*
Punk rock makes so much sense. I am a plastic bag. I’m just a pill popping nutter in a consumer society. I’m a frozen pea. I mean nothing, do nothing, and people get rich off of the government charging my brain-freeze pills back to Medicare. I am a statistic, a figure, and I represent profit. My muscles tense and my neck tightens as the medicine continues its rampage through my system.
*
I thought the medication would wear off, but David’s notes declaring I am “doing so much better’ have caused Dr. Pablo Morales to keep me on too high a dose. He saw me this week, and was startled by the twitching and popping noises I was making.
I could overhear him argue with David, “I don’t care! He’s usually a total dingbat, and this medicine makes him easier to work with, Pablo.”
“David, Tardive Dyskinesia can become permanent in many cases. Your failure to report it to me during the week is serious grounds for a lawsuit.”
(Note to self: Sue David)
After 15 minutes of heated discussion, Pablo comes out of the office and says I can just go ahead and switch to Lithium. He writes a prescription for Lithium and leaves it by the drug dispensary. When he isn’t looking, I swing past the doorway and steal the paper. I tear it into tiny shreds and flush it down the toilet. They can’t pull this bullshit Total MK CIA experiment crap with me anymore. I am drug-free, baby. I am high on life.
*
Okay so it turns out destroying the prescription got a lot of people in hot water, but not me. I play innocent, no one thinks I can have anything to do with it. For now, I am just on a PRN of Cogentin, 1200 mg of Lithium (a natural mineral salt, they assure me) and nothing else. Ha ha. Fuck them all. A couple of the other patients at Northeast want to buy my Cogentin, but I need it. It makes the edges of the sunlight less sharp.
CHAPTER TEN - HORNBEAM
Hooray, it’s moving day tomorrow. I’m on lithium now - no more antipsychotics. I will live far away from Michael G. Page in Pacific Heights (or “Specific Whites” as he likes to call it), so I make another date to visit him at the Civic Center Hotel. This time we set it for the afternoon.
I ask the attendant to ring Michael. Michael appears wearing a terry cloth bathrobe and a shower cap.
“Ethan, love, can you give me a few minutes so’s Mama can get all ups"?
“Yeah, I can wait here or…”
“Perfect. I can’t wait to catch up on all the lunatic gossip at the asylum.”
He wiggles back out the lobby and into the elevator. “Five minutes, I swear.”
In about 30 minutes, Michael comes down. He’s wearing dark grey acid washed jeans with a black pleather overcoat and a green felt hat with a pink feather. He did his lips in black lipstick and there is a star of David drawn right where his third eye should be.”
“I know it’s not Yom Kippur, but I just feel so festive with it.”
He has a bike messenger bag thrown over his shoulder.
“We’re going shopping at Rainbow Grocery.” He leads the way.
Rainbow Grocery is at the corner of 14th and South Van Ness in a warehouse. It’s tiny inside, like a Gem Spa in New York, but with all organic produce, vitamins, bulk beans and folk remedies.
Michael holds the door for me and says, “I have such a major crush on the Flower Essences boy, I hope he’s here.”
We graze past the groceries towards the Bach Flower Essences. The guy behind the counter is not my type, but Michael blushes and takes a sharp right turn towards the Gem Elixir lady. “I can’t do it"!
“What’s wrong? He’ll like you, just talk to him.”
Michael snaps, “Easy for you to say, Ethan, you’re pretty and you have a full head of hair. That boy will judge me from my leather cap to my holey boots.”
I peek over the Dr. Bronner’s bath soaps for a better look, and Michael pulls me by my hair two shelves lower where he can whisper right in my face.
“He’ll see you"!
“It’s okay, I don’t have a crush on him.”
“SHHHHHH"! Michael is dead serious.
“Uh, look, Michael, why don’t you ask him if he can recommend a flower essence to overcome shyness. Your bashfulness seems to be the problem here.”
Michael grabs my face and kisses it in several odd places. “Ethan, you are a genius.” He straightens up, brushes imaginary cobwebs from his pleather jacket, and strides towards the Flower Essences aisle. He looks back towards me with sheer terror painted across his face, made all the more absurd by the Star of David bindi blighting his browline.
