Only Paranoia If You Are Wrong

The three most common things you’ll hear about from a Houstonian, the traffic is some of the worst in the country, the heat (enough said), and oil is king.

The traffic had already built up after lunch assuring that my super short walk home would double at this time of day. The joint in my pocket was figuratively burning a hole in my pocket for how badly I wanted to relax, so I posted up beneath a tree and fished around in my pockets for a lighter.

“No way man, really?”

I’d scoped the area out before I sat beneath this line of trees separating two buildings, so when a guy came from behind me.

"You need a light?"

I was surprised. I gave him a solid once over to evaluate him as a threat or not; Hispanic male, maybe twenty, unfit, same height as me, this wiry look in his eyes that sparkled with interest.

I wondered how he knew what I was looking for on account of him staring at my back. I also wondered how he’d appeared out of nowhere, and why he came across as if he thought he knew me. You know that look someone gives you, you’ve never met them; yet they seem to move and act in a way as if they’ve already drawn some conclusion about you based on information they received second hand?

“Nah. I got one dude. Thanks though."

This time he looked shocked. Which, for those of who don’t know, weed is still illegal in Texas. My little joint could cost me five years in the penn. So, I was a bit cautious.

I left the area and headed to the gas station to get a lighter. While in the store I took my time when I saw the guy from just a moment ago waiting around just outside the gas station area. I waited in a long line after using the restroom, cooled down and headed back out into the blistering sun. I watched the guy I’d seen climb into a truck that pulled up full of construction guys dressed just like him and I chalked it all up to a healthy coincidence.

About twenty minutes later walking up to my apartment I was confounded, how had the patch of green beneath our balcony turned white and brown overnight? As I drew nearer, I realized the grass was not burnt, it was covered in a variety of cigarette butts. As I approached, calculating how long it would take to pick all them up and how big a bag I'd need; the husband of the Hispanic family who lived below my roommate and I came outside.

This man came out yelling and speaking so fast I didn’t ask any questions. I let him vent loudly in Spanish, admiring the beauty of the language even when fury fueled it. I didn't need to understand his words, his body language and extravagant hand gestures told me all I needed to know. Vomit from my balcony had dripped down onto all of his kids toys.

My roommate was a homosexual man that I met while working at a restaurant I had quit recently. It was an awesome job, I was making killer money working banquets; yet… the environment became super toxic, everyone I knew including myself was blowing lots of money on cocaine and alcohol during and after work. We reasoned it was to keep up with the demands of twelve-hour shifts on your feet and the constant demands of hungry customers. To those who say waiting tables isn't a real job. I'd like them to explain to me the justification for centuries of slaves and decades of indentured servitude.

Troy, the roommate I lived with was responsible for the party which resulted in the vomit dripping onto kids toys, no doubt many other things. Before we moved in together my he assured me he wasn’t into cocaine and that we’d be great as roommates. I was young, naive, and I still believe in the innate goodness of humans and our limitless potential.

After climbing the stairs and unlocking the door I was again confounded, it wouldn't budge. When I finally shoved it open I found a body on the other side of the door groaning as I wedged in the space and stepped in.

Now mind you, I had come off a fourteen-hour shift, which meant it was past two pm. This wasn’t the first time that month Troy had a party while I was working the night shift. It was the first time that I was unable to see any of the carpet when I walked into the living room for all the skin everywhere. All I could see were half naked and naked bodies on top, beside, or against others. The place smelt of sweat, cum, fermented alcohol and cocaine which only became worse when I opened Troy’s door. The same scene continued in his room, where he lay on his bed with both male, female, trans, drags, twinks, etc. I swallowed some vomit threatening the back of my throat on account of the stench and turned toward the kitchen in desperate need of water.

After trying and failing to step between people and their limbs on the living room floor, I finally gave up and stepped where I could find sure footing. Even if that sure footing was on someone’s chest, back, butt or thighs.

The kitchen floor was the only thing in the apartment I had seen which was bare. The sink, stove top and kitchen counters were piled almost to the ceiling with every dish we owned covered in food. There were several empty liquor bottles nearly two feet tall (which I wondered who purchased on account of Troy being unable to pay rent earlier that month). There were beer cans thrown onto the counter, overflowing from the trashing leaking beer everywhere. Trash mixed with food and dishes and silverware.

I took a deep breath and used a tray to shove everything from the counters onto the floor. That meant anyone on the other side of the kitchen bar, and anyone nearby on the dining room floor got pelted with whatever fell from my pushing it off the counter.

Was I being cruel? I don’t think so, I wanted a cup of water and to clean a single cup either meant going through all that carp to get to the faucet, or simply moving all the dishes and trash to another location.

