Chapter Two

1987 -- The Departure


Washington Street at 8th was as tired and forgotten as Donna Summer by 1988. If any money at all was being put into Downtown Oakland, it was several blocks away, at Jack London Square, leaving the portion of town where the Christian Hand Recovery Center made its home free from the complaints of decent folks, who lived and worked several zip codes away. Flanked by bail bonds businesses on one side, and the Oakland Court House on the other, the view from the Center left little for which to be hopeful. Across the street were abandoned and dilapidated Edwardian buildings, which 15 years later would become trendy law offices, but for now, were used mainly as fleeting shelter for a quick fix, pee or catnap. Trees were non-existent.

½ block away from the Center was Oakland’s Chinatown region, a bustling micro-city filled with overflowing vegetable markets, discount stores, schools, businesses, and general abundance. A ½ block in the other direction was Oakland’s famous Ratto’s Italian Market and Delicatessen which, built in 1897 when the part of town was home to Oakland clerisy, still attracted Bay Area gourmets. As close as they came to the Center, their Mercedez sedans and Buick Roadmasters never made it past the red and taupe doors of the place. The space that separated the Center from everything else might just have easily been a drawbridge for the distance that those few hundred feet created. While the rest of the world busied themselves with the rituals that made up their existence, the guests at Christian Hand tried simply to exist.

“Can you please stop crying?” pleaded John to no one in particular, as he took his turn bouncing and rocking and walking the newest guest at the Center. It was 4pm, an otherwise palatable time to care for an infant, but John was not accustomed to the fatigue borne of caring for another person constantly, and his nerves were beginning to wear. It was difficult enough to care for his own needs. Adding a baby to the mix was more than he could handle. His veneer, already tattered from a life spent mostly on the street, was beginning to wear thinner.

“Look how beautiful she is, though,” said Tisa, in a loving moment. “She’s just smarter than us. She knows how rough it is out there.” Tisa leaned in and gently kissed the tiny wailing face. Tisa was tired, too, but her wrath up to now had not be directed at Domini, who maintained most high status, in Tisa’s mind. Not so with John, who despite his attempts to be a good father, fell far short. Tisa turned to him.

“Anyway, you don’t have it so rough,” Tisa said. “I’m the one who has to have her in the room all night. At least you get to sleep for a few hours.” Tisa fished in her purse for a cigarette. She had been trying to comfort the baby for the past hour and needed a break.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have my kit right now is all I can say,” he said. “I’m about ready to give up this sobriety shit. I didn’t sign on for this.”

“You were there for the party 10 months ago, and I didn’t hear no complaining then,” said Tisa. “You better hold on to that baby. Step up and be a man, for once in your life.”

John bounced the swaddled baby in his arms, being careful not to shake her, as the home-care nurse had advised him. The crying continued. “This ain’t easy for me, leastways when I’m not high. I ain’t no perfect daddy, Tisa, but the least you could do is recognize I’m still here. I’m still here for you and for this baby.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to thank you for?”

“Damn,” whispered John, “I sure wish I knew where that kit was.”

In fact, both John and Tisa knew exactly where his kit was stashed, because he had confessed it to her when they were getting to know each other at the Center. Prior to his arrest, he had stashed the entire thing – spoon, candle, needles, tie-off tube – even dime bag, in the backyard garden shed of his mother’s house. There were also several vials of percodan, some Christmas Trees, some various blotters and good amount of marijuana, most of which he sold to support his heroin habit. His plan was to flush the entire contents down the toilet, naturally, but Tisa has dissuaded him from calling his mother to do the deed. When they got out, they could sell it to support the baby, set up the house; for the baby.

“I’m going outside,” said Tisa. “I need some air and a cigarette.” She passed through the day room and out the door.

