True Story©… Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

 

     I have been contiguously employed since a week after my 16^th birthday and can count on one hand the number of times I have called in sick.
I lost a whole-ass week of work (and True Story©) last week due to a damned misunderstanding behind my apparent myriad of side hustles and get-money schemes.

Wait…

     Y’all remember a few months ago when I tried to collect manholes and get the money for recycling?  If not, go read and come back.
[link]

Welcome back…

     Now that we have established that it is absolutely NOT beneath me to employ crackhead labor to save a few bucks and/or maintain my own convenience in a situation, we can talk about what I have been up to.  This all started back when my stimmy checks finally started to hit (I was late AF filing my taxes).  Following a surprise two-week hospital stay three years ago this past Monday, I was not in physical shape to continue to maintain my own lawn.  Coinciding with the fact that my own mower had just died, it was more convenient at the moment to just pay a guy.  That convenience stayed in place for three years until the aforementioned economic stimulus payment.

Wife Person: “You wanna buy a new lawn mower and start back on the yard yourself?”

Me: “Shiiiiiid yeah!”

     So to the Lowes home improvement we go to spend more of our hard earned funds.  A second stop to Tractor Supply for seeds/fertilizer and I set to the task of rehabilitating my lawn to past glories.
Three weeks into my experiment, I posted my progress and my inbox and texts were people asking for the same work; offering to pay of course.  I like money because I love wristwatches, so I took on a couple of “clients.”

     Three weeks of progress in lawn rehabilitation led to neighbors and friends wanting that work on THEIR lawns.  Now I have parlayed my own lawn to five other lawns a week.
Shit, I need some help.

Stick a pin in that, it’ll make sense in a minute.

     Saturday before last, I am minding my damn business.  I run my morning errands (haircut, shopping for hotwheels, etc…) and come home to strange cars in front of my house.

… well shit…

Family: “First of all, we’re here today because we love you and we’re--…”

Me: “What the absolute fuck, y’all?”

Family: “We’re worried about you!”

Me: “Worried about what!?”

Family: “We know you have the lawn business thing going on, but we found out that you--…”

Me: “That I WHAT?!!?”

Family: “Well…  You were taking a little long to do things like getting gas or going to the ATM or really anything, so we had you followed one day.”

[Phlip note: I always said “I’ve watched enough Burn Notice that I would know when I am being followed…  BOY was I wrong]

Me: “Fuuuuuuuck…”

Family: “Yes, so we know you’ve been buying crack EVERY day almost.”

Me: “Wow.”

Family: “This needs to be nipped in the bud before it gets out of hand.”

Me: “Except I have literally 5000% never smoked crack in my life!”

Family: “That’s what people who smoke crack say.”

Me: “I can explain!”

Family: “It’s rehab, lest you lose us all.”

Me: “You’re really being serious right now?”

Family: “True Story©”

Me: “Shit…”

     Clearly browbeaten in this situation, I just conceded knowing that EVENTUALLY someone would piss test me and see that I am clean for everything but rum and bourbon which are both legal.
Because CLEARLY someone will test me right?
RIGHT?!!?
Wrong™

     Fast tracked into an apparently prearranged rehab program, I was made to report on Monday morning, everyone treating me like a damned crazy man over my objections.
Signed in and taken through group therapies where we are ASKED to, but not MANDATED to speak to the group on our situations.  Rather than get hostile and possibly arouse the attention of law enforcement without my wife around to keep me alive, I just clammed up…
… for three fucking days.

     Now we’re finally out of group and into individual therapy.

You can remove that pin from several paragraphs back now.

Therapist: “Good morning, how are you?”

Me: “Confused…  Angry”

Therapist: “Angry why?”

Me: “Because no one is listening.”

Therapist: “Well I’m listening now.”

Me: “So can I tell you that I really shouldn’t be here?”

Therapist: “Many people feel that way, but we’re here to help them deal with their--…”

Me: “No, I am LITERALLY here because of a lack of communication.”

Therapist: “Well you have the floor.”

Me: “Sure?”

Therapist: “Yes sir.”

Me: “Now this is going to be CRAZY, and I probably SHOULD see a therapist for having ever come up with this shit, but not a substance one.”

Therapist: “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Me: “SO back in April, I started back cutting my own yard, and that is something I do WELL.
Based on the work I showed on my own lawn, I took on more work.  Bear in mind that I work full time, so it was consuming my evenings and weekend time as well.  I got a little overwhelmed and remembered where I grew up and that you could get a crackhead to do damn near ANYTHING for the right money and even MORESO if you had the rock already.”

Therapist: “Oh…  My…”

Me: “Right…  Paying CASH for a job costs a ton more than sliding a dope fiend a dime rock to do the job.  So I hit the dope house and copped, then hired a few crackheads to do the yards for me in exchange for the junk while I waited in the car for them to finish the yards.”

Therapist: “WOW!!!”

Me: “I drop twenty bucks in the spot and make seventy, I still pocket fiddy bucks while doing NONE of the sweating.”

Therapist: “But…”

Me: “…  and if the particular addict can’t or won’t do the job to my liking, I get a new one next time.”

Therapist (shuffling papers): “So THIS is why you were seen and photographed frequenting a known drug spot?”

Me: “And if ANYONE had listened to me days ago, I would be at work right now and not here in this chair with you.  Piss test me if you think I am making this up!”

Therapist: “…”

Me: “Can I go home now?”

Therapist: “I will get with the director to start your discharge paperwork right now.”

Me: “Thank you.”

     Rather than call anyone for a ride, I copped a lyft.  It was already Thursday now and I had called out for the week.  I walked in the house, armed with my discharge paperwork.  Included in the paperwork was the notes from therapy session and a clean drug test.

Wife Person: “You’re home!”

Me: “Verily.”

Wife Person: “How?”

Me: “I got out!”

Wife Person: “But we clearly told you--…”

Me: “Stop.”

Wife Person: “No, we were very serious.”

Me (opening manila envelope): “Read the notes from the therapy session and drug test results.”

     It’s been a week now and she still isn’t speaking to me.  Father’s day is this Sunday and I am worried that I am going to have to prepare my own meals.