On some Saturday mornings, I drive my neighbor, Tomas, to the methadone clinic. He always gives me five bucks for gas, but I usually spend the money on Camel straights, since S. smokes American Spirits and by the weekend, I have tired of their taste.At seven o'clock, my cell phone rings. It's the kind that flips open, just like the communicators on Star Trek. I've programmed it, though, to sound like a 1950s British telephone when it rings. It's Tomas. He says his wife, Martine, is visiting relatives in Chama and can I give him a ride. Sure, I say. S. is still asleep and I will make her breakfast when I return.Tomas lives in one of the biggest houses in Ridgecrest. I met him one night while walking my dogs at Laurel Circle Park. He was sitting at one benches at the park, watching the cars go by. There are all sorts of trees surrounding his house, and a large lawn, too. Tomas pays to have the yard kept up. He is too old to do it himself. There's also a swimming pool. As I arrive, a carload of middle-aged women are driving up. Their car has a placard on it, advertising the maid service that sent them over to the big house. I smile and say hello. Tomas comes to out of the front door, dressed like he is going to the country club.After a short drive, we pass through the gates of the clinic. The gates and surrounding fence are topped by razor wire. I pull into a parking spot and tell the old man that I will wait. He looks at me bemusedly. He thanks me for my patience and, climbing out of the passenger side gingerly, ambles toward the clinic doors.The parking lot is filled to capacity. At one car, a child of about ten years old swings from the rear door of a gray sedan, playing and singing to himself. At another, three men smoke, speaking in hushed tones and listening to rancheras on the radio. After about ten minutes, a tired looking youth with dreadlocks and dirty blue jeans walks up to my window. I am reading a Joseph Conrad novel and try to ignore him. He is persistent though, and when I finally look up, he holds his hands out to me. He says, "hey, open the window". I shake my head and return to my reading. When I look up again, he has joined the group that is listening to music and smoking.The clinic has a guard. He looks more like a soldier. He has a utility belt with two guns strapped to it. One is a revolver, the other a semi-automatic. He is wearing a black uniform and also carries handcuffs, mace, a two-way radio and some sort of collapsible truncheon. I notice that that when drivers try to leave the clinic using the front entrance, he takes out the truncheon and expands it by shaking it swiftly. Then, he waves it menacingly at the wrong way drivers. I remind myself to use the proper exit.After about fifteen minutes, Tomas returns to the car. As we drive off, I ask him why he doesn't go to a regular doctor for the treatment he receives at the clinic. He seems a lot different than the others who I have seen come and go, I tell him.He says it's better for him, like this. He needs to be reminded of what got him to this point in his life. He relishes the humility. He says that it is more interesting to talk to the other people in line than it is to have any sort of conversation with the folks over at the country club.As we head back towards Ridgecrest, he opens his wallet and hands me a five dollar bill. "That's OK", I say, "today, Tomas, you gave me something better than money".
Written by Rudolfo Carrillo And Re-Posted Here with permission
