This Has Got To Come To A Resolution

 Another week has gone by without me having picked up my phone and dialed the lady over at The Rebuild Center who could help me out of the impending eviction from Sacred Heart situation.

The irony is that the people from Unity, back in 2013 saw in me the type of person who would never help himself. I think my late father would characterize me as: "He doesn't even know enough to come in out of the rain!"

And, so arrangements were made to help me get off the street, since it seemed apparent that I was pretty well settled in, under the wharf with my pet rats, my 4 foot alligator, and a black capped night heron that would visit for a few months during the summer, before flying back to Michigan or wherever in late October.

Now, I should probably book an appointment with the mental health department at the Daughter's of Charity Hospital, that keeps sending me information about all the services I am entitled to, as a member of whatever I'm a member of.

I could sit down with a doctor of psychiatry and explain how I just keep putting off making a call that would most likely stave off my being evicted from my apartment.

I originally had a case worker assigned to me named Tim. I thought it unnecessary that he would come around every Monday to do a "wellness" check upon me; and that he would survey me to make sure nothing was bothering me, etc.

He would be just the person to call the lady for me and get me an extension on paying off whatever rent I owe the place.

But, Tim was laid off, so no more wellness checks. Now a couple weeks have to go by and people have to complain about a foul odor before it is discovered that one of the residents is not well.

The current staff, I believe is working against me. Ever since the pest control man let himself into my apartment about 2 years ago, when I wasn't home, to do his spraying, and saw the picture of Donald Trump, which I originally hung up facetiously, and might have even placed over a dartboard that Bobby once gave me.

I returned that to him, so he could give it to someone else, saying that I had enough on my plate with the music and the reading, writing, exercising, jigsaw puzzle making, drawing, computer programming, computer art, computerized music recording, and the taking care of a cat...the busking...without adding the quest to master dart throwing to the mix. Because I knew myself too well. I would invent little games like I once did when I lived in a house that had a pool table in the basement. I used to see how few shots it would take me to sink all 15 balls, and would spend 3 hours a night at it. (I think I got it down to 13 shots; sinking 2 balls at a time during the run).

So, no dart board. But, as time went by, I decided to leave the Trump picture up because I started to see just how reviled he was in certain circles, and for what reasons (or, non reasons) and I started realizing that the people that "just hate" him were by and large the types that I just wouldn't want to be around.

At least one person unsubscribed from my Youtube channel after I posted a video in which the Trump picture could be seen in certain shots; way off to the side, but; there it was...
I haven't heard from one Craig Nelson, for example, who used to comment on this blog since about 30 minutes after that video aired...

And, so the pest man came into my apartment and certainly saw the Trump picture. The next morning I was served notice about the "unsanitary conditions" that were reported, by the pest control guy, who noticed food on the counter in the kitchen and an unkempt litter box on the floor, that smelled of cat feces.

Then, I had to get rid of a couple pot plants that I was growing, after the maintenance guy, who had let himself in with his own key to change a light bulb when I wasn't home -after I had explicitly told the security lady when I would be there to let the guy in- noticed them. The same guy who drop in on Bobby to smoke some of what the latter grew in his closet...
All of these people are African American, except for the pest control guy, by the way.

The security lady up front, a heavyset woman of color will typically inform all the black residents when there is to be food given away; or when there is to be a Sacred Heart Christmas party with a meal served and bags full of hygiene items handed out; but will only communicate to me by contorting her face upon the sight of me, as if she smells something; perhaps cat feces..

And, I always see the maintenance guy hanging around her and talking to her; so it is easy to theorize that if they were to make sure that the monthly notices to inform me that I had to pay 36 dollars per month, out of the Pandemic Unemployment Assistance that I was getting the minimum amount of, throughout the lock down, never made it under my door; then the people in the office would start counting me delinquent a month, and then two, then three etc. until such a point that legal measures could be taken to get me evicted...nine months without paying rent? Call the sheriff's office!! type of thing.

So then came the "5 days notice to vacate the premises or pay the full amount" notice. And a couple days ago, I heard a knock at my door so light that I wasn't even sure it was on my door. It sounded like someone knocking normally on one of the other doors in the hallway. But, when I got up off my bed and went to the door, I opened it to see the already escaping into the stairwell visage of Ray, who is supposedly the default caseworker of anyone who's original one was laid off. He is another African American who has never followed through on anything that he talked about helping me with.

It was as if he wanted to be seen on the building's cameras, apparently knocking on my door, to get an update on my rent situation; and then me not answering his knock, had I not happened to be sitting there with no TV or music on. He was doing all he could to try to help me; I just wouldn't even answer my door, type of thing...

But, I guess this has been cathartic because it just dawned upon me that my next step should be to e-mail Heather, who works off-site and is basically Ray's boss. She is the one whom I e-mailed about a month ago and who thanked me for doing so ("reaching out," she put it. How millenial) and told me that she hadn't known what was going on with me. I guess her sending Ray to knock on my door and then slink off hadn't succeeded in contacting me..

So, that is what I will do now; e-mail Heather.

Maybe it will help me stop brooding over the past evening, recounted below, and written before the above stuff...

The Past Evening

The temperature was rising this evening. After I woke up at about 6 in the evening and went outside, it was so cold that I figured I wouldn't go out and play, but would, at some point bundle up in sweaters and jackets and ride up to get groceries; then stay in.

Had I forced myself to go out around 9 p.m., thinking that I would play for as long as I could stand it; until my fingers were numb and I started missing notes; I would have noticed a blessing of warm air blowing in and probably would have gotten in a couple hours of playing and would have made good money.

This shot, taken at 2:14 in the morning, tells me that I would have made good money. The full video shows people stumbling around laughing and enjoying weather that has seen the temperature rise about 15 degrees from what it was when I made my fateful decision.

Part of me was struggling with the inner conflict that comes from knowing that, as soon as I made money out there, I would be running for a half pint of brandy, then returning to the playing spot, where someone would surely come by with a lit joint and offer me some; and then on my way home I would buy a nicotine vape. Picking up a couple cans of food for Harold would become the only noble purpose my foray out into the night would serve. I would probably stop on the way home to replenish my kratom supply with a 3 ounce bag, out of the money I surely would have made on such a beautiful night.

This has got to come to a resolution. 

If I can't go out there with just a liter of spring water and play music without smoking or drinking, then I might as well apply for a job at the Winn Dixie.

I guess one improvement I could make immediately would be to not stay up until noon and then sleep until 8 p.m. and be faced with having to go out and play before I am even fully awake. I've done that before and it has always worked out, though. I found myself fully awake and glad I went out; and shuddered to think of myself staying in and watching YouTube all night...