Hi gang,
I know it's been awhile since I've posted here and I just wanted to pop in and say hi and let you know what's up with me.
I started working a graveyard shift at Allsup's, a C-store chain that's huge in New Mexico and west Texas. Seriously Allsup's is every bit as prevalent here in NM as Circle K or 7-11 is anywhere else, in fact Allsup's bought out several corporate owned 7-11s in NM and Texas several years ago.
Anyway it's been mostly work & sleep since then, we've been adjusting my meds, etc., etc.
My wife and I have been bickering a little more since I started back working.
I guess she worries about me, but I think it's more, on some deeper level, that she enjoyed being able to say she was carrying the whole load & supporting her sick husband.
Not that she's not bearing most of the load, I make a third what she does, maybe just short of 1/2.
The job itself?
It's OK, nothing special, it's boring & repetitive, which seems to work for me.
After less than 2 months I'm full time graveyard shift manager, not by merit, but because every one else on the shift has been fired or quit (depending on who you ask).
I started as a part-time grunt worker whose main purpose was covering off days, truthfully that's all I was looking for, I was trying to avoid responsibility and thus minimize stress.
Now I'm # 3 in seniority in the store (including management).
I'm still working on my book, progress is slow but with the advice given by 'The Beautiful Percy', I think it's going pretty well.
In short, I'm grinding it out.
Just like everybody else, kinda nice actually.
My boss, aside from a few needed concessions, treats me the same as everyone else.
The customers and my co-workers treat me pretty much as equals.
The best part of my job is that it's not Wal*Mart.
We'll talk again,
The Greeter
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Did I kill Big Jim?
I've been battling myself these last several days, which I consider better than the suffocating depression that lifted some after the Dr. increased my Tegretol dose by 50%.
Some of the color has come back into the world for me, but it's a double edged sword, it comes at a price. I still feel worthless, I still have suicidal thoughts, and am still vulnerable to attack, but (for now) I am able to defend myself, it's worthwhile when I catch myself enjoying things again.
But like they say nothing good comes without a price, self doubt was planted in me the other night after I posted a story about an accident I had in 2001.
Here's a link to the thread where the story appears;
http://fuckedforum.com/bbs/show_last_reply/29094#msg_308400
It's the 1st post in the thread.
I was ultimately found not responsible for either death by the authorities, I still hold myself responsible. A response in that thread started me thinking about culpability (shared responsibility for an event), it made me think about Big Jim and how he died, it made me wonder if I share responsiblity for his death, or if I alone am responsible ( I briefly reference Big Jim's murder in "The Good Ol' Days" entry in this blog).
Here's the whole story of Big Jim's murder, you decide for yourself and let me know what you think by commenting on this blog entry.
Big Jim was a driver for a rival company, both of his sons worked for me (yes they were twins, Not so Big Jim jr. & Medium Nate) and the plan was for him to come work for me as soon as I had an opening.
Big Jim and the twins were fixtures at the 'Country Boy's Social Hour' as most of us called it.
Big Jim was a legend, after 21 years as a cop, he was shot in the line of duty serving a warrant on a drug dealer and forced to take a medical retirement. When he died he'd been a cabbie for 14 years, he was 57 years old when he was killed.
His twin sons, Not so Big Jim Jr. and Medium Nate didn't fall far from the tree, both had been Phoenix police officers, following in there dad's footsteps. Both were forced to take medical pensions only 4 months apart. Nate was hit by a Fed Ex van during a foot pursuit and Jim's cruiser was hit by a drunk driver. Both followed dad into cab driving to supplement their medical pensions.
Nate came to me first, bringing Jim in a few months later. Big Jim liked the way I did things and was going to defect from Discount Cab as soon as I brought up another car.
One misty night in Febuary 2000, we were stacked 5 deep at the 1st & Monroe cab stand, waiting for the foot traffic from the Suns game. I was 1st up on the queue(sp?) with Big Jim second and the twins behind us along with a mexican cab.
The four of us were 'logged off' at the stand, standing outside smoking and joking, when 2 guys approached from the direction of the arena.
My cell rang just as they arrived, one of my stripper personals, I shined 'em on to Big Jim so I could run my personal call. I promised him a good call later as we got in our cabs.
The next time I saw him he was dead.
Nate called me a half hour later, Big Jim was missing in the area of 40th street and Thomas road.
My heart jumped into my throat, I'd just dropped my fare at 32nd street & Washington so i wheeled the cab around and hauled ass 4 miles northeast to the search area.
I knew what I'd find, dozens of cabs, from every company in town, crawling all over the area like ants on a chocalate bar, so thick that they were almost hitting each other, but not a single cop.
Jim was found by a Yellow cab 30 minutes later, his cab butted up against a light pole, he was slumped over the wheel, shot at least three times in the back and head, the meter still running, the car still running and in gear. I knew the guys I passed him at the stand were the killers.
The cops arrived to find cabs lining both sides of the street in every direction as far as the eye could see, and Jim's sons standing with me in the circle of light.
The rage in the air that night, I've never witnessed anything like it.
The police never found a suspect, we doubted that there was a whole lot of effort made.
A cabbie just isn't important enough to make any real effort, not since the Jason Schecterlie incident.
The boys claim that they didn't blame me, I believed them , but I blame myself.
Nate and Jim both quit soon after, opting to work for their uncle installing security systems, Nate was killed by a drunk driver in 2004, Not so Big Jim was paralyzed after being shot in the back during a home invasion robbery in 2007.
Did I kill Big Jim?
We'll talk again,
-The Greeter
Some of the color has come back into the world for me, but it's a double edged sword, it comes at a price. I still feel worthless, I still have suicidal thoughts, and am still vulnerable to attack, but (for now) I am able to defend myself, it's worthwhile when I catch myself enjoying things again.
But like they say nothing good comes without a price, self doubt was planted in me the other night after I posted a story about an accident I had in 2001.
Here's a link to the thread where the story appears;
http://fuckedforum.com/bbs/show_last_reply/29094#msg_308400
It's the 1st post in the thread.
I was ultimately found not responsible for either death by the authorities, I still hold myself responsible. A response in that thread started me thinking about culpability (shared responsibility for an event), it made me think about Big Jim and how he died, it made me wonder if I share responsiblity for his death, or if I alone am responsible ( I briefly reference Big Jim's murder in "The Good Ol' Days" entry in this blog).
Here's the whole story of Big Jim's murder, you decide for yourself and let me know what you think by commenting on this blog entry.
Big Jim was a driver for a rival company, both of his sons worked for me (yes they were twins, Not so Big Jim jr. & Medium Nate) and the plan was for him to come work for me as soon as I had an opening.
Big Jim and the twins were fixtures at the 'Country Boy's Social Hour' as most of us called it.
Big Jim was a legend, after 21 years as a cop, he was shot in the line of duty serving a warrant on a drug dealer and forced to take a medical retirement. When he died he'd been a cabbie for 14 years, he was 57 years old when he was killed.
His twin sons, Not so Big Jim Jr. and Medium Nate didn't fall far from the tree, both had been Phoenix police officers, following in there dad's footsteps. Both were forced to take medical pensions only 4 months apart. Nate was hit by a Fed Ex van during a foot pursuit and Jim's cruiser was hit by a drunk driver. Both followed dad into cab driving to supplement their medical pensions.
Nate came to me first, bringing Jim in a few months later. Big Jim liked the way I did things and was going to defect from Discount Cab as soon as I brought up another car.
One misty night in Febuary 2000, we were stacked 5 deep at the 1st & Monroe cab stand, waiting for the foot traffic from the Suns game. I was 1st up on the queue(sp?) with Big Jim second and the twins behind us along with a mexican cab.
The four of us were 'logged off' at the stand, standing outside smoking and joking, when 2 guys approached from the direction of the arena.
My cell rang just as they arrived, one of my stripper personals, I shined 'em on to Big Jim so I could run my personal call. I promised him a good call later as we got in our cabs.
The next time I saw him he was dead.
Nate called me a half hour later, Big Jim was missing in the area of 40th street and Thomas road.
My heart jumped into my throat, I'd just dropped my fare at 32nd street & Washington so i wheeled the cab around and hauled ass 4 miles northeast to the search area.
I knew what I'd find, dozens of cabs, from every company in town, crawling all over the area like ants on a chocalate bar, so thick that they were almost hitting each other, but not a single cop.
Jim was found by a Yellow cab 30 minutes later, his cab butted up against a light pole, he was slumped over the wheel, shot at least three times in the back and head, the meter still running, the car still running and in gear. I knew the guys I passed him at the stand were the killers.
The cops arrived to find cabs lining both sides of the street in every direction as far as the eye could see, and Jim's sons standing with me in the circle of light.
The rage in the air that night, I've never witnessed anything like it.
The police never found a suspect, we doubted that there was a whole lot of effort made.
A cabbie just isn't important enough to make any real effort, not since the Jason Schecterlie incident.
The boys claim that they didn't blame me, I believed them , but I blame myself.
Nate and Jim both quit soon after, opting to work for their uncle installing security systems, Nate was killed by a drunk driver in 2004, Not so Big Jim was paralyzed after being shot in the back during a home invasion robbery in 2007.
Did I kill Big Jim?
We'll talk again,
-The Greeter
Thursday, April 3, 2008
DENIED!
Well life sucks, that's not exactly any kind of earth shattering new information, more like,
"This just in; Sun sets in the west!"
Last Friday life got, well suckier, Disability denied my claim. This was my appeal after being denied once already.
So now I'm looking for work, I hear that Wal*Mart's hiring :o), hey, I've already got the clothes :o(
I have no doubt that blood would be spilled if I went back. Best case scenario, just mine, but there's a real possibility that I'd take someone (someones) with me.
Probably not a great idea.
I live in a small town, having fled Phoenix, barely escaping with my life. Another year there would definitely have killed me.
If I'd stayed in Phoenix there would be more jobs, but also perhaps 100 times more competition for them, here there are fewer jobs, and I'm not qualified for most of them, my physical disabilities preclude me from the rest.
I'm fucked either way.
I still think I made the right decision leaving the big city for the small town, if I have to be sitting somewhere fucked, I'm better off being here, where I can relax, in Phoenix my fear of crowded places made even grocery shopping an extremely unpleasent experience.
Mrs. Greeter is working 60 + hours a week to almost support us while I sit around on my ass crying. It's been almost a month since I listed anything on ebay, I'm running out of things to sell and truthfully, I'm sick of people getting my prized possessions for almost nothing then bitching that the postage is too high. I need to put some stuff up soon though.
My work on my book is stalled because I just can't seem to get excited about anything.
I hope I can pull out of my funk pretty soon.
The meds numb this and dull that, but I still have the bad thoughts, I think about death a lot. Only Mrs. Greeter and my desire to live long enough to keep my brother from getting my share of our small inheritence keep me interested in breathing.
I'm not real excited about the money (I don't know how much it'll be or when it'll come), I just don't want him to get it. For whatever reason my mother stated if either of us died before the inheritence is paid the surviving sibling gets the other's share. She made no provision for our spouses. I know he would leave my wife hanging, if he were to pass(God forbid), I'd see that his wife got his share, that seems only fair to me.
I'm gonna go for now, I just thought I'd update the blog.
Hopefully the next update will be a little more entertaining.
Until next time,
-The Greeter
"This just in; Sun sets in the west!"
