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mallorys_cameraPeevish and out of sorts. Took advantage of Ben's absence to rent a dumpster. Spent the last few days cleaning the garage. Moldy books, broken toys, dead snakes floating in alcohol-filled jars. Disgusting. Disheartening. Yesterday I finally worked my way over to the boxes that contain all the stuff Ben cleared out of my mother's apartment just after she died. Like unpacking pieces of her peeling skin. I got intensely nauseated.
I remember seeing these things in her little apartment. That bowl of wax apples. Those ballet posters. What are they now? Junk. Garbage for the dumpster. She had a perfectly useable set of dishware but I knew it would make me sick to eat off it. I got up at five this morning and carted them all off to Good Will.
Finally when I couldn't cram one more broken thing into the trash, I came inside and started making phonecalls. Hadn't talked to a single person all day except for some frantic back and forth with Ben over the landlord and the contractor. (The plumbing in this old house hasn't been updated in sixty years, the wall next to the bathtub has begun to rot and this week the pipes underneath the house finally gave out.) Called Eleanor – not home. Called Abe – he was in a foul mood.
Told Abe about the weird thing that happened last week. During the hot spell, one night I forgot to lock my front door. Around midnight Xena started barking frantically and I heard a crash from my office. I went to investigate. There was a guy standing there. A youngish guy, very drunk.
I wasn't scared. I was furious.
"Get the fuck out of my house!" I screamed.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he said, weaving. He bumped into one of my orchids. It smashed to the floor. His head flapped back and forth against my Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags. "This is my house."
"Out! Out! Get out!" I screamed. I grabbed him by his shoulders and maneuvered him through the open door.
"Stop tripping!" he said plaintively. "I live here. What's your problem?"
In some side annex of my mind, even as I punched the numbers 9-1-1 into the phone, I reviewed this possibility. Was he a ghost? Was I a ghost? How had our separate realities come to clash with this most fundamental of all laws of physics, the conservation of matter?
"He's very, very drunk," said the officer who arrived on the scene five minutes later. Then he asked hopefully, "You're gonna press charges, right?"
"No, I'm not going to press charges," I said. "A simple mistake, right? Could happen to anyone."
The officer seemed disappointed.
And Abe on the phone didn't think the incident was funny at all. "Well, that's an omen if I've ever heard one. An honest-to-God wake-up call. You better start paying attention."
"An omen of what?" I asked. "Attention to what?"
"You tell me," said Abe darkly. "You tell me."
The minute I hung up on Abe, the phone rang. Heidi. "So, do you want to grab a bite to eat and listen to some music?"
I should have said no.
Heidi coming off the tail end of a three-day buzz. Tom the errant musician was officially thrown out by his wife and has been staying with the Sullivans. Much juicy gossip. It was all about the son. The wife had given Tom an ultimatum – him or me. "He'll distract you from your music," said Heidi. "That's what she told him. Isn't that awful? She's Russian, you know. They don't like kids much."
"How old is the kid?" I ask.
"Fourteen. In bad shape too. Dropped out of school. Drinks. Smokes pot. Terrible!" said Heidi with great relish.
I notice that Heidi's neckline is very low and her black lycra sweater, one size too tight. Her breasts – ample to begin with – are jutting out like the masthead on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Uh-oh. Look out ahead. Major libido warning.
She leaned closer in a cloud of sickly sweet perfume. "Tom's in love with me," she said in a low voice. "He told me that. Bill doesn't know what to do."
I rather doubt that Tom so recently dumped by Anna Karenina is doing anything more than a particularly painful variant of singing for his supper here but I smile, make vague conciliatory sidekick noises.
"You're coming to Viva's to watch him play, right?" says Heidi.
"Heidi, I'm really tired. I need to work on my business plan –"
"Oh, please come."
What could I do?
As usual there were maybe five people in the house and the waitress startled me by remembering what I drank the other night. "The usual, huh?"
"What?" I said.
"Rum and coke," she said, snapping her fingers at me. "White Russian," she said, pointing at Heidi.
I didn't quite know what to make of a waitress who anticipated my drink order. Was I turning into a character in a Charles Bukowski novel?
As usual, Tom put in a brilliant performance. A bit heavy on minor keys and machine gun riffs with the wham-wham peddle, though. In between songs, he rambled into the microphone. "So, what do you when your ex-wife tells you she never had an orgasm? Not once in eleven years. Do you believe her?"
Bill Sullivan lurched hopefully into the opening baseline of Freebird.
Tom held up his hand. "Not yet, Billy. Not quite yet. We're here to do Freebird, yes, and Stairway to Heaven and every tune in the Eagles songbook. We're the Old Spice Girls and we're here for you! For your pleasure. Tell me, do any of you fake orgasms?"
The drummer raised his hand.
"Kimmy, that's a bad thing, faking orgasms," Tom said, shaking his head. "I mean, you let his tongue get all tired out and for what? For what, I fucking ask you?"
And I think to myself: interesting people are… well… interesting, but their lives have a way of unraveling before your eyes. Too much drama.
