Road to the White House: Part One: The Pretenders.

JAZZMAN CHRONICLES:  DEFEATING TRUMP.

A LONG & WINDING ROAD TO THE WHITE HOUSE

A 2020 Presidential Election Analysis from Pretenders to Contenders

Part One:  The Pretenders

By Jack Random

Having been engaged in the political debate for decades, it is both frustrating and infuriating to be subjected to the same specious pragmatic argument every four years.  Individuals that I hold in high regard and whose ideological principals are harmonious with my own, present the case with a straight face and in all sincerity as if on cue from the Democratic Party talking points. 

The argument holds that the Party cannot nominate a true progressive because he or she will lose the general election.  The same message can be applied to all third party or independent candidates in perpetuity.  We must all tow to the centerline where we will almost inevitably be smashed by the big rig of true believers on the right. 

The argument is particularly galling this time around because last time around it was used to nominate Hillary Clinton over Bernie Sanders despite the stone cold fact that all the energy of the progressive left belonged to Bernie and all the doubt belonged to Hillary. 

It was not just the fact that Hillary didn’t show up in the critical rustbelt states in the weeks before Election Day; it was the fact that she didn’t have anything to say to the working people of the lost industrial middle class.  They would turn to the neophyte Donald J. Trump in a protest against the duplicity of corporate Democrats – and why not?  No one could have done a better job at playing to Trump’s hand than Hillary did.  And yes, Bernie would have beaten Trump and left him bruised, battered and exposed to face the legal fallout of his campaign in the Southern District of New York. 

Now we are faced with a broad and growing field of individuals – qualified or not – lining up for their chance to bring down The Great Con.  Most of them have borrowed from Bernie’s playbook:  Medicare for all, a living wage, fair trade or something like it, access to higher education, humane immigration policies, a transition to a green energy base and a promise of non-intervention in civil wars abroad.  Still, the mainstream media portray Bernie and friends as radical leftists while the political class continues to pretend that the mythical middle ground is the Shangri-La of presidential politics. 

The mainstream of the Democratic Party base is Bernie Sanders.  The mainstream of true progressives is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  The Party operatives stuck with the Clintons where they now find themselves sinking in the quicksand of yesterday’s politics.  Those of us with no viable alternative moved on a long, long time ago.  We never wanted a return to the Clinton years.  What we want now is a government that recognizes the challenges of the new and the next generations.  Moderation has become a code word for corporate domination.  The massive multi-national corporations that finance traditional politicians on both sides of the aisle have proven beyond all doubt that they are ready, willing and eager to sell us all down the river for the almighty profit margin. 

No one really likes a moderate.  A moderate is someone who doesn’t have the courage of his or her conviction.  A moderate is a weasel in the smiling mask of an insurance salesman.  A moderate doesn’t know where she’s been or where he’s going.  Despite all his flamboyance, Donald Trump is a moderate pretending to be extreme.  He is extreme on race and immigration but there it stops.  Even there he has no conviction.  It is all braggadocio.  It is all Clintonian triangulation.  It is all calculated to win, baby, win. 

Okay.  Let us concede that Barrack Obama was a moderate politician that many Democrats and progressives remember with warm affection.  He was portrayed as a leftist by both the opposition and an accommodating media but he never lived up to the label.  Had he been the man he was advertised to be, he would have delivered a hell of a lot more and better than Obamacare.  He would have delivered more and better than a Lilly Ledbetter Act limited to federal employees.  He would have delivered as promised the right to organize in the workplace.  He would have decisively ended the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and limited our engagement in Syria to humanitarian assistance.  He would have created an international economic alliance with the power to replace drones and missiles with targeted economic sanctions. 

Obama is the past and the Clintons are ancient history.  The times demand that we elect a bold new leader to take the reins of a progressive government.  The times demand that America lead the world in a bold new and green direction.  The times demand that we cast off once and for all the debilitating barbarity, isolationism and narcissism of Donald J. Trump. 

We need a president that is not afraid to take a stand. 

It has become clear in recent weeks that (a) every politician of age believes he or she is qualified to take up residency on Pennsylvania Avenue and (b) it is never too early to begin the long and winding road to the White House. 

Likewise, it is never too early to begin our analysis of the candidates and to initiate the inevitable process of elimination. 

TIER ONE:  THE PRETENDERS. 

Don’t get me wrong:  I love the pretenders.  The pretenders have nothing to lose and something to gain.  They represent causes.  They lay it on the line.  They tend to be uncompromised.  They have no need to roll out trial balloons or test the waters.  What you see is what you get. 

Every presidential election attracts any number of pretenders.  Past elections have given us the pizza man, the flat tax joker, the sleepy-eyed brain surgeon and Carly “the CEO” Fiorina.  None had a reasonable chance to become the party nominee but they did gain notoriety, book deals or invitations to social events.  They gained one of the most valued commodities in business or politics: name recognition. 

MAYOR PETE BUTTIGIEG

This year’s pretenders include most notably the mayor of South Bend, Indiana, Peter Buttigieg – that’s Boot-Edge-Edge.  There is no denying the mayor’s eloquence or intellectual prowess.  He’s a Rhodes scholar and a Harvard graduate.  He is also the only openly gay candidate in the Democratic field.  I applaud his candidacy.  His rebuttal to the openly bigoted views of vice president Mike Pence is brilliant and refreshing. 