I shoo him to finish what he started. He frowns, but continues towards the dull dude behind the flower essences counter.
“Um, hi. I umm.” He cackles and snorts, a clown on acid.
“Hey man, what’s up"? The dude is super mellow. This will be easy.
“Can you tell me which flower essence helps with shyness, please”?
“Certainly. You can try some Hornbeam, maybe Wild Oats, and Centaury is always good to pack your swagger.” He smiles at Michael.
“My god. It’s too many choices. If you had to pick just one…”
“Hornbeam.”
“Do you have a tester for a sample"?
“No, man, but I’ll make you one if you like. Hold up.”
I walk over to Michael while the dude turns and puts a few drops of hornbeam into a paper cup of distilled water.
“See, Michael. I told you. Easy as pie.”
Michael frowns and swats me hard below the counter. The dude turns around, and Michael turns his frown upside down.
“Here you go. Have you had anything in your mouth in the past 2 hours"?
“I brushed my teeth with Ayurvedic toothpaste.”
“Well,” he instructs, “you might want to wait about 2 hours before taking this.
“I’ll risk it.”
“It should work - how long ago did you brush"?
“About 45 minutes ago.”
“Yeah, why don’t you do your shopping and come see me when you’re done.”
“Okay.” Michael slouches and heads back towards the organic fruits. He bitches about organic sprouts.
“They call this shit organic, but they clean the trays with bleach, so how can it be organic, really? I mean, bleach lasts forever.”
“You are right.”
“After this, we’re going to Tree’s for vegan lunch. Have you been there"?
“Oh yeah. I love Tree’s Place.”
Michael makes a few more rounds and counts his pennies. The hornbeam will cost $6.00.
“Do you realize $6.00 is more than 1% of my monthly income? This shit had better work.”
Michael is lucky because he gets SSI. It pays $535.00 a month, unlike GA, which only pays $120 every two weeks. Either way, I have to give all but fifteen dollars to Northeast Lodge, so it’s not like it matters to me. But Miss Page is on a tight budget, so I can relate.
Before we check out of the register, Michael goes back to his homely dude and asks for the cup.
“Sure, Man. Drink up.”
Michael drinks it and smiles at the dude. “You sure are cute.”
“Thanks, man.” The dude absorbed the compliment like he was a miracle sponge. Not a drop left to give back to Michael.
“Well, it does work,” Michael gives his clown laugh again. “Sold!”
“Right on. Shall I wrap it up”?
“Yes, let’s wrap it up, shall we"? Michael doesn’t seem interested in the dude anymore, and the dude has never shown interest in him. But I guess the hornbeam had its effect, because Michael is unfazed.
“This,” he says to me, “is going to come in handy at the Crud.”
“The Crud? Oh, the Stud"! I laugh. The guy behind the counter laughs too, but it’s too late for him to join our party now. We are all done.
Michael pays for everything in his handbasket and transfers it all to his bike messenger bag. We stroll down South Van Ness towards Tree’s place.
“Since we’re g
oing past Safeway, I need about six bucks worth of beans and rice,” he says, “But I can’t pay for it, so if you don’t want to be involved, stay outside.”
The old Safeway on South Van Ness near 20th is a dilapidated urine-scented grocery store. The clerks are surly and the atmosphere is unholy.
“I always do all my shoplifting here,” he says, “because they are a huge corporation and they can handle the loss. I give Rainbow Grocery my money, not Safeway. Plus the people here are such pieces of shit.”
I wait outside and when Michael comes out, his bike bag looks a bit heavier.
*
Tree’s place is a vegan commune in the badlands of the Outer Mission. They operate a soup kitchen one day a week. Its official name is “The Cauliflower Collective,” but since it is run by a genius named “Tree” the other name has always stuck. The collective members make a very special day out of it, every time. The men dress in drag and the women put on way too much makeup. Instead of making everybody wait in a cafeteria line, the members are waiters and waitresses who bring food to the table for the hungry masses. They make delicious vegan food to serve the indigent and others like Michael and me. The food is not just your typical vegan fare. They spend all week researching the menu. It’s their duty to make vegan food taste better than the swill at a typical soup kitchen. Their mission is to guide wayward souls towards the joys of veganism.
