Parker: “Money is everything!”

Just as likely to destroy your life as make it better…

Money’s a crazy thing. Just as likely to ruin your life as make it better.

I once knew a woman, very advanced alcoholic. Talented artist, but hellbent on drinking herself to death. Thought she was in her late forties/early fifties. Turned out to be early thirties. Wretched, haggard, pathetic.

She got her foot run over by her elderly landlord. Don’t know who was at fault. He was a doddering old man on the verge of dementia. She was a stumbling slurring mess of a human ninety percent of the time. A true gem that remaining ten, though.

She came into work limping. That’s how I learned about her foot. Told me what happened, but she was fine. Foot was just bruised, no big deal. Lots of little bones in there, better go to a doc. But she wouldn’t. Because she was in the US illegally, wanted in her home country for some crime she wouldn’t explain but sounded pretty sordid, and didn’t have insurance anyway. Which was fucked, because she was essentially a full time employee. Real easy for employers to dangle 1099 status, or cash under the table, and make people think it’s to their advantage. Which it almost always is not.

She shambled along drunkenly for weeks, foot never got better. One day I noticed a dirty bandage on it.

What happened? Hurt your foot again?

Not a surprise. Drink that much, as in all day every day, you fuck yourself up. Even us junior alkys in training wake up with mystery injuries.

Nope, still from the car. Foot’s not healing, there’s a little cut on it now.

She peeled off the bandage and exposed horror. Purple green sausage toes, wide open weeping wound. It fucking stank.

You have to go to the hospital.

I can’t. I don’t have any money.

You’re gonna die. Get in my car, we’re going now.

I can’t afford it, Rory.

It doesn’t matter. Get in the fucking car.

I took her to Wahiawa General, closest ER on Oahu. Not ideal, but you deal with what you’re served.

Turned her over to the doctors, sat out front and waited.

An hour later got pulled aside. Fucking gangrene, about to lose her foot. Checking her in now, don’t know when she’ll be free to go.

They discharged her a month later. They saved the foot. The period of forced sobriety knocked a decade off her appearance. Lucid, intelligent. This was a woman I’d never met before. But she was pissed. At me! Huge amounts of hospital debt, no way she could ever pay. Couldn’t exactly understand why she was concerned. When you’re in the country illegally, don’t have a pot to piss in, receive most of your wages under the table, large amounts of debt aren’t exactly a problem. Just don’t pay. What’s gonna happen?

Hit up your landlord’s insurance, I told her. That’s what it’s for. They’ll pay your bills. Maybe even toss you something extra.

She did, and a few weeks later came up to me smiling. The insurance company had paid off. Worryingly quickly, from my point of view. Ever tried to recoup cash from an insurance company? Those fuckers will drag their feet forever over a pittance. So I kinda knew the answer, but asked anyway.

How much’d they pay you?

Ten thousand dollars!

Oh, no.

Ten thousand dollars ain’t nothing, in the larger scheme. Wouldn’t zero out her hospital bills. You can’t do much with ten grand. Not enough to really improve a life. But sure as hell enough to totally ruin one.

Flush with dough she began living large. El Patron tequila and fruit punch became her go-to drink. A stupid choice, made more so by her inclination to buy in mini bottles at the local liquor store. Picked up a crew of addict friends. Like coyotes, those people. Sniff out the weak, drag ’em down as a group.

She was back on the bottle immediately. No surprise. Kind of sad, but what’re you gonna do?

Flush with dough she began living large. El Patron tequila and fruit punch became her go-to drink. A stupid choice, made more so by her inclination to buy in mini bottles at the local liquor store. Picked up a crew of addict friends. Like coyotes, those people. Sniff out the weak, drag ’em down as a group.

Turned out she had a taste for meth, kept in check previously by poverty. Given the choice between booze and crank she went with the former. But now that she was flush it was game on. She stopped coming in to work, when she showed up she’d be hammered. Was always drunk before, totally incapacitated now. Covered a dozen freshly shaped blanks in pink spatters one day. Came in sloppy, ended up slathered in pigment. Somehow managed to transfer it to nearly every surface in the factory.

The money lasted two weeks. Pissed most of it away partying, was robbed of the last couple thousand. Some of her new friends held her captive and forced her to drain her accounts over the course of a few days. She ended up homeless, playing hide and seek with security at the sugar mill where she’d bed down in the bushes at night.

The last time I saw her she was sitting on the ground surrounded by her remaining possessions. What little she had left fit in a few plastic bags. She was bawling her eyes out.

I said hi, talked for a minute. Lied and told her things would get better. Handed her the remainder of a pack of smokes, the fifteen bucks I had in my wallet. Gave her a hug, wished her good luck. Then said goodbye.