He is also smart enough to know that a mayor of South Bend, Indiana, is not qualified for the highest office in the land.  He lacks experience in foreign policy.  He has no practical knowledge of the inside workings of Washington D.C.  Still, his candidacy forces the Democratic field to embrace the civil rights of gay and transsexual communities.  He has a powerful voice and will be heard at the Democratic National Convention and beyond. 

CEO HOWARD SCHULTZ

With apologies to Joe DiMaggio, Mr. Coffee stepped into the race with the same argument that former NYC mayor Michael Bloomberg trots out every four years.  He is convinced that America is yearning for a middle-of-the-road moderate and that both major parties have drifted to ideological extremes.  He is wrong on both accounts.  What really concerns Schultz is protecting his own interests.  He is a proud member of the one percent club and he doesn’t want to pay proportionately higher taxes.  Sorry, Howard, wrong party. 

BILLIONAIRE TOM STEYER 

To his credit, Steyer jumped on the impeachment wagon before it had wheels.  To those who agree with him that alone is an admirable resume.  The fact that he amassed his fortune as the manager of a hedge fund is an effective antidote.  A San Francisco Democrat with liberal credentials and deep pockets, Steyer threatened to run for US Senator before backing out and he has done the same with the presidency – twice.  Let’s take him at his word:  He’s not running “at this time.”  Translation:  His impeachment campaign has not made a mark in the polls. 

Here’s an idea for all those billionaire progressives:  Fund green communities and industries in Montana, Wyoming, Arizona and throughout the Midwest.  Establish residency there and run for Governor or the US Senate.  We have reached a point where two or three senate seats could have a greater impact than winning the White House. 

HIGH TECH ENTREPRENEUR ANDREW YANG

A big brain with a big idea, Andrew Yang epitomizes the candidate who runs to publicize and gather support for a concept.  That concept is a universal basic income.  Yang read Martin Ford’s Rise of the Robots: Technology and the Threat of a Jobless Future.  It is a poignant warning of a not-so-distant future where robots and robotics take the bulk of jobs from industrial workers to white-collar professionals.  For years advocates of Fair Trade have opposed the inevitable job exportation of Free Trade policies.  For decades opponents of Fair Trade have fallen back on the argument that technology will take those middle class jobs in any case.  Now that time has finally arrived.  Yang proposes an answer:  a basic universal income by right of birth and citizenship.  Here’s another solution: the government as an employer of last resort.  Shades of socialism?  Sure.  Why not?  Would you prefer mass unemployment?  The Mother of all Depressions?  It’s coming and like global warming it’s coming fast.  And it doesn’t care if you believe it or not. 

AUTHOR MARIANNE WILLIAMSON

An adherent of the spiritual teachings of A Course in Miracles, Williamson is the best-selling author of inspirational books.  She wishes to awaken the spiritual culture of America to the realities of the democratic process.  Williamson is a true believer and a genuine good deed doer so I will not doubt her intentions or cast aspersions on her character.  She is not running for president but if she can awaken a segment of the non-voting majority to engage the political process, she deserves our heartfelt appreciation. 

MAYOR WAYNE MESSAM 

The black mayor of Miramar, Florida, Mr. Messam is the first member of his family born in the United States.  He is the son of Jamaican immigrants.  His father worked in the sugar cane fields of Glades, Florida.  He is running to highlight the plight of immigrants in Trump’s America.  He advocates gun control, expanded healthcare, a woman’s right to choose, progressive taxation and climate change initiatives.  He knows the issues and would make a solid candidate for congress. 

FORMER SENATOR MIKE GRAVEL 

At age 88 and technically qualified for the presidency, former Alaska Senator Mike Gravel is voluntarily being used by a trio of young tech-savvy libertarians to shake up the race.  Gravel stands against imperialism and demands democratic reform – both discussions worth having and ones that may or may not come up in his absence.  The campaign is refreshingly candid about his chances.  They don’t want the White House.  They want a place on the stage.  To attain that goal they must gain a one percent in three national polls or donations from 65,000 individuals with at least 200 donors in twenty different states.  If they make it the DNC will raise the stakes. 

This completes the current crop of presidential pretenders who have managed to gain some notice because of their status and/or financial resources.  In some ways they represent the best of American democracy.  They bring sincere and pressing issues to light.  They press when more traditional candidates would back down.  Some may well go on to great accomplishments in the political arena.  Others will boost sales and attendance on upcoming book tours.  But none will be president in this cycle. 

Jazz. 

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES AND FOUNDER OF CROW DOG PRESS.  HIS NOVELS INCLUDE PAWNS TO PLAYERS: THE CHESS TRILOGY. 

Everybody Loves Old Joe (until he runs)

JAZZMAN CHRONICLES:  TRUMP DAZE.  

OLD WHITE MEN

Everybody Loves Old Joe

By Jack Random

Despite my approximate seven percent Native American bloodline by way of the Great Oklahoma Land Rush and the Dust Bowl migration to Central California, I am what I appear to be:  an old white man.  I am neither proud nor ashamed of that identification.  It is what it is. 

I am not proud to be old though it beats the alternative.  I am not proud to be white though I am grateful I did not have to endure the pains of discrimination that so many of my darker complexioned peers did.  I am not proud to be a man though I am fortunate I did not have to suffer the indignity of sexual bias and intimidation that women have experienced. 