Last Friday life got, well suckier, Disability denied my claim. This was my appeal after being denied once already.
So now I'm looking for work, I hear that Wal*Mart's hiring :o), hey, I've already got the clothes :o(
I have no doubt that blood would be spilled if I went back. Best case scenario, just mine, but there's a real possibility that I'd take someone (someones) with me.
Probably not a great idea.
I live in a small town, having fled Phoenix, barely escaping with my life. Another year there would definitely have killed me.
If I'd stayed in Phoenix there would be more jobs, but also perhaps 100 times more competition for them, here there are fewer jobs, and I'm not qualified for most of them, my physical disabilities preclude me from the rest.
I'm fucked either way.
I still think I made the right decision leaving the big city for the small town, if I have to be sitting somewhere fucked, I'm better off being here, where I can relax, in Phoenix my fear of crowded places made even grocery shopping an extremely unpleasent experience.
Mrs. Greeter is working 60 + hours a week to almost support us while I sit around on my ass crying. It's been almost a month since I listed anything on ebay, I'm running out of things to sell and truthfully, I'm sick of people getting my prized possessions for almost nothing then bitching that the postage is too high. I need to put some stuff up soon though.
My work on my book is stalled because I just can't seem to get excited about anything.
I hope I can pull out of my funk pretty soon.
The meds numb this and dull that, but I still have the bad thoughts, I think about death a lot. Only Mrs. Greeter and my desire to live long enough to keep my brother from getting my share of our small inheritence keep me interested in breathing.
I'm not real excited about the money (I don't know how much it'll be or when it'll come), I just don't want him to get it. For whatever reason my mother stated if either of us died before the inheritence is paid the surviving sibling gets the other's share. She made no provision for our spouses. I know he would leave my wife hanging, if he were to pass(God forbid), I'd see that his wife got his share, that seems only fair to me.
I'm gonna go for now, I just thought I'd update the blog.
Hopefully the next update will be a little more entertaining.
Until next time,
-The Greeter
Thursday, March 20, 2008
WHY?
I have previously mentioned that I am a rapid cycling Bipolar w/ Intermittent Explosive Disorder and Schizo-affective tendacies.
I am currently taking Tegretol twice daily, and Seroquel 1 hour before bedtime.
Tegretol is prescribed mainly as an anti seizure medication, but is also prescribed as a mood stabilizer, which is why I take it.
Seroquel is an anti psychotic drug. It is widely presribed to the mentally ill (as I understand it) as a sedative. It flat knocks me out, that's no shit.
I take Seroquel for 2 reasons;
1) I have a great deal of trouble sleeping. What sleep I did get was thin and restless. I've been plagued by nightmares for many years that disrupted my sleep, I also sleepwalk, and due to having worked nights for most of my adult life I 've had trouble going to bed before 4am.
Taking this medication between 11pm and Midnight, has minimized, but not eliminated these problems. I still occasionally sleepwalk and they nightmares have become less frequent (but not by much), they don't wake me as often as they did.
2) The medication adresses a problem I didn't know I had, audio and visual hallucinations!
For as long as I can remeber, I have seen and heard things that I couldn't explain. Nothing serious you understand, I was seeing shapes and shadows, the occasional flashing geometric patterms, mostly in my peripheral vision.
The things I heard were equally harmless, laughter, muffled conversation, voices calling my name or saying HEY! as I was falling asleep, music that sounded like it was coming from another room, T.V. static, shit like that.
I associated the things I saw to my eye problems, I've had 15 eye surgeries, mostly related to retina damage, so I see "floaters" which I understand to be minute bits of debris moving around in my eyes, what I've seen was for the most part, easy to mistake for "floaters". For me at least.
The stuff I heard I never even questioned, I just thought that was part of my thought process.
As a kid I would have times when my mind raced, seemingly out of control (something that, years later, I discovered were Manic phases of my yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder).
I thought the stuff I heard were by products of stuff like that, I thought it happened to everyone.
I'd always thought that hallucinations were just stuff like Jesus feeding parking meters and leprichauns on your shoulder telling you to burn the world!
You can imagine my surprise!
Anyway, the medications above work to stabalize my mood and suppress the SERIOUS anger issues I have.
The last 6 or 8 weeks I've been feeling not myself, like a faded washed out version of myself, like a copy of a copy of a copy.
I don't want to do anything, don't really enjoy anything, not sleeping well despite the sedative.
Until yesterday I didn't know what to make of it. I'm depressed!
I didn't recognize it for what it was because I've never experienced depression without the other shit!
Again, imagine my surprise!
So I ask WHY?!
Why wouldn't the psychaitrist give me an anti depressant BEFORE giving me a mood stabilizer?
Why not put me in a good mood and stabilize that?!
Dr. Martinez, you have some 'splaining to do!
I am currently taking Tegretol twice daily, and Seroquel 1 hour before bedtime.
Tegretol is prescribed mainly as an anti seizure medication, but is also prescribed as a mood stabilizer, which is why I take it.
Seroquel is an anti psychotic drug. It is widely presribed to the mentally ill (as I understand it) as a sedative. It flat knocks me out, that's no shit.
I take Seroquel for 2 reasons;
1) I have a great deal of trouble sleeping. What sleep I did get was thin and restless. I've been plagued by nightmares for many years that disrupted my sleep, I also sleepwalk, and due to having worked nights for most of my adult life I 've had trouble going to bed before 4am.
Taking this medication between 11pm and Midnight, has minimized, but not eliminated these problems. I still occasionally sleepwalk and they nightmares have become less frequent (but not by much), they don't wake me as often as they did.
2) The medication adresses a problem I didn't know I had, audio and visual hallucinations!
For as long as I can remeber, I have seen and heard things that I couldn't explain. Nothing serious you understand, I was seeing shapes and shadows, the occasional flashing geometric patterms, mostly in my peripheral vision.
The things I heard were equally harmless, laughter, muffled conversation, voices calling my name or saying HEY! as I was falling asleep, music that sounded like it was coming from another room, T.V. static, shit like that.
I associated the things I saw to my eye problems, I've had 15 eye surgeries, mostly related to retina damage, so I see "floaters" which I understand to be minute bits of debris moving around in my eyes, what I've seen was for the most part, easy to mistake for "floaters". For me at least.
The stuff I heard I never even questioned, I just thought that was part of my thought process.
As a kid I would have times when my mind raced, seemingly out of control (something that, years later, I discovered were Manic phases of my yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder).
I thought the stuff I heard were by products of stuff like that, I thought it happened to everyone.
I'd always thought that hallucinations were just stuff like Jesus feeding parking meters and leprichauns on your shoulder telling you to burn the world!
You can imagine my surprise!
Anyway, the medications above work to stabalize my mood and suppress the SERIOUS anger issues I have.
The last 6 or 8 weeks I've been feeling not myself, like a faded washed out version of myself, like a copy of a copy of a copy.
I don't want to do anything, don't really enjoy anything, not sleeping well despite the sedative.
Until yesterday I didn't know what to make of it. I'm depressed!
I didn't recognize it for what it was because I've never experienced depression without the other shit!
Again, imagine my surprise!
So I ask WHY?!
Why wouldn't the psychaitrist give me an anti depressant BEFORE giving me a mood stabilizer?
Why not put me in a good mood and stabilize that?!
Dr. Martinez, you have some 'splaining to do!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Welcome to my Nightmare (Don't think you're gonna Like It)
The dream is always the same.
I never see the risk of picking him up, he seems okay.
I notice that he's wearing gloves though the night is fair, but it fails to raise the red flag that it should.
I'm making conversation like I always do, get someone talking, it increases tips.
Then the turn, his change in demeanor, the gun to my head! I've got it now, but it's way too late!
Fear closes his ice cold hand around my balls.
I'm weighing options as I follow his directions. There are no fucking options!
My gun is in my briefcase, I should be wearing it, goddamn company policy!
Doesn't matter, inside a cab's a bad place for a standoff, worse place for a gunfight.
'Stay calm, let's see how it plays out before we panic' says the inner voice, the one who'd been sleeping on the job 3 minutes ago, easy for you to say fucker!
I know it'll go bad, because he's isolating us, he's scouted the location, and because I've only got $16 in the cab and nothing else to offer him but the cab itself.
He tells me to stop and kill the motor, the meter's running, the opposite of the clock in my head that's ticking to zero.
He's talking, I'm trying to listen, but my head is full of noise, like a tv tuned to a channel with no signal, my mind is racing, my wheels are spinning, no traction!
I hand over the money, you can't get a pizza for what I've got, he's furious!
He smashes my head with the gun, 2, 3, 4 times.
He puts the muzzle at the base of my skull and demands the rest, the noise in my head disappears the clock reaches zero and stops.
"That's all there is" I say calmly.
"Give me the rest!" I hear him cock the pistol.
"There is no more"
The Shot!
I'm screaming in the darkness!
Mrs. Gus is battling her own panic to calm me!
I cry as she holds me.
Sleep is chased out of the room for awhile, she'll work on her puzzle while I smoke and watch Time Life infomercials, Peter Fonda must be in rough shape to be hustling cd's on late night tv.
I had the dream every night for almost 2 years, and 2 to 5 times a week since then.
The medication helps, but it doesn't stop it, I din't scream much anymore, but jerk awake in a panic, soon the sedative over powers my fear and confusion and pulls me back down.
Welcome to my nightmare.
-The Greeter
I never see the risk of picking him up, he seems okay.
I notice that he's wearing gloves though the night is fair, but it fails to raise the red flag that it should.
I'm making conversation like I always do, get someone talking, it increases tips.
Then the turn, his change in demeanor, the gun to my head! I've got it now, but it's way too late!
Fear closes his ice cold hand around my balls.
I'm weighing options as I follow his directions. There are no fucking options!
My gun is in my briefcase, I should be wearing it, goddamn company policy!
Doesn't matter, inside a cab's a bad place for a standoff, worse place for a gunfight.
'Stay calm, let's see how it plays out before we panic' says the inner voice, the one who'd been sleeping on the job 3 minutes ago, easy for you to say fucker!
I know it'll go bad, because he's isolating us, he's scouted the location, and because I've only got $16 in the cab and nothing else to offer him but the cab itself.
He tells me to stop and kill the motor, the meter's running, the opposite of the clock in my head that's ticking to zero.
He's talking, I'm trying to listen, but my head is full of noise, like a tv tuned to a channel with no signal, my mind is racing, my wheels are spinning, no traction!
I hand over the money, you can't get a pizza for what I've got, he's furious!
He smashes my head with the gun, 2, 3, 4 times.
He puts the muzzle at the base of my skull and demands the rest, the noise in my head disappears the clock reaches zero and stops.
"That's all there is" I say calmly.
"Give me the rest!" I hear him cock the pistol.
"There is no more"
The Shot!
I'm screaming in the darkness!
Mrs. Gus is battling her own panic to calm me!
I cry as she holds me.
Sleep is chased out of the room for awhile, she'll work on her puzzle while I smoke and watch Time Life infomercials, Peter Fonda must be in rough shape to be hustling cd's on late night tv.
I had the dream every night for almost 2 years, and 2 to 5 times a week since then.
The medication helps, but it doesn't stop it, I din't scream much anymore, but jerk awake in a panic, soon the sedative over powers my fear and confusion and pulls me back down.
Welcome to my nightmare.
-The Greeter
Saturday, March 1, 2008
The Good Old Days
For me the old days was the end of the 97 to spring '01.
