You Don't Know What You Got Till It's Gone

I miss the possums.

After several long work-weeks spent slogging up a seething, toxic river
of combustible human agitation, I have begun to miss the old days, and to see
the beauty of simple problems like a basement full of razor-toothed rodents.
In fact – those moonlit May nights of releasing puffy babies into the wilderness
seem downright ambrosial to me now.
Along with the heat of summer, the chaos of change has descended on the Inferno.
There have been staff changes, resident changes, interior and exterior building
changes, and several changes in the surrounding neighborhood as well.
And while the interior chaos is most upsetting and intense, the arrival of
our new next-door neighbors has been running a close second.
They arrived en masse; a rank crew of stringy-haired nut jobs who cannot
seem to communicate without screaming. Adhering to a grueling daily schedule,
they rise around noon and gather to stoke the old home fire before vaporizing
until around suppertime. As dusk approaches, they slowly resurface, slipping out
of nearby storage sheds, shuffling across the back parking lot or climbing out
the rear windows of their studio apartments to rendezvous on the back porch.
Some carry pillows, others carry booze, but all of them arrive bearing armloads of junk,
which they pool and pore over while blaring 80’s rock.
They love their music.
They may be a little light in the selection department (if I ever hear Bob Seeger again -
in this, or any lifetime - I will immediately have my ears surgically removed),
but they’ve definitely got the volume thing goin’ on.
If a quick search of public records hadn’t revealed the pesky little issue of their lengthy
criminal histories, it might be easier to shrug off their most annoying behaviors.
But watching convicted felons (theft, domestic violence, assault, rape of a child,
possession…) act the fool is less than amusing when they’re engaging in such behavior uncomfortably close to a place full of vulnerable women and children.
In an attempt to assure the safety of all involved, the proper authorities have been
alerted, but the apartments in question are considered private property and what
goes on there is the sole business of those living there.
So, until a crime is committed (witnessed, reported and responded to
in a timely enough manner to result in an arrest), we will continue to be a captive
audience for some of the best bad street theater this town has to offer.
To date, all the wildest acts have included the same stupendously blasted woman.
One day she came staggering across the back lot, her long gray hair pasted to her back
and her pants totally unzipped (but held up the big bunch of belly hanging out front).
She disappeared into one of the apartments, but reappeared a while later,
apparently charged with taking out the trash. After hauling a plastic bag halfway
up the sidewalk, she began an argument with someone back on the porch - which
culminated in this edifying exchange: “Cuz I’m motherfuckin’ drunk, muuutherfuuucker.
So if you don’t take the motherfuckin’trash to the motherfuckin’ can, I’ma motherfuckin’
fuck you up, motherfucker.”
Upon hearing this, open-pants woman began ripping at the trash bag, scattering debris
all over the walkway. When a wooden drumstick tumbled out, she snapped it up and
started pounding out a complex drum solo on the fence and the raised edge of the walkway.
This may have triggered a flashback, because she paused, raised her head toward the porch
and said, “Remember that time – hey - that time when you thought Phil Collins was your father… but he wasn’t? Heh heh heh….”
Late in the week she was booted off the porch and stormed out into the back lot,
where she shuffled around screaming “Whores and thieves! Whores and thieves!”
and howling like a wounded animal.
Five minutes of that was as much as I could stand,
but I could still hear her yelling as I went back into my office.
The struggling women I work with have mixed feelings about all this drama.
They can (and do) laugh about it – but time away from that kind of life has given
them new eyes, and they are uncomfortable seeing their old behavior from the
other side of the fence.
And so am I.
It’s true that our neighbors are prime examples of who not to be,
but that angry wretch in the filthy clothes – she tugs at my heart.
What turn of fortune put her there, shoeless and bloated, offering herself as trade
for something to drink? "I know you like me, you just don't want to admit it.
But I'm fun! And if you got the wine, I'm so fine."
And what turn of fortune put me here, one step across that imaginary line
I have to believe separates us from them?

bs

Independence Day

Independence from what, I'd like to know.
If the chuckleheads crowding my Main Street were any indication,
last night was a celebration of freedom from sanity and common sense.
Drunk guys were lobbing M-80's from rooftops, drunker guys were arguing
in the back alley and the drunkest guy of all was offering his view of women
to the entire town.
He began well - something about the beauty of women - but soon slid into
an unattractive rant that ended with this:
"Titties and ass, that's all they are. They have those titties, so men have to work
day and night to give them everything they want. Why is that?
Why?
Hey - men have titties - what about that, HUH?"


What indeed.


bs