All of this brings me to the latest entry in the Democratic presidential sweepstakes:  Old Joe Biden.  Everybody loves Joe.  Just listen to all the old white men on television giving testament to Old Joe’s character.  Listen to them proclaim the same old ode to moderation that they deliver every four years:  Only Joe can win the White House.  Only Joe knows how to talk to the working stiffs in Middle America.  Only Joe can avoid the stinging charge of socialism. 

Everybody loves Joe until he actually runs for the presidency.  Now we begin to see the dark side of Old Joe, the borderline racist-sexist shadow of his past policies:  His failure to stand up for Anita Hill as he chaired the committee that systematically assassinated her character, his advocacy of the infamous Clinton Crime Bill that resulted in the mass incarceration of minorities and his hand in creating the Free Trade mandate. 

Old Joe aint quite what he appears to be when you look a little closer. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I like Old Joe.  No.  I really do.  He reminds me of my father who was one of the most progressive men of his generation.  He meant no harm when he used phrases like: a credit to his race.  He regarded women much as men of his age did. 

Old Joe is like my father.  He didn’t mean any harm.  He really didn’t.  And maybe his vulnerability in these areas would make him a great president for women and minorities by way of compensation.  Nevertheless, Democrats must ask themselves if they really want a candidate with some of the same character flaws as the sitting president. 

When it all comes down, like all the other old white men, I don’t believe that age, race or gender should disqualify anyone from the presidency.  Being an old white man, however, I do believe that age becomes a factor in the way we think, the way we act and the way we respond to criticism.  As much as we want him to do well, Joe aint gonna make it down this road unscathed and neither is Bernie.  It’s a long hard road and one that both Joe and Bernie have traveled before.  Take it from one who has traveled this nation by air, rail, highway and thumb, the road gets rougher and winds in ways we don’t even remember. 

I recall Ronald Reagan musing on the long and winding road to nowhere in his presidential debate with Walter Mondale.  In an actor’s vernacular, he “went up.”  His mind abandoned him mid-thought.  Yet we the people re-elected him.  Later, he would feign hard-of-hearing while wife Nancy whispered what to say in his ear.  Later still, he would admit guilt in the Iran-Contra affair with one of the strangest statements ever enunciated in the Oval Office before Trump:  “A few months ago I told the American people I did not trade arms for hostages.  My heart and my best intentions tell me that’s true but the facts and evidence tell me it’s not.”  Translation:  I lost control of my presidency.  We would learn that Reagan suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. 

Ronald Reagan was 73 years old when elected to a second term.  Joe Biden will be 77 in November.  Bernie Sanders will be 78 in September.  Elizabeth Warren is a relatively youthful 69 and will turn seventy in June.

Chris Matthews, the elder statesman of MSNBC, is 73 years of age.  Pundit and former Governor of Pennsylvania Ed Rendell is 75.  Respectfully, it is time for the old white guys to step down and make way for the young, the vibrant and the innovative. 

Matthews believes that the charge of socialism will skewer any Democrat who advocates universal Medicare.  He speaks for a generation past – a generation that depends on Medicare.  Rendell is sure that only Old Joe can take back the Rust Belt from Donald Trump but Biden has no more or better answers to the loss of industrial jobs than Hillary did.

Old white guys like Old Joe.  I’m with the young people.  I still like Bernie.  But if I’m being honest, having watched the CNN town hall forums, age marked Bernie in a way that it did not four years ago.  By comparison, Elizabeth Warren appeared youthful and vibrant.  It’s not that he lacked energy and passion but his answers seemed a little pat and he was not as quick to respond to criticisms as he once was. 

Age like death comes for us all and it leaves an indelible mark. 

I believe in my soul it is time for the old white guys to step aside.  It is time for someone younger and more in touch with technology to carry the torch.  It is time for a candidate who is not afraid of words like “socialism” and has the courage to stand up for policies that align with principle. 

I will not be supporting Bernie Sanders this time around – not because he is a socialist but because he is too old.  Frankly, Bernie is not a socialist.  He does not advocate abolishing free enterprise or private property.  He only wants to moderate capitalism a with healthy dose of social medicine, including universal healthcare, a decent safety net, a higher minimum wage and progressive taxation.  If only Bernie were younger I would not hesitate to support him as the mainstream progressive candidate. 

It goes without saying that I will not support Joe Biden.  He’s had his day.  Let others speak of his shortcomings.  He is too old to be president. 

I have not eliminated Elizabeth Warren though her age is certainly a concern.  Her policies are breaking new ground.  Her two percent tax on the super rich makes a lot of sense.  She is the enemy of the elite and is well positioned to expose Donald Trump as the spoiled elitist he really is.  Her proposal for rolling back student debt is bold.  Her stands on impeachment, breaking up the Tech giants and Medicare for All are direct and uncompromised.  She strongly supports the Green New Deal – the minimum we should expect from any candidate for president.  She also has the ghost of Pocahontas but nobody really cares. 

