It's Crazy How Sane I Am

A thin wall of plywood separates the neighbor's garage from mine.  It gives the illusion of privacy, but the truth is, I know when they decide to occupy that space on the other side of the wall. I can hear everything that goes on over there as long as I am standing in my own garage.

I'm not normally a nosey neighbor, but I am privy to those times Yessica  has gotten frustrated with Little Max and Sweet Ana. The children will be banished to the garage for an afternoon where they'll spend their time playing pirates and searching for treasure.

The music of the occasional midnight soiree drifts over to my side, sometimes low and melodic, sometimes booming. Sometimes I'm a forgiving neighbor. Sometimes, not.

I know when Jorge sneaks away from the family for a quick joint. The sickly scent of marijuana cannot be contained to one unit. It permeates my world as well as theirs. Once, I became so frustrated with the assault, I stood in my own garage and boldly announced to the unseen offender that I was allergic to marijuana (which is true). Some scuffling and a muted "Oh shit," could be heard, but I've never again had to suffer second-hand "euphoria."

I am fully aware that my neighbors will always be "in" on whatever I decide to do out there. The truth is, I don't do much more than park the car or search for a screwdriver, but that is beside the point.  I've never had any expectation of privacy in my garage. That is part of life when you have condemned yourself to live in a duplex like me.

This morning, I moseyed into the garage and immediately halted at the sound of soft cries. At first, I thought one of my kids was out there. My heart jumped a little at the idea of one of my little ones being hurt and alone in the corner of a cold, smelly, dark garage. But, silly me, my children aren't small. They are grown, and completely capable of finding their way to the door or screaming for help.

It was Yessica, the neighbor. The mom.

She was having a good old-fashioned cry over there. I recognized it for what it was, because I've done it myself. All women do it. It is as necessary to us as breathing. We need to get a little crazy to preserve our sanity. Men don't understand it, but women get it. I've never had my cry in the garage of course, but maybe this was Yessica's only option for retreat.

I don't know if she'd heard me come into my garage, but she didn't give any indication of it. I wanted to back up and gently close the door, but I was frozen to the spot. I felt like an intruder into what was obviously a private moment. Her soft cries quickly turned to heavy sobs.

My heart went out to her. Should I say something? Should I ask her if something was wrong? Should I call to her to let her know that everything was going to be okay? Would that even be true? Should I at least be decent enough to make a ruckus so she would know I was there?

I was stuck in a moment that was both awkward and heart-breaking. If I reached out to her, would that make me a good neighbor, or a bad one?

Jorge startled me into movement. I heard his booming voice call out to his wife. "Yessica! Where'd you go?"

A few moments passed before she answered. I imagine she needed to compose herself before returning to her loud, demanding husband, who would probably never understand the need for a good old-fashioned cry.

100 Words: I'm the Mom, Not the Maid

I'll move to someplace where it rains at least twice a week and relatives aren't allowed, specifically, offspring. I'll take the computer, the books and my nice comfy bed.

I'll probably take the coffee maker as well.

I'll eat out every night so I won't need to wash the dishes and I'll wear jammies all the time.

Nobody here notices what I do until I neglect to do it. Things pile up and get gross.

Then they point fingers at each other proclaiming, "He didn't clean it!" or "She didn't lift a finger!"

I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?

Also Known As

You may not realize this (especially if you work for Pier 1 Imports), but Nessa Roo is not my real name. Well, the "Nessa" part is real, but the "Roo" part is simply a musical note you sing at the end.

I found this mailer in my mail box today.

I have no idea how Pier 1 matched this imaginary name to my actual address, but there you have it.

You know what this means, don't you?


(I have an alias.)

Freedom

A quick note before you get into the meat of this post: I do love my job, and I do love the bright smiling faces I see on a daily or weekly basis. This particular week has been a little hectic. I needed to vent.


It didn't occur to me that I ought to celebrate the Fourth of July yesterday. The only thoughts I had on the matter were that I should celebrate that it was finally over. There'll be a short rest for me as far as holidays go. Then Labor Day will roll around and we'll all be back to grunting and grumbling.

I work in a meat market in a big, busy supermarket, you know. It seems that every holiday is a meat holiday. It's not like working in a flower shop, where the biggest, bestest holidays are Valentine's Day and Mother's day. Nope. Texans seem to need a slab of meat with every meal, and when a special occasion rolls around, meat makes up most of the menu:  prime ribs for Christmas, turkey for Thanksgiving, hams for Easter, so on and so forth.

