Apology Green Room

This is what I call the canteen in the drug clinic. One minute there’s a drunk kicking off over a brew from ‘keccle’, pass me that f**king keccle to make a f**king brew, (or batter), next we’re getting schooled in a master class about sociology and psychology by a tutor who has just finished for the day and is casually enjoying an off-the-record debate with some of us riff raff while on the way to her car. I’m sorry for referring to myself and my acquaintances as riff raff – scum – but the other week one or two of us were performing armed robberies on the corner shop, and stepping over our own kids in the Gutter Of Neglect for a bag of powdery white crap. _{Anything white for my conk.} Now we think we’re intellects because we’re rubbing elbows with someone who has two degrees. And, as an unusual by-product, some common sense to boot as well.  

I realised, while engaged in informal apology behind the scenes, that the dynamics of a social gathering play an important part in how people act. Never have I being so surrounded by superegos. They are everywhere. The smaller the person, it would seem to me lately, the more power hungry they are. It’s power this and power that every which way I turn. For me personally, something so temporary and fickle as the concept of power doesn’t occur to me, or, if it does occur, it’s jokingly.

For instance, that irate drunk who only wanted a calming brew ended up getting arrested by police who were called by staff. He wouldn’t leave the premises and got shirty. Who knows, an AMPH (Accredited Mental Health Professional) (repeats the word professional sounding _exasperated) might section him from the holding cell and deprive him of his liberty for six months or so. Every time I get arrested the AMPHs come out to see me, papers ready. It might be the same for him. Sectioned over a brew. I know the feeling. I get sectioned over things that don’t happen as well.

It was a debacle. Think my younger brother, who dies. Think George Floyd, who dies. Think rubbernecking shutterbugger who loves watching people becoming physically overcome. I’m not interested in a takedown, I'm an apologetic gentleman why would I be? but the staff threatened to lock me in the canteen green room so I couldn’t interfere with the procedure, just in case I turned violent. My main nurse locked me in a car one time, while she picked up my medication. I suitably got done with a case of claustrophobic paranoia and vowed never to let anyone ‘lock me in’ anywhere ever again. 

I'm locked-in quite enough with sleep paralysis every night. Damn my neighbour and his thru-wall maser gun. I might knock for the grunt and slay him.

I think they thought I was going to stand up for the drunk.

The police just kill you pal, what can I do? Not get involved is what. Or call more police for the police, I don't know.

Back to the power struggle. To the untrained eye, it might look like a normal conversation, with people taking turns to chip in with nuggets of wisdom, all friendly and courteous and polite: To me, however, it is anything but, rather a dog-eat-dog verbal fight to the death full of underhanded insults and bribes, until someone feels so mentally wounded under the surface that they clam up or walk away. Last one left standing wins. It’s people showing off knowledge rather than sharing it, telling long-winded jokes just to keep the limelight on them for a further three minutes, laughing at other’s mistakes instead of compassionately correcting them, and a whole other plethora of insider secrets far out of my own gullible and easily-led understanding.

Since when did simply ‘talking’ become a means contest?

Call me a lamb to slaughter. I’m only just now picking up on the ins and outs of the trade. I think I’ll continue to blank the power hungry vultures and stick to being open, reasonable, honest, and creative. Instead of simply being fast on my feet and snide.

It’s beautiful, the way they can’t make you like them, and the way they can’t be like you.

Thank God for that, at least.

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