'Addiction and The Year of the Cock' by The Egg Party

So editing is not really my thing right now. I wrote this today, after a few hours of contemplation, over chickens and life. I just have lots to do. I will come back to this one for sure. Many exist on the same list as this. Ideas and stories which need polish but have enough merit to exist. 
This is a positive piece. I think. Anyway first time in ages that I finished a piece in one sitting. So this must have needed expelling. 

-The Egg Party

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Addiction and the Year of The Cock


by The Egg Party


It is the year of the cock. I have tripled down on my chances for having a good year with a little forward planning. In a brilliant stroke of appreciating the me of tomorrow, I tattooed three cocks to my chest.
I am getting things done in 2017. I am sad at times but I am doing things and that alone means I am doing better than usual. I used to write stories from ‘before the crypt’, stories that were from nursing and I want, with this story, bring the collection to a conclusion.
It felt a lot more like writing a journal, with the added compulsion of wanting to make those situations complete short stories.
I don’t want to be a nurse right now. I need a break, years long if necessary. This is me wrapping up those particular stories as I wrap up the work. Finishing is important in this process of writing and really, I do not want to add to those memories. Also I want to be as confused by the poor editing in the future as I am now.
I got a letter in the mail telling me to renew my registration a week ago and pay $150. If I do not pay the nursing council I will not be a registered nurse anymore. I reckon it is time. I feel deficient, like many areas of my life, and this is one that I cannot keep up with. I have tried but it is consuming. It is a failure but I am happily coming to terms with it.
I was doing just agency nursing in the end. I thought I did a damn good job considering that each ward was different and I had to work it out for each place. Usually on a night shift, dealing with nurses is their most evolved state. That is if they are doing in the direction of evolving into something strange. Many are.
I couldn’t keep up. When I wanted to do other things in my life concurrently, I found they did not happen. I decided to study and re-engage myself. Strap myself into something new. I did the Drug and Alcohol Addition Studies course at Turning Point. I found the topic fascinating.
The misconceptions about addiction which existed within the people around me were astounding. Most suffered from a severe disconnect between the ideas of drug use and addiction. Some drunk mate:

‘Whaddaya’ mean you’re doin’ drug studies and you’re havin’ a lime’ an’ coke? I mean a line a’ coke?’

Anyway I had two interviews in the field. I could say that these two interviews also led me away from the job. I do not believe that is really true. I would later work out that I was already disconnected with the whole profession and no amount of study would help that.
Hey, I just thought, maybe I did what I have wanted for a while. I did study that had no primary function other than learning. I never used the course, aside from incidentally, in a professional capacity. Okay, anyway. The two job interviews, the bad bad interview and the good bad interview:

INTERVIEW 1: BAD, BAD

This interview was at the organisation Turning Point itself, the place where I was going the course. I was invited there to do an interview for a job as an addiction phone counsellor. People would call in with personal issues regarding drug use.

I sat down and was really nervous. There were two of them, sitting at a round table across from me. An older, grey-haired woman and a bald, middle-aged man.

I felt like had shaved my face too close and I looked less adult. Fuck that. At least I wore my dessert suit. The suit was a dark, chocolate brown, suit that I had tailored years priot. The shirt, the colour of triple-thickened cream, was also tailored. My tie was a soft caramel. The cufflinks were tiny half-peeled bananas. I did not war my banana belt buckle, I thought it too much. I switched the buckle to subtle brass cowboy monkey riding a miniature pony.

It helped with my confidence and fuck you if you have a problem with that.

Irrespective, the interview went horrifically. I hadn’t done one in a long time and I was stressed to hell.

Also. The morning preceding the interview I got a call from an ex-girlfriend who accused me of giving her an STD. There I was sitting in my suit, feeling chipper, and I get this message over my coffee.

I message and call to no avail. She is blanking me.

I stress out. I think, ah well, fuck it, I gotta go to this thing, as I am leaning over the toilet stress-vomiting.

