What Happened Next...

Christopher Meija was a rapist.

His first words out of the car were, “You’re drunk.” I hadn’t even had a chance to say anything. He was a hospice care giver who took advantage of the elderly. I bumped into his car at a light after helping Rebecca move.

His second set of words out of the car were, “I’m an EMT.”

In the front seat was his girlfriend. In his backseat was a confused elderly woman he had taken from her home.

His third set of words was, “I’m calling the cops.”

Christopher’s lesson that day was don’t call the cops when you’re in the middle of a crime. Meija was in the process of taking the woman back to his home so that he and his girlfriend could film themselves having sex with her in comfort.

Maybe his second lesson was don’t talk your girlfriend into raping the elderly. Or at least don’t let her anywhere near the cops after the fact.

Me, my lesson was never to admit to any wrong doing, whether it’s true or not.

Yes, I had one beer.

Rebecca and I… I thought we were still together. I guess I was wrong. I helped her move into her new place because I loved her. Because I wanted to be a part of her new life. At the very least because I thought we were friends.

I also thought one beer couldn’t hurt.

When we were done, she offered me a drink. I took her up on it. If she were sitting in a burning building, I would have sat with her. I would have done anything for another moment with her. So, yeah… I had a drink.

The cops showed up, I admitted to having had a drink. I passed the field sobriety tests with Meija and his girlfriend watching and scoffing at me. Over a fender bender. That caused no damage.

The cops held me until a special unit could arrive, one with a breathalyzer in the trunk of the car. I blew a .04. Turns out, though, a cop can arrest you for that, even though it’s half of what the legal limit. Because there was “an accident” involved, because Meija started to feign a neck injury, the officer arrested me.

Because there was “an accident” involved, I was charged with felonious drunk driving.

Meija talked about suing me.

But it was because of the accident that the arresting officers talked to the witnesses, including Meija’s girlfriend. Nervously, she mentioned the woman in the backseat was of no relation to either of them, contrary to what Meija was saying. They pressed her on it and she told them her family didn’t know she had been taken from her bed.

Within a month, Meija was arrested for raping the elderly in his care. He talked a lot more about suing me, then. I guess he was trying to use one attorney to pay for another.

I think about that fat, sack of crap sometimes, “I’m an EMT. You’re drunk. I’m calling the cops.”

My life wouldn’t be perfect if he had kept his mouth shut, allowed me to exchange insurance information and kept driving. Maybe I wouldn’t have been working so much because I had legal penalties to pay off. Maybe Rob wouldn’t have found me at work and through the wholly unlikely and unplanned events discovered the worst thing I have ever learned… that eating my flesh can reverse the Ratfanger’s Disease (Jesus, my life sounds so… unreal).

If he had just driven off, he might still be raping the elderly. I wouldn't have been arrested. I wouldn't have had to community service. I would be forced to take DUI classes. It’s hard to take comfort in the sacrifice, though.

Last Monday, and forgive me for how long it has been since I wrote last, since I began telling this story…

Last Monday, I walked into my DUI class, after dropping Charlie off at home. I was almost late. If I had been stuck in traffic even a minute longer, I would have been late. My group leader would have closed the door and not let me in. I would have had to pay a twenty-five dollar fine and had an extra session tacked onto my schedule.

But I was not late. I was just in time.

As part of our intro, we have to say our name, a class rule, and talk about our day. I felt very bad for Charlie. After all, she was the one who had gotten me a job, put me back on track to getting out of the Bronco, getting my life back after Rob attacked me at work and the store decided to appeal to protesters that I was a… “negative presence” that needed to be removed.

So, to tell the group about my day, I told them I found Charlie sitting on the edge of the hillside, drinking wine and watching the sunset. I told them all almost exactly what I told you. They asked if I had accepted a drink when she offered it to me. I said “yes”.

It was just a sip of wine.

But you’re not allowed to have even a drop of alcohol twenty-four before attending class.

My group leader locked the door, hit a button on the intercom.

She asked me if I had driven there.

I should have lied.

I should have lied.