Though the two seemed barely to be holding up under new-parent pressures, there was a joy about the Center that Frank and Mae had not remembered in years past. From the public announcement of the pregnancy, confirmed at 11 weeks by the good doctors at Kaiser hospital, up to and through the present, the Center residents has rallied around the prospect of a new child as if it were the coming of Christ. Guests who could knit or crochet busied themselves making layettes for the child, while others scavenged the neighborhood for discarded necessities that might, with a little care, be resurrected for the child. A crib was sanded and re-painted, a changing table was fashioned from an old wooden file cabinet. And on the whole, people generally did not mind the small inconveniences inherent in making room for baby.

Cameraderie and cooperation among the guests to accommodate the expectant couple had not been the reaction the Loves had expected, but it was welcome. Even the counselors felt the pending arrival and current occupancy of the child had changed the tenor of the group sessions, noting that people seemed to use the coming of the child to springboard their own recovery, as if things had to be made right for the baby’s sake. No one even seemed to mind that the day room had turned into a de facto nursery, although it meant socializing among guests was relegated to Washington Street, in front of the Center, whenever the baby was fussy.

Tisa joined the rest of the guests outside, where she placed between her lips the Virginia Slims menthol and fished around for a light.

“You know, smoking when you’re nursing is probably not so good for the baby. She’ll get all that nicotine through your breast milk,” offered a guest.

“This from the mother whose kids were taken from her,” snapped Tisa, as she fired it up. “I think I know what’s good for my kid.”

Mae could see that Domini’s birth had to some extent stabilized Tisa and had given her something on which to focus besides herself, but motherhood had not made Tisa any less caustic toward others. In fact, the guests might have argued that the arrival of the baby had made Tisa even less charitable toward them, as if she had finite capacity for largess and kindness; what there was of it was aimed only at Domini. Still, the guests forgave her, perhaps more quickly than they had before she was pregnant. Pretty girls with ugly mouths are still pretty. And pretty girls with babies are sacred.

There were moments when the light that Mrs. Love knew was inside Tisa began to appear. As she was from time to time with Mae, Tisa could be incredibly loving to this new life, and to the people around her. When Domini was sleeping, Tisa would take her to the rocker in the day room and talk to the child about her big plans, the family they would have, the life she had charted for the little girl. When Mae heard Tisa talking, she would say a little prayer. Maybe this one could make it.

Women like Tisa did not usually end up in drug rehab programs, at least not programs that were funded in part by the county. Besides her beauty, her pedigree was part of what made her so attractive to the guests; it was simply rare to find a woman like her among them, in rehab or on the street. She had come from a stable well-to-do black Oakland family. She had never been abused. She had never been a prostitute. She had never tried heroin or crank or acid, or PCP. She did not have track marks or hepatitis. She had all of her teeth. Notwithstanding the fact that she had done no better than any of them in her life, she had done no better than them with a modicum of class. And she had hit rock bottom fairly quickly. She was only 28.

By contrast, most of the men (and the few new women) who wound up at the Christian Hand never had a fighting chance to begin with; the Center was truly their last resort. Their stories typically included neglect and abuse from the very first days of their lives. During ‘group,’ their file history would be augmented in ways that made everyone wonder how they were still alive. Had they not been at the Center, they surely would have been dead or in jail. Most came from a history of poverty where they started out as abused and eventually transitioned to abusers in some form. The motley crew standing outside the doors of the Center were haggered, prematurely old, uneducated, unattractive damaged goods.

Tisa’s partner, John was such a man. At 40, he has spent over ½ his life in jail or prison. The keloid scars on his arms and between his toes revealed an even longer relationship with drugs. His mother had been in and out of abusive relationships with men who often used John as target practice, and her own struggle with alcohol became a roadmap for John to enter the drug world. He had landed here just as sure as if someone had, at age 1, given him the address and a check-in date. As he paced the floors of the day room with his accidental daughter, he wondered whether all this was really worth anything.

It was 4:25pm on Thursday. Mrs. Love leaned out the door and spoke to the small group of smokers and talkers, “All you ‘ones,’ it’s time for transition training. 5 minutes please.” She ducked back inside the center and disappeared. Cigarettes were extinguished and final words exchanged as members identified as “ones” – those who were working toward moving out of the Center because they were near completion of the program – made their way inside.

