It Ain’t Easy Being Indian – December 2018

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By Ricey Wild

So here I am staring at a blinking cursor wondering if I should bring you all into my most recent misery. I was teased about needing to wear a helmet before but now I’m gonna look into it. Sigh. For the record my previous injuries happened when I was stone cold sober, so don’t even go there. This time I freely admit I was buzzed up and when I went to the bathroom at the Risky Raccoon Kasino I tripped over my patent leather Doc Marten’s and went down like a tree.

All I remember, until waking up in the ER, is that cold, hard slate coming at me. The damage includes a fractured left arm in two places and I have a wondrous, colorful whopper of a black eye. And I did it all for attention. NOT!

I was having such a good time with my friend and wanted to go gamble a bit. I ended up being hauled out of the Kasino in a gurney and getting shagged out of a bed in the ER early the next day because there were overdose cases coming in. It must have been a helluva night for the ER staff because there were a lot people lying in gurneys in the hallways, too.

So I was shown the way out and through double doors. The world began its BS again. I felt then that I needed surgery, but I didn’t – so I’m putting that drama in the good column. It was chilly and crispy out while I smoked directly in a no smoking area. Secretly, I was daring anyone who saw me doing it to say something. I made my way up and around the corner of the hospital and there were street people whom I would normally expect to ask me for a smoke, they just turned their heads and ignore me. I just glared balefully at them anyway. I couldn’t help it really, but all I could say if questioned was that the concrete floor knocked me out and that it had won.

On the street directly across from the hospital is a mean streets liquor store and next to it a grungy little bar that serves deep-fried food. I shuffled over to the bar, got the surprised looks I expected, ordered some coffee and began to call people. No one knew where I was or how I got there. I was wearing a stranger’s fleece pullover, thin paper hospital pants and a sling, and carrying my documents. The bartender, whom I imagined must have seen it all, had to be prodded by another patron to ask what I wanted.

In making my calls the bartender got part of the questions in his eyes answered, and because I was talking on speakerphone he kindly gave me the phone number of the Chinese take-out down the block so I could order my favorite mushroom Egg Foo Young instead of grease balls of uncertain origin. When my order came he then told me I could not eat it there and motioned to their greezy menu. Really?! So I tossed a fortune cookie to my new acquaintance Dolly (for real!) a few stools down and we got slight amusement and zero nutrition for it.

I made it home, barely, by a Rezberry transit driver, with help from some other new acquaintances sheltering in the hospital entrance. By the time I got home I couldn’t find my house key. I called on-call housing and while waiting for them I emptied my purse and bags on my porch. While bending over I heard a “Rip” and then felt a cool breeze. Yep! Laugh if thou must.

In the good column: I did find my key and thanks for Rezberry Housing for being there in emergencies. I also want to deeply thank my beloved Shirley Roo who went out of her way to help this broken ole Mindimoye (old lady), especially when Shirl has her own difficulties to deal with. I am also thankful (somewhat sadly) for people who left me on my own when I was most frail and in need. You’ve shown me who you really are and I needed to know that.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m NOT Christian. For those of you who are, I ask you to truly find it in yourselves to act on what your prophet preached: take care of the needy, share your food, etc…

That’s not what I see being practiced by these ‘conservative’ Christians and btw-stay out of our lands (ref: India).

My Unk always used to say, “It ain’t easy being Indian, but at least we aren’t white”.