GIVE ME YOUR DARKEST SODA, ON THE ROCKS

Back in "The Den," which is how I actually prefer to refer to the shelter.

But earlier, I went to see my "mentor," whom I shall henceforth refer to as "Thor," and his band play.

They started at ten, which is late but it gave me time to drink lots of soda and actually order hot tea at a bar, which they didn't quite know how to handle.

Two large girls teased me for ordering tea.

I told them I always have tea on Bingo night. LOL.

As soon as the band started, I had a startling realization.

One of those things that is too fucking freaky to be anything other than some weird twist of fate.

I realized that the band onstage (Thor's), was none other than the band that was playing at the place I was at nearly a year ago on the night I would commit the crime that would get me arrested.

My ex and I had danced to their music... as a man named Thor played onstage, both of us entirely unaware that some force was pushing our lives together.

Weird shit.

But anyway.

I spent a good part of the night talking to a girl from Kentucky, about the blues.

I wrote down the name of five blues songs and also my email address so that she can "write to thank me when you love the songs, so that I can gloat."

She was amused.

But, I left just a few moments later and caught the bus here, to The Den.

And now, sleep.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Friday night.

Yes, Friday  night.

A night that doesn't matter much when you're a homeless guy in a program at a shelter and have to check in early (and sober).

Sure,

I can make a reservation to arrive late in the evening but not without some scrutiny. The only excusable late arrivals are for those who work late or attend A.A. or N.A. meetings.
Or, of course, those who are adept at manipulation. And given that the shelter is now following me on Twitter, enough said.

So.

With that said, I would still like to enjoy my Friday evening, to some extent.

Currently, I am in the library writing this.
And in another minimized browser window, I have youtube going strong.
Currently, THIS is what is playing.
You really do have to love T-Rex.
As for THAT particular VIDEO, don't bother watching the goofy slideshow.
Just listen to the song and enjoy.

Tonight, my "mentor" and his band are playing, so I've set a late reservation at the shelter.

So.

I'll check that out and see how it goes, though I will be sober.
Sober and live music are an odd pairing for me, so I hope they have some really good fucking soda.

At any rate, gonna close out now.

THE PERSONAL ASS AND THE SEATLESS BIKE

Today, I am telemarketing and a call to some Risk Management company pops up and the prompt on my computer screen tells me to ask for this particular man's "personal ass," much to the delight of my inner twelve year old (photo of computer screen provided).

So. Anyway.

After work I go to the office of a remarkable lady who is helping me find assistance in transitioning back into mainstream society.

She gives me a bike pump for the broken donated bike I have locked up beside the library. She gives me some donated shirts and a jacket. And I thank her profusely.

Afterwards, I stop by the library to visit my bike and find that somebody has removed and apparently stolen the seat.

Thanks a lot, motherfuckers.

You stole a piece of shit seat from a donated bike.

Sometimes I am amazed by people.

So.

After leaving the bike,  I swing by the store to see if the girl from the bus is working, but she isn't.

I know I should have spent some time at the library being productive but I opted for the bus and an early return to the shelter.

Just ate dinner.

Some Guy passed out in the dinner line and they continued to serve dinner as people stepped around his body and the ambulance came.

Looks like he's going to live.

And now, I am on my bed.

If I weren't typing this, I'd be staring into space.

THE COP

So I am at my assigned desk this afternoon, telemarketing, alongside my 100+ fellow telemarketers, and up steps my boss.

"Finish the call you're on," she says, "and then there's a cop here who wants to talk to you."

Now, I would imagine those would be unsettling words to anyone, regardless of any past arrests or jail time.

So.

I don't even bother finishing up my call. I simply hang up on the woman at the commercial print shop. My heart is in my throat anyway, thumping like mad, so how in the fuck could I have possibly talked to her even if I wanted to?

My mind is racing. And I know I've done nothing wrong, but that hasn't necessarily stopped cops in the past.
Cops are not necessarily concerned with fact, despite what Sgt. Friday might like you to believe. After all, they chose a profession of legal bullying for a reason.

But anyway.

As it turns out, he is there to serve me with a protection order.

My ex, who has a knack for dramatics, had them serve me at work, with this thing.

Apparently she believes I want to be in her life. And would somehow try to force my way into it.

But the truth is, I could care less.

Seriously.

