Down But Not Out

Last time we spoke I’d become homeless after my one remaining friend disowned me because of his perception of my lifestyle choice. He said I could sort myself out if I really wanted, and only had myself to blame. I think he secretly feared my persuasive charm and subtle marketing strategy of leaving stories lying around would eventually drag him into the sordid world of words. I pointed out he already dabbled by buying the News of the World every Sunday, but, with the religious fervour of a scandal fundamentalist, he said that was different. I sometimes wonder if he’s cold turkeying or whether he switched seamlessly to the Mail on Sunday.

When I first hit the streets I spent as much time as possible in the local library. I got a few funny looks from the librarians and borrowers but was mostly left alone to read in peace, until someone complained about the growing number of flies hanging around me.

A variety of air fresheners were employed to counter my insect magnetism. But the Molotov cocktail of different aromas proved too much for one regular. When she fainted I rushed over, pretending to help, but non-members aren’t allowed in the computer section. A jobsworth appeared waving a copy of the Health and Safety at Work Act and, before I could type ABC into Google, escorted me from the building.

I joined a bunch of fellow nomads who taught me how to rescue food from supermarket bins. After tagging along for a few days I ended up punching one of them in the face for trampling on a page from The Guardian while reaching for a pack of sandwiches. Asked to leave that group I took to wandering alone, like Cain from Kung fu, salvaging the occasional Glasgow Herald from recycling bins to keep me going.

But it was never enough, and I soon sunk to new depths.

I found a copy of Hello in a bin on the High Street. As I headed towards the River Leven to read it I jumped when I caught my reflection in a shop window. With lengthening grey beard and straggly hair, I’d aged about ten years in a few weeks. Straightening my posture and holding the rolled-up periodical across my chest, I posed like a graduate with a scroll and, for a moment, looked like Einstein instead of Catweazle.

“What’s the strange man doing, Mum?”

Awaking from my moment of delusional clarity, I unrolled the magazine and turned to assure the little girl passing with her mum that I wasn’t a threat. But the front pages flicked open to reveal a close-up of Jordan’s breasts. Mum tutted and dragged daughter away like I’d just exposed myself, which I hadn’t, not in the traditional sense.

Still, I read it from cover to cover in one sitting, and was sick immediately afterwards. I threw it in the river and sat for the rest of the night crying and praying, crying and praying. It was the first time I’d done either of the two for years. I hoped that was me finally hitting rock bottom.

Later, by pure chance, or by the will of The Lord, I stumbled upon a sign that gave me hope of a turning point. In the classifieds of a discarded local newspaper I discovered a new support group was starting in the town hall.

Addiction Anonymous Ltd. – we guarantee to help users conquer any affliction. Drugs, Alcohol, Gambling, Sex, Chocolate, Shopping, etc. You name it – we cure it. No cure – no fee. We are almost a registered charity. The only people who profit from our organisation are the members who go on to lead happy, fulfilling lives, and a couple of major shareholders. We primarily ask new members to write down problems in preparation for further discussion, conducted later in an open, non-judgemental environment.

As I re-read that last sentence a shot of adrenaline gave me an instant hit and sweat gathered in my palms. I’d tried previous groups but never felt comfortable listening to strangers compete on being more fucked up than the last person. This one sounded different. It sounded too good to be true. A chance to write. A chance to feed the monkey.

It had been weeks since I’d held a pen, or looked at a pristine sheet of white paper, all virginal and yet coquettishly expectant at the same time. The mere thought got my dopamine dancing and sperm swimming. Blank paper porn.

But like all highs, it didn’t last longer than an average sexual performance. Seconds later, niggling doubt and internal conflict arrived like the drug squad at a Floyd concert, punched me in the stomach and ruined my rush.

“If I tell the organisers my addiction is words they might not let me in. It would be like giving an alcoholic a wee dram to get him talking.”

“You need to tell them the truth. They’ll see through any ulterior motives. You’re a shite liar.”

“If they don’t let me in I can’t write. I need to write. It’s been weeks. Think of that fresh paper.”

“This is your chance to kick it. You should be going there to seek help to conquer this terrible curse.”

“Should I? What the fuck do you know?”

I brushed myself aside, knowing it would lead to a full scale argument later over my usual miscalculations of risk, reward and consequences. I’d always been the perfect example of someone who could start a fight in an empty house. The psychiatrist told me having so many characters in my head was probably why the self-harming started. I agreed with him at first, before threatening him with his fountain pen and storming off with his prescription pad down the front of my trousers.

