A Small Victory

I know I'm going to sound like a wuss, saying a measly thirty-some hours of work kicked my butt, but it did. In all fairness to me, it was a pretty action-packed six-day week except for yesterday — my friday^*, thankfully — and I'm seven years out of practice at the business of toiling for The Man. It's a good thing I'm off til Thursday; when I start my regular four-day work week, which even during peak season shouldn't be more than I can handle. Getting the medication for my ailing legs upgraded helped considerably, as did buying a pair of orthotic insoles. I just need to remember not to succumb to the temptation to rely on Rockstar™ to carry me through those days I start off punchy; just don't stay up late and drink a cup of tea with breakast.

I never imagined I'd end up being a housekeeper at a hotel ... though I prefer to list my occupation as janitor because it lends more prestige to my proletarian standing. Mind you, even though I've spent many years being a wastrel I'm not terribly beholden to feeble-minded country-club class consciousness; I just appreciate that I'm “legit” and not lumping bags of recyclables anymore! Sure, I have to report my income to the housing authority and will end up paying a third of my gross toward rent, but in doing so I'm that much less a welfare schmuck — and, let me tell you, that's one DISMAL institution, being a freeloading loser! It's not just dispiriting and disenfranchising, it fills hearts full of bilious delusions of entitlements and inverted classist self-aggrandizement.

And, most importantly, I did it myself! I didn't rely on some parasitic poverty-pimp social service agency; I saw the “Help Wanted” sign in the window, filled out the application, handed it in, and successfully sold myself in the job interview — something for years I thought impossible, which I now realize was a perversely cherished belief that kept me from moving forward with my life. (Like I said earlier, being a bum is an institution.) Sure, the hotel I work at is the kind of flophouse Bukowski would have felt at home in, where social security checks are converted into cans of malt liquor and pipes loaded with crack; but for the most part it's not any worse than most janitorial work and is better than some (jack shack clean up, anyone?).

This small victory over bottom-of-the-well disgrace is brought to you by sobriety, incidentally. If I hadn't quit drinking ... has it already been almost a month? ... I probably wouldn't have lasted this long, if I'd have even bothered to apply in the first place. I'll have to make sure I pick up a thirty-day coin Thursday (which is all those pathetic twelve-step cult masses are good for, far's I'm concerned).

* I spell Friday in the lower-case when I'm referring to the end of my work week.

Well Worth the Wait

I moved into the Fountain Place Apartments Thursday, after four-and-a-half years on the wait list. Also after a bit of confusion regarding my actual position on the wait list; I discovered Wednesday there was actually five people ahead of me instead of the one mentioned by the building manager. Fortunately for me none of them could be gotten a hold of. Even more fortunately for me was that I moved in just an hour ahead of the rain, which I was getting kind of tired of because I don't enjoy spending holiday weekends soaking wet dragging armloads of chump change (bottles and cans) ... only to dry off overnight on a loading dock a quarter of a block down the street from a massive tweaker refugee camp. That's two bullets dodged in a flurry of signatures!

As you can see, it's a pretty big place. And a pretty nice one, too! After the last place I lived in — which was pretty much just a heap of walk-in closets full of assholes, nutters, and cretins wading ankle-deep in bed bugs and cockroaches — this turned out to be a more than merely pleasant surprise. In fact, it feels SUMPTUOUSLY POSH! Which appraisal reflects just how bad most of my living situations have been throughout my adult life. It's going to be a joy to furnish, but that will take a long time because I'm unemployed and don't have a motor vehicle. In fact, even though it feels luxurious to do things like sleep naked, pee whenever I want to, and take baths, it also feels a little weird: these past couple nights I would occasionally glance around me while reading a book by the light of a lamp I found a day before I moved in, and the bedroom would look desolate and eerie to me, like a cavern covered in mummy bandages. Well, once I get at least that room furnished, including a computer from Free Geek to watch movies on, it will start feeling more like home instead of like a squat.

The most important thing about this new chapter in my life is not that I have a climate control, a toilet, a kitchen, and a sturdy door with a lock ... it's that I can start really working with Central City Concern on improving my life. If I play my cards right I can get social security benefits, land a part-time job, and start pursuing marketable interests like my line of sauces, my candles and soaps, writing freelance, and maybe even coding games to sling on Steam for a few bucks apiece. I'm never going to get rich, but at least I can do a lot better than contenting myself with sleeping on loading docks and canning up enough money to souse myself to sleep in; I can perhaps also manage to eke out a living without becoming another wage-slave drone in the banality of the hive of the modern working world, too.

Holding Pattern

For a person whose personality can be described as sanguine and whose lifestyle has become frightfully sedentary and is often oriented to apathy I have a hard time waiting. It's been a week since I submitted my paperwork to HAP to review my eligibility to move into a subsidized housing unit, and I can tell a quiet storm of anxiety is percolating inside me. It's a matter of being torn between the tidal forces of hopeful expectation (I've caught myself engaging in interior decorating fantasies from time to time) and cynical realism (I refuse to consider myself anything but homeless until I sign my lease agreement and receive my keys). I've always been an eager anticipator who never quite mastered the detachment from desire necessary to avoid harboring high expectations of good fortune the moment my sails fill with a stray gust of hopefulness, despite my carefully crafted mantle of nihilistic pessimism and lassitude. Which means whenever I run into disappointment it falls on me as hard as a broken heart made out of cement.

The same thing goes with my role as Dave's “art manager”, which appellation I frankly find kind of embarrassing; it feels like bogus credentials, like I'm parading as a Caesar wearing thrift store bed sheets and plastic laurels. Well, I did build his online gallery and have helped him retrieve old paintings of his he thought lost forever to a shady character, and I'll be trying to promote his exhibit here at the Friendly as soon as he gets his new stuff finished and I can take pictures to preview what will be showcased ... and we work out the logistics of preparation. Hell, I may end up helping him sell one of his paintings before the show! He's one of my fellow derelicts who comes here to shower every day, though unlike me he has no desire to go domestic. Unfortunately for me and his aspirations, he's almost Luddite in his aversion to technology, so I doubt he'll ever get a cell phone. He also dislikes things like schedules, appointments, deadlines, and anything that asks anything more of him than an occasional happenstance Razz-Ber-Rita. Which means he's a pain in the ass, albeit a pain in the ass with considerable potential to become a Portland icon and a successful artist.

So, in short ... Dave, finish those damn paintings, make regular appearances at the Friendly so we can hash out an exhibit that will make a good impression on the liberal art elite of this city! And, HAP (I'm not calling you HomeForward ever)? Process my application, approve it, and get my ass indoors soon! As dismally comforting as lassitude can get, I'm not getting any younger and it would behoove me to put some kinematics back into my life. Hell, if all goes well and I play my cards right, getting into housing and helping Dave out can catalyze a significant improvement in my life. Even while I've been sitting on a loading dock drinking forties and playing City of Steam at the Friendly these past months, a swarm of creative ideas have been buzzing quietly in torpor in the back of my mind.