Of the younger women, Senator Amy Klobuchar stood out at the town hall meetings for her knowledge of the issues and her specific policy proposals.  I don’t buy her dodge on impeachment: she believes that senators must be neutral because they would serve as the jury.  I believe that presidential candidates must have the courage to say where they stand.  She advocates a public option on healthcare insurance, mental health parity, targeted loan forgiveness for student debt and supports the Green New Deal.  She wants Big Pharma to pay for the drug treatment needed to counter the epidemic of addiction they created.  There is a lot to like here but she needs the passion of Bernie. 

Senator Kamala Harris seems to have a pattern of coming on strong and then backing away from issues she perceives as controversial.  Too often she fell back on the phrase:  “Let’s have that conversation.”  Translation:  She’s not ready to commit. 

Senator Kirsten Gillibrand lost me when she was so quick to throw her colleague Senator Al Franken under the bus.  He was guilty of very bad taste – even for a comedian – but he did not deserve summary execution of his political career. 

Senator Cory Booker was somehow omitted from the town halls – perhaps replaced by Mayor Pete Buttigieg.  Booker has a problem in his ties to the pharmaceutical industry.  Mayor Pete is a brilliant man – too brilliant to believe he is actually running for president. 

There are of course a lot of other candidates and we’ve got a long way to go.  At this juncture, like most Americans, I am nowhere near committing.  The only decision I’ve made is:  It aint Old Joe and it aint Old Bernie.  Not this time. 

Jazz. 

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES AND NUMEROUS NOVELS, INCLUDING PAWNS TO PLAYERS: THE CHESS TRILOGY.  HIS COMMENTARIES HAVE APPEARED AT DISSIDENT VOICE AND COUNTERPUNCH. 

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY: PART 4.

 

Chain of Misfortune

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY

PART 4:  BILLY

By Jack Random

[According to the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the leading causes of homelessness are:  a lack of affordable housing, job loss, pervasive poverty, mental illness, substance abuse and inadequate services.  This is the fourth and final part of Homeless in a Land of Plenty.] 

BILLY

He wasn’t born an ass.  He had to work on it.  No, it was a family affair.  It takes a village.  He came from a long line of bullies, jerks and fuck-ups.  No one in the Barr family could hold a job for more than six months.  They had construction skills, fix-it and automotive skills but they were asses.  No one could stand to be around them for long and they couldn’t stand to take orders from anyone.  

Billy was working on a personal record at just over three months as a mechanic at the local cannery.  He made a couple of friends he drank a beer or two with after his shift.  He got along with his boss reasonably well.  The guy left him pretty much alone as long as he did his job and he did.  His drinking was under control.  He had a shot of whiskey with his coffee in the morning and that was it until after work.  For once in his sorry life things were looking up. 

His problem was he needed a woman.  There just weren’t many in his circle.  The women who came around the bars he went to weren’t the kind you developed a relationship with.  They were one-night only adventures.  Billy didn’t mind that but he really wanted something more. 

When he met Alice he thought she was special.  He liked her.  He wanted to spend time with her, talk with her, get to know her and go out like normal people.  She had a way about her.  She looked into his eyes like she knew who he was, like she was willing to know, like she was willing to try.  But before he left the bar one of his buddies pulled him aside.

“I know that skank,” he said. 

“Fuck you,” replied Billy.  He was in no mood for this shit.  His mind was set.  He was taking her home. 

“No, man, I know her.  I used to hang out at this place on the west side.  She was a regular.  She’s a skank, man.  She’s a fucking addict.” 

Billy stood there with his mouth open.  He could tell his buddy was as serious as a three-car pile-up.  This was no bullshit. 

“Okay, man.  Thanks for that.” 

Everything changed at that point.  He was surprised Alice even got in the car with him.  He felt like breaking her in two.  He was madder at himself than he was at her though.  How stupid could he be?  If he stopped to think, he could be pretty fucking stupid.  He knew that.  The problem was he allowed himself to get his hopes up.  He allowed himself to believe that a good woman could fall for him. 

“Stupid is as stupid walks,” his father used to say.  Billy had a hard time with that saying.  To him it was just stupid.  His father treated his mother like shit.  Why she stayed around he could never figure out.  Now he figured he was a lot like his father.  After years of working to prove he was somebody else, he saw himself walking in his father’s shoes.  He hated his father.  So now he hated himself. 

He didn’t mean for Alice to tumble over in the street.  It was the rage.  The same rage for which the males of his family were infamous.  It built up and exploded like a whistling teapot.  When it boiled over there was nothing anyone could do.  He stepped on the gas and watched her tumble and lose consciousness as she lay quivering in the street.  It felt like it was happening to someone else.  He felt bad but not bad enough to take responsibility and not bad enough to do anything.  He didn’t call 911.  He didn’t do a goddamned thing. 

The next day he skipped work and started drinking early.  He was pretty drunk when two cops came to his door in the early afternoon.  He hesitated to answer the door but his car was out front and he couldn’t think straight. 

“Are you William Barr?” 

“Yes, sir.”

His speech was slurred and his eyes bounced from side to side like a man with something to hide.  The cop speaking to him was a woman.  That surprised him.  The male cop stood behind her and tried to get a glimpse of the room. 

“Can we come in?” 

Again he hesitated.  If he had any options they didn’t come to him.  Did they know what he’d done?  Had someone seen what happened?  No way.  The cops didn’t care about some skank whore with a story. 

“Sure, officers.” 

