Mallory's Camera

I'm lucky to have a sense of humor and an obsessive creative project that functions as a background process. Otherwise, life would seem pret-ty grim and absolutely meaningless just about now.

At least, it's warmer! Temps have been above freezing for the past few days and are forecast to be in the 40°s all next week.

On Monday, when it was -4° overnight, I woke up to a freezing cold house because Icky, once again, had neglected to order heating oil, and the furnace had run out of fuel.



Yes, again.

Icky, in NYC, was not answering his phone, so I called the Ulster County Sheriff's Dept to come and do a welfare check—hey! A 73-year-old woman, alone in a 36° house during sub‑zero weather??? Not safe!!!

I mean, I had a space heater, struggling to keep the ambient temps in ny bedroom in the 50°s, so with a coat and a hat, I wasn't gonna expire imminently of hypothermia, but c'mon.

The Ulster County Sheriff's Dept dispatched two officers who were very nice but could do nothing.

"You could try seeing if an oil company will do an emergency one-time delivery," one of the officers suggested.

"And call social services," suggested the other.

I sighed and said, "I didn't think you would be able to do anything. I just wanted this on record in case I die of hypothermia and you need to find the perp to accuse of negligent homicide."

"I will personally pull the electric chair switch on that one," said the first officer. "What a prick your landlord is. The rent market around here is horrifying."

I was due to go into Schlock, but of course, going into Schlock would have meant turning off the space heater because you cannot leave a space heater untended; the risk of house fires is just too great. And turning off the space heater would have meant returning to a bedroom that was 37°.

So, instead, I spent the morning calling around to 10 different heating oil companies and every Ulster County social services department that seemed vaguely relevant to my needs. Interspersed with calls & texts to Icky.

The heating oil companies were downright hostile. Heating oil deliveries? Get on line, be-yatch! And put down a $1,000 deposit! The Ulster County social services departments were bored, dismissive, & condescending. They too wanted me to get on line.

Finally, Icky called back. Wonder of wonders! He was even vaguely apologetic. And arranged a delivery with his regular provider. By mid-afternoon, the house was back up to a chilly but habitable 60°—which is where I keep the thermostat because heating oil is expensive but sweaters and sweatshirts are cheap.

###

The experience took its toll emotionally.

'Cause this is the third time it's happened, and fool me twice... So, I felt like a moron: I should have moved, right? Except if I had moved, I would not have had access to the Schlock revenue stream, which is coming in useful.

But more, I felt brutalized because I was old, scared, and met with a tone that said, You’re just one more annoyance. I grokked the bureaucratic flatness was more about their overload than my worth or legitimacy. Still. I felt very marginalized & hopeless & as if I was of no importance to anyone.

Didn't help that I had to trudge out 100 yards through the snow twice to bring the chickens water. Icky still hasn't dealt with that. No, the chickens are not my responsibility, but I'm not gonna have innocent animals suffering on my watch.

Did absolutely nothing yesterday through a combination of lassitude, political despair, distracting phone calls, & Icky on the premises. Waiting for a Major Weather Event shares a lot in common with standing on line at the DMV; you see that processing is gonna take a lonnnnnng time, and you know you'd be better off doing something useful during the wait, but you can't because your skitterish mind won't let go of the countdown.

###

Alex Pretti's murder hit me hard.

An ICU nurse who worked with wounded veterans, his last action on this planet was to try and help a woman border patrol agents had tear-gassed. He was trying to record the incident with a phone in one hand. He also had a gun on his person that he had a permit to carry, and Minnesota is a permit-to-carry state. He was pushed to the ground, the gun was taken, and then he was shot 11 times through the back. Execution style.

###

Later on the phone with a friend, I said, "It's a civil war, isn't it?"

"Pretty much," my friend said.

"I wish I knew about some communication method that couldn't be spied on," I said. "Because the time has come for an organized response."

"There isn't anything that's 100% reliable. The closest thing is Signal. Open source & encrypted on both the sending and receiving end."

