BONDING WITH JUNKIES, CRACK HO'S AND THE HOMELESS


Prescribed medication at the age of 18 and still on it into the end of my 30's. Dosage so low it really doesn't do anything anymore, but the body is used to having it in the system so I must take it or risk serious side effects. Sure, I could go off it but that takes doctor supervision and about 3 months of cutting already small tablets into small pieces. A pain. So, over the years I delay going off a drug I no longer need. But, without insurance this little drug is so expensive I have to turn to assistance. Insurance coverage is still a few months away so it is off to the free clinic. Lucky to have access to such a service, but it takes an entire Saturday. Still, one can't beat the interesting interactions one encounters at a San Francisco city clinic in the Western Addition.

"Hey, baby! I haven't seen you tiny ass in here for months! How you doin' baby-child?"

"Sharonda! Good to see you!"

a hug is exchanged.

"I'm cool. Am in between insurance and had to get my dolls refilled. Same old same old. How are you?"

"Oh, you know. Still tryin' to get my shit togetha. Woke up this mornin' in some low down piece of shit hotel room and just look at my arm!"

She rolls up sleeves of her frilly top to reveal puss filled track marks. I swear -- there was a sort of sour smell. I fight the urge to recoil.

"Oh, sweetie! Are you cleaning your works? And, why are you still shooting into your arms?"

"Oh, Matty. I am sorry, but I can't be shooting under my tongue! That shit hurts like a son-of-a-bitch!"

"No! Sharonda! Shoot up behind your knee so your arms can heal!"

"Oh, baby these arms are scared for life and I'm usually too tired to do all that aerobics shit to shoot my stuff."

"Hey! You two! Let's stop talking about where to shoot up and talk about how to stop shooting up!"

(I guess I pissed off the front desk guy again)

"Oh, shut the fuck up! When am I gonna see the doctor! My arm is killin' me!"

I lean past Sharonda and ask "Joe" if he's even looked at her arm.

"'Joe,' it looks like she's really infected bad. Can't you guys get her in quicker?"

"Thank you!" Sharonda turns her head toward 'Joe' as if he owes her an apology.

'Joe' gets up and walks over to us. She holds out her arm for him to inspect.

"Oh, man. OK. We need to get you to the hospital. We told you that there is an infection going around. This looks like botulism. Are you having any odd symptoms?"

"Oh, 'Joe' I told you people that I came in 'cause this shit hurts, stinks and I am having trouble seeing. You are all blurry which is just as good 'cause you is one ugly muthafucka"

'Joe' rolls his eyes. "Hold on."

He walks away. It is just Sharonda, me and some crazy guy asleep in the chair under the TV.

"What in the fuck is bottlism?"

That's when I noticed the blue signs on all the walls warning H users about an infection that is spreading among users in SF. Heroin Botulism which, according to the blue signs, can be fatal if not treated.

"I think it just means you have an infection. But it can be serious so you need to do whatever they tell you do to. Ok? I mean, you really need to try to quit."

"I know. And, honey, you need to get a job with insurance so you don't have to bring yo pretty white ass in here anymore. Are do you like chillin' out with us freaks?"

"I love chillin' out with you Sharonda!"

She laughs. "Pay up then, suck!" -- she extends her hand. I laugh. She sighs and rubs her sleeve. I can't decide if it is bleeding, but something is leaking through the material of her sleeve. I couldn't help it. I am sure I sort of recoiled. Gross.

'Joe' and this cute young doctor walk out. The doctor can't be more than about 24 years old and she looks like she just stepped off the bus from Idaho. She is wearing latex gloves. She smiles at Sharonda as if smiling at a small puppy.

"Hi. Let's see that arm of yours!"

"Shit. Are we gonna have a party, bitch?"

I fight the urge to laugh. It really isn't at all funny, but what can one do? 'Joe' tells Sharonda to shut up.

One of the counselors comes out. They explain to Sharonda that he is going to drive her to the city hospital and that she needs to be treated as soon as possible.

"Shit. Ok"

She gathers up her stuff, motions for me to stand up and give her a hug. I do. "Take care of yourself. Ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be seein' you lata." ----- and, with that Sharonda and the bored looking counselor walk out into the sunshine.

'Joe' and the cute little doctor with whom I will be meeting in a few walk down the hall. I hear her ask 'Joe' if Sharonda is a woman or a transgender. In a hushed tone I hear him say that she is a tranny.

I sit and think about it. Why does it matter? And isn't she a woman for all practical purposes? I mean, to me she is a woman. To her she is a woman. Why does it matter? Will she be OK? And, if she is OK will she just continue on and get sick again?

I look around the room at all the blue, red, green, white and yellow "alert" and "warning" signs which are written in several languages. A kid walks in. He is handsome but smells badly. He can't read to fill out his forms so 'Joe' is helping him. I hear 'Joe' ask the kid where he is living. The kid gives the name of some shelter in the Mission District. I hear 'Joe' ask him how long he has been in SF. The kid doesn't know. He thinks maybe a two or five years. He volunteers that he came here from Nebraska to be in a band. When asked his education level the kid tells 'Joe' that he finished 9th grade. The "kid" is actually 29 years old. He sits next to me, but doesn't say anything.

A few minutes pass. I hear my name called and the cute doctor is ready to see me. As I follow her down the hall she tells me it is a relief to see someone who has it together and just needs some temporary assistance. I am sure that it most be a bit of a break for her. Our conversation is professional but also friendly. She is new to SF and to this job.

Ten minutes later I am back in the sunshine. Blondie is on the iPod and I'm headed to Walgreens to pick up my prescription. As I walk down the street that I would never dream of walking after sunset I think to myself, "How in the hell did I get here? Life is such a trip."