Wishing on a Blue Star (18 page)

The following is NOT a beg for money!

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Well, it’s official. I only write in this damned blog when I’m fucked, or feel like shit, ‘cuz right now I’m both, and here I am!

(That’s me, spreadin’ the love.)

If the preceding isn’t enough of a DISCLAIMER, here goes:

The following post is very likely to contain expressions of anger and disappointment, couched in epithets not suitable for delicate ears (eyes). If that ain’t your cup of tea, move on freely. :)

It will also divulge information of a personal nature that might make some people, people who willingly read this damned thing, rather uncomfortable.

Caution delivered: Proceed at risk.

The concept of an axle, a thing around which something turns, came into vogue about the time the wheel was invented. As we progressed from stone to wood, and later to spokes, we as a race of thinking beings have ever been a slave to the axle. Not the wheel, as some would contend, but the axle, the pivot point, the nexus. Without it, a wheel is nothing more than a toy or a paperweight.

Curiously, an axle need not necessarily be a concrete thing. There are axles everywhere. Call them the point where things resolve, and in whatever way you choose, but whether they are made of steel, or something far more esoteric, we’re still slaves.

I offer you a series of events, all turning around a central them. My axle, if you will. Feel free to argue or debate, but I reserve the right not to participate, should it come to that.

Like everything else, it’s simply a matter of perspective, and mine has ever been skewed. :)

Long ago, at the start of a career that would eventually span half of my adult life, I stood on a street corner. Mostly at night, and always with guys I counted loosely as friends (inasmuch as these lads were capable of friendship, at least.)

These guys were junkies and hustlers, most often in that order, and while I’d love to be able to say something like “They had a quiet bravery regarding their situation, meeting adversity with dignity, and the resolve to carry on.” it’d be so much bull shit. The bald truth is that most of these guys were feeding a habit and nothing else.

The difference between me and them is that they shot their habit into their arms, and I was my own habit. Pesky habit, eating. I can’t seem to break myself of it.

I cant say I would have starved entirely back then. There are always alternatives, whether it be hustling, or scrounging off friends, or dumpster diving. Of those, pride pretty much precluded scrounging off friends, and lets face it; everything is a choice, even if it’s the choice to do nothing at all. And having a little fun never hurt. Since I wasn’t feeding a monkey, I could pick and choose, to a degree.

I wasnt much good at hustling though. The boys said I was too old, which was sort of sad. Too old when you wouldn’t hit thirty for a good while isnt what you’d call a lengthy career. So I mostly learned the alternatives.

“Spanging” is the term for shaking a cup and asking for change. I couldnt quite manage that, either. Not desperate enough to forgo that damnable pride, yet.

“Groundage” is the term for when a generous soul would buy something like fast food to go, then throw it away untouched, knowing someone had an eagle eye on the trash cans at McDonalds. You’d be surprised how often that happens. For the donor, it’s a way to feel good without actually having to get your hands dirty. For the recipient, you get to feed at least one habit. (Pun intended) And of course there is always dumpster diving. :)

The stint didnt last long, fortunately, and the boys and I parted company. They to whatever waits for junkies, and me to another job, hopefully.

The point is, that time existed, and I got on by learning from them. You do what you need to do to survive, whatever you are surviving on. (and to the reviewer who panned Night Moves as preposterous, you are an idiot.) There, I said it. :)

Anyway, moving on. We’ll come back to all that later.

Now we jump ahead to another point in life, when the situation is the same, but the circumstances have changed. Another spoke on the wheel if you will, spinning around that axle called
money
.

For some bizarre reason I dont fully grasp, no one wants to hire a dead guy. (Bigotry is so pervasive...) :)

Okay, so maybe that’s more of a problem than I thought, because the hospital had a plan.

“Here, fill these out. They are application forms for Social Security Disability.”

“Whaa?” (I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed that day.)

“Disability. Income for while you’re doing chemo because you probably wont be able to work.”

“Why not?” I ask. Like I said, not the sharpest tool, me.

“She gives me a look that says, “Buddy, you are so clueless.” but she’s patient and reminds me that chemo, *my chemo*, is pretty rough.

“Okay.” (Stage one of the claims process.)

I remember Social Security. That mysterious government agency to whom I’ve paid a portion of every paycheck I’ve ever received for the last thirty years. Yeah! That’s what it was supposed to be for, right? Emergencies like this? Cool. I’m all over it because nothing will depress me faster than not keeping up on my bills. Seriously depressed.

Ah well, the axle turns, doesn’t it. I lucked out with the guy who conducted the phone interview. (Stage two of the claim process) He was considerate, easy going, and knowledgeable. He explained the process, and the pitfalls, and like a dope, I thought I understood.

“Lots of people making claims, you know, so the process isn’t as fast as we’d like.”

“Okay, I get that.” I say.

“And there is a five month waiting period before we can issue a check.”

“Er, what?” I ask. “What are they waiting for, to see if I’ll die?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

I deeply appreciate candor, prefer it in all instances, but that surprised me. I was thinking it was more along the lines of Unemployment holding back a week for themselves to cover operating costs.

Turns out its both.

Until now, I’ve pretty much ignored the agency entirely. After all, I had all the time in the world to learn about it, right? *snort*

They do pay out, eventually (if your claim is approved), and there are a lot of people who flat need the service, but as is apparently well known, there is more going out than coming in. Duh. Tool in the shed, remember?

I’ll forgo the politics, thank you. It simply wont change in my lifetime, harsh as that sounds.

