Community support services was a graveyard for the mentally ill dreams that someday one would become immortal, commit suicide, get off drugs, actually get a job, get a book published, sell a painting, get laid, or be treated like a normal human being. Bad art lined the walls five feet off the floor and two feet apart each, pencil drawings of Beethoven with wild hair, colored pencil drawings of Pink Floyd album covers, photographs of old women with their arms around younger women. The waiting room was a sideshow. Recovering codependent heroin addicts would wander around thanking people for no reason or trying to bum cigarettes. Fat black men would stand at the counter talking about all the food they were going to buy with their welfare checks. Men dressed as pimps would sit solid as stones on the seats wearing sunglasses. Frantic but looking like Marilyn Monroe women would harass the secretaries about certain names of doctors. Occasionally you would see the successfully mentally ill, dressed ok, there for medication, sitting in the corner rubbing the whiskers on their chin annoyed, or the women, looking like they worked there asking the obese security guard for cups of coffee. On that day all six men were attending CSS to receive their 300 dollar welfare check and their medication, which none of them took but got for free all on the taxpayers’ money. The interviews with the doctors were pretty much routine. Not this time. Normally, these questions were asked what day is it, where are you, any drugs, and alcohol, any thoughts of hurting yourself or hurting others. Following that was a short discussion on medication. If the doctor finds any evidence that the person is a harm to himself or his community, a red flag goes up and the police closely monitor the person with the red flag. The doctor was shocked at the state of the six men. A few of these comments were made: What the fuck happened to your nose? Why is your face pulped meat, both your eyes black and your lips swollen and your teeth shattered? Why do you smell like pot, booze, and cocaine? You can barely walk! Why are you crying? What are those cuts all over your body? Why are you looking all around the room? Why are you shaking? Why are you crying? It went on and on and afterwards red flags were put up in every single one of their names. They wandered out nonchalant and indifferent into the morning sun.
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Before two in the afternoon most of their welfare checks had been spent on booze, cigarettes and drugs. Pcp. Acid. Cocaine. Pot. The room was in full swing. They smoked and drank together like brothers. In the corner the radio was on playing an afternoon football game which they all paid way to much attention to. Bottles shattered against walls, streams of steaming piss arched into the air and splashed onto the floors, while Wade sat on the toilet writing poetry and drinking a beer. When he noticed he was out of toilet paper he wiped his ass with the pages, all scrawled on, from his notebook and dropped them shitcaked into the can.