When he turned around he realized the mess he’d created in the course of twenty-four hours.  There were pizza boxes and cookie packages and assorted trash everywhere you looked.  If they could arrest him for being a pig he laid the groundwork. 

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess.” 

“No problem,” said the woman.  “Sometimes we get distracted.  We forget to clean the house up.  It happens.” 

“Yeah.” 

He sat on the couch while the cops remained standing. 

“What’s up?” he asked them. 

“Where were you Wednesday evening between six and seven?” 

“Six and seven?” he repeated.  He hadn’t figured out a story.  It didn’t occur to him that he would have to account for his time. 

“That’s right, sir.” 

“Uhm, yeah, I was at O’Brien’s down on Seventh Street.” 

“Is that your story?” the woman cop asked. 

He didn’t know what to say.  He felt his face go flush.  He could never play poker.  People could read him like a cereal box. 

“What’s this about?” he finally sputtered. 

The male cop finally weighed in.  “It’s about a woman who ended up in the hospital because some jerk decided to floor it when she stepped out of the vehicle.  You like hurting women, Billy?  Is that what gets you off?” 

Cameras, Billy thought.  There must have been a camera.  How else would they know?  Still, he decided to play dumb.  “Admit nothing,” his father always said. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“We have it on video,” the woman cop said.  “That motel has a problem with drug dealers so they set up cameras.  They caught the whole thing.” 

He could feel the sweat emerging from his pores, welling on his forehead, revealing the truth of his guilt and shame. 

“It was an accident,” he said. 

“Sure it was, Billy.  Sure it was.  Look, we don’t want to drag your ass down to the station.  We don’t want to book you and throw you in jail.  It’s your lucky day.  We just want you to take responsibility.  We have an agreement drawn up.  You admit no wrong but you agree to pay the woman’s medical bills.  How does that sound?” 

So he was right.  The cops didn’t care.  But the hospital wanted someone to pay.  They had their insurance guy check it out.  Billy shook his head and signed the papers.  In the end he really had no choice.  He could hire a lawyer and go to trial and he’d probably end up doing the same damn thing. 

He skipped another day of work and another day after that.  When he finally showed up they told him he was fired.  They didn’t want his kind around.  Sure.  Who did?  He was pretending to be someone he wasn’t.  When the mask came off he was gone. 

Then the hospital bill came in.  Two thousand for the ambulance alone.  The total came to over five grand.  He was already in debt and behind on the rent.  He maxed his credit cards and destroyed his credit.  No one would give him the time no less a loan.  He was down and out.  He decided his best course of action was to sell everything he could for cash and take off.  He sold his appliances, his TV, his sound system and everything else dime to a dollar. 

Before he could get away clean the repo man got his car and the utility company turned off his power.  He spent what little cash he raised for three days at a cheap motel, a lot of booze and some drugs to ease his pain.  He was done.  They kicked him out.  He was out on the street without a pot to piss in.  He was homeless. 

A homeless brother took pity on him and told him to go down to the bridge.  At least he’d have a place to lay his weary head. 

The bridge people didn’t care who he was or what he’d done to get there.  Most if not all of them had their own ghosts.  After a few days he knew everyone at the camp.  He apologized to Alice, who shook her head and told him she had her own apologies to give.  She told him about Gary who told about Louise.  Louise apologized to everyone.  That’s the way she was.  They were all equal under the bridge and their lives turned over.  The past was buried and the future was a blur.  All that remained was the moment.  Survival was a full time gig.  

Copyright 2019 Ray Miller

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY: Part 3.

 

Chain of Misfortune

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY

PART 3:  ALICE

By Jack Random

[In September 2018 the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals held that it is unconstitutional to prohibit homeless individuals from sleeping in public parks or on the streets if there are inadequate shelters.  While subject to Supreme Court review, the ruling is a reminder that you cannot legislate the homeless out of existence.  Since that ruling, tent cities have sprung up in parks and open spaces, reminiscent of the Hoovervilles in the era of the Great Depression.]

ALICE

She’d been through it all before.  Eviction notices, drug deals gone bad, jail and bail, abandonment and betrayal.  She had a way of looking at things that was at once almost enlightened and supremely callous.  She believed that people were fundamentally good but they were governed by their immediate needs.  She didn’t hold grudges and she didn’t blame people for the things they did.  It wasn’t that she didn’t care.  She did but it didn’t matter.  She did what she had to do.  It was all a calculation.  What would give her the best chance of surviving until tomorrow? 

She missed Gary.  Now that they turned off the power she missed his warm body next to hers more than ever.  Now she needed someone else to help her make it through the days and nights.  She went looking where she always went: the local bars.  She knew better than to go to the same bar all the time.  Word got around.  The bartenders knew Alice.  They knew she was always on the make.  Always.  They knew she was always about the drugs.  They knew she was trouble.

She walked halfway across town to a bar she’d never been before.  She walked in, sat at the bar, batted her eyes and waited.  She was still young enough and healthy enough to attract the attention of the average bar going man. 

It was late afternoon and the bar was in the process of filling up.  It was a workingman’s bar – a few women but mostly men.  They were sweaty, grimy and looking for a way to leave the day’s labor behind them.  A few of them had their eyes on Alice and she had her eyes on them.  She looked them over and measured their worth.  They had jobs.  That was a major plus.  It meant they probably had cars or trucks or vans – some means of getting around.  They all fell short of good looking but all kinds of problems came with good looking.  None of them were flat-out ugly.  One of them had no wedding band.  That was a plus. 