I will say that any delays beyond the foot dragging crap
they
do is totally unnecessary. And their rules! Holy shit on a shingle. What they constitute a valid claim would make my hair stand on end, if I had any left. But I’m jumping ahead. Back to delays....

Seems a lovely young lady working on my claim has been stonewalled. How, you ask? By NOT getting medical records from a certain doctor’s office.

So stage three of the process of filing a claim comes to a head. Waiting.

You will perhaps recall that I jumped the gun previously regarding a certain medical assistant, so I’m *trying* not to do that again, but when I was told by the claims worker that she sent several emails and left several voicemails and still hadn’t heard anything back, I sort of went ballistic. After all, I know how hard it was for ME to get records, and I’m standing in the same damn building!

Tomorrow, I have a chemo session. My sixth. That there will be two more after that doesnt bode well for my success. Maybe. But discussing that hast to take a back seat to my plan of spending my allotted forty minutes getting those records sent out. Fuck the “how are you feeling” shit. Which rolls to the next point...

On one hand, if I’m medically screwed, it means the cancer wins and Disability will say yes. Pay the dead guy! Yay! It’ll be short term, and we’ll get to keep most of what was in his coffer.

On the other hand, if the cancer is being handled, I’m denied. Dont pay the guy. Never mind he’ll have been eight months in the hole by the time we have a definitive answer. Most of that Soc.Sec. has already spent waiting to see if I’ll live. We keep what’s in the coffer!

On another hand, if I have to do a bone marrow transplant, that’s an automatic acceptance of a claim, and once again, pay the dead guy, for a while at least. There’s a six month recovery period for that shit, assuming it’s successful, and I am so NOT looking forward to six more months of hell. Oh yeah. Keep most of whats n the coffers. (It’s a recurring theme.)

The problem with all of these hands is that none of them will come in time to cover what I have extant, and the choice literally becomes “Get the transplant and pay bills, or declare bankruptcy.” (And that’s not even a choice I can make for myself. Someone OTHER than John does that, and I dont trust anyone but John.

Honor and responsibility are at something of an impasse here because tomorrow, John will ask me how I’m feeling. I wont be able to say one way or another because of the possible affect on that damned claim. And I’ve run out of hands. Mutter.

The whole process is so convoluted and geared toward the system rather than the individual that it’s no wonder at all the only ones who profit are the members of the administration, and the low life scum who cheat the system itself. (Probably one and the same. Administrators get paid regularly, right? Too bad they dont get paid exactly what the approved claimants do.)

I really wish I was one of those low life scum. I wish I knew HOW to cheat the system, just so I can pay my damned bills. It’s not like I drive a Cadillac or have the latest in Home Stereo Theatre, etc. Never mind. More politics I don’t want to get into.

Since I’m not a low life scum (usually) and choice always exists, there is another option for a guy who falls asleep at the drop of a hat.

I write.

Surely not fast enough, and definitely not prolific enough, but it’s something I can do and I do get a few bucks, eventually.

There are detractors of my genre who say that writing Romance is little more than hooking on a street corner. (You knew we’d get back to that sooner or later.)

I dont care. I like the work, LOVE the people I’ve met, and like those days twenty years ago, it’s an option. I’ll never get rich at it, probably wont even break even, truth to tell, but it’s a choice I make hoping to keep a little dignity by keeping busy (the keyboard doesnt give a shit if I doze off) and again, like those far off days, its fun.

So I’ll hop on anther spoke, or maybe another axle entirely and keep writing; keep hustling on the street corner. I’ve done it before, right?

I might even get lucky and one of the married bastards who makes up the rules for Soc.Sec. will drive by slowly and check me out. Shadows are handy things. They hide all manner of secrets. Including whether my grin is interested or predatory. Just dont let me anywhere near your balls mister, ‘cuz I’ll crush ‘em.

And besides, a little sex on the side never hurt anyone. :)

Patric (who is much calmer now)

With This Flower

Karenna Colcroft

If the road didn’t go on forever, it came pretty darn close.

By Zack’s lack-of-watch reckoning, at least fifteen minutes had passed since he’d turned off the blacktop side road onto this dirt track that was barely wide enough for his van. He’d seen no houses or any other signs that anyone lived up here, but the notes on the clipboard beside him insisted that he was supposed to install a satellite system in a house at the end of this road.

If the road ever ended. Which it didn’t seem to.

He had to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. He remembered the directions saying something about turning left at a blue mailbox, which he’d done, but it might have been the wrong blue mailbox. There had to be more than one. Otherwise, he was apparently driving down a dirt road that led to the next county, if not the next state. And he couldn’t even pull over to check the directions again, because there was no “over.” If he stopped the van, he’d block the entire road.

He silently cursed his coworker, Pete, who should have been riding shotgun and helping with navigation. Pete had called in “sick,” which, from what Zack had learned about the man over the past few months, meant he’d been out partying the night before. Since Pete had waited until five minutes before Zack had to leave to make the call, there hadn’t been anyone else available to go with him on this job. He’d done installations alone before, but they were a bitch to do without a second set of hands to help with the equipment, and without someone reading the map for him, he’d clearly gotten himself lost.

No one lives this far out in the middle of nowhere. I should call the office and find out where I’m supposed to be.

He fumbled his cell phone out of its holster on his belt, only to find he had no reception. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After driving this long down a road on which all he could see were relentless lines of trees on either side, branches meeting above him barely allowing any sunlight through, he’d begun to wonder whether he was still on earth.

Sure. I’ve gone through some fantasy portal into some magical land of trees and shadows.