Share a Fare Driver

My brother comes over. I gave him a nice chicken sandwich, and some of the brisket I just made tonight.  Bambi comes over and we all have a coffee.  Bambi does my dishes, sweeps the kitchen and font room and makes my bed.  I give her a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips.

My brother is running Share A Fares.  This is a program for medical transportation of poor people that are sick.  I used to do this way back in the day.  Man, we used to have these piece o’ crap Ford Vans, with just a ramp on ’em.  No medical training, no nothin’, and these things would break down, just junk.  My brother is drivin’ one of those mini buses.  It don’t pay diddily, but it’s a job.  He live out in the suburbs, where houses are getting boarded up, and people are scratchin’ just as hard as they do in the inner city.

The snow is pretty as it comes down.  I tell my brother to come back over, and I got a nice warm bed for him if he needs it.

They are regaling me with stories, that make my hair curl.  My brother makes GOOD coffee. Dunno how he does it!  He NEVER uses a spoon to measure it.  He just pours some coffee in there, but he is using some unknown type of measure. His coffee is always JUST right. Bambi is talking about drunks that get on the bus, fights on the bus.   People getting on the bus and wanting to punch out the bus driver.  I’ve known people that ride the bus around just to stay warm, just like they do in New York and the larger cities.

My brother is talking about the poor sods that he takes to dialysis.  There are many gunshot victims that require medical care that he takes around.  Sometimes, he has to do first aid on them, because they will start bleeding from the dialysis hole, whatever they call it.  He and Bambi are talking about people that had to have catheters in their chest, close to their heart or actually IN it. I think about the street girls, who I X’d permanently pretty much.  They’re too unpredictable.

Even Bambi has her little nephew that is always “borrowing” money from her, and will never pay it back, he smokes that crack.  So many people in this ‘hood take that shit, it’s incredible.  Out of thirteen apartments in this building, only five I know for sure do not mess with it. These people, if they get busted for drug offenses, will be totally out in the cold as far as social services.

Why is that so bad?  I remember my military days.  The press just seems to “forget” about the drug problems in the military.  It was far more like “Platoon” than the “Green Berets” when I was in there.   I mean, that is  the way it was, what can I say? These people I do feel sorry for, BUT- they will rip you off.  They can’t even get food stamps.  Only the churches will help them.   They are loony from drugs, and will argue with you too, and worse.

Old Chrissy would always argue with me, correct me, and tell me to phuck off.  Well that is what I will do.  I LIKE my “Ozzie and Harriet” preferences, values, or whatever you want to call it.  A nice safe, warm bed,  that is the high that I am looking for.  A spare bedroom for one of my siblings to sleep in, all ready to go, with warm, soft covers and pillows, and food to eat.  She can have hers, I guess.  A crack pipe, the jail, and a abandoned house.

Bambi lifts my spirits right up.  It’s not like she is the always smiling angel. She is just real.  We are talking about her dog, Scrappy, and the electric training collar that I got her, and some of the dog food I got for him, whether he eats it or not.  She is talking about what it is like to go into surgery, and how the doctors treat you, and put their hands on you.  It is so nice to have someone touch you with some concern for you.  She is talking about the drugs they gave her, what it was like to finally go under from the anesthesia.

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