Thursday, October 27, 2005

Read It and Weep

Well, it's all been going on here.

And today I heard a story of a real Aussie battler doing it tough, a tale tragic enough to bring a tear to even the most jaded eye. Pull up a chair, grab a handful of hankies, Mississippi blues in the background, and listen on, gentle reader.

I'm just starting at the methadone clinic, meeting patient/clients/whatever, and at ten thirty I stuck my head out into the office and asked Mr Chirp to come on down. Mr Chirp (tall, thin, tattooed, barefoot) raised his head from his hands, turned a tear-stained face towards me, and slowly shuffled into the consulting room.

I offered him a box of tissues and gave him a few minutes to compose himself. We sat in silence until he was able to speak.

"What's been going on?" I said.

And he laid down his heavy load.

It seems he'd been kicked out of his house. The landlord, he said, had "come around makin' trouble for me. Saying I had to get to get out, 'cause I'm a bit behind on the rent - which I am, but four months max.

Anyway, he kept goin' on about it, and I didn't want to talk about it, so I pushed him - pushed him out of my house, defended myself. My right by law. And he falls out the door and down the flight of stairs, and he's lying there squealing about his arm or something, and some fuckin' interferin' prick calls the ambulance."

"Was he okay?" I asked. Mr Chirp continued.

"Anyway, then the police come around. They reckon it's assault... but by me! When it's my fuckin' home that's been invaded! Since he's got no prior, Mr Squeaky fuckin' Clean - they back this bastard him up instead of me! Chuck me out of my own house! A fuckin' restraining order... on my own house!!"

The tone of his voice raised another octave, he gestured at the silent heavens. I shook my head at the injustice of it all.

"Anyway, because of this they're bringin up this bullshit 'endangering life' charge I got hanging over me, because of some four guys that reckon I tried to run over them with me car in April. So I got to get out of the house, and my parole officer's cracked the shits at me and reckons I'll go back inside for this, so I told her to fuck off, and that's her gone."

I raised my eyebrows. "So where are you staying now?"

"That's the really harsh bit. No fuckin' where. I went over to my girlfriend's house, reckoned I could crash there a few days, but all the women she's living with - they're all lezzos, they won't let me near her."

"All lesbians, you say?"

"Yeah. She's staying in some domestic violence shelter thing, because of some hassle we had, but that's all fixed up now. But they won't have a fuckin' bar of it."

"I've heard these places can be rather strict" I agreed. "So what now?"

"Fuck knows. I just don't know anymore. There's this guy, I can probably crash at his place, but he's got convictions, he's a speed dealer... and the fuckin' terms of my parole reckon I can't associate with him.

Anyway, I reckon he's still pissed off about me not paying him for some shit he sold me a while back... and it was shit, too, I was ripped off. You know, it's his fault I got back on the hammer - I never would have even tried heroin if it wasn't for him. So I'm the one who got ripped off and there's him bitching and moaning about his fifteen hundred fuckin' bucks. Him and his bikie mates. I don't give a shit about any of them, I tell you that."

"Mmm" I said.

He made as if to go on, but for a moment was overcome with emotion, and buried his head in his hands again. When he could speak, he looked up, and spoke as much to the sky as to me.

"I don't fuckin' know why I bother, you know? I don't know why. I keep on trying to do the right thing, trying to walk the walk, but everybody's always got to sabotage me. Rip me off, piss me off, push my buttons. Tell you what - when those coppers backed that greedy bastard instead of me, it completely destroyed my faith in the legal system."

He sighed deeply, then continued. "Dead set. I try to do the right thing, but everyone always seems to be pushing me into doing the wrong thing. And then standing back and laughing, when I take the fall. Well, I'm fuckin' sick of it!"

He stared at me, a man of fundamental decency wedgied once too often by the capricious hand of fate.

"Tell you what, it's all changing. A man can only take so fuckin' much. It's a new fuckin' plan today, I can tell you."

"Uh huh?" I asked.

"Too fuckin' right it is. No more Mr Nice Guy. No more takin' the rap for everyone else's crap. From today, the people who caused all this shit are gonna start to suffer. Next fuckin thing - the next fuckin thing that does not go precisely to plan, exactly how I want it - I'm gonna find the fucker."

He sat up, and his eyes gleamed with a new purpose.

"I'm gonna find the bastard responsible... and I'm gonna make him pay. Don't reckon I won't."

He jabbed one long, bony finger in my direction.

"Certain people" he said "are gonna have to start taking responsibility for their own actions."


Blogger Foilwoman said...

And what kind of character disorder is that an example of? Pretty hilarious. Unless, of course, you actually know the guy.

12:35 PM  
Blogger Benedict 16th said...

Actually he probably was going to ask BJ for some extra methadone/buprenorphine/diazepam/panadeine forte (tylenol 5) 'cos of all the stress he was under. Or maybe for some take away doses so he could chase the bastards down and not worry about dosing at the chemist every day?

irppfh - sounds like bad borborygmi to me!

2:50 PM  

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