In 97 I was clearing $1200 a week easy in a rented cab, by January of 99 I was running my own 8 or 9 car fleet under the umbrella of the company I ran with. Me & my guys were driving the best cars because I did research at the police auctions and avoided police cars when I could.
I rotated them more often than the company did, hell the company bought some of my cars.
The rest got cheap paint jobs in flashy colors to cover the battle scars and whatever cheap matched mag rims the used tire shop I used had laying around. Painted purple, and electric blue, and jalepeno green metallic, with custom rims and low price tags, they sold quicklybecause they were clean and cheap, to people who couldn't afford better.
I made money off these cars all the way around.
Pay $2500, run the car for 12 to 18 months, they paid for themselves in 9 weeks, you do the math.
Then $300 in paint, $300 in cheap wheels and used tires, park it on the corner with an $1800 price tag then let 'em dicker down to $1500! Everybody's happy.
But when I think about 'back in the day', what I think about is the hunt, pulling that $600 Vegas trip out of the Circle K, or the $1100 trip to Long Beach, or the couple that paid me $35 an hour to sit in an OTB bar with them and watch them bet the horses.
There's some genuinely silly mother fuckers out there, and I met A BUNCH of 'em!
More than anything I remeber taking over the Country Boys restauraunt at 2am, the joint looked like a taxi impound lot from 2 to 4 am, sometimes there were 40 cabs in the lot.
Inside it was like a party, yelling, laughing, all of us trading war stories and jokes, every english speaking company in town was represented. We were brothers and sisters, comdrades in arms, cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air (this was before the smoking ban), it was fun!
I'd walk in wearing blue jeans, a white dress shirt, my cowboy hat, & my 2" .357 Magnum clipped backwards on my left side.
People would see me, cabbies I didn't know would yell out, it didn't matter if every table was full (they often were), guy and gals, whose names I never knew, would make room for me! Flo (really her name) would bring my breakfast without asking my order because she already knew! I reckon Flo probably earned $200-250 in tips for those 2 hours!
In my entire life, to this day, I've never felt more accepted, more welcome!
It didn't end in that diner, we all watched out for each other, didn't matter whose name was on the tophat, if a cabbie got jammed up some kinda way he could make a call, in 15 minutes he'd be up to his ass in cabbie backup.
One night a driver got stiifed on a fare, 20 minutes later, there were cabs up and down this asshole's block 4 or 5 of them in his yard, 8 or 9 of us on his porch beating on his door with Maglites! MotherFucker paid his fare!!!
The dispatchers called each other too, when a cab went missing the alarm would sound, every company had all thier drivers looking.
I'll never forget the night Big Jim went down, we found his cab crashed into a lightpole, he was slumped over the wheel, shot in the head and back. They never got his killer. Likely they didn't try real hard.
You couldn't count the taxis in his funeral procession, better than a hundred I know.
We were family.
Sptember 11th changed everything, drove a lot of us into straight jobs, me included.
When I came back it was different, we didn't trust each other, didn't talk to each other.
There were more cabs than ever on the street, competition was fierce.
When I got shot up, 3 cabbies came to see me, back in the day they'd be rotating in, 5-6 at a time, all day long, until the nurses chased everyone out when visiting hours ended.
I got to reminiscing tonight after I got the word that my mentor in the cab business died Friday night. He died at the cab stand around the corner from the Hyatt, heart attack, looks like.
He was truly old school, he said he was the last cabbie in Phoenix to work a Checker Marathon.
Shit he was probably the first to.
He dove a cab in Phoenix for more than 40 years, last I heard he'd been shot 4 times, stabbed 5, fucker was tough as nails.
He trained me, taught me everythung I did right in a rented cab, in 40+ years he never owned a cab, he was proud of me though. He told me so.
Back in the day, he'd get up early and came into the Country Boys, to hang out with us, he was revered.
He was our Yoda!
We'll talk soon.
-The Greeter
In 97 I was clearing $1200 a week easy in a rented cab, by January of 99 I was running my own 8 or 9 car fleet under the umbrella of the company I ran with. Me & my guys were driving the best cars because I did research at the police auctions and avoided police cars when I could.
I rotated them more often than the company did, hell the company bought some of my cars.
The rest got cheap paint jobs in flashy colors to cover the battle scars and whatever cheap matched mag rims the used tire shop I used had laying around. Painted purple, and electric blue, and jalepeno green metallic, with custom rims and low price tags, they sold quicklybecause they were clean and cheap, to people who couldn't afford better.
I made money off these cars all the way around.
Pay $2500, run the car for 12 to 18 months, they paid for themselves in 9 weeks, you do the math.
Then $300 in paint, $300 in cheap wheels and used tires, park it on the corner with an $1800 price tag then let 'em dicker down to $1500! Everybody's happy.
But when I think about 'back in the day', what I think about is the hunt, pulling that $600 Vegas trip out of the Circle K, or the $1100 trip to Long Beach, or the couple that paid me $35 an hour to sit in an OTB bar with them and watch them bet the horses.
There's some genuinely silly mother fuckers out there, and I met A BUNCH of 'em!
More than anything I remeber taking over the Country Boys restauraunt at 2am, the joint looked like a taxi impound lot from 2 to 4 am, sometimes there were 40 cabs in the lot.
Inside it was like a party, yelling, laughing, all of us trading war stories and jokes, every english speaking company in town was represented. We were brothers and sisters, comdrades in arms, cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air (this was before the smoking ban), it was fun!
I'd walk in wearing blue jeans, a white dress shirt, my cowboy hat, & my 2" .357 Magnum clipped backwards on my left side.
People would see me, cabbies I didn't know would yell out, it didn't matter if every table was full (they often were), guy and gals, whose names I never knew, would make room for me! Flo (really her name) would bring my breakfast without asking my order because she already knew! I reckon Flo probably earned $200-250 in tips for those 2 hours!
In my entire life, to this day, I've never felt more accepted, more welcome!
It didn't end in that diner, we all watched out for each other, didn't matter whose name was on the tophat, if a cabbie got jammed up some kinda way he could make a call, in 15 minutes he'd be up to his ass in cabbie backup.
One night a driver got stiifed on a fare, 20 minutes later, there were cabs up and down this asshole's block 4 or 5 of them in his yard, 8 or 9 of us on his porch beating on his door with Maglites! MotherFucker paid his fare!!!
The dispatchers called each other too, when a cab went missing the alarm would sound, every company had all thier drivers looking.
I'll never forget the night Big Jim went down, we found his cab crashed into a lightpole, he was slumped over the wheel, shot in the head and back. They never got his killer. Likely they didn't try real hard.
You couldn't count the taxis in his funeral procession, better than a hundred I know.
We were family.
Sptember 11th changed everything, drove a lot of us into straight jobs, me included.
When I came back it was different, we didn't trust each other, didn't talk to each other.
There were more cabs than ever on the street, competition was fierce.
When I got shot up, 3 cabbies came to see me, back in the day they'd be rotating in, 5-6 at a time, all day long, until the nurses chased everyone out when visiting hours ended.
I got to reminiscing tonight after I got the word that my mentor in the cab business died Friday night. He died at the cab stand around the corner from the Hyatt, heart attack, looks like.
He was truly old school, he said he was the last cabbie in Phoenix to work a Checker Marathon.
Shit he was probably the first to.
He dove a cab in Phoenix for more than 40 years, last I heard he'd been shot 4 times, stabbed 5, fucker was tough as nails.
He trained me, taught me everythung I did right in a rented cab, in 40+ years he never owned a cab, he was proud of me though. He told me so.
Back in the day, he'd get up early and came into the Country Boys, to hang out with us, he was revered.
He was our Yoda!
We'll talk soon.
-The Greeter
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Please give if you can
This woman was recently diagnosed with MS, I don't know her, you probably don't either.
It doesn't matter.
I don't have any money to give, But I can post a link that you can go to and give if you can.
I don't know her, except that she posts on the BBS I frequent.
People on that board recently helped me, I want to help her, but this is all I can do.
She did not ask me to do this, I didn't ask permission, I'll remove this link if she asks me too, but only if she asks me too.
Again, please help if you can.
http://www.msillinois.org/site/TR?px=1517854&fr_id=1190&pg=personal
-The Greeter
It doesn't matter.
I don't have any money to give, But I can post a link that you can go to and give if you can.
I don't know her, except that she posts on the BBS I frequent.
People on that board recently helped me, I want to help her, but this is all I can do.
She did not ask me to do this, I didn't ask permission, I'll remove this link if she asks me too, but only if she asks me too.
Again, please help if you can.
http://www.msillinois.org/site/TR?px=1517854&fr_id=1190&pg=personal
-The Greeter
Saturday, February 23, 2008
My Sister's final message to mom; Better Luck Next Time!
Anyone who's been reading this blog for awhile knows the colorful history of my family, now 1 day after my dad's birthday, my brother told me of my sister's final message to mom.
"Better luck next time!" -Linda" That was the 4 word message on the card attached to the flowers she sent to my mom's funeral.
Charlie and our stepdad saw the card and got rid of it before I could see it (for reasons that should be obvious). He let it slip this morning as we talked on the phone.
I am truly sick with anger!!!!!!
Obviously to say my relationship with my sister is estranged is a profound understatement!
At least now I can cleanly cut through any & all questions about my relationship with my sister;
That bitch is fucking dead to me!!!!
It is my fervent hope that she contracts a slow moving & extremely painful fatal disease, and I hope she dies screaming!
-The Greeter
"Better luck next time!" -Linda" That was the 4 word message on the card attached to the flowers she sent to my mom's funeral.
Charlie and our stepdad saw the card and got rid of it before I could see it (for reasons that should be obvious). He let it slip this morning as we talked on the phone.
I am truly sick with anger!!!!!!
Obviously to say my relationship with my sister is estranged is a profound understatement!
At least now I can cleanly cut through any & all questions about my relationship with my sister;
That bitch is fucking dead to me!!!!
It is my fervent hope that she contracts a slow moving & extremely painful fatal disease, and I hope she dies screaming!
-The Greeter
Friday, February 22, 2008
Happy Birthday Dad 2/22/42-10/17/94
My dad would be 66 years old today, if he'd lived.
He died of a heart attack on the toilet, Elvis style (without the dope), now don't hate, if he were her he'd be pissed he didn't think of it himself LOL!
Dad was in the Air Force, did 2-1/2 tours in Vietnam, his 3rd tour cut short after his base was attacked. He came home with a near fatal chest wound and shrapnel he carried til the day he died.
He spent 23 years in the Air Force, then went to work for the U.S. Post Office, where he worked for 13 years, he died in the traces, as they say.
There were 40 postal vehicles in his funeral procession, more than 80 vehicles total!
Dad was a talented and funny guy, who could and did create art from anything.
Whether he used pencil, pen & ink, he'd use any kind of paint on any surface, later in life he made garden gnomes from walnut shells and wood glue in molds he designed and built himself, then hand painting and selling them.
The house #s were painted into a mural on a 2 ft wide piece of flagstone on the front porch.
He'd go into the desert with his old truck and haul a Saghuaro skeleton home, when he was finished he'd have a couple of dozen or more walking sticks and hiking staffs, varnished with rawhide straps that featured beads and feathers, he'd sell them for $20 apiece. I have a 6ft walking staff , I wouldn't even think of actually using it, but I'd beat you death if you tried to take it.
