Drunk and On Drugs Happy Funtime

I was perched on my window ledge, over looking Highway 20. I had the 10-96 sticker in my hand, the backing already peeled off. The pole with the traffic signal was about six feet away from my window. Looking now, the top of the signal is about twenty feet high. From my perch, I was looking down at the pole. I figured it to be no problem to jump out, put the sticker on the sign, and land on the roof of the bus. I mean, after drinking a liter of vodka and most of a case of beer, I was feeling like Jackie Fucking Chan. I just had to wait for the bus. The bus stop is right in front of my building, it stops on the quarter of every hour. You've heard of the English pastime of train spotting? Well I bus spot. The bus stops right in front of my building. The bus stops on the quarter of every hour (meaning quarter after the hour, and quarter of the hour). My computer desk is right by the window, so I can't help but to bus-spot.

I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.

This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.

"What if the bus doesn't stop?"

"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"

The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I jumped. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.

I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.

A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.

I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"

I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.

At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka, some good weed and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new personal record.

They chaptered me. Chapter 51-

I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.

My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:

Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)

-Officer J Koepnick 1334


Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.


The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Luke's, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."

I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"

She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.

As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.

Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.

I floated in and out of consciousness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.