There are plenty of other belligerent bipolar alcoholic chicks out there.

The only thing that pisses me off is her feeling like she needed to make her little jab at my place of employment.

You win.

I was humiliated at work. So, congratulations to you. You win.

I'm not sure what your prize is, but I hope it brings a smile to your poisonous little lips.

WRITERS AND WOMEN AND SHYNESS AND SHAME

Tonight,  I nearly backed out of my first Writer's Group meeting.

I've always had a bit of social anxiety when it comes to introducing myself to a small group of people I know I will need to prove myself to.

But now, as an adult with a criminal record, I never feel comfortable.  I have this irrational fear they can see right through me and into the record.

And there's maybe a not so irrational fear that I'd be judged by that before anything else, if only they knew.

How can I ever feel comfortable around people again? When there's this constant feeling that I need to keep everyone at a distance so they can't reject me.

By the way,
There was a Indian girl around my age there who was part of the meeting. Gorgeous, with a great smile and cute giggle and provocative writing.

I hope to get to know her better.

Then, at the bus stop.

Another girl and I struck up conversation quite naturally.

Then we sat together on the bus.
I was so fucking shy with her but I could tell there was interest there.

Before she got off at her stop we exchanged names but that was it.

She told me where she worked... a store I frequent but should stay away from for at least a few days, so as not to have it perceived that I am hunting her.

What little bullshit social games us humans play.

Oh well.

Maybe I'll stop in there on Saturday and "just happen" to bump into her. After all, I did tell her I go there a lot.

Anyway.

Her bus stop was only one stop before the shelter.

And the shelter is the end of the line, so she clearly must have known where I was going.

Fucking loser.

Hi. I'm Francois.  I live in a homeless shelter by night and telemarket by day and have been arrested more than five times.

Are you free Friday night?

BEING A SOCIAL PERSON

Yesterday,

I was written up at my telemarketing job.

They'd been monitoring my calls (as per the norm) and apparently there were two calls where I didn't offer rebuttals to the people when they told me to go fuck myself.

In telemarketing circles, "no" does not mean "no."

I'd love to see my boss out on a date.

"Yes, Susie. I realize you told me "no" to vaginal intercourse. But may I interest you in providing me with a blowjob instead? It's free for you and only takes a moment.
No? Well, do you maybe have a sister who might at least take her shirt off for me? Let me diddle her ass, perhaps?"

I mean, really, that's how telemarketing feels to me.

I feel like a creep, invasive and pushy into people's lives.

But. Enough of that.

Today is Tuesday and I'm trying something new tonight.

I'm attending a writer's group.

Being that I have no friends in this town and I'm not really like a lot of the other guys at the homeless shelter (ie. I don't smoke bath salts or shoot heroin and I actually care to have a job and I prefer to bathe regularly), I am in desperate need of some sort of social interaction.

So. I've done some research and have decided to attended this writer's group.

The very idea of it is terrorizing my social anxiety issues, but I've got to do this.

If I expect to be accepted back into the fold of mainstream society, I feel I've got to try to wedge myself in at every possible angle, right?


    

THE FUNDRAISER

So.
It went well.
Several great people with big open hearts and only a couple really pretentious wealthy people.
Great food and conversation.
And I didn't feel as much like a specimen as I thought I would.
Now, it is 9:34pm and I am in the shelter. I have done my week's laundry, showered, and am now laying in bunk #3.
I am very tired.
I am posting here a view from my bunk in the dorm.
Goodnight.

THIS AFTERNOON

Later today,

there is a fundraising event for an organization called "Focus" that I am involved with.

Technically, I am a "mentee."

And for this event, I have been asked to speak for three minutes on how the organization has helped me since my release from jail.

The event is being held at some wealthy individual's home.

On one hand, I do not want to speak.

How will I be introduced?
As an "ex offender" as the organization's website likes to call persons like myself?

And what do I say?

How can, in three minutes, I slip out from beneath whatever preconceived notions these potential donors may have of me?

How can I convey to them that I am more than a man who has been in jail several times?

That I once had a life, a wife, a career and a child and friends... and didn't always live in a homeless shelter having eggs served to me on a metal tray by well-intentioned volunteers who see me as some sort of three-legged, two-headed dog that would die without their charity.

But maybe, just maybe that isn't the point.