He was crazy (that cool, funny crazy, not fucked up crazy like me), he loved a good joke.
He once combined his love of a good joke and his love of walnuts to pull his epic gag, something he did for almost a year, I just think he got tired of it, I doubt he got caught.
He'd carefully shell his walnuts, making sure they opened on the halfline and eat the nuts, then he'd insert little notes into the shells and glue them back together and the next time they went grocery shopping, he mix them into the walnuts in the store, a dozen or so at a time.
The notes were typewritten, and ranged from silly little notes to prize notifications.
Some examples ;
'Not what you expected?'
'It seems that someone stole your nuts.'
'Help! I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese Walnut factory!'
And my favorite;
'Congratulations! See the Mgr. to claim your free 27" color tv!' ( or stereo, VCR, CD player, etc.)(Remember this was like '87-'88, a 27" color set was pretty much cutting edge).
Now, realisticly we didn't think anyone took the notes seriously, but I know at least one person DID throw a fit when she was denied her free television, I know because I was there! Sent to the store by my mom, I saw a big commotion near the manager's station, so I asked the cashier.
"Something about a t.v. and a note in a walnut" she'd answered laughing.
My dad liked to piss himself laughing! Man he looked like he'd won the lottery!
I wish I'd paid more attention, that I'd tried harder to see the world as he saw it, I'd likely be much better off.
I have stories about dad, but my favorite involves my then 15 yer old brother getting arrested on suspicion of auto theft and driving without a license. the Police released him to my folks.
Charlie had been in a bar with an older cousin and some friends, everyone was drunk but him.
The owner of the car tossed the keys to Charlie and told him to run his buddy home.
Being just barely 15, Charlie jumped at the chance to drive.
Abit later he got pulled over after slow rolling a stop sign and arrested for driving without a license and suspicion of grand theft auto.
The next morning (a Saturday) dad was helping me work on a car I had for sale when a stranger pulled into our driveway.
"We need to talk."
My dad just stood there wiping his hands.
"Well talk then."
"Well, my daughter ran away last night with your son Charlie, and I wanna know what you're gonna do about it!"
"I ain't gonna do shit about it. cause she didn't go anywhere with Charlie."
"What, but-"
Listen partner, I'm sorry for your trouble, but Iknow whoever she run off with, it wasn't my boy Charlie, cause he was in jail last night."
With that he returned to the tune-up he'd been working on, as the stranger left he looked at me and smiled.
"That was damn near worth all the trouble that boy caused last night."
The next morning he and I were working in the yard, when the guy that owned the car Charlie'd been arrested in pulled up . He walked straight to my dad and demanded the money to get his car out of impound, my old man grabbed up a spade and chased him back to his car, without saying a word!
My dad had a dark side too, unfortunatly I see a lot of it in me, but I'd rather not talk about it right now, it's his birthday after all.
We'll talk soon,
-The Greeter
He died of a heart attack on the toilet, Elvis style (without the dope), now don't hate, if he were her he'd be pissed he didn't think of it himself LOL!
Dad was in the Air Force, did 2-1/2 tours in Vietnam, his 3rd tour cut short after his base was attacked. He came home with a near fatal chest wound and shrapnel he carried til the day he died.
He spent 23 years in the Air Force, then went to work for the U.S. Post Office, where he worked for 13 years, he died in the traces, as they say.
There were 40 postal vehicles in his funeral procession, more than 80 vehicles total!
Dad was a talented and funny guy, who could and did create art from anything.
Whether he used pencil, pen & ink, he'd use any kind of paint on any surface, later in life he made garden gnomes from walnut shells and wood glue in molds he designed and built himself, then hand painting and selling them.
The house #s were painted into a mural on a 2 ft wide piece of flagstone on the front porch.
He'd go into the desert with his old truck and haul a Saghuaro skeleton home, when he was finished he'd have a couple of dozen or more walking sticks and hiking staffs, varnished with rawhide straps that featured beads and feathers, he'd sell them for $20 apiece. I have a 6ft walking staff , I wouldn't even think of actually using it, but I'd beat you death if you tried to take it.
He was crazy (that cool, funny crazy, not fucked up crazy like me), he loved a good joke.
He once combined his love of a good joke and his love of walnuts to pull his epic gag, something he did for almost a year, I just think he got tired of it, I doubt he got caught.
He'd carefully shell his walnuts, making sure they opened on the halfline and eat the nuts, then he'd insert little notes into the shells and glue them back together and the next time they went grocery shopping, he mix them into the walnuts in the store, a dozen or so at a time.
The notes were typewritten, and ranged from silly little notes to prize notifications.
Some examples ;
'Not what you expected?'
'It seems that someone stole your nuts.'
'Help! I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese Walnut factory!'
And my favorite;
'Congratulations! See the Mgr. to claim your free 27" color tv!' ( or stereo, VCR, CD player, etc.)(Remember this was like '87-'88, a 27" color set was pretty much cutting edge).
Now, realisticly we didn't think anyone took the notes seriously, but I know at least one person DID throw a fit when she was denied her free television, I know because I was there! Sent to the store by my mom, I saw a big commotion near the manager's station, so I asked the cashier.
"Something about a t.v. and a note in a walnut" she'd answered laughing.
My dad liked to piss himself laughing! Man he looked like he'd won the lottery!
I wish I'd paid more attention, that I'd tried harder to see the world as he saw it, I'd likely be much better off.
I have stories about dad, but my favorite involves my then 15 yer old brother getting arrested on suspicion of auto theft and driving without a license. the Police released him to my folks.
Charlie had been in a bar with an older cousin and some friends, everyone was drunk but him.
The owner of the car tossed the keys to Charlie and told him to run his buddy home.
Being just barely 15, Charlie jumped at the chance to drive.
Abit later he got pulled over after slow rolling a stop sign and arrested for driving without a license and suspicion of grand theft auto.
The next morning (a Saturday) dad was helping me work on a car I had for sale when a stranger pulled into our driveway.
"We need to talk."
My dad just stood there wiping his hands.
"Well talk then."
"Well, my daughter ran away last night with your son Charlie, and I wanna know what you're gonna do about it!"
"I ain't gonna do shit about it. cause she didn't go anywhere with Charlie."
"What, but-"
Listen partner, I'm sorry for your trouble, but Iknow whoever she run off with, it wasn't my boy Charlie, cause he was in jail last night."
With that he returned to the tune-up he'd been working on, as the stranger left he looked at me and smiled.
"That was damn near worth all the trouble that boy caused last night."
The next morning he and I were working in the yard, when the guy that owned the car Charlie'd been arrested in pulled up . He walked straight to my dad and demanded the money to get his car out of impound, my old man grabbed up a spade and chased him back to his car, without saying a word!
My dad had a dark side too, unfortunatly I see a lot of it in me, but I'd rather not talk about it right now, it's his birthday after all.
We'll talk soon,
-The Greeter
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Pleasent surprise! Compassion where you'd least expect it!
You may know I've had some massive cash flow issues, I'd decided to put my Wal*Mart badge on ebay, then got a little wierded out, and pulled the auction after someone posted a link over at Fucked Forum.
I was talked into re-listing it and posting the new link, within hours the .99 staring bid had been run up to $70.00, as of this morning it was at $76.01! This due to the generousity of people that scared me! :lol:
I decided to post the link here in case you want to have a look.
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=220204090287&ssPageName=ADME:L:LCA:US:1123
Had to put in a new ebay link, stupid fucking ebay!!!!!
-The Greeter
I was talked into re-listing it and posting the new link, within hours the .99 staring bid had been run up to $70.00, as of this morning it was at $76.01! This due to the generousity of people that scared me! :lol:
I decided to post the link here in case you want to have a look.
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=220204090287&ssPageName=ADME:L:LCA:US:1123
Had to put in a new ebay link, stupid fucking ebay!!!!!
-The Greeter
I've begun the book!
Hi all!!
I've begun the framework for the book, I will soon have to decide how to string the stories together.
I have a few ideas, but the one I like tells the stories anectdotally(sp?), and not necassarily in order.
It starts with a run down schmuck (that's me) that begins telling his story on an internet bbs in an attempt to maintain his ever more tenuous grip on his sanity, while he struggles with the outside world and battles his evolving mental illness that unbeknowst to him has shaped the events of the last 5 years in a frightening real way.
It's possible for me to modify this idea so that the protaganist is talking on the phone, to a stranger in a bar, a therapist, etc., but I like the bbs idea, especially since the inspiration came from a thread I started on Fucked Forum that inspired this blog and has become the highest posted and 2nd most viewed thread in that forums history.
I really dig the idea that this idea pays homage to the posters (good and bad) and the forum, that showed me that I may be capable of this.
The main character is "Gus Poe", which will also be my pen name (as in not my real name!).
I'm not 100% sure of myself here, and I'd still rather tell (or write) the stories individually and have someone else tie them together in a cohesive way, but I think I can do it.
I believe I can write the stories, then tie them all together, that's my plan anyway.
What do I hope to gain?
Why I'm glad you asked.
I 'm not looking to get rich (though I'm certainly not opposed to bags and bags of cash money), but I've got no problem trying to profit from my failures. If it does well, I have some fiction ideas that I think would kick ass.
All I really want is to make enough money that I can stop worrying you know, buy a house, a new truck, live comfortably without worrying about the bills and such.
I'd also like to repay my wife for the bullshit she's put up with from me over the years.
I've not been the best husband over the years, but you'd never know by the fierce loyalty my wife shows.
If you step to me, you'd better pray my wife's not around, I'll do my best to defend myself, but my wife is a little mexican Terminator! To stop her, you'll have have to kill her! And cut her up!! And burn the pieces!! even then, your safety is not assured!
Hey if y'all have ideas I wanna hear 'em, plotlines, tie ins, titles, let me hear 'em.
LMK
We'll talk again,
-The Greeter
I've begun the framework for the book, I will soon have to decide how to string the stories together.
I have a few ideas, but the one I like tells the stories anectdotally(sp?), and not necassarily in order.
It starts with a run down schmuck (that's me) that begins telling his story on an internet bbs in an attempt to maintain his ever more tenuous grip on his sanity, while he struggles with the outside world and battles his evolving mental illness that unbeknowst to him has shaped the events of the last 5 years in a frightening real way.
It's possible for me to modify this idea so that the protaganist is talking on the phone, to a stranger in a bar, a therapist, etc., but I like the bbs idea, especially since the inspiration came from a thread I started on Fucked Forum that inspired this blog and has become the highest posted and 2nd most viewed thread in that forums history.
I really dig the idea that this idea pays homage to the posters (good and bad) and the forum, that showed me that I may be capable of this.
The main character is "Gus Poe", which will also be my pen name (as in not my real name!).
I'm not 100% sure of myself here, and I'd still rather tell (or write) the stories individually and have someone else tie them together in a cohesive way, but I think I can do it.
I believe I can write the stories, then tie them all together, that's my plan anyway.
What do I hope to gain?
Why I'm glad you asked.
I 'm not looking to get rich (though I'm certainly not opposed to bags and bags of cash money), but I've got no problem trying to profit from my failures. If it does well, I have some fiction ideas that I think would kick ass.
All I really want is to make enough money that I can stop worrying you know, buy a house, a new truck, live comfortably without worrying about the bills and such.
I'd also like to repay my wife for the bullshit she's put up with from me over the years.