"You know, I almost wish I had a terminal cancer diagnosis," I said. "I would go full-on Charlotte Corday and take out Marat—"

"Careful, careful, careful," said my friend. "This is not a protected communication channel."

"Oh, my good buddy at the Department of Homeland Security knows I was just kidding about that," I said. "Don't you, Ice Barbie?"

###

Icky was up here for two full weeks, the longest amount of time he's ever spent in Wallkill since I began my tenancy. He finally left last night.

Part of his prolonged stay was due to the fact that he wanted to exercise his custody rights over the oldest Spawn. Dante dropped out of the University of Utah (I called it!) and had to be reenrolled at SUNY New Palz. New Paltz didn't start classes till the middle of last week.

Dante is not a bad kid. He's friendly, cheerful, & polite. Engaging, even. He's been diagnosed with ADHD and takes Adderall. But I often find myself wondering whether he has a neurodevelopmental disorder at all, or whether his lack of attention to the world around him isn't the psychological consequence of having a father who is so toxic that Dante's had to invest vast quantities of psychic energy into blocking that father out. There is no such thing as selective obliviousness at that age; kids can't compartmentalize. So Dante is oblivious to things he shouldn't be oblivious to.

Like he took out a good portion of the property's fence the other day by making an ill-considered turn onto the driveway, wreaking considerable & expensive damage to Icky's leased Chevy Equinox. Icky stayed past the start of New Paltz classes to argue with the Chevy dealer about that.

###

Speaking of driveways...

The storm is living up to its hype. Snow is coming down fast and furious. Before Icky left, I'd asked him to make arrangements with Brandi, the neighbor across the street, to plow the driveway once the storm was through (which I figured would be Monday around noon). I didn't get a straight answer about whether he had done so.

Icky texted me this morning: I would strongly suggest that you not wait for Brandi to try driving your car in and out of the driveway. I would try driving back and forth and clearing a path with the car before it gets too deep.

The snow on the driveway was already five inches deep at this point. I didn't see much point in trying to drive a path. It would be filled faster than I could drive it. But I am a marshmallow, so I figured, What the hell, and actually followed his suggestion—not once but twice.

The second time, the driveway snow was eight inches high, and I got stuck in it. It took me half an hour of frantic shoveling in 12° temperatures to inch my way back to the quasi-protection of the house.

Were u able to drive a path? Icky texted.

Kind of, I texted back. But I won't be able to do it again.

If you keep up with it you will be fine.

I don't think so. It's a 24 hour event. I'm not going to be driving my car up & down that hill in the dark.

Don’t rely on getting dug out if you can take proactive steps, Icky texted primly.

Excuse me? I AM relying on the driveway being plowed tomorrow, I texted. Can Brandi plow the driveway tomorrow after the snow is predicted to stop? If she can’t, let me know & I’ll find someone else. But the driveway WILL need to be plowed.

Whereupon Icky went beserk. Called me up and screamed at me over the phone! Called me vituperative names. Hung up on me.

WT-living-FUCK???

I stared at the phone for a second and then immediately called Christine, the Spawns' mother: "Christine, I need a reality check—"

She couldn't have been nicer.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," she said when I reported Icky's driveway-clearing plan. "You can't do that unless you have four-wheel drive. He's delusional."

About Icky's bizarre phone call: "It's not you. It's him. He's mentally ill. Borderline or bipolar or something. My advice? Make your own arrangements for getting plowed, do not depend on him. You don't have to answer his texts, you don't have to pick up the phone when he calls."

"I mean, I figured I wouldn't be able to get out of the house till tomorrow," I said. "Or maybe even Tuesday, so I don't get why..."

"Listen," Christine said. "You are a lovely person, and I am sorry you had to deal with that."

"It's like he's toxic character in a Stephen King novel!"

"I will be your lifeline," Christine said. "I have four-wheel drive. If you have to get out of the house for any reason, just give me a call. I will be right over."

Icky is even more insane than I realized.