In which I plunge out the depths, trying to remove a blockage

I have been completely unable to put together a cohesive post of any sort and I haven't been anywhere to take pictures.

I decided I needed to just force myself to write and maybe something interesting would come out. It's sort of like when you eat too much cheese. My brain has eaten too much head cheese and now it's constipated like nobody's business. Where is the prune juice of my soul? What Metamucil of words will I imbibe, that I may evacuate my mind?

Squeaky Bed Sandy, I have discovered, has a penchant for drama. Quite frankly, to not beat around the bush and to avoid spin, she's an abused woman in a bad, downward cycle.

A couple weeks ago -- "YOU SLUT! YOU WHORE! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS!" A man threw a rock against the side of the apartment building, then stomped away rapidly. The upstairs neighbor, Mike, and I came out of our little monastic cells.

"Who the hell was that?" I say to Mike.

Mike jabs his finger over his shoulder and I see Squeaky standing on the stairwell, shaking.

I talk to her. "It's my fault, it's my fault!" she says. I learn that she had caught a ride home with a handsome young thing, and had kissed him while in his car. Her most recent boyfriend had seen them and flipped out.

As she talks, I walk with her to her apartment and then listen as she goes into a circling litany of her woes, repeating them over and over again. She's stuck on replay and doesn't realize it. I watch as she starts to down shot after shot of tequila. Her speech gets slurred and her tone becomes savage. Her face alternates between pouty lipped sadness, in which she talks like some evil Shirley Temple from a circle of hell all her own, and fiery eyed anger, teeth bared and fingers clawed.

Squeaky talks about her boyfriends. She tells me she was married for 18 years. She was never physically abused, she insists, "But mentally abused, I was mentally abused!" It sounds like she's crying but there are no tears. "I can't control how men are going to behave, but it's my fault when I invite them back. Come back when you calm down I told this last one."

Squeaky talks about her job. "I was making $50,000 a year! That bastard burned his restaurant and he burned his houseboat! He embezzled me!"

As near as I can make out, her previous boss is an arsonist and thief who seems to have fired her.

Squeaky goes on. "I was job hunting in 2003. 'No one is going to hire someone like you' they tell me. That hurts me! I'm a middle aged woman with no tits!" she tells me at least four times. "They're paying me minimum wage! Minimum wage! $6.75 an hour! I've been doing this for 20 years. I know my job. I can bring in the business. Maximum effort for minimum wage. That's what I say."

Squeaky's mind circles back to the boyfriends. She tells me about how her previous boyfriend broke open the door to the storage room. I tell her that I had heard the story from her next door neighbor, Mike. She gets angry again, calling Mike a pedophile and saying that he was stalking a 14 year old girl. She says that they had put a restraining order on her door by mistake.

I also learn, after she is very drunk, that Squeaky is an adamant homophobe. She says, "God didn't make...." and I know intuitively that she is trying to say that God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. But it eventually comes out, "God didn't make... man and woman... to be homoshexuals. They're supposed to have babies!"

Eventually, the tequila causes a deeper pain to surface. Squeaky tells me that her sister recently died of cancer and her family didn't tell her that the sister had cancer in the first place. "Do you want to see a picture of her?" Squeaky goes into her bedroom and I hear her throwing things around and mumbling. She comes back into the living room, and this time there are real tears on her face. "I can't find it." she laments. I eventually learn that her sister was actually some sort of foster child.

Squeaky rolls a joint and she asks me, "Are you Federal? Are you Federal? You have those two white cars, and you carry two cell phones, and your apartment doesn't have any furniture. Are you Federal?"

Squeaky starts to circle through the whole litany again. She jabs at me with her fingers during one of her angry phases. The stories are exactly the same as the first several times. Her cat, Ozzy, is laying on the dining room table in front of her. Squeaky leans forward in her vehemence while clawing at me. This pisses her cat off so much he bites her hard enough to draw blood, four puncture wounds in her elbow. Bad vibes. I make excuses that it is late and depart before I am knifed.

Yesterday, more drama from Squeaky's apartment. At one point, she yells down from her balcony. "Tell him to knock it off. I have a man with me up here!" Later, I hear the man arguing with her. They shout back and forth. After a lull comes, "I'm not yelling. THIS IS YELLING!! NOW I'M YELLING AT YOU!!"

I went to Costco, today, to pick up some munchies for my students to nosh on. I don't go to places like this too often, for reasons that have been related time and again by others. Such naked consumerism makes me ill. The gigantic shopping carts pushed by gigantic people. Gigantic people who fill their carts with gigantic packages of unmitigated crap.

When I got to the check out counter I was carrying a bag of trail mix and a package of dried squid (Japanese style), the squid for me to gnaw on the drive home. When the clerk saw only my two small items he exclaimed, in some surprise, "That's it?"

"I guess you didn't expect to see someone not consuming in mass quantities here, did you?" I said. I suppose I was the only person in the place who didn't have a gigantic cart filled with a big screen HDTV, a massive jar of pickles, a 55 gallon drum of Hi-C, a plastic wrapped package containing 20 rolls of two-ply toilet paper, and a case of Irish Spring soap.

There is a section of I-680 that is strewn with dead cats. A new one appears every few days. There is a housing development nearby, but I can't imagine that so many cats would go wandering away from there and get hit on the freeway. It must be a herd of ferals. All I know is that they're getting rubbed out with regularity.
  • Current Mood: writer's block
You are welcome to comment any time you wish.

I would have liked to have said more about my general loathing for Costco, though I find them sometimes useful, but it has all been said before.
Your writer's block is more sensitive and beautiful than my best stuff.

Except for the part about the headcheese. Ew.
But that part was pretty amazing, too.
You're very kind. I would like to send you a pie. Even though I don't comment, I find your stuff eminently readable. You're one of my favorite LJ'ers.
I should have checked this before sending my e-mail reply.

I love tales of Squeaky Bed Sandy!

The day before J. headed to NJ, my mother dropped 2 boxes of items from Costco off to me. I think she's worried about the delayed child support so it's sweet, to me. But space *is* an issue with these 6 pack and 12 pack items. I don't think I'll have to buy toothpaste or deodorant for well over a year. I have no idea what to do with the Dove soap as I only use VitaBath for showering and cranberry liquid soap for hand and face washing.