I didn’t learn my lesson, standing there as Meija accused me of wrongdoing. I hadn’t learned it by the time I walked into class and told everyone a story I should have kept to myself. Or even immediately denied.

I had already told the class I’d given Charlie a ride home and that I was stuck in traffic on the way there. But I should have lied in that moment and started back-peddling.

“Stay with me, guys,” she said to the class. Within moments there were security guards outside the door. “The police will be here soon,” she said.

Red in the Face

“Where have you been living?” Tim asked me. I hadn’t had lunch and our food wouldn’t be arriving for some time. I was determined to be nice, give Dad the happy family he wanted to believe we were, but Tim’s voice. Oh my god… I was still waiting for the server to come by so I could order another beer. Tim’s question felt like an attempt to embarrass me.

“A cul-de-sac in Ocean Beach,” I said flatly. “Not too far from the water, no homes. No one really comes through other than a few bums. No one seems to give a shit that I’m there.”

“Language,” Tim said.

Fuck off, was the response I bit down on. I was determined to be a good son.

“It doesn’t really sound safe, son,” Dad said.

“It doesn’t sound…” Jesus Christ, it’s not safe but I can’t live with you. I scratched that response. Oh, my god, it’s safer than people trying to take bites out of me. Though it had been a week or two since that had happened so I kept it to myself rather than temp fate.

I was working on a third response when Dad continued, “We want you to come live with us. At least until you can get your own place.” I looked at Tim. Tim didn’t seem at all welcoming, but he didn’t seem against the idea, either. There was a crawling sensation in the back of my neck, something pulling my face back. “Look, the truth is, the doctor says I’m really responding well to my therapy. He says there’s less risk of me of me catching something I can’t shake.”

“Until now, I felt it was best to minimize your father’s exposure to other people, to anything they might not realize they were carrying. Now that he’s getting stronger, we agree it’s for the best to bring you in out of the cold. Like your dad says, just until you’re not sleeping in your old Bronco anymore.”

There wasn’t any response ready for that. I sat there, uncertain what they expected me to say, hoping that each moment they didn’t say anything meant it was more likely they never would. “So how ‘bout it?” Dad said. “Do you want to come by after work Friday and move in whatever you keep in there into the living room? We don’t have a lot of space but it’s better than sleeping in your car.”

“No…” I began. “I can’t then. Actually, it’s really no problem. I’ll be out of the car soon enough.”

“Do you have a place yet?” Dad asked. No. “How much money do you have saved?”

“Seven hundred,” and my words got caught as I wished I hadn’t been honest about it.

“Son, it’ll be weeks before you have enough to get out of the Bronco. Why don’t you just stay with us?”

Normally I’m smarter than this, faster with my words. I’m good at evasion. Now I felt sincerely trapped. “I’ve moved around a lot,” I said. “The last couple months have been really turbulent for me but I’ve found a spot I like and I don’t want to give it up. I just… I want some consistency.”

“I want you to have consistency. I want you to have consistency some place where I know you’re safe, where there aren’t bums wandering around outside looking at you through the window.”

I want that, too! I couldn’t figure out what my problem was. “There’s a cat that comes and stays with me. She’s a stray but she comes and sleeps on the center console next to me sometimes.”

“So bring the cat.”

“I can’t just bring the cat! It lives around there. What if it belongs to someone?”

Tim leaned in, driving his pointer finger into the table, “Andersen, when are you going to accept your father for who he is?”

“Tim, how many times am I going to have to tell you to shut the fuck up?”

“Stop!” my father shouted. I couldn’t bring myself to look, but I knew the other tables were turning to us. Even the manager across the floor had stopped what he was doing and was assessing the situation.

I wasn’t sure what to do or say. Knowing everyone was looking at me, my face started to burn. I couldn’t bring myself to meet my father’s eyes.

I just stood, said I was sorry and left.

On the plus side: My dad loves me better than I know how to be loved, I guess. I don’t really know what the plus side is to this.

Group

So, I will admit maybe sometimes I get something out of my DUI classes when I don't want to.

I'm not an alcoholic. Yes, I got a DUI and I'd be happy to discuss that at length sometime.

Mostly, I'm trying to be better about sharing this stuff.