Anyway that was then, this is then. I am in the interview and they are asking me all sorts of questions about addiction and I am getting all dry-mouthed and anxious. The guy then says, hey, sure we are going to do an exercise ing now, it is a mock response call from a staff member. You need to find out what the situation is and try and help. This is without any preparation or guidance.
Now I had never done any practical parts to my study. I gotta get in there sometime, I guessed. Right, okay, let’s… the phone on the other desk begins ringing. Holy shit. I stand up and walk to the phone and as I reach to pick up it up I hit my knuckle on the desk edge, opening the skin up. I am bleeding but I want to pretend I am fine, in order for them to think I am not a weird guy. The cut knuckle is on the right hand and it is bleeding. It’s my writing hand. I curl the knuckle inside my hand but it leaves a bloody trail next to the notes I am writing. Blood is all over both my notation and this man’s crisis.
They are both sitting behind watching as I falter. They know it is not going well and the rest of the interview is a formality. Anyway, I get up rather unexpectedly, not interested in small talk, and move to leave. The guy sympathetically mentions my motorbike helmet. He tells me his bike type and brand, one I do not know. Then I leave and speak to neither of them again.
Turns out my ex had thrush. I was frustrated but never mind. Onwards I thought.

INTERVIEW 2: GOOD, BAD

My next interview is at the Ravelhall Prison. What a name. The prisoners were living in someone’s ancient fantasy.

I am going for a role as an Opioid Replacement Therapy Nurse at the prison, replacing a nurse leaving for parental leave. I would be in the medical center providing methadone, suboxone, etc. to support the various people within the prison who suffered through drug-withdrawal.

As I prepared for the interview. I looked at my outfit. I thought about wearing the banana belt and tested the look in my bedroom mirror. How bad was my confidence? I could deal with patients and people but management and bureaucracy? I left the buckle at home and, turns out, I didn’t need it.
The two interviewers were young, only a little older than me. A guy and a girl. Tight hair, the both of them. Outfits seemed totally functional, able to do adapt to many situations. I liked them already. They were prepared and rational.
I really did do a good job selling myself. I want to say that a part of me definitely knew I would be good at this job. But let us put that aside because it is largely irrelevant.
Tell me, the Egg Party, the guy interviewer asked, what examples can you give of violent or dangerous altercations within your previous job roles?
Of the few moments I could recall they were impressed.
The next day I got a call from the guy saying that they would be delighted if I would come in for a tour of the medical center and my new workplace. I says yes, yes I will, thank you very much.
I arrive the gate and park my bike. The sewed patch on the top left of my leather jacket has a stitched-in mantra which I repeat to myself as I go through the gates,

‘If you Ain’t A Cowboy You Ain’t Shit.’

I am let in to the place, given my security clearance, put through the metal detectors, both gate and wand. One of the security guards laughs at my banana belt buckle. I wasn’t wearing the cuff- links so this fell into the category of acceptable. Being too thematic with your outfits was a mistake.
I go to the medical center and I am shown around by one of the psychology staffers. The nurses were all busy. Classic. Anyway we walked round front and there is this big fuck-off clock on the wall of the medical center.
It reads:

8:3:4:20

It was counting down. In front of the red numbers, a disgruntled guy in prisoner garb had his arms folded tight to his chest. He was smoking, looking particularly upset. I asked my guide what the clock meant.
Oh, you know, it is the great bureaucratic decision that has come from up high. On that date and time all cigarettes will be banned from Australian prisons.
Right, I say, that might be a bad idea in my opinion but I am not even working here yet. She looks at me for a moment before leading me on. He then showed me the little window which I would be serving drugs through. A significantly smaller window than the McDonalds drive-thru.

Two Days Later

Courtesy of the The Age newspaper,

…Computers are set on fire, doors kicked from their hinges, common areas trashed, and a tractor is used to rip through fences. This is the chaos inside Melbourne's worst prison riot.
For the first time, CCTV footage has emerged revealing the chaos inside the maximum-security Ravenhall prison when up to 400 inmates rioted over the introduction of a smoking ban on June 30, 2015...

Four Days Later

I call up the Human Resources to find out about the job. It was a fools errand.
I was told that nah, sorry mate, seventy percent of our prisoners have been transferred to other facilities due to the huge riot.
Yeah, right, course mate, I said. I hung up and realised the fucks even tricked me into saying mate at the end there. I told my cactus about how well my interview went and then I decided to stop nursing.

Epilogue

Now I am in Berlin and I am a carer again. I went slowly full circle. I started as a carer wanting to make a career out of something to do with being a carer. Nursing was not the spot for me. I am back now, doing something different. I am looking after someone with a physical disability, not an intellectual one. And I am back to learning lots. As I am getting along with the guy, I am coming to realise that this is one of, if not, the best job I have ever had.
It gives me time to write this Malarky here on ole’ Choke and Stroke. I am very appreciative of that. So I am going to keep trying my best.
It is the year of the cock.