I've not been the best husband over the years, but you'd never know by the fierce loyalty my wife shows.
If you step to me, you'd better pray my wife's not around, I'll do my best to defend myself, but my wife is a little mexican Terminator! To stop her, you'll have have to kill her! And cut her up!! And burn the pieces!! even then, your safety is not assured!
Hey if y'all have ideas I wanna hear 'em, plotlines, tie ins, titles, let me hear 'em.
LMK
We'll talk again,
-The Greeter
Friday, February 15, 2008
My psychiatrist prescribed me Chantix! I think he's trying to kill me!!!!!
30 days after being prescribed Tegretol, my Psychiatrist tells me that it's effect are inhibited by Nicotene. This after I had a couple of particularly angry outbursts in the past week.
Why in the fuck would he prescribe this drug to a smoker without telling me that!
Plus Tegretol's warning sheets also don't warn smoker's of this potential drug interaction.
So the doc prescribes me Chantix, never mind that I haven't been able to pay my basic bills on time since November, or that I can barely pay the $4 fee at Wal*Mart .
Chantix runs $135 a month, to pay for it I'd needto quit cold turkey for a month, then blow off my water bill.
The best I've done so far quitting on my own is 6 days, 6 days of pure hell after which someone bought me cigarettes to chill me out.
Then I come home and research Chantix, only to find out that people with no history of suicidal or psychotic behavior were killing themselves, hurting others, and generally exhibitting behaviors that resemble what I'm already experiencing!
If 'normal' people exhibit that kind of behaviour, I'm scared stupid of how I might react to it!
I can see it now, I completely lose it after the mailman puts the mail in face down. Outraged I begin beating an old lady with her little sweater clad yippie dog, when the first officer responds I knock him out by head-butting him. Taking his gun and squad car, I drive around town pulling over white cars and shooting off the driver's right thumb until I run out of ammo! Finally, hours later, they find me in the bathroom at Wal*Mart, picking peanuts out of other people's shit!
And with all that risk, nearly 80% of people in the trial were smoking again within the year
There's just no fucking way I'm gonna take that shit, not because I can't afford it (though that is an issue), but because I don't have any desire to be more fucking nutty than I already am.
I know I should quit smoking, everyone should (hey I'm not judging, I'm up near 2 packs a day), but I'm really dubious about quitting while I'm so completely fucking stressed out.
I quit for about a week in August, after a week my brother mailed me 2 cartons of Camel Wides to preserve my wife's sanity!
I had a friend in Phoenix, when I met him he'd quit heroin 10 years earlier, and spent most ofthose ten years trying to quit cigarettes before he finally pulled it off.
He told me once that kicking heroin was like a bad headache compared to quitting tobacco.
My therapist says she quit smoking after 7 years, so she knows it can be done.
I can respect that, I really do respect anyone who can quit.
But there's a big difference!
It's one thing to quit after planning it out, making sure you're ready etc., It's quite another to try and quit while you're dodging bullets, runaway trucks, and falling rocks (or lawnmowers)! Trying to quit during that kind of stress is doomed to failure!
Like I said, I know I need to quit, but I see no good coming from me trying to quit under these conditions, once I come together a little better, then I'll make a real effort to quit. really.
I also met with te supportive employment co-ordinater again, and while I STILL don't know exactly what this guy does, but I at least know that he can't do anything to help me since I've already been in touch with the people he would've refered me to.
It seems like this guy might be a liasion between several agencies, but I believe I've circumvented this guy already.
If I was able to get around this guy without even trying, hell without even knowing, then most anyone could.
Just another example of state and federal government agencies failure to coomunicate, resulting in 4 people doing the job of 2.
Your tax dollars at work!
Before I sign off, I want to thank everyone for there comments, they are appreciated.
We'll talk soon
-The Greeter
Why in the fuck would he prescribe this drug to a smoker without telling me that!
Plus Tegretol's warning sheets also don't warn smoker's of this potential drug interaction.
So the doc prescribes me Chantix, never mind that I haven't been able to pay my basic bills on time since November, or that I can barely pay the $4 fee at Wal*Mart .
Chantix runs $135 a month, to pay for it I'd needto quit cold turkey for a month, then blow off my water bill.
The best I've done so far quitting on my own is 6 days, 6 days of pure hell after which someone bought me cigarettes to chill me out.
Then I come home and research Chantix, only to find out that people with no history of suicidal or psychotic behavior were killing themselves, hurting others, and generally exhibitting behaviors that resemble what I'm already experiencing!
If 'normal' people exhibit that kind of behaviour, I'm scared stupid of how I might react to it!
I can see it now, I completely lose it after the mailman puts the mail in face down. Outraged I begin beating an old lady with her little sweater clad yippie dog, when the first officer responds I knock him out by head-butting him. Taking his gun and squad car, I drive around town pulling over white cars and shooting off the driver's right thumb until I run out of ammo! Finally, hours later, they find me in the bathroom at Wal*Mart, picking peanuts out of other people's shit!
And with all that risk, nearly 80% of people in the trial were smoking again within the year
There's just no fucking way I'm gonna take that shit, not because I can't afford it (though that is an issue), but because I don't have any desire to be more fucking nutty than I already am.
I know I should quit smoking, everyone should (hey I'm not judging, I'm up near 2 packs a day), but I'm really dubious about quitting while I'm so completely fucking stressed out.
I quit for about a week in August, after a week my brother mailed me 2 cartons of Camel Wides to preserve my wife's sanity!
I had a friend in Phoenix, when I met him he'd quit heroin 10 years earlier, and spent most ofthose ten years trying to quit cigarettes before he finally pulled it off.
He told me once that kicking heroin was like a bad headache compared to quitting tobacco.
My therapist says she quit smoking after 7 years, so she knows it can be done.
I can respect that, I really do respect anyone who can quit.
But there's a big difference!
It's one thing to quit after planning it out, making sure you're ready etc., It's quite another to try and quit while you're dodging bullets, runaway trucks, and falling rocks (or lawnmowers)! Trying to quit during that kind of stress is doomed to failure!
Like I said, I know I need to quit, but I see no good coming from me trying to quit under these conditions, once I come together a little better, then I'll make a real effort to quit. really.
I also met with te supportive employment co-ordinater again, and while I STILL don't know exactly what this guy does, but I at least know that he can't do anything to help me since I've already been in touch with the people he would've refered me to.
It seems like this guy might be a liasion between several agencies, but I believe I've circumvented this guy already.
If I was able to get around this guy without even trying, hell without even knowing, then most anyone could.
Just another example of state and federal government agencies failure to coomunicate, resulting in 4 people doing the job of 2.
Your tax dollars at work!
Before I sign off, I want to thank everyone for there comments, they are appreciated.
We'll talk soon
-The Greeter
Monday, February 11, 2008
On Case Management and Supported Employment! Would someone just kill me!!!!!
Okay here is something I've noticed (If anyone can explain this to me, have at it), I focus on my writing much better when I'm very angry or depressed. How the fuck can this be?
I've known for a long time that my mental illness has been growing progressively worse,basicly since I lost a job in March 2004 that gave me access to affordable health insurance, providing treatment that let me keep my shit together, maintained my meds and therapy, and have as normal a life as I've ever had (that ain't saying much).
Losing that job caused me to shift my priorities, our income simply couldn't support survival and the treatment I needed, so I stayed on my meds until I ran out then abandoned treatment altogether in favor of survival.
It occurs to me now that the wheels didn't come off all at once, things began to happen and while I was honestly a victim of circumstance in some situations, my actions and reactions were tainted, colored by my inability to think things out like a normally functioning person would.
From 2004 to today, my problems have complicated my thought process, and I honestly can't say that I've made many (or any) good decisions since.
I've lost my home, my business, and now my dignity and self respect.
I live hand to mouth, supported by my wife and what I can earn selling off a toy collection I spent a lifetime building. I'm at the lowest point of my life so far, but things could readily get worse, her hours are unsteady and I'm running out of valuables to sell, hopefully disability will come through before I have to sell my wife's car, the car I'm driving is still registered out of state, in my mother's name because her will is in probate.
Speaking of my mother's will, it's still in probate, the executor is my stepdad,who's not in any great hurry to sell the house since he'd then have to move back into his place, little better than a shack. Given the current market it could be a while before her house sell once it hits the market, its a beautiful house a little south of Tulsa, I'm due a third of the proceeds and the 02 Taurus I'm driving, it could easily be a year or more. Between the inheritence tax and what I owe in back taxes, I'll be damn fortunate to see anything at all.
Anyway that's not what this post is about (sorry about that), tonight I bitch about trying to adjust to the way my treatment is unfolding.
Case Manager;
I've been having trouble remembering things, it's gotten increasingly worse, I'm having so much trouble remembering to take my medication that last week they assigned me a case manager.
OH FUCKING JOY!!!!!!!!!
Here's a lady whose whole fucking job is to travel around the county reminding people to take thier medication. I'm sure that she does other things, but the point I make here is that my function level has dropped to the point that I have a person coming to my house to insure that my medication is being taken properly! This is fucking embarrassing!
I acknowledge my general fuckedupedness (I'm pretty sure I made that word up, kinda proud of it too, you can use it if you want), but having someone come around to make sure I take my meds, man that's too much! Here's the problem, if she didn't come around, there's a 50/50 chance I'd either miss or be significantly late taking my meds. It makes me pretty sad when I think about it.
It pains me that I can't handle something so simple, makes me feel stupid and useless.
Supported employment;
So today I had to meet with a supported employment coordinater, I didn't know exactly what a supported employment coordinater was when I got there, and you know what? I don't know anymore now than I did before!
Actually that's not true, when I got home I did a Google, and found some info on the Dept. of Labor website.
WELL FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!!!!!!!!!!!
Basicly they'll help me find some kind of shit job, then hang out, holding my hand so I don't kill anyone or fuck anything up!
You must understand that in 98/99, and again from Dec 01 to March of 04, I took care of people that required these services, does this mean that if something should happen to my wife I'll wind up in a group home, being told when & what I can eat, when to go to bed, what to wear etc.
I swear to fucking God, I will kill myself first. There is just no way I'll be able to deal with that, I wont allow myself to be placed in my brother's custody either.
I'm just having trouble adjusting to all of this, I know the key is not to focus on the details too much, but to try to stand back and look at the big picture, but Goddamn it, just Fuck, this sucks!
I know this ain't been that good a read, but I just need to vent.
Thanks for listening, I'll try to do better next time.
One last thing, one of my favorite actors passed away last night.
Roy Scheider, R.I.P.
We'll talk soon.
-The Greeter
I've known for a long time that my mental illness has been growing progressively worse,basicly since I lost a job in March 2004 that gave me access to affordable health insurance, providing treatment that let me keep my shit together, maintained my meds and therapy, and have as normal a life as I've ever had (that ain't saying much).
Losing that job caused me to shift my priorities, our income simply couldn't support survival and the treatment I needed, so I stayed on my meds until I ran out then abandoned treatment altogether in favor of survival.
It occurs to me now that the wheels didn't come off all at once, things began to happen and while I was honestly a victim of circumstance in some situations, my actions and reactions were tainted, colored by my inability to think things out like a normally functioning person would.
From 2004 to today, my problems have complicated my thought process, and I honestly can't say that I've made many (or any) good decisions since.
I've lost my home, my business, and now my dignity and self respect.
