I happened to be up at 4 am, and I heard her down there banging around her store room, babbling. I don’t know if there was even anyone there to hear what she was saying. She was probably sorting through some of the stuff I helped her retrieve from her old storage unit on the gulf side that night. That was actually a kind of a fun and cool night. We met some of the mythical characters she described in one of her stories that play from her on voicebox on an endless loop. People from her past. I had wondered up to that point if any of these people from her past were real. I wondered if any of them ever had anything to do with her any more. Apparently, they do exist, and they do stay in touch with her, and they do like her. I drove her out there to pick up her crap from her storage unit, and we stopped in to see them. One was the mother, the other was the son. The son was a bit of an artist. His etched glass designs hung all over the house. He was high or drunk or both. He was a rugged and rough and weathered roofer. There was a brother too, but I can’t remember if he was in jail or dead or in another state or city. They called her Cherokee, but she actually is Choctaw and Cree. She lives downstairs and over one unit from me. And these people she speaks of in her endless speeches do exist. 

I doubt she speaks favorably of me, even though I tried tried tried. She was just lonely and horny. Plane and simple. The harder I tried with her, the more it infuriated her. She wants more. She wants what she probably can’t ever have…so she just wants. She wants and wants. I was temporary. I did it all. Tried to. I even tutored her son: science, math, history. She bummed two hundred off me every month because disability came ‘right after’ rent was due.

Her madness must have descended fairly recently. Everyone stared at her. Every man wanted her. Everyone was out to ‘mess her over.’ According to her, I was part of a network of men who live in this complex who do nothing but talk about her, share information about her, try in devious, hidden ways to make sure she does not succeed in life. 

I don’t know. Maybe I am an evil spirit. I don’t feel evil. I’m not allergic to sage. I try to be good. I really do. I have made that my mission, actually. Maybe I’m failing.

She accused me of some pretty fuckin absurd stuff though. They were outlandish and original, her accusations. Or they were just vague. She admitted herself that she drives men away. She said it as though it was inevitable. It inevitably would happen to me to – I’d be driven away.

So now here she is. 4 am. Banging around her store room. Sifting through her odd belongings. Reciting histories of everyone she’d ever had human contact with and everyone she’d ever had spiritual contact with. Some of the junk in that store room probably had spiders in it.

What was her routine nowadays, I wondered sometimes. She probably did the 100 situps. She probably watched lots of documentaries; stuff about ufo’s and history’s mysteries. She choked down all her prescriptions. The defib device still protruded out of her tiny chest. She finally got the twisted up bumper on her little red truck fixed. She probably still spoke of the the old and wise chief of the great tribe…who she was certain was trying to the booty from her that time in the teepee at the pow wow. Did she remember the wise words he spoke or did she remember the moves he made on her? She would recount both when she told stories of him. I hope her trip is a little easier these days. Sometimes I hope that. Usually I don’t give much of a fuck. There are unfortunate occurences when I’m taking my trash out and she pulls up in her truck…she’s just come back from the dollar store or the Race Track where she bought her two tall bud lights. She sees me. Every bad thing I never did comes chattering out. Her son just sits and listens. 


About HappyApathy

It eels what it eels.
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