We are a busy bunch of meat mongers. We roll in at six in the morning, start tossing briskets and hamburger. We cut, we grind we slice, we saw and we chop. We wrap and weigh and throw it in the counter just to watch it disappear within a few minutes. I've been stepped on, shoved aside, poked, grabbed and yelled at by some of the neediest, most demanding customers, and they have the audacity to snub their noses at me because I somehow failed to live up to their expectations by not having thirty pounds of cube steaks ready and waiting on the shelf for them.  As if I could even get to the shelf, as crowded as it is. I have to slink and sneak between people just to stock things. Lots of times, I don't make it to the counter. Shoppers often take what I've got straight from my arms. Sometimes I have to get a little pushy. I'm a real live person you know. I have my limits. (I'm such a bitch. I should be fired, really.)

whew!

Back to the point. I don't celebrate the holidays like other people do. By the time it's time to relax in the park with live music and an ice-cold beer, I just can't stand the sight of people. Not even the ones I actually like. I just want go home, lock the door, sink into a nice hot bubble-bath and enjoy the freedom and the solitude.

That's what I was doing last night when I heard the fireworks start. That's when I finally remembered it was a day of celebration, and that I probably ought to take a moment to respect it. I toweled off just in time to step outside and see most of the Grande Finale. I'm not sure which park it was, but I could see it from my house if I climbed up on the patio fence and stretched my neck. My neighborhood was eerily quiet. The pops and bangs of the pyrotechnics echoed against empty, dark houses.

A Lifestar Helicopter flew over, headed toward the hospitals, which are near my house, whoop, whoop, whoop. I wonder what the fireworks looked like from up there. Had the demonstration been as uneventful to the pilot as it had been for me? Was he more concerned about making it through the workday, or was he missing his friends and family, who were surely celebrating without him?

It occurred to me then that none of my friends or family had bothered to pick up the phone and invite me to celebrate with them. Likewise, I hadn't bothered to ask any of them to join me. I was too exhausted from working all week toward the one goal of making it through without stabbing anybody.

Barely made it.

I punched Domingo three times in the shoulder for being a disrespectful asshole, and I told Pablo to go to Hell, but other than that, the meat-heads remained relatively unharmed. I can't say as much for the customers.

My Fourth of July did not go out with a bang. I was in bed by eleven, alone and completely sober. I cherished every moment. Wouldn't have had it any other way. I will, however, be celebrating my 39th birthday next week, even if I have to bake my own cake. (My mouth has been watering for some Black Forest, just in case you were wondering what kind of cake you...er, I should be making.)

100 Words: Summer

We should have had Thanksgiving on a day like this, when I am thankful to be living in this tiny house with central air conditioning. I heard it roar to life at five this morning.
Initially, I thought it was hailing. In my dreary state, I imagined the tap, tap of hailstones against my bedroom window. Excited at the prospect of rain, I sat up and moved my curtain aside. I could feel the heat through the double-pane window. I growled into the darkness. The tapping sound was only the click click of the chain on my ceiling fan. 

Nightmare: Power Outage

I was supposed to be working or studying, or something else equally mundane and demanding, but I had been distracted by the power outage. My computer was still glowing on battery back-up, but the room had settled into an uncomfortable, dark silence. I realized then that I had no idea how long it had been that way. I had been so immersed in my studies, I hadn't bothered to acknowledge the world around me. I grabbed my giant, silver flashlight and headed toward the front of the building.

The regular noises were gone. The fans overhead had stopped their roars; bones did not screech against the power of the saw blade; knives did not thunk against the chopping block with each slice of meaty flesh. The silence had grown so loud, the only noise I could hear was the trickle of blood pooling from the cutting board onto the slippery floor.

My co-workers had disappeared. They weren't prowling around, using their cellphones as flashlights as they had done before. Nobody cheered for the break in labor. It seemed that I'd been abandoned, but that extra sense I sometimes get told me the others were simply hiding. From what, I had no idea.
I was determined to find them. Why wouldn't they have warned me of the impending doom? Did nobody think I was important enough to save?

I flicked my light into corners and crevices, searching for familiar faces, but none were found. I moved through the building alone. It had changed since I had sat down at the desk. The sales floor was gone, replaced by more work tables, more machines, more storage shelves. The customers had disappeared as well, I suppose because there was nothing set up on display for them to buy.