Maybe this isn't about me.

Or my fragile little ego.

Maybe I need to see this event for what it is... a fundraiser for an organization that has helped me out.

Upon my release from jail, there was no spot in the shelter for me, so "Focus" put me up in a hotel for three days.

And when I needed a phone (for job-hunting, etc) they gave me a phone until I got a job and could get my own.

And when I had no waterproof shoes and the snow was coming, they bought me snow-proof boots and gloves.

And my "mentor," who really is more like a great guy than a mentor, has been wonderful and supportive.

     Hence, the points on the other hand.

How could I not speak at this event, if it means helping them out?

    Yes, I will be little more than a specimen to these wealthy potential donors.
    A man in a petri dish, to be observed.

And yes, they will probably go through their  bathrooms and living rooms and hide anything they think an ex-criminal might want to make off with, before I show up there.

But.

I realize that I should have only one concern here, and that is saying what I can to help those who have helped me.

Truth be told, I am eternally grateful for them.

Twenty minutes from now, my "mentor" will be picking me up from this place, the public library.

And by 5pm, I will have spoken my three minutes.

So.

Updates to follow.

AN INTRODUCTION

Welcome to my freedom.
My sweet, precious freedom.

You've shown up fashionably late-- but not to worry-- I'll catch you up to speed.

     It's a Sunday.
     And I'm enjoying a day off from job hunting.
     I feel inclined towards guilt for such laziness, but really, who ever landed a job on a Sunday anyway?

Truth be told, I already have a job.
Telemarketing, five days a week.
I'm sure no other explanation is needed for a continuing job search, right?
The word "telemarketing" should say it all.

However, I do feel grateful to have any job at all.
A paycheck for a homeless man, is a true blessing.

Yes, I said homeless.

You see,  just over a month ago, I was released from the county jail after a nine-month stint behind concrete and steel.

And now, I am living in a shelter.
Which is, essentially, another institution.

I am in Boulder, Colorado.
A town where I know not a soul.
A town where I hardly know how to get from one point to the next, via the bus system or my legs.

Not surprisingly,
it is no easy task to work your way back into the fold of mainstream society after obtaining a criminal record (albeit misdemeanor).

I have been turned down for jobs such as dishwashing (at Whole Foods), and laundering bed sheets (the St. Julien Hotel).

In both cases, I was interviewed and hired, but once the misdemeanor criminal record was looked at, I was turned away.

The message (which I received loud and clear) was that I am not good enough to wash people's dishes or do their laundry, because I have been in jail.

To be fair... I have been convicted of six misdemeanors in the past 3 years.
That's a lot, in a short amount of time.

And during these past three years, I've lost everything:
Custody of my child, every last one of my friends, my car (crushed by a tow yard), most of my clothing, photographs, and pretty much anything else of monetary or sentimental value.

The whole of my belongings now fit neatly in a small locker provided at the homeless shelter.

I am lonely.
Most days I wish I were dead.
Often, I even fantasize of ways to kill myself.
The most popular fantasy is of me buying enough heroin to do the job-- which wouldn't be much, since the hardest drug I've ever done is marijuana.

But something, I'm not sure what, keeps me going.

Hope?

Fuck, I don't know.

I think a lot about the first 33 years of my life and the successes I had.
I'm an honorably discharged military veteran.
I've worked in the corporate world as a department head, I've worked as a writer and as a graphic designer.
I'm college educated.
I've done volunteer work over the years, helping out people that, ironically, were in the exact position I am in right now.

But then I hit my thirties.

A marriage fell apart.

Depression struck deep.

I picked up one too many bottles, tilted them back one too many times and spent far too much time and money in bars.

Anger festered inside of me, the cause and source of which is still pretty much a mystery to me.

I became abusive.

And shortly thereafter, the arrests started coming.

And now, I've got to figure everything out.
Figure out who I am, WHY I am, and how I came to this state of being.

The purpose of this blog,
is to document my climb from homelessness and loneliness and despair... back into the fold of mainstream society.

I want to believe I will get there.

I have to believe.

And along the way, I'll talk about the things I've done.

And the things I haven't done.

And everything in between.

     Additionally, I'll be working to rebuild my karma and inject the positive vibes into the world that I wish I'd been putting into it over the past few years.

Come along for the ride, would you?