Transition training was the Center’s program to help those heading back into society with administrative tasks, such as job assistance, securing an apartment, and qualifying or applying for certain forms of public assistance, like special housing vouchers such as Section 8 housing, or career training programs. The sessions also focused on counseling residents through the frustrations inherent in making such transitions and applying for programs. Drug addicts, like ex-cons, often had difficulty managing a regimen on the outside. The transition training was the Loves’ attempt to reduced the odds that were already stacked against them.

Each week, the Loves arranged for a representative from a specific agency to come and speak for 20 minutes, after which time guests could ask questions and get feedback for their specific case. The second hour was lead by a counselor, who would facilitate various exercises or discussions on topics of interest. Finally, each member of the group would be assigned a goal for the following week. Transition training was mandatory the last three months of a guest’s stay, but anyone was welcome to the sessions.

Normally prone to sedition, Tisa had become enamored of the idea of getting her own place with John and had eagerly attended the transition trainings. The baby was but a few weeks old and Tisa and John had been given one year to get themselves together, but Dr. and Mrs. Love encouraged their initiative, having learned that striking while the iron was hot was the biggest chance most of these people had to stay clean. In all likelihood, most would come back. Those that didn’t would be found in a ditch somewhere. So Mrs. Love pushed Tisa and John to independence

The baby made it difficult for both Tisa and John to attend the meetings at the same time, so they alternated weeks. As the guests began to file back into the Center and fill up the day room, John made his way to his room on the second floor to keep Domini’s cries from disturbing anyone. This week was Tisa’s week to go.

“I’d like to introduce Mr. Joel Feinbusch from The Price Club. We’re very excited about a new job program the company is offering to recent graduates of this Center and other Centers around the Bay Area, like Glide Memorial,” said Dr. Love.

Tisa listened with interest to Mr. Feinbusch’s explanation of The Price Club’s Pathways to Success program. The Price Club, he explained, was a large warehouse store that allowed consumers to take advantage of the same bulk purchase options that businesses had, without having special tax status. Like the cash-and-carry stores that were scattered around the region, The Price Club sought to provide consumers with the same economies of scale, but with various payment options and significantly more name brand choices that existing stores.

The business model used by the company provided for numerous entry level positions. Stockers and warehouse workers were needed, as well as forklift drivers, shipping clerks and dry dock workers. In addition, Mr. Feinbusch said, there was opportunity for advancement. People who performed at their jobs could move up to management positions or transition to higher paying hourly positions, including checkers, quality assurance team members, and customer service agents. Fringe benefits included full health and dental care, and after 5 years, an education reimbursement program for workers who wanted to receive a BA.

While many of these available positions would be sought after and filled by regular citizens, Mr. Feinbusch said that the company had reserved a certain number of positions for those who were transitioning back into society. The Pathways program also included on-site 12-step meetings and a buddy systems that connected Pathways members with seasoned Price Club workers who could help them understand the workplace culture.

Mr. Feinbusch was sorry, he said, that he couldn’t stay for questions, but he gave each attendee a job application and invited them to apply. The remainder of the session was dedicated to completing the applications, and to general discussions about what sorts of standards are commonplace at such stores. By the end of the session, Tisa had nearly completed John’s application and with it, had mapped out the trajectory of their happily ever after. She would stay home and care for Domini; he would start at The Price Club and work his way up. In no time, he would be managing the entire place and they would have a home with a view in the El Cerrito hills.

Tisa bounded upstairs to tell him of their good fortune, and to begin the transformation process that would insure he, and not some less deserving punk, got the job. Instead, she found Mrs. Love in his room, the sleeping Domini in her arms, whom she handed off to Tisa at that moment.

“Where’s John?” asked Tisa, still giddy from the prospect of a new life.

“Tisa, he’s not here, and . . . well, I’ve been around long enough to know that he’s probably not coming back.”

John had found his limit. The street for his was more predictable and came with a different set of rules, imminently more palatable to him. He had walked down to the kitchen and handed Mrs. Love the baby.

“Tell her . . . tell her that I just ain’t built to do this,” he said. Then he disappeared.