Camp Gladys

It's official; I'm running a homeless shelter.

First there was LJ. LJ got a pass because he was my boyfriend.

Then there were LJ's friends. They got a pass because LJ was my boyfriend.

Then there was Tim. Tim got a pass because I've known him for ten years and lived with him before, and because he'd always been responsible in the past.

Then there was Jaime. Jaime was just going to crash on our floor for a couple of nights, till the fuss he was having with his sister blew over. Well, whatever blew over or didn't, Jaime's still on the floor three days out of five, at a minimum. But Jaime gets a pass because he's Tim's friend, he's a nice guy, and he brings food, beer, weed, and/or cigarettes from time to time.

Then there was Nicolette. Nicki wasn't homeless, but she was Tim's girl and so SHE got a pass. It didn't hurt that she was really cool to hang around with, loves cats, and was more than happy to contribute to the food/beer/cigarette fund.

Then there was Squeaky.

Squeaky: lied about her age, ate our food, used my shampoo, drank our beer, stole my methadone and denied it up and down, and flirted with Jaime just to piss Tim off. Also, she was grossly annoying and annoyingly gross. (Dear Squeek: I do not need to hear the story of how that last guy you were staying with shaved your genitalia. This topic can be filed under "Not Relevant To My Interests". Sincerely, Gladys.) Once the methadone-thievery was discovered, I told Tim she was no longer welcome in my house. (Yeah, I said "my". I hate doing that, but in situations like this, I think I can be forgiven for pulling rank via the use of pointedly-accurate possessive pronouns.) Tim tried to stick up for her--first he obliquely implicated Jaime, then asked me if maybe I hadn't "miscounted" my doses. First of all, I don't recall ever miscounting, in all my years on methadone. Secondly, even if I HAD miscounted, I would have been off by 10 or 20 grams, max--NOT 240-plus. (I don't know exactly how many were missing--I had a small stockpile of extra 10-mg pieces, because I'd been trimming back my own doses--but there were at LEAST 24 pieces missing for sure.) THEN, after I told Tim there was no way on earth I'd "miscounted" by THAT much, he tried this gambit: "Well....I mean, I know I was drinking pretty bad those two days...I don't know, maybe I blacked out and took it then??" I explained to him that if he HAD taken 240 mg of methadone while in an alcohol-initiated blackout, he would probably STILL be cleaning puke-stains off every available surface, because the combination of THAT much alcohol on top of THAT much methadone, when he has NO tolerance at all, would result in a barf-fest worthy of the ancient Romans. He disagreed; he claims to have a stomach of iron, which rejects nothing. Whatever, I said, and went on believing it was Squeaky.

Then last night...Wait. I should back up.

Friday night Tim was out with Nicki, for her last night in town. She's had to go back to where she came from, at least until she can transfer her probation, but neither Tim nor I think she's going to do it. Tim's broken-hearted, and was even more so when Nicki ducked out early on him Friday night because she had to finish packing. He went to his favorite bar, to meet up with some friends and drown his sorrows. While he was there, he got a call from Squeaky.

Apparently, the psych eval she'd been dragged into was at the behest of another friend of hers. This friend is in AA, and doesn't like it when Squeaky drinks, or comes to her house drunk, and apparently she used the occasion of Squeek getting kicked out of her residential placement to conclude that she needed hospitalization. (This is the story I got from Squeaky, mind you; I'm fairly-certain there are many, MANY details either missing or fudged.) Squeaky claimed she didn't like the way the social-workers at the hospital spoke to her, and so she walked out and went to her ex-boyfriend's house.

Her ex sounds like a gem--but why does that surprise me? Anyway, the long and short of it is, they were drinking with some of his friends, and then they started inviting other guys in, and at some point, according to Squeaky, "They put me in bed with a bum. Now, I'm homeless, but I ain't no BUM." I don't know what-all happened, exactly, but apparently she called Tim at some point, and Tim heard things in the background that made him fear for Squeaky's safety (Tim's quote: "It sounds to me like if she stays there, she's gonna get raped.") and he told her to get out of there and meet him at the train. At that point, he called me to tell me that he wouldn't be home that night; he was going to meet Squeaky and the two of them were either going to ride the trains all night, or else look for somewhere to sleep by the lakefront.

Now, you can say what you want about me, but I try not to be an unreasonable person. Yes, circumstantial evidence pointed very sharply to the fact that she had stolen my methadone (more strongly, it turns out, than even I knew--we'll get there in a moment) but no matter WHAT somebody's done, if their safety is in question and there's anything I can do to alleviate that situation, I'm most likely gonna do it. (I can think of maybe three people in this world to whom that would not apply--JP's ex, the one who said she was glad he was dead; CR, my ex; and Bertha, the 400-lb Woman. That's it...and actually, the last two would depend on my mood.) Squeaky may have pissed me off severely, but I certainly didn't want to find out she'd been raped because I decided to hold a grudge.