To accompany the well researched menu, they have live music and exotic themes. Today, according to the the menu, we will be eating Dixieland Voodoo vegan.
The soy milk hush puppies taste just like their buttermilk counterparts. It comes with a Nayonnaise (soy mayonnaise) remoulade spiced with garlic and red chilis.
The main course is next. The tangy slaw is made of red cabbage, apple cider vinegar, olive oil and celery seeds. The Tofu Po’Boys served on homemade rolls taste like you’re being hugged. The collective members serve us bedecked in silken florals and peacock feathers. To complete the free lunch atmosphere, the more musical of the crew serenade us with trumpets, guitars, a flute and a ukulele played by Tree himself.
The lunch date with Michael just gets better and better. He gives me a shot of hornbeam water. Fifteen minutes later, I am good friends with the supper crowd. Michael spends an inordinate amount of time chatting with the flautist named Rem. I hope there will be a love connection there some day. Tree gives out beads and we become a spontaneous parade on 23rd Street to celebrate an imaginary Mardi Gras in autumn.
As the stars fall and evening rises, I stand in the garden with Tree. I asked him how he became a vegan.
“Ethan, I’ve always been a vegan, it just took me a while to figure out how to eat this way.”
“Do you miss meat?”
“No”
“What about eggs?” I ask.
“Here’s how I feel about eggs. If a chicken were to fly into my garden, lay an egg, then fly off, I would consider eating it.”
The image of a flying chicken is so absurd, I bust out laughing.
We leave Tree’s place and take Harrison street to the Stud for some dancing. Despite Michael’s forceful invitation, Rem chooses not to join us; Michael isn’t disappointed in the least.
At the Stud, Debbie Deb warns us to “Lookout Weekend” and everything is in perfect harmony. I only started the lithium the day before, so it hasn’t had time to ruin my life yet. Michael and I dance in our corner by the emergency exit. The new location is not as cool as the old one, but it will do. And the music tonight is on fire. Trinere wants to know “How Can We Be Wrong” and I guess Whitney just wants to dance with somebody.
Since it’s my last night at Northeast, I figure fuck it, let’s go out for a long walk. The Stud is dying on a Sunday night like it always does, so Michael and I go to Powell and Market. The cable cars are vacant at this hour, so we catch a ride to Fisherman’s Wharf. We wander the docks and talk about oh I don’t know, everything under the sun. We are both hopped up on hornbeam, so we talk to dozens of tourists and strangers, who are thrilled to be talking to real San Franciscans.
“Ethan, what do you do in there, anyway”?
“Stupid shit. Take drugs. Chop strawberries.”
“Ha! You should be chopping strawberries at Tree’s Place.”
“I know,” I agree “but I’m moving to Pacific Heights tomorrow.”
“It’s still one bus ride - the 22 Fillmore - you could go.”
“I’ll have to see what the counselors say.”
Michael grabs me by the lapel, “Girl, you need to get out of the mental health system as soon as possible. Do you see how they have you programmed to check before you do any shit at all”?
“You’re right. I’m stuck right now.”
“Yes, but get unstuck, please, the world needs you to do better things. I just feel it, Ethan. You’re a poet. You have to protect your soul from the doctors and cops and your mother and anyone who wants to change you.”
“Thank you for caring"!
He cherishes me. His words bring tears. My mother will be back in my life, and she will not be interested in protecting me like Michael is. He’s my real mother.
The Cable Cars have stopped running, so we need to find a late night bus. We walk along the Marina to Fillmore to catch the 22. Michael ducks into a liquor store for a pack of drum cigarettes. Waiting at the bus stop is Betsy.
“Betsy! What are you doing here"?
She shakes her head as if to quiet me and then says, “Hey, Time Traveler, catching the 22"?