She made her choice and gave him a look that he understood.  He exchanged a few words with the guys he came in with and strolled over to her place at the bar. 

“How you doing?” 

He was a little shy with women.  She liked that – as long as he wasn’t stupid about it. 

“I’ve had better days,” she opened. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” 

She motioned to the stool next to her and nodded. 

His name was Billy and she could tell it had been a while since he had a woman to warm his bed.  He was hungry and she liked that.  It enhanced the odds of getting what she needed.  She did not find him attractive but she liked the prospects of using him.  She could lead him.  She could persuade him to do her bidding. 

It took three drinks in a little over an hour.  She realized it was up to her.  He was shy or so it seemed. 

“Would you like to get out of here?” 

“Sure.” 

She climbed into his car and talked about nothing.  Because he didn’t say and he didn’t ask, she assumed they were going to his house or apartment or whatever his place of residence was.  He stopped for a six-pack of beer before he pulled up to a cheap motel by the freeway.  It was then she knew she had made a mistake. 

“What are we doing here?” 

“I’ve got money.  Don’t worry about it.” 

She was a long way from home – Gary’s home but it didn’t matter – and on the wrong side of town. 

“I thought you were a nice guy.  Can you just give me a ride home?” 

“Look, everyone knows what you are.  If you don’t want to put out, fine.  Get the fuck out of my car!” 

She took a breath and surveyed her options.  They were all bad.  She could get out and walk back to Gary’s house.  She could hitch a ride.  She could demand that Billy give her a ride.  She could play along and get the money.  She could be the whore he expected her to be. 

She had to wonder how she arrived in this place.  She had to wonder how she lost her family, her friends – everyone she cared about and everyone who ever really cared about her.  When did it happen and why?  She was a good girl for the longest time.  She had friends who shared her ambitions.  She wanted to be a cheerleader.  She thought she might be a secretary.  She could do that.  She could do whatever she wanted to do.  But that was before her Uncle Johnny abused her.  Abused her?  What kind of euphemism was that?  He took her into a closet, held his hand over her mouth and ripped her panties off.  He took her childhood.  He took her innocence.  He took her naiveté and with it all her hopes and dreams.  It robbed her of whatever confidence she might have developed. 

He did what he did over and over until she finally found the courage to tell her mother – a lot of good that did.  She said she didn’t believe her but Alice knew better.  She believed her but she didn’t want to believe her.  She was holding on to her life by the thinnest thread.  She couldn’t let go.  Not for a second.  She let her own daughter be consumed by the monsters in her life. 

Billy reached across her and opened the door. 

“Get the fuck out!” 

Her mind in a fog of rage, she grabbed his arm and shoved it away from her.  She stepped out of the car just as he gunned it.  Her head slammed into the pavement and she lost touch with the world around her until she found herself strapped to a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. 

She went in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of the waking world as she went.  In the ambulance a man asked her questions that she could not understand – scattered words without real meaning.  Someone poked a hole in her arm and ran a tube to a plastic bag filled with some mysterious liquid.  She blacked out long enough that she didn’t remember being taken from the ambulance. 

She came to in the emergency room.  She recognized the sterile, Clorox smell.  If she weren’t sick already it would have got her there.  She remembered the time her and a friend wrecked a car to gain admittance in a gamble that they would offer the drugs that kept them alive and ticking.  It worked once or twice but they caught on.  She was put on a list.  No hospital within twenty miles would give her any form of opiates.  The nurses and the doctors knew her here.  They knew she had no insurance and no means of paying the hospital even a fraction of what she owed yet they still asked the same questions. 

Who’s your next of kin?  Is there anyone we can call?  Do you have insurance?  Do you have a job?  Where’s your place of employment?  Where do you live?  Is there anyone who would come?  Is there anywhere you could go? 

It was like one of those movies where people keep asking the same questions no matter how many times you give the same answers.  No, she didn’t have a job.  No, she didn’t have insurance.  No, she didn’t have anywhere to go and no one gave a shit what happened to her. 

They gave her extra strength Tylenol and released her the moment she could walk.  They didn’t care what had happened.  The cops didn’t care.  The doctors and nurses didn’t care.  She was worthless.  She was less than worthless.  She was a burden to her community.  She was a drug addict and she was out on the streets. 

A cop gave her a ride to the nearest shelter but they were booked.   She knew they would be.  It seemed to her the shelters were always full and even if they weren’t, they were closed to druggies like her.  They had a list and she was on it.  She went to the only place she knew that wouldn’t turn her away:  the homeless community under the bridge.

Copyright 2019 Ray Miller / aka Jack Random

HOMELESSNESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY: Part 2.

 

Chain of Misfortune

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY

By Jack Random

[The Department of Housing and Urban Development estimates that there were about 554,000 homeless people in the United States.  Just over 50% were single males.  About 25% were single females.  About 23% were families with children.  Almost 40% were individuals under the age of eighteen.  From October 2009 to September 2010 an estimated 1.6 million experienced homelessness at some point in time.] 