I remember seeing these things in her little apartment. That bowl of wax apples. Those ballet posters. What are they now? Junk. Garbage for the dumpster. She had a perfectly useable set of dishware but I knew it would make me sick to eat off it. I got up at five this morning and carted them all off to Good Will.
Finally when I couldn't cram one more broken thing into the trash, I came inside and started making phonecalls. Hadn't talked to a single person all day except for some frantic back and forth with Ben over the landlord and the contractor. (The plumbing in this old house hasn't been updated in sixty years, the wall next to the bathtub has begun to rot and this week the pipes underneath the house finally gave out.) Called Eleanor – not home. Called Abe – he was in a foul mood.
Told Abe about the weird thing that happened last week. During the hot spell, one night I forgot to lock my front door. Around midnight Xena started barking frantically and I heard a crash from my office. I went to investigate. There was a guy standing there. A youngish guy, very drunk.
I wasn't scared. I was furious.
"Get the fuck out of my house!" I screamed.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he said, weaving. He bumped into one of my orchids. It smashed to the floor. His head flapped back and forth against my Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags. "This is my house."
"Out! Out! Get out!" I screamed. I grabbed him by his shoulders and maneuvered him through the open door.
"Stop tripping!" he said plaintively. "I live here. What's your problem?"
In some side annex of my mind, even as I punched the numbers 9-1-1 into the phone, I reviewed this possibility. Was he a ghost? Was I a ghost? How had our separate realities come to clash with this most fundamental of all laws of physics, the conservation of matter?
"He's very, very drunk," said the officer who arrived on the scene five minutes later. Then he asked hopefully, "You're gonna press charges, right?"
"No, I'm not going to press charges," I said. "A simple mistake, right? Could happen to anyone."
The officer seemed disappointed.
And Abe on the phone didn't think the incident was funny at all. "Well, that's an omen if I've ever heard one. An honest-to-God wake-up call. You better start paying attention."
"An omen of what?" I asked. "Attention to what?"
"You tell me," said Abe darkly. "You tell me."
The minute I hung up on Abe, the phone rang. Heidi. "So, do you want to grab a bite to eat and listen to some music?"
I should have said no.
Heidi coming off the tail end of a three-day buzz. Tom the errant musician was officially thrown out by his wife and has been staying with the Sullivans. Much juicy gossip. It was all about the son. The wife had given Tom an ultimatum – him or me. "He'll distract you from your music," said Heidi. "That's what she told him. Isn't that awful? She's Russian, you know. They don't like kids much."
"How old is the kid?" I ask.
"Fourteen. In bad shape too. Dropped out of school. Drinks. Smokes pot. Terrible!" said Heidi with great relish.
I notice that Heidi's neckline is very low and her black lycra sweater, one size too tight. Her breasts – ample to begin with – are jutting out like the masthead on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Uh-oh. Look out ahead. Major libido warning.
She leaned closer in a cloud of sickly sweet perfume. "Tom's in love with me," she said in a low voice. "He told me that. Bill doesn't know what to do."
I rather doubt that Tom so recently dumped by Anna Karenina is doing anything more than a particularly painful variant of singing for his supper here but I smile, make vague conciliatory sidekick noises.
"You're coming to Viva's to watch him play, right?" says Heidi.
"Heidi, I'm really tired. I need to work on my business plan –"
"Oh, please come."
What could I do?
As usual there were maybe five people in the house and the waitress startled me by remembering what I drank the other night. "The usual, huh?"
"What?" I said.
"Rum and coke," she said, snapping her fingers at me. "White Russian," she said, pointing at Heidi.
I didn't quite know what to make of a waitress who anticipated my drink order. Was I turning into a character in a Charles Bukowski novel?
As usual, Tom put in a brilliant performance. A bit heavy on minor keys and machine gun riffs with the wham-wham peddle, though. In between songs, he rambled into the microphone. "So, what do you when your ex-wife tells you she never had an orgasm? Not once in eleven years. Do you believe her?"
Bill Sullivan lurched hopefully into the opening baseline of Freebird.
Tom held up his hand. "Not yet, Billy. Not quite yet. We're here to do Freebird, yes, and Stairway to Heaven and every tune in the Eagles songbook. We're the Old Spice Girls and we're here for you! For your pleasure. Tell me, do any of you fake orgasms?"
The drummer raised his hand.
"Kimmy, that's a bad thing, faking orgasms," Tom said, shaking his head. "I mean, you let his tongue get all tired out and for what? For what, I fucking ask you?"
And I think to myself: interesting people are… well… interesting, but their lives have a way of unraveling before your eyes. Too much drama.
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Processing
Date: 2003-07-01 02:37 pm (UTC)I love reading the next installment of your drama queen friend's vaguely pathetic life, and sincerely hope she does not know your LJ name. Keep 'em coming.
P.S. LOCK YOUR DOOR! You aren't in the country, my dear, and even if you were, deranged lunacy is everywhere. Had you noticed?
Re: Processing
Date: 2003-07-01 04:33 pm (UTC)