I live hand to mouth, supported by my wife and what I can earn selling off a toy collection I spent a lifetime building. I'm at the lowest point of my life so far, but things could readily get worse, her hours are unsteady and I'm running out of valuables to sell, hopefully disability will come through before I have to sell my wife's car, the car I'm driving is still registered out of state, in my mother's name because her will is in probate.
Speaking of my mother's will, it's still in probate, the executor is my stepdad,who's not in any great hurry to sell the house since he'd then have to move back into his place, little better than a shack. Given the current market it could be a while before her house sell once it hits the market, its a beautiful house a little south of Tulsa, I'm due a third of the proceeds and the 02 Taurus I'm driving, it could easily be a year or more. Between the inheritence tax and what I owe in back taxes, I'll be damn fortunate to see anything at all.
Anyway that's not what this post is about (sorry about that), tonight I bitch about trying to adjust to the way my treatment is unfolding.
Case Manager;
I've been having trouble remembering things, it's gotten increasingly worse, I'm having so much trouble remembering to take my medication that last week they assigned me a case manager.
OH FUCKING JOY!!!!!!!!!
Here's a lady whose whole fucking job is to travel around the county reminding people to take thier medication. I'm sure that she does other things, but the point I make here is that my function level has dropped to the point that I have a person coming to my house to insure that my medication is being taken properly! This is fucking embarrassing!
I acknowledge my general fuckedupedness (I'm pretty sure I made that word up, kinda proud of it too, you can use it if you want), but having someone come around to make sure I take my meds, man that's too much! Here's the problem, if she didn't come around, there's a 50/50 chance I'd either miss or be significantly late taking my meds. It makes me pretty sad when I think about it.
It pains me that I can't handle something so simple, makes me feel stupid and useless.
Supported employment;
So today I had to meet with a supported employment coordinater, I didn't know exactly what a supported employment coordinater was when I got there, and you know what? I don't know anymore now than I did before!
Actually that's not true, when I got home I did a Google, and found some info on the Dept. of Labor website.
WELL FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!!!!!!!!!!!
Basicly they'll help me find some kind of shit job, then hang out, holding my hand so I don't kill anyone or fuck anything up!
You must understand that in 98/99, and again from Dec 01 to March of 04, I took care of people that required these services, does this mean that if something should happen to my wife I'll wind up in a group home, being told when & what I can eat, when to go to bed, what to wear etc.
I swear to fucking God, I will kill myself first. There is just no way I'll be able to deal with that, I wont allow myself to be placed in my brother's custody either.
I'm just having trouble adjusting to all of this, I know the key is not to focus on the details too much, but to try to stand back and look at the big picture, but Goddamn it, just Fuck, this sucks!
I know this ain't been that good a read, but I just need to vent.
Thanks for listening, I'll try to do better next time.
One last thing, one of my favorite actors passed away last night.
Roy Scheider, R.I.P.
We'll talk soon.
-The Greeter
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Well, Today just completely sucked!!!!!!!!
Today sucked the rigid cock of Satan, or Santa, sometimes I get confused.
I had to submit myself to a Phsychiatric evaluation for Disability, it's hard having to
open all the old wounds at once.
Therapy is bad enough, you sit with this almost stranger, while he/she steers the conversation where they want it until they get you to admit how fucked up you are.
But they open one wound at a time, distracting you with something shiny or jingly.
A psych. eval. is like being dropped into a steel cage with a rabid Grizzly, they're going for the kill, they just wanna rip you open, to make you bleed, because they don't have time to fuck around! They've got like an hour to redline your stress level and see how you react! They want answers and they don't have time for dinner and dancing, so with little foreplay, they rip open the wounds and shove it in!
How'd it make you feel when you were raped? Well, I was like 11 or 12 years old, they were bigger than me, there were 4 of them! How the fuck do you think I felt, ya stupid FUCK!!!!
How'd you react to surviving your suicide attempts? Well, I felt like every time I failed it was proof that I was truly good for nothing ! That I was completely useless!! I mean, do you know who your fuckin' talking to? I'm the guy who fucked up a job as a Wal*Mart greeter!!!!!!!!!! My record speaks for itself!!!!!
How was your relationship with your mom? Well besides all the times she went ballistic over utterly ridiculous shit! Like the time I completely ignored the laws of physics and dented a brass doorknob with a plastic hairbrush! You'd think she'd be proud that I'd made such a dramatic scientific leap? Fuck no!! She beat me all ver the house, changing weapons as she broke them!!!
How about the time she fractured her arm beating my brother over a 'D' on his report card!!
How about the fact that she waited til I'd been under psychiatric care for 15 years before she admitted that she'd been institutionalized, she'd denied anyone in the family suffered from mental illness of any kind!
It fuckin' sucked, what do you think?
It's like, well fuck, it's brutal! And if this wasn't enough, I went in knowing that this fucker would be the guy that pulled the trigger on me! His report will determine whether I recieve disability or not, whether I'll have access to the programs that'll let me learn a trade, get the medication and counseling I need. I hate to think of the alternative.
So I killed him. Just kidding, he'll live, I wonder if I will.
Until next time.
-The Greeter
I had to submit myself to a Phsychiatric evaluation for Disability, it's hard having to
open all the old wounds at once.
Therapy is bad enough, you sit with this almost stranger, while he/she steers the conversation where they want it until they get you to admit how fucked up you are.
But they open one wound at a time, distracting you with something shiny or jingly.
A psych. eval. is like being dropped into a steel cage with a rabid Grizzly, they're going for the kill, they just wanna rip you open, to make you bleed, because they don't have time to fuck around! They've got like an hour to redline your stress level and see how you react! They want answers and they don't have time for dinner and dancing, so with little foreplay, they rip open the wounds and shove it in!
How'd it make you feel when you were raped? Well, I was like 11 or 12 years old, they were bigger than me, there were 4 of them! How the fuck do you think I felt, ya stupid FUCK!!!!
How'd you react to surviving your suicide attempts? Well, I felt like every time I failed it was proof that I was truly good for nothing ! That I was completely useless!! I mean, do you know who your fuckin' talking to? I'm the guy who fucked up a job as a Wal*Mart greeter!!!!!!!!!! My record speaks for itself!!!!!
How was your relationship with your mom? Well besides all the times she went ballistic over utterly ridiculous shit! Like the time I completely ignored the laws of physics and dented a brass doorknob with a plastic hairbrush! You'd think she'd be proud that I'd made such a dramatic scientific leap? Fuck no!! She beat me all ver the house, changing weapons as she broke them!!!
How about the time she fractured her arm beating my brother over a 'D' on his report card!!
How about the fact that she waited til I'd been under psychiatric care for 15 years before she admitted that she'd been institutionalized, she'd denied anyone in the family suffered from mental illness of any kind!
It fuckin' sucked, what do you think?
It's like, well fuck, it's brutal! And if this wasn't enough, I went in knowing that this fucker would be the guy that pulled the trigger on me! His report will determine whether I recieve disability or not, whether I'll have access to the programs that'll let me learn a trade, get the medication and counseling I need. I hate to think of the alternative.
So I killed him. Just kidding, he'll live, I wonder if I will.
Until next time.
-The Greeter
Thursday, January 31, 2008
An odd Phone call; Call this a sequel to "Best Funeral Ever"
If you've read the post in this blog called; "Best Funeral Ever" you know the story of how my brother's funeral led to my family's spot on impersonation of the Jerry Springer show and drove a permanent wedge between my mother and her only daughter, or as we call her "That Junkie Whore". Surely you don't need to hold a degree in Jet Propulsion to know that our famuly didn't hold my sister in law "Joan" in high regard. In fact, it would be quite safe to assume that we would all wish to see her rot in the hottest part of hell!
*if you have read it, take a few minutes to read it now, otherwise this post won't make much sense*
So you could well imagine my surprise as the phone rang Monday night, and I found myself talking to the absolute last person I EVER expected to speak to in a civil manner again, Joan!
I feel a little background on "Joan" may be in order.
"Joan" is a CUNT, (not a word I throw around lightly, if I say it, I mean it!).
As long as I've known her, she's been a self absorbed, money grubbing shrew! Her kids are spoiled rotten (2 career parolees and a baby machine), and evidently a complete fucking idiot!
The entire time Bob and Joan were together, 3 questions trooped around steadily each time I thought of them; "What does he see in that bitch?", "What does she see in that Lying asshole?", and " What the FUCK!?"
I determined that she is an idiot, through observation. It basicly comes down to this, they dated 2 years before they got married, they were married nearly 10 years before he died, and in all that time she never once doubted that Bob was a decorated Marine, dishonorbly discharged and railroaded by the military system! He was like 5'5", weighed 125lbs soaking wet, and couldn't beat a Girl Sout in a fair fight. She ruled that house and never once in 12 years did he ever stand up to her.
After Bob's death she cleared a cool million in lawsuits and unbelievably managed to marry a man that puts up with being constantly compared to her dead "war hero" husband. And likely coming up short.
Anyway given that the last time I spoke to Joan, I was refusing to allow her into my uncle's house, and given the carnage that followed, I was shocked to the core of my being when I heard her voice on my telephone, nearly 8 years since we'd last spoken!
She didn't need to say who she was (Joan's voice makes Fran Drescher sound like Dion Warwick!), but she did, with Herculean effort I struggled to remain civil, since she was calling to convey her condolences. Too soon she began complaining that she sould've been notified immeadiately when mom passed, since they were "the best of friends" (Joan, she fucking hated you!), she complained about the way my stepdad handled the arrangements, information she could only have gathered from my aunt, the organ grinder of doom (my aunt gave her my phone # as well, just another reason I need to get the UnaBomber to send her a little priority mail).
I know Joan and her son visited mom several times after Bob's death, and that mom was polite and civil, because this was her dead son's wife, but I also know that mom never liked Joan, hated her after the debacle that was Bob's funeral. And the visits left my mother upset for days.
If Joan isn't the queen of denial, she's at least heir to the throne, evidently anytime someone spends more than a few minutes with her without beating her senseless with whatever blunt object is handy, they are B.F.F.
Before long she was talking about Bob again, mourning him, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, I needed to use the bathroom and I couldn't get her to shut up. So I went, then after washing my hands, I checked a pork roast I had in the oven, poured myself a beer and a bowl of popcorn and returned to find that sjhe hadn't stopped talking the entire 10 minutes I was gone!
I'm not fucking kidding here people! She never knew I was gone! So for the rest of the call I was resisting the urge to break out laughing!
She talked about her new husband, whom her youngest son found online, and how patient he was considering she still has all of Bobs things, his truck,clothes, Marine memrobilia, everything!
He doesn't complain much, though he'll occasionally say "You know I'm not Bob!" (you should thank Christ for that friendo).
You know I gotta wonder what's wrong with this guy, clubfoot, cleft palate, severe brain damage from a head injury, something. I sincerely hope ( for his sake ) he's deaf and blind! Or maybe he's laying the foundation for a future insanity defense (pretty smooth).
I was civil right to the end, even after she sent her love to my wife and brother (that pissed me off), after she told me to call her anytime (don't hold your breath bitch), she finally hung up. I laughed til I almost puked.
If she's so delusional she calls me back, I believe I'll unleash hell on her. Stay tuned. :lol:
-The Greeter
*if you have read it, take a few minutes to read it now, otherwise this post won't make much sense*
So you could well imagine my surprise as the phone rang Monday night, and I found myself talking to the absolute last person I EVER expected to speak to in a civil manner again, Joan!