GARY

He drank a bit too much.  It was in his genes.  His father drank too much.  Sometimes it seems that whole generation drank too much.  They drank themselves to sleep, got up in the morning and went to work.  They were functional alcoholics.  It was a way of navigating the journey of life.  In what was supposed to be the good old days the good old boys wanted nothing more than to escape the daily drudgery. 

Gary learned early that he couldn’t drink like his father did.  He drank on weekends, he drank to celebrate and he drank to commiserate.  The first time he drank Scotch it was a bonding experience.  The taste was so repulsive it almost came up before it went down and that made his father laugh.  It took years to develop a taste for it and years to leave the taste behind.  He had too many sessions at the porcelain throne, too many nights with dry heaves and too many mornings hung over. 

So here he was again. 

He went to the bar not long after she left.  Who knows?  Maybe he thought he’d see her there.  He didn’t.  He drank.  After a few at the bar he went to a liquor store and bought a bottle.  He drank to get drunk.  How long had been since he’d done that?  Two years?  Three?  The more he drank the less he remembered. 

Louise let him down.  It was her fault.  It was always someone’s fault.  Now he sounded more like Louise or his mother.  There was always someone to blame.  Someone called and wanted to know if he’d come up with bail money.  Not a chance.  So Louise managed to get arrested in one day.  He didn’t want to hear it.  He hung up and hung up again when she called from jail. 

He called in sick and went back to the bar the next day.  After a second scotch he met a woman – the kind of woman that hangs out at a bar during working hours.  He didn’t care.  He wanted a shoulder and she had two.  They bought another bottle and she went home with him.  Three days later he realized she had moved in.  He hadn’t bothered to call in to work.  When he did he lost his job. 

Fuck it, he thought.  It wasn’t much of a job anyway. 

Her name was Alice.  She had a lot of problems – even more than he did.  In a way it gave him comfort.  She needed him more than he needed her.  It took a while for him to understand that she needed him as a means to get what she really needed – America’s latest addictive rage:  Fentanyl.  It was a long and heart-breaking story.  He was sure of it even though she didn’t have time to tell it and he didn’t have the inclination to hear it.  Everybody has a story.  Every story ends in tragedy.  Fuck it.  It doesn’t matter. 

They lived as they lived in squalor and chaos until the bills started coming and he realized he was out of money.  He had lost track of time.  How many days had gone by?  How many weeks?  In a moment of clarity he saw what he had become and the misery piled on like a mountain of stone. 

When she offered, he accepted.  One pill couldn’t hurt.  Could it?  No.  It helped.  It helped a lot.  The pain floated away like smoke in the wind.  All his worries became distant shadows.  He had no worries.  Another pill and he had no pain.  Another and all the jagged pieces fit together like God’s divine plan. 

Want became need and every particle of his being changed.  At long last he found his religion, his sainthood and his martyrdom.  He became the one true child of God.  A sensation of elation, lifting his spirit off the earth and rising to the stars, overwhelmed him.  Euphoria, wonder, glory and devotion:  They were all at his command. 

Someone shook him and called to him from another world.  He did not wish to leave his place of comfort and elation but the caller persisted.  It was a woman and she was vaguely familiar.  She cried and sniffed and wiped away tears. 

“Wake up, baby!”

It was Alice and something was happening.  He had neglected the simple necessities of this life for so long that it shocked him when he returned.  Alice was his angel of truth, his deliverance and protector.  She opened the doors to this experience and she demanded to be heard.  She owned him. 

“Baby, wake up!” 

“What is it?” he mumbled through the fog and mists of a million dreams and landscapes of fantastic origin.  Why had she taken him from his utopia? 

“Thank God,” she gasped.  She held his head and stroked his hair, painting his face with kisses of genuine affection.  “I thought I lost you!” 

She had a needle in her hand.  It was Narcan – the antidote to an overdose.  He didn’t know she had a dose.  The stuff was expensive – too expensive when you needed every cent to pay for Fentanyl.  Maybe she cared about him after all.  Maybe she was the only one who cared. 

“Where’d you get the Narcan?” he mumbled. 

“At the clinic.  They know me down there.” 

“How long was I out?” 

“I don’t know.  I wasn’t here.” 

“Where were you?” 

“Out.  Who cares?  I came home and there you were.  I saved your life.” 

It was true.  He knew it was true but paranoia came with territory.  Could he trust her?  No.  He couldn’t trust anyone.  He almost died and still the only thing he could think about was securing his supply. 

If he were being honest he would have to admit he’d been in this place before.  The drug was different and he was older now but he had been in a very similar place.  If he were honest he would admit he had an addictive personality.  Addicts saw it in him in a flash.  Alice saw it.  He’d been addicted to cocaine, methamphetamine, crack and heroin.  He wrestled with all the old demons and emerged from an ocean of deep dark hell.  If he were being honest this was just one more relapse in the series that was his adult life.  But he was not being honest.  He was lying to himself and everyone else.  He lied to Louise but he always thought she knew.  He’d been clean for a couple years before he met her.  A few beers after dinner.  Straight and narrow.  But there was a reason he lost all contact with his family.  There was a reason all his friends were recent. 

“Baby, we’re almost out,” said Alice. 

She didn’t have to say what they were almost out of though they were almost out of everything – food, drink, cleaning products, toilet paper, toothpaste, deodorant and anything else you can think of.  The last time he looked there were a few beers in the refrigerator and nothing else. 