I was in the bakery when I heard the first murmurs from the women. I followed the sounds past the big mixers, around the walk-in ovens, beyond the freezer. All things here were covered with a thin coat of flour. My fingers reached out to the baker's block and etched the algebra problem I'd been working on before. Find f(g(-3)) if f(x)=4x-9 and g(x)=3x^2. It looked simple enough, but it might as well have been written in Chinese, because the numbers and letters were just swirling together in one big doughy mess. I grunted and smeared the problem away with a swipe of my hand. It was silly to be standing there working out math problems when I should have been looking for the others.

I found them in a bigger storage room I had never known was there. All the women from all the departments had gathered here. I saw Deadra from Bakery holding hands with Angie the POS clerk. Linda from Fuel was halfway hidden by Dominique from Deli. Janet from the Hot Bar sat in a chair in the center of the room, glaring at me. Each of them cringed away from my beam of light like scared children, except for Janet.

Sweet Janet with the long blond braid and the big smile was hissing at me. She reached forward and knocked the torch from my grasp. My light bounced and rolled into a corner, where it flickered and died. I felt the hot sting of a flesh wound on the back of my hand. I pressed it into my shirt and blinked into the darkness.

We were now shrouded, not just by the darkness, but by a heavy, frightening presence that we could not see. I felt it move past me, an invisible, slippery creature that preys on fear. And it had us. We were frightened. I must have screamed or made some kind of demand for explanation because Janet swung her claw at me again, this time across the face. She told me to shut up, and I was getting pissed at her. When the lights came back on, I was going to kick her ass!

I dropped to the cold concrete floor and began to feel around for the flashlight. The creature, which I couldn't have seen even in the light, ripped me away from myself. It had my body pressed up against the wall, about to tear me to bits, but my spirit remained on the floor looking up. Now that I was no longer confined to the physical laws, I could see the hollow, ugly thing shredding me to pieces, and I knew that the same fate awaited the other women there. I was powerless to stop it. I wondered briefly what had happened to all the men?

I searched the faces of the women, and all I could see was fear and hopelessness. I felt the pain of heartache, although I had no heart. It was then I decided I didn't like being dead. I pulled my body back around me, pushed my fear away and told myself to ...

wake up...

Nine Days In

Even thought today is the ninth day of my twelve day vacation, I have not been able to relax at all until just this morning. It hasn't been a wonderful vacation, despite all my plans to jump in my new car and go see some sights, drink some drinks and soak up some Santa Fe air. Those things never got done.

You see, my new used car, a little "reliable" Ford Focus burned the alternator out on Saturday as I was on my way to pick up my little grandson. I was cruising right along when the radio turned off, the dashboard went blank and the car just stopped going altogether. Thank goodness I was on Plains, and not on Interstate 40!

That's when I started making all kinds of phone calls and realized I have no real friends. Nobody would answer their damned phones at 6:oo on a sunny Saturday despite the fact that I have dragged my happy ass out of bed at 3 in the morning to come to their rescues even when police were involved! Several times.

I had to wait til Monday morning to call the car lot and let them know about it. They were excellent to me, and took my car in for repairs, but I didn't get it back until Wednesday. In the meantime, I had to ride the city bus just to get to the college. I have never ever ridden the city bus before, and hopefully, this will be my one and only experience in those rattling death-traps. Not only did this take a full three hours out of my day, I also had to leave school early just to catch the Route 5 bus at 4:30 in order to transfer to the last Route 8 bus downtown and get back home just a little after 6:00 in the evening. And then I was trapped there until the next morning when the next bus rolled around at 7:30.

I could have walked, I know. It takes an hour and fifteen minutes to walk, and I know that from personal experience. But the weather has been mighty wet and unpredictable all week. I didn't want to risk being swept away by a ferocious tornado. Although, after a couple of hours on the Bus of Terror, I realize, the tornado might have been the lesser threat.

Anyway, I did get my car back on Wednesday right after I completed all my requirements in the Math Lab I was taking, so Wednesday turned out to be a pretty great day for me. (Er, that said MATH lab. Not meth lab...geesh!)

Today, I got a good idea for a new story. I have been writing that all morning, and I may or may not post it here after it's all polished and shiny. It may turn into something I might want to save for a publisher. We'll have to wait and see. I don't actually know any publishers , so right now, you guys are in the running to read it first.

I got so involved writing that I burned my egg rolls and filled the house with a smoky cabbage stench, so I think I'll venture out for lunch.

With three days of vacation left, I may decide to mosey over to New Mexico after all.