It's a landfill, Jill decided. My world is landfill. It was another ordinary Friday but busier than usual. Early mornings were the worst, Jill thought. She wished there was some way she could resume walking in between 11:00 and 11:45 AM like she used to, but that wouldn’t work anymore. It didn’t make sense to drive the thirty minutes each way twice, within such a short period of time. Her boy was in school now, not far from the clinic. 

She looked at the faces. So many people were sitting in the black hard-back chairs that lined the walls or standing in the nearby hallway. It seemed that all people and furniture radiated from the large center desk where the head of security sat. The staff didn’t like anyone to talk. People did anyway. Much of the chatter at any given moment was in Spanish. Jill understood only small pieces. She liked to practice reading the Spanish postings and notices and then comparing the English translations. Her listening comprehension was improving slowly. The majority at the clinic were Puerto Rican. There was a good share of blacks. Whites were a minority. A small handful came from good neighborhoods, suburban areas.

Announcements, brochures, and ditto sheets were on every wall, door, shelf, and table, and stacked on the round corner cabinet in the waiting area, as well as on desks and modest pieces of furniture in the counselors’ offices. Ads and information were everywhere. The phone number of Crisis Services was displayed on a circular blue and white sticker affixed to a huge sheet of sunny orange construction paper on the wall, with forest-green block letters on it that stated, THE LINE STARTS HERE. This thick paper was a boundary that no one was allowed to cross. It was a landmark at the end of the long, narrow hallway. It was the only place, Jill thought, that was colorful.

The commonplace poster showing how to perform the Heimlich maneuver was on the wall, and farther down the hallway was a large, illustrated diagram about Hepatitis B. Jill read these over and over again, out of habit, and the same information and appearances of these postings soon became monotonous and irritating to Jill.

HIV testing conducted Tuesdays at 11:00. No Smoking. Keep door closed. You must speak with the nurse before meeting with the doctor. Please make requests for routine dose changes before 11:00 AM Wednesdays. The clinic will be closed promptly at 12:00 during the weeks of December 20 and December 27. No soliciting. No panhandling. Do not ask to borrow money from the staff. Do not loiter. Clinic staff may not enter into friendly or intimate relationships with clients or provide transportation for them. Please remove your sunglasses before approaching the dispensing window.

One poster was interesting to Jill. On it stated the information that diseases such as AIDS and Hepatitis could be transmitted by sharing straws. Sometimes blood could be found in the ends of plastic straws or rolled-up bills.

New notices were sometimes added for short periods of time, about local events such as free dental care day for children at the University Dental School, or that the circus was coming to the East side (the ghetto) on a certain date, or about meetings and events taking place at the clinic itself.

Once, a notice was put up about an evening conference to solicit client input concerning the clinic’s performance, and Jill thought perhaps this was conscientious. She recalled that evaluation forms were also handed out twice a year. But when Jill contemplated it further, she realized that there was no indication as to whether this was something mandatory or voluntary on the clinic’s part. Was it a truly virtuous endeavor to improve the clinic, or were such meetings mandated or conducted for appearances? Did Dart honestly expect anyone to show up? Maybe this practice benefited the clinic in terms of funding. Lots of counseling agencies gave out evaluation forms for clients to fill out, and Jill was certain that this paperwork was never read. If it actually had been read by the left hand, it was never communicated to the right. The girl considered attending but didn’t want to be present at the meeting alone.

Many rules were spread verbally by security, such as the No talking in line rule. Clients conversed anyway, but a nurse or security guard would often intervene, allegedly due to his or her own nervousness. But typically, the exchanges between clients and staff were friendly, even playful in nature. The people frequenting the clinic were treated on a level of equality and respect, and Jill was pleased about this. Perhaps, to her, that was the best aspect of Dart. A friend told her that the place was run exclusively by blacks, and that they were prejudiced against whites. Jill disagreed. She rarely felt discriminated against.

One of the dispensing nurses, Carmen, posted passages from the Bible on her window since it “helped her get through the day.” At least these messages were changed frequently, so that Jill was provided with fresh reading material while she waited in line. Once there was a note that read, “Keep your mouths shut because incessant, unholy babbling will only result in more ungodliness.” This was funny to Jill, it made her laugh. She believed that ridiculing this note would influence the nurse to take it down, but Carmen didn’t remove it until she felt like it, many weeks later.

Jill realized that Carmen's biblical passages often warned people to be silent, since speaking displayed ignorance, rudeness, or weakness of some kind. Jill lamented that the message about incessant, ungodly babbling was the last note Carmen posted. She didn't know why this practice of hers ended, though she knew that preaching religion was frowned upon, if not completely prohibited, in any kind of health agency.

Since the staff didn’t approve of Dart members interacting, congregating or loitering in and around the building, security watched the street outside. Two blocks on both sides of Main Street were covered, centering at Dart's door. The police surveyed the area in patrol cars, and Jill believed that plainclothes officers, undercover cops, in unmarked vehicles drove by, and parked on the street as well. She’d often see a suspicious man she’d never seen before, sitting in a car parked on the street, or standing outside on the sidewalk, doing a whole lot of nothing. Cop cars passed through no more than a few minutes apart. Ambulances and fire engines also raced down Main Street. The screaming sirens sounded like warnings to Jill: just take care of your business and go.

Inside the building, the security guards spoke to each other via walkie-talkie, even though a loud shout would have been sufficient in the small area. There was a computer and video camera inside the security office that monitored four sections of the interior, and a large circular mirror at the end of the hallway which aided both nurses and guards to observe people. Jill saw that security liked to play solitaire on the computer or look at photos of relatives. She’d often see a half-played game of Klondike on the monitor. There were also children’s toys in the security office for those who brought their kids.

Security consisted of three males and one female, plus a variety of temps that came and went. Jill was aware that the Methadone had considerable street value, not to mention it’s priceless to a sick, desperate addict, who might go to great lengths to get his hands on the stuff. The going rate was five dollars per ten milligrams, and in a place loaded with junkies, Jill supposed the supervision wasn’t all that excessive, though she’d never seen any violence, attempted robbery, or mishaps of that sort.

Jill was lucky to find an open seat when she returned with yellow paper in hand. She walked past the security desk, and as she sat down, she noticed a rip atop the chair that looked like Frankenstein’s torn stitches.     

On Thursdays she received a pale pink sheet in addition to the dull yellow. The cheerless pink was for the counselor, the yellow for medication. Everybody held their papers tightly. On all the sheets were four-digit cup numbers, in prominent type at the top right corner of the page above each person’s name and insurance type. The nurses entered the number into the computer, at their station, and the cups of red-purple liquid were handed out. Jill was 2551. 

A great many methods were employed to keep track of everyone. The staff made sure no one was medicated twice, obtained someone else’s dose, stole Methadone, or practiced other tricks or scams for which addicts and street people were highly renowned. Although Dart members were treated well, none were ever trusted.   

Clients signed the clipboard next to their cup ID and name upon entering the clinic, walked or wheeled themselves around the corner to obtain their sheets, and proceeded to wait for the desk guard to pass them their picture ID cards. Once both were procured, it was time to venture down that long hallway and join the line. No more than five at a time were permitted in the queue. Jill’s eyes were always drawn to the loud forest-green construction-paper letters: THE LINE STARTS HERE.