“Almost?” 

“Yeah, babe.” 

“How much more do we have?” 

She pulled out a baggie revealing five lonely pills.  The way they were going it wasn’t enough to last the night.  He knew Alice was probably holding out on him but not by a lot.  She probably had four or five more.  He’d deal with it when the time came. 

“Do we have any money?” 

He knew the answer but asked anyway.  Together they might have enough to get a meal at MacDonald’s but not enough for what they needed. 

“We could sell some things,” she suggested. 

“Like what?”

“The TV, stereo, silverware, whatever…” 

“I got to go back to work,” he said glumly.  “Shit, we won’t make much selling all this crap.” 

She knew he was right.  She knew a guy who fenced stolen goods from junkies and other lowlifes.  He wouldn’t give much for the everyday bullshit.  It was just an opening to get the dialogue going. 

“We could sell your truck.” 

He hesitated.  She could feel him tense up.  Selling his truck was a major turn.  It was only three years old and in good shape.  He could get five to seven grand beyond what he still owed.  But he needed that truck to get to work.  If he sold it he was admitting that he had no intention of getting another job and playing it straight.  If he sold the truck there was no turning back. 

“Forget it,” said Alice.  She had to stay ahead of him.  It had to seem like it was his idea.  She’d been through this before and she’d learned a few things.  She wanted to get all she could out of this.  It was not that she didn’t like him or that she thought he deserved it.  It was just business.  She was not getting any younger.  There’s a limit as to how long a girl can get away with this shit. 

“Have you got any other ideas?” he said.  He knew she did.  He knew the kind of woman she was.  If he didn’t know in the beginning, he knew by now.  She was all about the fix. 

“I know a guy,” she said.  “He could use your truck.” 

He climbed out of the sofa and found his way to the window.  It was already sundown.  He had completely lost any sense of time. 

“Call him.  See what he’s got.” 

The truth would not have surprised him.  She had already called him.  Alice was a woman who thought ahead.  So she went through the motions and came back with a gig.  That’s what they called it – like they were some kind of traveling band. 

“Yeah,” said Alice.  She handed him a slip of paper with an address scribbled on it.  “He says you should show up here at three A.M.  He’ll give you a thousand bucks to drive a shipment across town.  Two thousand if you drive it to Vegas.” 

“Two thousand?”

“Yeah.” 

“And that’s all I have to do?” 

“That’s it.” 

“You trust this guy?”

“I do.” 

He let it settle.  Of course there were some details missing.  It was too good.  But when it came down to it, what choice did he have? 

“What’s the merch?” he wondered. 

“Golf clubs.  Yeah.  It turns out people pay a thousand dollars for one golf club.  There’s a warehouse that just got a shipment.  JD knows where it is.  His guys crash the warehouse, load up the stuff and you drive off.  Pretty simple.” 

Unable to fully grasp how low and how fast he had fallen, he let it settle.  He was not only considering a job as a driver for a stolen goods operation, he knew he would accept it.  He had no choice.  That’s the thing about addiction.  Need trumps want every time.  You want to do the right the thing but you need that pill.  You have no choice.  Alice knew that better than he did. 

He showed up at the appointed time and place, high and ready for action.  JD met him in the parking lot of a closed department store and told him to wait in the corner outside the light of the street.  Gary could tell straightaway JD and his crew of two men were cranksters by the way their eyes darted back and forth. 

“Give me your phone,” said JD.  He plugged in his number.  “You call me if something happens.  Got it?” 

“Got it.” 

“If no one shows in thirty minutes, take off,” JD said. 

“Right,” replied Gary with a glance at his phone. 

He waited exactly twenty-four minutes before they pulled up and loaded his truck with four long cardboard boxes.  It looked like there was room for maybe fifty clubs – a haul worth fifty grand.  They covered the load with a plastic tarp and tied it down good while JD took care of business.  He handed Gary five crisp one hundred dollar bills and a slip of paper with an address in Vegas. 

“What’s this?” said Gary. 

“Gas money,” said JD.  “You want me to come with?” 

“No, I’m good.” 

“Alright.  You deliver the goods, pick up the cash and call me when you get back.  We’ll settle up then.” 

“Right.” 

He gave him a look meant to chill him to the bone.  It worked. 

“Don’t even think about fucking me over.  I know where you live,” he smiled, revealing the dental condition of a man long lost on meth. 

“Don’t worry.” 

He pulled out and headed for the freeway.  Three blocks later he thought he noticed someone following him.  Two blocks down he turned right and was greeted by the twirling red lights of two black-and-whites blocking his way.  He slowed to a stop as two cars pulled in behind him.  He was busted dead to rights. 

After two weeks in jail Alice sold his truck to make bail.  He was off the drugs but he had no money, no ride and no way to pay the rent.  He struck a deal with the D.A. to turn on JD and his buddies in exchange for time served.  So now he had to worry about JD’s revenge as soon as he managed to get out of jail.

In a matter of weeks everything turned to shit.  His landlord served the eviction notice.  Alice was determined to stay but Gary didn’t have the energy to fight back.  He had no more illusions about her caring for him any more than he cared for her.  Their relationship was all about the drugs.  He packed some belongings and walked down to the bridge where the homeless people had formed a makeshift camp. 

Copyright Jack Random 2019