When the police found me they were going let me off with a caution after I explained I only wanted the pad to write a new collection of poems. But not only did they take it off me, they also refused to tear me a couple of blank pages out their notebooks. Like a daftie I didn’t know when to stop. I thought a quick recital would impress them enough to show some compassion and share a page or two.

Here’s the police in their van
Acting like the fascists, man
Treating poets like common crooks
For writing poems in borrowed books

Unfortunately, I was wrong. They took out a mobile phone, enticed me up a lane with the subtle act of dragging me and, once they’d checked no one could see, kicked me in the balls and left me lying in a heap, gasping for air.
They retreated laughing their heads off, but still couldn’t resist having another pop, this time with my own weapon.

There’s the poet in the gutter
Think I hear him trying to mutter
If we see you in this town again
You’re going to get jailed

I tried to tell them their sense of humour came over well but their rhyming scheme was shite, but by the time I’d gathered enough breath to speak they were long gone. Probably away to play at cops with cameras and persecute some other poor artist.

I shouted anyway, even though it hurt. “This isn’t China, you know!”

My timing couldn’t have been worse. A door opened in the lane and an assortment of deliciousness quickly filled the air. Popping his head out from behind the door, an old Asian chef, complete with droopy moustache, looked straight at me, meat cleaver in hand.

I opened my mouth to apologise, hoping to explain the circumstances and context in an erudite manner. But before I could get a word out he started shouting at me in Somethinese. My brain didn’t understand any of it until he finished with ‘smelly bastard’ in a Glasgow accent. I nodded and bowed my head in as deferential a way as possible, putting my hands in the praying position, trying to exude humility instead of foul odours from every pore, and hoping to extract a morsel of pity, as well as some scraps of food, from the well-armed Zen master. He slammed the door shut leaving me alone in the dark nursing a pair of bruised balls, a rumbling belly and a guilty conscience for being a racist, even though I wasn’t one.

I turned up for my next appointment as if nothing had happened, but security escorted me from the building as soon as I arrived. My last chance of redemption through the powers that run the mental health recovery services had gone, which saddened me. The psychiatrist wasn’t actually curing the prescribed problem, but he was an alright chap who analysed all my scribbles and rambles, looking for themes and hidden meanings, offering suggestions for development. He’d spend a whole hour critiquing one short poem, often comparing my work with McGonagall’s. More of an editor than doctor, he delivered the best help I ever received, all free on the NHS.

I headed to the town hall thirty minutes before the scheduled start, planning to take stock of the situation and make my excuses if necessary. A gentle old lady wearing a huge crucifix welcomed me in with an over-friendly hug. I tried to apologise about the smell but she assured me we were all God’s children and there was no need to feel shame about my current plight. She pointed me in the direction of a kettle and told me to help myself to the biscuits, which I did.

The room filled up with another dozen or so addicts of one kind or another. I tried to guess who suffered from what but everyone looked all normal and respectable, making it difficult to imagine any of them climbing the walls.

The crucifix lady introduced herself as Sister Angela and shocked us all with her revelation of being only thirty eight years old and a crystal meth addict. She assured us that no one had to disclose their own affliction to the group on the first night. The first night was all about writing one’s problems down to achieve clarity and aid focussing on future goals.

I tried to keep calm and not appear too eager about the prospect of once more pulling a pen over a fresh sheet of pristine white paper, but my pulse raced and I fidgeted in my seat like a three year old needing a pee.

Sister Angela then produced what I considered to be a miracle. “For anyone who isn’t comfortable writing on paper we have access to a computer.”

“Halle-fuckin-lujah,” I said, far too loud and excitable. “Eh, sorry, Sister. I’ve…eh…I’ve got mild Tourette’s.”

“Excellent,” she said, remaining upbeat. “Do you know how to use a… a fucking computer?”

I nodded.

As she led me into the adjoining room I looked for and found signs of internet access. “Ya fucking dancer! Eh, sorry again, Sister.”

She placed an empathetic hand on my shoulder and pulled me out a chair. “Here you go, just do what you can. Don’t worry about a thing.”

I waved her off and opened up Word 2007 like a crackhead reaching for his pipe. This was beyond my wildest expectations. I typed and typed as fast as I could; words, sentences, paragraphs, pages. I started cutting, pasting, adding and polishing. A story took shape.

Every time I heard someone approaching I opened a separate document and typed a few misspelled words about being addicted to procrastination.

“We’re finishing up in five minutes,” said Sister Angela, popping her head round the door and noticing some poorly constructed sentences on my screen. “You’ve done very well tonight. You can carry on the introduction next week, if you like. There’s no rush.”

I smiled.

How wrong she was. It was the best fucking rush I’d had for weeks.