they allegedly stop using.) While we were “discussing” the sugar issue, a guy she knew came out with a few things he’d bought for her, including ice cream. So, I went in and got her a couple of bananas and a bag of organic lollipops which I was sure she’d love. Her face lit up even brighter.
Despite this little setback, I held to a 50-50 hope she’d go there.1 Staying for the whole two years? I don’t know.
Three days later, I saw Sally coming out of my coffee shop with a muffin. I sighed, but she explained she was about to get another Medicaid ride back to the sober living house…that she’d just been down again because the “authorities” wanted to talk to her about something she might know something about (is that vague enough?) She assured me she wasn’t under any suspicion—except mine that she was making the whole thing up. She saw my doubt, “Really dude!”
I can’t resist it when she calls me “dude”. I gave her a hug and told her to please keep in touch. She didn’t ask me for money. For me the odds are still 50-50 odds she at least settled in the program for a while.
Chuck & Vicky: In those same three hours between writing and proofreading—in fact, five minutes after I saw Sally, I also ran into Chuck and Vicky, who’d told me they were leaving that morning in a borrowed truck. As soon as I saw them, I gave my traditional greeting: “What the f-— are you still doing here?”
They explained (there’s always an explanation) that the truck was leaking oil—in fact, was one drop away from seizing up. They were trying to scrounge up the money to buy oil so they could leave right away.
I was doubtful. Doubtful that they had a borrowed truck. Doubtful that, if so, they’d leave that night. Doubtful that, even with four quarts of oil and Vicky’s claim that she’d taken auto mechanics in tech school, they’d actually make it. And concerned that Chuck was going to be driving without a license.
In the shadows of all these doubts, I said I’d drive them up to the truck that they said was sitting in front of a local supermarket and, of course, give them money for the motor oil.
As Vicky went in to buy the oil (and probably some ice cream with the change…she likes ice cream even more than Sally), Chuck took their stuff over to the truck. Well, some truck. As usual, my “due diligence” left something to be desired. It was getting late and I was just too tired to wait around until I could see them pour that oil into that truck and drive off in the right direction.
At least they hadn’t hit me up for gas money.
An hour later, they texted me desperately because they’d forgotten to hit me up for gas money.
That night the truck did seize up about 20 miles away. Somehow, they got a ride back to Brattleboro. That is, if they really left in the first place. But, the next day Chuck assured me it was “OK, because my buddy is going to pick us up on his way back north from someplace…I can’t remember the town.”
By then I was starting to have whiplash from their comings and goings, claims and explains, but at least this time they didn’t ask me for more money…
…At least until that evening, when they knocked on the door and, when I let them in, told me that Vicky had gotten a bad dose of street methadone which allegedly had Tranq (a.k.a. the opioid tranquilizer Xylazine) and some speed in it. I’ve heard of users “topping off” their methadone with an opioid. But the idea of a dealer cutting methadone (used for opiate withdrawal, even though it, too, is an opioid) with equally-if-not-more expensive drugs, is so cognitively dissonant that I didn’t know what to say.
Vicky virtually collapsed on my couch and started borderline whimpering. That took me aback because Vicky is “one tough bitch” as she loves me calling her. No matter how much pain I’ve seen her in from her alleged cancer and various other ailments, I’d never seen her whine, whimper, moan, or groan before. Chuck explained that she’d just had the bad drugs pumped out of her stomach (methadone is a liquid) and was discharged with a prescription they couldn’t afford to fill.
Don’t feel bad if you’re having trouble following all this. By then, I was getting tempted to rummage around for some Adderall so I could focus on the complexities of this story and figure out what I’d heard about whom when, where, and how—and which of these various "facts” was the most unlikely.
I told them to go back to the ER, but they insisted the ER wouldn’t do anything else for them, so I insisted that Vicky go into the guest room and rest. She said she would but first they had to do something or other. I said I had to go out for a few minutes but that I’d leave the door unlocked so they could get in if I hadn’t come back yet. I never do that anymore but I wasn’t about to tell them where the key was hidden and it would only be a half hour or so.
I added that they could even stay overnight if she was that sick, instead of sleeping outside. They were very grateful and said they would. Good host that I am, I even washed the dishes in the sink and straightened up—but they never returned. There was some reason. I can’t remember if it was reasonable.
BTW: did I mention that Chuck said they’d seen Melissa* leave my place as they were coming in? And that I should really watch out for her…in fact they thought she had something to do with Vicky’s bad methadone. I said I hadn’t seen her, so I figured I didn’t hear her knock (at least, they’re all very good about knocking.)
* Melissa? Don’t get me started, yet. I’ll tell the story of what happened with her potential major life change in my next post.
That night, I woke up at 4am and suddenly wondered if my change box was there—you know the box or bowl you throw your change in, until you have enough “funny money” to do something, well, fun. A dinner, a present, a something else or other you don’t really need and could easily afford without the change. It was in plain sight. I’d even taken 4 quarters out of it one time to give Chuck while smiling and saying that he had to pay me that money back.
But I rolled over and went back to sleep. There was only maybe $50 in it and I figured if anyone I knew needed the money that badly, they’d know all they had to do is make up a reasonably believable lie and I would give it to them.
The next morning, I got up and went back to bed with my coffee but, after a few sips, said (to myself): “OK, fine, Dave, put your mind at ease…go check on the change box even though you know it’s there.” It’s like when you superstitiously go back in the house to check whether you left a burner on, when you know for sure you didn’t. I felt kind of silly doing it.
The box wasn’t there. I gasped. I felt gut-punched. It wasn’t the money. It was an emotional attachment to that box of random coins. (I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way about their stash of spare change). Maybe Chuck and Vicky had taken it. Maybe Melissa had actually snuck in while the door was unlocked and stolen it. Maybe it had been gone for days and I just hadn’t noticed. It didn’t matter.
Lies are one thing. I’m used to those. This time, I felt betrayed.
An experience like this could turn a generous, soft-hearted, recklessly-trusting ’60s liberal into a stingy, cold-hearted, cynical conservative. But, after a few minutes of sad deep breaths, I managed to crowbar the experience into my pretensions of unconditional love. I simply decided to never talk to Jake, Vicky, or Melissa again.
To be continued…
I’ve acknowledged that it seems a little callous to put odds on a major change in a person’s life, but it reflects the combination of hope and realism I’ve found necessary to have friends whose lives are in such constant flux.
I’m torn between telling you that you are being used, which presumably you already know, and your writing is a form of “using them back”, and frank admiration for your persistence. I too lost a cash box, filled mostly with quarters, to, possibly, a caregiver who was in my apartment to assist me through a bout of illness. I mentally accused the wrong person and only realized my mistake when the real culprit was found using my bank card. She left the state but can “never return” for fear of being arrested. I forgave her and learned from that incident that desperate people are everywhere and they do desperate things…I try to protect myself from outright theft, but still give out $20 bills whenever I’m downtown. I’m not sure that you really mean it when you say you will never again talk to Melissa et al. But I also doubt they will truly “care” if you do not. Best wishes to you in any event. I really look forward to reading these writings.