I feel a little background on "Joan" may be in order.
"Joan" is a CUNT, (not a word I throw around lightly, if I say it, I mean it!).
As long as I've known her, she's been a self absorbed, money grubbing shrew! Her kids are spoiled rotten (2 career parolees and a baby machine), and evidently a complete fucking idiot!
The entire time Bob and Joan were together, 3 questions trooped around steadily each time I thought of them; "What does he see in that bitch?", "What does she see in that Lying asshole?", and " What the FUCK!?"
I determined that she is an idiot, through observation. It basicly comes down to this, they dated 2 years before they got married, they were married nearly 10 years before he died, and in all that time she never once doubted that Bob was a decorated Marine, dishonorbly discharged and railroaded by the military system! He was like 5'5", weighed 125lbs soaking wet, and couldn't beat a Girl Sout in a fair fight. She ruled that house and never once in 12 years did he ever stand up to her.
After Bob's death she cleared a cool million in lawsuits and unbelievably managed to marry a man that puts up with being constantly compared to her dead "war hero" husband. And likely coming up short.
Anyway given that the last time I spoke to Joan, I was refusing to allow her into my uncle's house, and given the carnage that followed, I was shocked to the core of my being when I heard her voice on my telephone, nearly 8 years since we'd last spoken!
She didn't need to say who she was (Joan's voice makes Fran Drescher sound like Dion Warwick!), but she did, with Herculean effort I struggled to remain civil, since she was calling to convey her condolences. Too soon she began complaining that she sould've been notified immeadiately when mom passed, since they were "the best of friends" (Joan, she fucking hated you!), she complained about the way my stepdad handled the arrangements, information she could only have gathered from my aunt, the organ grinder of doom (my aunt gave her my phone # as well, just another reason I need to get the UnaBomber to send her a little priority mail).
I know Joan and her son visited mom several times after Bob's death, and that mom was polite and civil, because this was her dead son's wife, but I also know that mom never liked Joan, hated her after the debacle that was Bob's funeral. And the visits left my mother upset for days.
If Joan isn't the queen of denial, she's at least heir to the throne, evidently anytime someone spends more than a few minutes with her without beating her senseless with whatever blunt object is handy, they are B.F.F.
Before long she was talking about Bob again, mourning him, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, I needed to use the bathroom and I couldn't get her to shut up. So I went, then after washing my hands, I checked a pork roast I had in the oven, poured myself a beer and a bowl of popcorn and returned to find that sjhe hadn't stopped talking the entire 10 minutes I was gone!
I'm not fucking kidding here people! She never knew I was gone! So for the rest of the call I was resisting the urge to break out laughing!
She talked about her new husband, whom her youngest son found online, and how patient he was considering she still has all of Bobs things, his truck,clothes, Marine memrobilia, everything!
He doesn't complain much, though he'll occasionally say "You know I'm not Bob!" (you should thank Christ for that friendo).
You know I gotta wonder what's wrong with this guy, clubfoot, cleft palate, severe brain damage from a head injury, something. I sincerely hope ( for his sake ) he's deaf and blind! Or maybe he's laying the foundation for a future insanity defense (pretty smooth).
I was civil right to the end, even after she sent her love to my wife and brother (that pissed me off), after she told me to call her anytime (don't hold your breath bitch), she finally hung up. I laughed til I almost puked.
If she's so delusional she calls me back, I believe I'll unleash hell on her. Stay tuned. :lol:
-The Greeter
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Legend of cab 207.
I thought I'd relate to you some of my adventures, I'm hoping that whatever people check here for updates, as well as whoever happens across my blog, might be at least slightly entertained while I write these and try to break out of my funk.
So to whom it may concern, take a moment and have a look, I'll try to make it worth your time.
Cab 207 was the last company owned car I drove before I began buying my own cabs, it was hands down my favorite of all the "company cabs" I'd driven over the years.
I was the first driver assigned to this cab, I'd even driven the car back from the city auction where it was purchased.
It was a metallic blue 1990 Chevy Caprice with the 9C1 police package, never used as a police car, rather it was assigned to the city of Payson's (Arizona) code enforcement officicer.
As it was far nicer than many of our cabs, I was assigned more valuable trips and worked some of the high profile cabstands downtown. That's how I earned an $1,100 trip from Phoenix to Long Beach California.
$1,100 is way more than that trip is worth, today that trip by cab would run about $600/$650, but in Dec. 99 that trip was worth about $450.
I was on my way home from an especially aggravating 12 hour shift, my last trip had been an airport run so I cruised the downtown hotels on my way back to my comfort zone.
As I turned from 2nd street west onto Adams I was passing the south lobby doors of the Hyatt when I heard a whistle, before I knew what happened a drunk staggered in front of my cab, I barely stopped in time.
Oblivious to his near death experience he stumbled his way into the cab.
"I gotta go to Long Beach, how much?"
"What airline," I asked.
"No man, you don't get it, I need you to drive me to Long Beach, how much to drive me to Long Beach? I gotta be there by 10:30."
It had been a long, hard day, I was tired and just couldn't bear the thought of hauling a drunk 400 miles at 3 am.
"Long Beach'll run you a grand." I figured that would get this fool out of the cab, but no!
"I'll give $800 cash and pay for gas, there's a $400 bonus if you get me where I need to be by 10:30. Whadya say?"
"Pay my tickets?"
"You bet!"
"Let's get going, $800 cash up front!
Unbelievably, he peeled 16 $50 bills off a roll that wouldn't have fit in a 1lb coffee can, he topped off the tank, and we were on our way. True to his word, he paid for the gas when we stopped in Blythe for a top off and a stretch. When we hit heavy traffic he gave me the directions that got us to his destination with 3 minutes to spare. He peeled off 10 more $50s, gave a little salute, and stumbled into the smallish office building without a word!
I found a shopping center and slept in the lot for 6 hours, then came on home.
After paying the triple lease, I cleared $1,100 and change.
Only once have I made more money from a single trip, on a trip to Vegas in '04, but that's another story.
It wasn't all beer and Skittles in ol' 207 though, 2 incidents several days apart, nearly cost me my life.
In Feb 2000 I was stopped at a traffic light when 2 armed men entered my cab. After being beaten and robbed I was forced to drive the men as they went on an epic robbing spree.
Not knowing what to do, I wedged the radio mike under my knee so it was keyed, I tried to convey my location or destination (I found out later that my leg blocked the microphone and all my dispatcher heard was nothing but muffled voices)
After 2 hours, 3 dope dealers, and 7 mini marts, the gunmen directed me behind a Goodwill store and ordered me to open the trunk.
I knew I was dead, I just couldn't see how I was walking away from this.
Believing they intended to lock me in the trunk, drive me somewhere and kill me, so I launched a desperate, hal-assed, thrown together facsimile of a plan. As I unlocked the trunk, I stumbled into one of the gunmen, as they both proceeded to beat me I pocketed the keys and allowed myself to be forced into the trunk of cab 207! As they slammed the trunk I prayed that neither of these numbnuts knew how to hotwire a car! I never said it was a good plan, I just saw it as my only chance of survival.
Within a few seconds the were pounding on the trunk!
"Where the fucking keys!?!"
"I got 'em in here! Y'all didn't ask for them!!" I know, stupid!
I heard one of them rack the slide of a pistol, then:
"Fuck it, I'm gonna kill him right here!!!"
I realized 2 things at once, that my plan was about to fail miserably, and that Iwas laying directly over a gas tank 3/4 full. Now I was gonna die and fry! At least I tried!
But instead of gunshots, I heard sounds of an argument and a struggle!
All I could make out was something about attracting attention, then silence.
I was alive!!!!! It worked!!!!! WOOHOO!!!!!
There was still the small problem of being locked in the trunk of a cab, hidden behind a thrift store, in the middle of the night. And I'm clausterphobic on top of everything else! Luckily it was February so I didn't have to worry about broiling to death, had it been summer, I doubt think I'd have survived.
So I kicked and screamed and made as much noise as I could, when I was worn out, I lit a cigarette (* A safety note; If you ever find yourself locked in the trunk of a car, DON'T FUCKING SMOKE!!!!! The trunk only has so much air inside, and while there are drain holes in the floor, they are typically covered by mats or carpet, so ventilation is minimal. Don't be stupid! This public service announcement is brought to you by the The Greeter*).
I listened as the dispatcher tried to raise me, then broadcast the description of my missing cab.
Eventually, hours later, I heard a vehicle approach, a door opened and closed, and I again began pounding, kicking, and screaming!
"Hey, where the hell are you?!" a man's voice.
"I'm in here!"
"What're ya doin' in there!?"
"Well, I'm on my fuckin' coffee break! Could you call the fuckin' cops or something, if it's not too much trouble!!!"
A few minutes later I heard sirens, then helicopters, voices..
"Sir! Are you all right?!"
"Well, I suppose so, all things considered!"
"How did you end up in the trunk?!"
"It's a long story!"
"Well, Fire's coming, we'll break you outta there!!!!"
"Whoa Whoa, Whoa, call my dispatch, have them send the extra keys!!!!
You tear up this cab, I'm the one has to pay for it! I've been in here for hours, a few more minutes ain't gonna matter now!"
A short time later the road supervisor arrived and opened the trunk, I bounced up like a human Jack in the Box, it would be a few hours later that I learned that my rescue had been televised live via news chopper.
Iwas questioned by police, questioned again by the supervisor and owner of the company, finally I went home. Once there, I got to spend the next couple of hours arguing with my wife.
I was back at work that night.
About a week later, a man walked up to where I was cleaning the winshield of cab 207, and began beating me with a pistol, it went off and a bullet grazed my scalp. Later, I told my wife i cut my head after tripping over a curbstone.
More to come.
-The Greeter
So to whom it may concern, take a moment and have a look, I'll try to make it worth your time.
Cab 207 was the last company owned car I drove before I began buying my own cabs, it was hands down my favorite of all the "company cabs" I'd driven over the years.
I was the first driver assigned to this cab, I'd even driven the car back from the city auction where it was purchased.
It was a metallic blue 1990 Chevy Caprice with the 9C1 police package, never used as a police car, rather it was assigned to the city of Payson's (Arizona) code enforcement officicer.
As it was far nicer than many of our cabs, I was assigned more valuable trips and worked some of the high profile cabstands downtown. That's how I earned an $1,100 trip from Phoenix to Long Beach California.
$1,100 is way more than that trip is worth, today that trip by cab would run about $600/$650, but in Dec. 99 that trip was worth about $450.
I was on my way home from an especially aggravating 12 hour shift, my last trip had been an airport run so I cruised the downtown hotels on my way back to my comfort zone.
As I turned from 2nd street west onto Adams I was passing the south lobby doors of the Hyatt when I heard a whistle, before I knew what happened a drunk staggered in front of my cab, I barely stopped in time.
Oblivious to his near death experience he stumbled his way into the cab.
"I gotta go to Long Beach, how much?"
"What airline," I asked.
"No man, you don't get it, I need you to drive me to Long Beach, how much to drive me to Long Beach? I gotta be there by 10:30."
It had been a long, hard day, I was tired and just couldn't bear the thought of hauling a drunk 400 miles at 3 am.
"Long Beach'll run you a grand." I figured that would get this fool out of the cab, but no!