The latter is what I choose; which resulted in people walking out the door in large numbers, zombie like in their movements and groans. Win, win. I drank my water and ignored them until I opened the fridge to find all the food I bought gone. Left in its place was empty fast food packets and wrappers.

I grumbled many curse words while slamming everything open to check everywhere for something to eat. Only condiments and ready made things I'd need other ingredients for sat on our shelves. Luckily, I remembered I had hidden a pack of Ramen noodles in this broken spot corner of the pantry. Before I nabbed it I watched a Hispanic dude grin when he moved past me, a wiry look in his eyes that sparkled with interest.

I gave him an odd look before leaning down, sending out a prayer of thanks and rummaging through the dishes on the floor as loudly as possible seeking the cleanest pot. The amount of noise I was making was impossible to sleep through, and eventually Troy and his bedroom buddies all began muttering about needing rides and the bitch banging dishes on the other side of the wall.

Not long after the apartment was empty, I began to relax and I set the pot on the stove, I turned on the gas, lit my joint and waited for the water to boil. During that short time tears began falling from my eyes, I tried to stop them, but they just kept coming. The prayer I spoke aloud was more akin to pleading, I took a deep breath and spoke to whomever was listening.

“Ok. God, Grandma, anyone up there listening. I don’t know what to do, everything I’m trying is failing. Please send me a sign. Please?”

The water began to boil, I opened the Ramen noodles and just before I dropped them in the water my cell phone rang. When I didn’t recognize the number, I began to turn away thinking it a spam call. As I moved away something stopped me and a thought popped into my mind,

“Didn’t you just ask for help?”

Another thought crossed my mind.

“But this is an instant response. That’s never happened before. This can't be the sign.”

I answered.

“Hi, this is SSG Mutula from the Army recruiting office, you showed interest in enlisting three years ago. We’d like to know if you’re interested now?”

I gave him my address as I dropped the Ramen in the water.

“Come by anytime there Sgt. Anytime. I’m here cleaning all day."

We reported to the recruiting office once a week while waiting for the ship out date. As I approached the PT formation a week before our ship out date, I was one of the few soldiers to be caught on their way into the building. SSG Mutula told me on the low after the "random" drug test, someone reported a few of us for smoking pot nearby.

When the drug tests came in, I had a smidgen of cocaine in my system. Originally, I thought I was being hoodwinked. I hadn’t done cocaine all year, I stopped smoking pot the day after the Ramen sign. How could cocaine be in my system?

“Bullshit. Don't mess with me Sgt.” I laughed at SSG Mutula.

“You’ve got the tiniest amount of coke in your system; it could have been something you ate?”

“Who eats cocaine?”

“Look there’s a chance I can still get you enlisted, but you have to sign another contract and we gotta reassign you another MOS.”

I enlisted anyway, despite whoever or however the cocaine got into my system. When people asked me why my job changed, I told them "pot's a hell of a drug". I couldn’t, wouldn't even consider the implications of someone close to me, drugging me. I moved out of what was now Troy's apartment and stayed at home until I made out for basic training.

Basic training was all they tell you it is, and sometimes more. After graduating I was shipped to Georgia, where it seems my ancestors settled when they came over here. I was standing 1,700 hundred miles away from everything and everyone I knew from back in Texas. At least I thought this to be the case. Just like the move from one job to another brought more cocaine in my direction, this move from civilian into military life brought a different grade of weirdness.

When a unit first stands up in the military, there is no company areas to sit, there are no commanders to report to, there are no supplies to sign out, or any supply soldiers to sign them out to you. I stood in a unit as one of the first five people to be there.

It was 0400 and colder in Georgia that morning than any day I’d ever spent in Houston.

As I stood in formation SGT Biegler approached me, he was shorter than myself, too skinny and he had this wiry look in his eyes that sparkled with interest when he called out my name in formation.

“Hey Pvt Hair?”

“Yes Sgt?”

“Your dining room has the nicest bay window overlooking your families pool. Your baby pictures are lovely.”

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“Excuse me Sgt.”

“No. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your baby pictures, you were a beautiful little girl.”

“And how would you know something like that?”

“I worked as a mechanic for two years alongside your bother at that dealership.”

"Uh huh. Well, you can have my family if you want em'. They'll give you a run for your money and your sanity. Good luck."

Six months later I received a call from a claims consultant informing me that the lease I had put in my name on Troy and my apartment was negative fifteen grand. Apparently the leasing office had two copies of a lease with my signature on it and only one had my recruiter signature and approval for the military clause.

"Not my problem Ma'am." I responded to her, "My recruiter and I squared this away months ago. I don't owe you a dime."

"YOU DIDN'T SQUARE ANYTHING AWAY GIRL!"

"Oh, Oh honey. No, no. I'll give Jag your number. Go on and talk to them like that."