My dad told me I should start planning for the future, specifically that I should plan to have a future.
If I do, I'll probably want to be able to remember what it was really like with the world out to get me. If I don't... I hope someone reads this after the fact and realize I didn't deserve this.

Anyway, so I have to go in to work shortly but I want to write so I know I've at least accomplished that.

Last night in my group classes, we were talking about taking responsibility. Our group leader wanted to know if the legal process, or rather being prosecuted, made it harder to be honest about our relationship with alcohol.

What became very clear to me was the fact that, first, we all know drinking and driving is bad. It's dangerous and reprehensible. So we vilify people for doing it even though we know they are medically incapable of using good judgment. Since we vilify them so much, people who drink and drive can't admit to it because they would have to admit to all the negative things people say you are if you drive drunk.

Again, that's not to defend driving drunk. No one should drive drunk. But if people have to self-deprecate to admit they have a problem, they're not going to admit they have a problem.

So when it becomes a matter for the police, or when you're standing in front of a judge, you have zero control of anything... accept how you feel about yourself. So you have to tell yourself that everyone else is wrong, that you don't have a problem. After all, you can't stop the city from jailing you, putting you on probation, taking your money. All you can do is tell yourself you're right.

And work your way into a corner so that you can't listen to anyone impeaching your decisions.

No matter how much those decisions endanger other people or how it affects those around you.
I'm sorry, I'm beginning to feel like I'm talking about something else.

I do like my group very much. In fact, I eagerly look forward to it. Aside from work, it's the only time I know I'm going to be around people and no one at work really speaks too much English. It's just nice to be able to talk to people, other people who know what it's like to feel... judged, I guess.

It will be over in a month. I don't want it to be.

While no one there seems to have recognized me (I have done my best to change my appearance), sooner or later it's bound to dawn on someone.

I guess that risk is worth it, though. It's worth it not to be alone.

Trash

Today we were cleaning out bum camps.

This is my public work service. I’ve been doing it every Monday and Thursday. It’s never been too bad once check-in notices and I realize they still haven’t recognized my name. We’ve done trash clean up, clearing brush, library work. I won’t say it’s not tedious, but it’s not the worst either.

Today was hard, though. We were at a park, down the hill a bit from where anyone could see. I guess during the day is the best time to go because they’re pretty empty at those times. It wasn’t empty though. There was one guy, so strung out he may as well have been a bit of furniture. The officer literally picked him up and moved him. But there was a woman there and she was in hysterics.

She wasn’t allowed to pick anything up or take anything with her. We were told it was all trash. She was told it was all trash. It was illegal that it was there at all.

A lot of the stuff was junk, re-appropriated and turned into blankets, tools. There was a pillow made out of plastic bags stuffed in another plastic bag. It had blood stains on it. Old clothes were laid out and flattened to work as a mattress. There was a twelve-pack soda box that had used tissues and toilet paper overflowing from it. Beer bottles were hung from old appliance wire around the camps perimeter so the people would wake if someone came in the middle of the night.

“You can’t do this! That’s my home,” she was shouting from the other side of the officer. “That’s my fucking home!” She was yelling and pointing at me. At the end of her sleeping area where a wadded sweater doubled as a pillow (which stung a bit because that’s exactly what I have been doing in the Bronco) she’d built a headboard with broken plywood. Pasted across it were pictures of… well, they were old pictures of her and a little boy. I don’t know who. They were crinkled, darkened and still covered in bits of paste.

“Pick it up,” the officer shouted at me. “I ain’t doing this for my health.” There was a knife under her sweater-pillow, and a curled picture of her in a hospital gown holding a baby. “You ain’t getting no credit if you don’t get to cleaning!”

Getting “credit” means it’s another day they strike off what you have to do. If you don’t do it, they abandon you on the side of the road and you make a new enemy in addition to not getting credit for the day. “Time to make a choice,” he shouted.

So I stuck the picture in my trash bag. I put the knife in there, too, even though I am required to report finding something like that. I put the headboard in the bag. I put her whole life in the bag.

Now I’m sitting in the backseat of the Bronco and the sun is setting.

I don’t know what to do.