“Yeah. It’s always so strange running into you. What are you up to"?
“I’ve been going to Artists Anonymous. It’s good for my bipolar.”
“So like you’re powerless over your art and your life has become unmanageable"?
“Exactly"! She smiles and puffs her trademark brown More cigarette. Michael exits the liquor store.
“Betsy, here comes my friend Michael.” I turn and watch him roll a cigarette before he lights up. Growing impatient, I wave him over, saying, “Michael, come here"! He takes his time. “Come here! I want you to meet someone.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m coming.” He approaches us.
“Michael, this is Betsy.”
“Who is Betsy"?
I turn back, and she’s not there.
“Girl, that’s some nasty medicine they give you.”
“She was just here. She must have rolled away.”
“Is she on roller skates? She must move pretty fast.”
“No. Electric wheelchair. She was just here, I swear.”
Or maybe she is an angel.
The bus chugs and wheezes up the Cow Hollow hill and tops off at Broadway.
“So this is your new home. You’re gonna be right here in the Heights.” Behind us the view of the Bay and the lights of Alcatraz are dizzying. In front of us are the lights of the Western Addition, orange and muddy. We hop off when the bus reaches Haight Street.
The Lower Haight is spooky this late at night, when only the crackheads from the Projects and the hookers are out. We catch the Haight bus back to Market and part ways at the Civic Center Hotel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN - CHANCE ENCOUNTER
It’s late afternoon when the taxi arrives. I have only a few possessions; packing my second-hand dad shirts and dirty jeans takes about three minutes. In the slow, congested cab ride to Pacific Heights, I remember what David said. My mom will be back in my life. I love her and miss her, but at the same time, there’s a dark knot of apprehension in my belly, the kind which forms when I’m being yelled at or slapped in a fit of rage. My mother’s dark side occupies my thoughts, drowning out the hugs, the ice cream and the trips to the beach which constitute her light side, free from shadows and hurt. The cab pulls to the curb and I hand the driver a medical voucher. Fancy ride, courtesy of the San Francisco Mental Health system.
*
Conard House is a magnificent three story mansion near the corner of Jackson and Fillmore. If you count the bas
ement, it’s four floors. The front doors is up a flight of stone steps. A couple of cigarette smokers mutter and cough. I ring the bell. A Janis Joplin clone answers and smiles. Her name is Janis, surprise surprise, and she has a clipboard, like everyone else in the mental health power structure. On the clipboard is a chart with my name.
“Hi Ethan, I am Janis, and I will be your intake counselor.”
Oh god, I’m not ready for this right now. I just want to go to sleep.
“We need to ask you some assessment questions to determine if you are ready to be in a halfway house. Come on in to the office.” This is different from Northeast Lodge. The counselors all share a big room. The door is wide open, and we can just walk in there. The parquet floors are even more beautiful than David had let on.
I brace myself for difficult, prying questions, but they turn out to be the same kinds of questions I had to answer to apply for SSI: Can I shave myself? Can I wake myself in the morning? (“Yes, with difficulty” to both.)
In a few minutes there will be a meeting in the common room where I have to introduce myself to the house. I want another shower, but there’s no time. I sit on the sofa and wait for the clients to filter in from their rooms, their day treatment and their day jobs. The living room is empty.
Then the whole room is shaking as a muscular young man appears. His eyes are the color of Sicilian olives, his skin is well-tanned, and he wears a big grin on his chiseled face. He extends a meaty hand and introduces himself.
“Hey buddy, I’m Chance.”
“Ethan.” When we touch an electric pulse of sexual energy travels between us.
“Did you feel that, Ethan? What was it"? He smiles, and I am embarrassed. I am struck dumb, staring into the face of a God. He sits beside me and wraps his arm around my neck. The embrace is the kind that says, “You are my property.”
“I can tell you and me we’re gonna get along just fine. You’re my roommate, you know.” I didn’t know. I am getting high from his sexual energy. This is how I felt when I had horrible crushes on straight boys in high school. I notice he wears a plain silver ring.
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