"I'll give $800 cash and pay for gas, there's a $400 bonus if you get me where I need to be by 10:30. Whadya say?"
"Pay my tickets?"
"You bet!"
"Let's get going, $800 cash up front!
Unbelievably, he peeled 16 $50 bills off a roll that wouldn't have fit in a 1lb coffee can, he topped off the tank, and we were on our way. True to his word, he paid for the gas when we stopped in Blythe for a top off and a stretch. When we hit heavy traffic he gave me the directions that got us to his destination with 3 minutes to spare. He peeled off 10 more $50s, gave a little salute, and stumbled into the smallish office building without a word!
I found a shopping center and slept in the lot for 6 hours, then came on home.
After paying the triple lease, I cleared $1,100 and change.
Only once have I made more money from a single trip, on a trip to Vegas in '04, but that's another story.
It wasn't all beer and Skittles in ol' 207 though, 2 incidents several days apart, nearly cost me my life.
In Feb 2000 I was stopped at a traffic light when 2 armed men entered my cab. After being beaten and robbed I was forced to drive the men as they went on an epic robbing spree.
Not knowing what to do, I wedged the radio mike under my knee so it was keyed, I tried to convey my location or destination (I found out later that my leg blocked the microphone and all my dispatcher heard was nothing but muffled voices)
After 2 hours, 3 dope dealers, and 7 mini marts, the gunmen directed me behind a Goodwill store and ordered me to open the trunk.
I knew I was dead, I just couldn't see how I was walking away from this.
Believing they intended to lock me in the trunk, drive me somewhere and kill me, so I launched a desperate, hal-assed, thrown together facsimile of a plan. As I unlocked the trunk, I stumbled into one of the gunmen, as they both proceeded to beat me I pocketed the keys and allowed myself to be forced into the trunk of cab 207! As they slammed the trunk I prayed that neither of these numbnuts knew how to hotwire a car! I never said it was a good plan, I just saw it as my only chance of survival.
Within a few seconds the were pounding on the trunk!
"Where the fucking keys!?!"
"I got 'em in here! Y'all didn't ask for them!!" I know, stupid!
I heard one of them rack the slide of a pistol, then:
"Fuck it, I'm gonna kill him right here!!!"
I realized 2 things at once, that my plan was about to fail miserably, and that Iwas laying directly over a gas tank 3/4 full. Now I was gonna die and fry! At least I tried!
But instead of gunshots, I heard sounds of an argument and a struggle!
All I could make out was something about attracting attention, then silence.
I was alive!!!!! It worked!!!!! WOOHOO!!!!!
There was still the small problem of being locked in the trunk of a cab, hidden behind a thrift store, in the middle of the night. And I'm clausterphobic on top of everything else! Luckily it was February so I didn't have to worry about broiling to death, had it been summer, I doubt think I'd have survived.
So I kicked and screamed and made as much noise as I could, when I was worn out, I lit a cigarette (* A safety note; If you ever find yourself locked in the trunk of a car, DON'T FUCKING SMOKE!!!!! The trunk only has so much air inside, and while there are drain holes in the floor, they are typically covered by mats or carpet, so ventilation is minimal. Don't be stupid! This public service announcement is brought to you by the The Greeter*).
I listened as the dispatcher tried to raise me, then broadcast the description of my missing cab.
Eventually, hours later, I heard a vehicle approach, a door opened and closed, and I again began pounding, kicking, and screaming!
"Hey, where the hell are you?!" a man's voice.
"I'm in here!"
"What're ya doin' in there!?"
"Well, I'm on my fuckin' coffee break! Could you call the fuckin' cops or something, if it's not too much trouble!!!"
A few minutes later I heard sirens, then helicopters, voices..
"Sir! Are you all right?!"
"Well, I suppose so, all things considered!"
"How did you end up in the trunk?!"
"It's a long story!"
"Well, Fire's coming, we'll break you outta there!!!!"
"Whoa Whoa, Whoa, call my dispatch, have them send the extra keys!!!!
You tear up this cab, I'm the one has to pay for it! I've been in here for hours, a few more minutes ain't gonna matter now!"
A short time later the road supervisor arrived and opened the trunk, I bounced up like a human Jack in the Box, it would be a few hours later that I learned that my rescue had been televised live via news chopper.
Iwas questioned by police, questioned again by the supervisor and owner of the company, finally I went home. Once there, I got to spend the next couple of hours arguing with my wife.
I was back at work that night.
About a week later, a man walked up to where I was cleaning the winshield of cab 207, and began beating me with a pistol, it went off and a bullet grazed my scalp. Later, I told my wife i cut my head after tripping over a curbstone.
More to come.
-The Greeter
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Hello to all my loyal fans
As if, after all this time there are any of you left.
I've been through a lot since I last posted, basicly another complete nervous breakdown complete with a voluntary 72hour comittal for psychiatric evaluation.
I was put on leave by Wal*Mart the 1st weekend of December after I almost throttled a woman who called me a "fucking retard", with all the trouble it caused me, I wish they hadn't been able to stop me.
Wal*Mart put me on leave, I really don't blame them, they couldn't very well allow me to continue working knowing that there was a real possibility that the next time someone might get hurt- or worse. That's bound to be bad for business wouldn't ya think?
So after Wal*Mart jerked me around for a couple of weeks, after careful consideration a talking to people whose judgement I value (and trust) more than my own, I quit.
Wal*Mart wasn't gonna fire me, if they had I could've gone after them with "The Americans with Disabilities Act". By putting me on leave, and leaving me there, they keep me from filing for unemployment and from filing lawsuits or complaints with the Dept. of Labor. I am nothing more annoying than a housefly to the fuckin' bohemoth that is Wal*Mart, but why should they put up with pestering me them when they can neutralize me so easily.
Fuckin' Pricks!
So now I'm in the process of trying to get back on disability, (tricky even though I've been on disability twice for the same issues) and functioning on a budget that's $900 lighter than it was last month, a budget that was barely adequate before.
And everyone telling me to "take it easy" and "relax" and "let things work themselves out".
Real easy to say when it's not you, not so easy when you're the one that's dealing with your mind trying to implode while deciding how to stretch $1200 cash to cover $2100 in bills!
I want you to understand, I was originally diagnosed as a Manic Depressive in 1989, but didn't start on medication until 1999, when my diagnosis was revised to Rapid Cycling BiPolar Disorder w/ Intermittent Explosive Disorder.
In 2004 I worked at a group home that paid me $7.10 an hour to sleep, it fit well with my taxi gig and provided the oppurtunity to get cheap health insurance, a job I'd had since December of 01. In March of 04 (on St Patrick's Day in fact) I was fired after a client physically attacked me, forcing me to defend myself in a manner that my employer found to be excessive. With my job went my insurance, my wife was able to get on with her company's insurance, but they refused to cover my pre-existng mental illness.
Without my insurance, between medication and therapy was gonna run nearly a thousand bucks a month. Looking at having our income cut by nearly 1/3, I made the first in a LOOONNNGGG line of bad decisions, I quit treatment. By December the lack of treatment was already taking it's toll, it's too bad that I was too busyto notice. Then I got shot, nearly killed, and fucked for life, and then, and then, and then.
And now here I am, it's January 11, 2008 and I'm trying to work miracles while trying to regain my will to live, which is rather tenuous at best right this second, and I can see where the trouble began, not that it does me any good now.
I recently had my diagnosis revised yet again to "a hard BiPloar I, Rapid Cycling w/ Intermittent Explosive Disorder and Schizo-Affective tendencies" I learned that the things I've been hearing all my life are auditory hallucinations, believe it or not, I had no idea, I thought it was normal. In fact as I type I'm hearing Secadas(sp?) (if you don't know what a Secada is, think"mono-tone crickets).
I don't feel any real sense of self worth, if it weren't for the feelings of a few people, I believe I'd kill myself, I just don't really feel like I'm worth saving.
It's not like I want to die, but I don't want to keep living this way.
Hopefully I'll get better, if I don't, we'll see I guess.
If there's anyone still reading this, we'll talk again.
-The Greeter
I've been through a lot since I last posted, basicly another complete nervous breakdown complete with a voluntary 72hour comittal for psychiatric evaluation.
I was put on leave by Wal*Mart the 1st weekend of December after I almost throttled a woman who called me a "fucking retard", with all the trouble it caused me, I wish they hadn't been able to stop me.
Wal*Mart put me on leave, I really don't blame them, they couldn't very well allow me to continue working knowing that there was a real possibility that the next time someone might get hurt- or worse. That's bound to be bad for business wouldn't ya think?
So after Wal*Mart jerked me around for a couple of weeks, after careful consideration a talking to people whose judgement I value (and trust) more than my own, I quit.
Wal*Mart wasn't gonna fire me, if they had I could've gone after them with "The Americans with Disabilities Act". By putting me on leave, and leaving me there, they keep me from filing for unemployment and from filing lawsuits or complaints with the Dept. of Labor. I am nothing more annoying than a housefly to the fuckin' bohemoth that is Wal*Mart, but why should they put up with pestering me them when they can neutralize me so easily.
Fuckin' Pricks!
So now I'm in the process of trying to get back on disability, (tricky even though I've been on disability twice for the same issues) and functioning on a budget that's $900 lighter than it was last month, a budget that was barely adequate before.
And everyone telling me to "take it easy" and "relax" and "let things work themselves out".
Real easy to say when it's not you, not so easy when you're the one that's dealing with your mind trying to implode while deciding how to stretch $1200 cash to cover $2100 in bills!
I want you to understand, I was originally diagnosed as a Manic Depressive in 1989, but didn't start on medication until 1999, when my diagnosis was revised to Rapid Cycling BiPolar Disorder w/ Intermittent Explosive Disorder.
In 2004 I worked at a group home that paid me $7.10 an hour to sleep, it fit well with my taxi gig and provided the oppurtunity to get cheap health insurance, a job I'd had since December of 01. In March of 04 (on St Patrick's Day in fact) I was fired after a client physically attacked me, forcing me to defend myself in a manner that my employer found to be excessive. With my job went my insurance, my wife was able to get on with her company's insurance, but they refused to cover my pre-existng mental illness.
Without my insurance, between medication and therapy was gonna run nearly a thousand bucks a month. Looking at having our income cut by nearly 1/3, I made the first in a LOOONNNGGG line of bad decisions, I quit treatment. By December the lack of treatment was already taking it's toll, it's too bad that I was too busyto notice. Then I got shot, nearly killed, and fucked for life, and then, and then, and then.
And now here I am, it's January 11, 2008 and I'm trying to work miracles while trying to regain my will to live, which is rather tenuous at best right this second, and I can see where the trouble began, not that it does me any good now.
I recently had my diagnosis revised yet again to "a hard BiPloar I, Rapid Cycling w/ Intermittent Explosive Disorder and Schizo-Affective tendencies" I learned that the things I've been hearing all my life are auditory hallucinations, believe it or not, I had no idea, I thought it was normal. In fact as I type I'm hearing Secadas(sp?) (if you don't know what a Secada is, think"mono-tone crickets).
I don't feel any real sense of self worth, if it weren't for the feelings of a few people, I believe I'd kill myself, I just don't really feel like I'm worth saving.
It's not like I want to die, but I don't want to keep living this way.
Hopefully I'll get better, if I don't, we'll see I guess.
If there's anyone still reading this, we'll talk again.
-The Greeter
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