So...yeah, wait for it....I told Tim that if she DID meet up with him, it was okay for him to bring her back to the house. They got back around 3 AM--Jaime was already asleep in the living room--and they were there Saturday afternoon when I finally came downstairs.

Tim, of course, had promised to keep her in his room, but I knew from the moment he said it that THAT wasn't going to work; containing this girl is very much like containing a small, very energetic Rottweiler puppy. She was bouncing through the house like a little ping-pong ball, coming into the living-room every ten seconds to talk to me as I tried to play Scrabble on the computer. She was pretty open about her situation--she told me "I really don't have anywhere else to stay...I haven't got any friends. The only people who'll talk to me are Tim...you...Jaime...There's this one girl, but she's in AA and she's the one who tried to get me put in the psych ward...they were gonna put me in the STATE ASYLUM!" she said, outraged.

I asked her what had happened that had led this girl to try to have her admitted in the first place. She said "She just doesn't wanna deal with me, so she wants to dump me off so somebody else will find me a place to stay."

"But why did they want to admit you in the first place?" I asked.

"Because I'm not on medication," she said. That was the most I could get out of her on THAT count; she was more interested in recounting her grievances against the social workers, security guards, and generally-every0ne-else during her evaluation.

"Why did you get kicked out of your old place, anyway?" I asked. And here was where things got REALLY informative.

"Well...I think it was the day after the last time I was here?" she said. "And I hadn't gotten more than 2 hours of sleep, because Tim was having those chest pains..." (Tim is prone to chest pains. Considering the way he abuses his body, I am not in the least surprised; if I had to guess, I'd say his liver was trying to make a break for it by any egress possible. I don't THINK he's going to have a heart-attack.) ..."Anyway, I left here and I went back to my place, and I just went straight to bed. And I slept from like, 6:00 that night til 8:30 the next morning. And when I got up, they were all like 'What have you been doing that makes you fall asleep for FOURTEEN HOURS???'" (Gee, I wonder. Anyone care to hazard a guess?) "And so they were telling me 'You're not following the program, and we've got people on a waiting-list who would be happy to get your spot, and...' So I was like, you know what? Since you're obviously gonna kick me out anyway, let me save you the paperwork and just leave. And so I did."

Needless to say: First, the sleep-for-fourteen-hours thing. She COULD have just been really tired, true. But to then choose to leave her only place of residence, knowing that if she DID try to stay one of the first things they would do would be a drug test...It just shakes out very, very suspiciously. Also during that conversation, I may have tripped her up further on her age. She originally told Tim she was 20; then he found out somehow that she was only 19. During this last conversation, though, she said something about having lived in residential treatment for five years..."ever since my parents put me out of the house when I was thirteen," she said. Math freaks, please join in: thirteen plus five equals x, and x does not equal 19. Jaime says he thinks she's about 16, judging from how she acts. I have no skill for telling people's ages, but I'm really starting to wonder about this one.

"So what's your plan?" I asked her.
"Well, I mean, I've got a job...or, I think I still have it, anyway..." she said. I didn't even pursue that.

"So what's your plan?" I asked Tim. "About Squeaky, I mean."
"I'm gonna figure out something for her," he said.

What a plan. "Gonna figure out something." I'd be interested to hear how THAT worked out, if in fact there was anything at all to WORK out. Somehow I have a feeling he's counting on me to solve everything...AGAIN...

...which is not gonna happen.

When Tim's in a not-so-hideous mood, we're going to have a conversation, to the effect of: You've lived here for nine months. You don't pay rent. You don't buy food, or beer, or even your own cigarettes. That alone is acceptable to me, if just barely so, because you contribute in other ways--cleaning, mostly, and keeping an eye on things. As long as I have a home, you have one too. But your crew--unless they start putting cash in my hand or food in my fridge--get a 2-day limit. Period. Jaime and Nicki have at least shown a willingness to contribute to the greater good--even if it's just beer and smokes--but this girl is not even able to care for herself. And while that's sad, it's also not my responsibility, and I'm not going to take her on.

I don't want to be cruel, or to put anyone in an untenable situation...but I mean, damn. I'm just BARELY starting to be able to put my OWN pieces back together; I can't be saving any more strays. (...well, other than the sweet little black kitten in the backyard, who rubbed up against my ankles while I was outside talking to Debbi on the phone...must resist kitty-saving urges!)