The road was going to be a frontage road for a freeway. The freeway to nowhere. Part of an interstate project, this thing had been under construction for over 20 years.
It was a 3 lane one-way drag strip 12 miles long, flat as a pancake, and brand new, with another one just like it an eight of a mile to the South. That's what it was.
In the stretch where there were stoplights, they were spaced every half-mile, and timed to pass through-traffic at 45 miles per hour.
Or 90.
Everyone with a car they even thought was fast tore this stretch of new road up on a regular basis.
I regarded it as my own personal playground.
I had just finished a high-speed run with a buddy in my shiny red '79 Z28.
We were jamming to some tunes and toking on a number, grinning from ear to ear when we rolled up to that stoplight with a few cars ahead of us in traffic.
I savored a stout hit, and passed it over to my bro.
"Dude. squash that shit." He said to me. "See that brown car two cars up on the right? That's a cop."
Okay motherfucker, pass it low, smoke it like a cigarette. Shut up and quit yer bitchin. He's on his way to get a donut. Damn man, you're so fuckin lame. I thought to myself.
"That ain't no cop." I said, yanking his chain just a little.
My bro was always tweaking out about silly shit. I swear he needed something stronger than some green.
"Dude that is a cop! Put that out!"
Puff puff. A cloud rolls out my window.
"That's a chick bro. See her hair? Brunette too. Hey mama, wanna party?" I said, but not so loudly it could be heard two cars up.
"Dude that is a cop and you are so going to get me fucked up I'm gonna kick your ass." My very good friend suddenly wanted to kill me it seemed.
I grinned at him.
The light changed. Everyone grannied their way off the light.
Within a few hundred yards I saw my shot on the left and took it. I blew past the stack of cars with the cammed-up 350 screaming through the glaspacks and 4" megaphones right in sexy mama's ear as I passed the unmarked car doing 80 or 90.
The speedo had just topped 100 when she slid in behind me with the little blue lights under the grille just a winkin at me.
I dropped it down to the limit and signaled a right lane change.
There was a grocery store ahead on the right.
I stubbed my roach out in the ashtray, and palmed it.
My bro was now officially trippin balls.
I'm thinkin he's gonna lose it and start swinging on me or some shit. Then I'm gonna have to kick his ass while driving this car with a cop behind me. I swear you couldn't have driven a thumbtack up his ass with a jackhammer.
"Don't shit your pants man. We're cool." I told him as I pulled into the parking spot with the unmarked car behind me.
I handed him the roach. "Hold this bro, it won't take but a second."
Climbing out of the Camaro, I turned to face a brunette lady cop a few years older than me with a pistol and a badge on her belt.
"It sure does sound good." she said.
"Well it just cost me $20, so I am glad you think so!" I told her.
"How did it just cost you $20?"
"Because my buddy said you were a cop, and I told him you were too cute to be a cop. He said he knew you were and I said well I'll bet ya $20 she ain't, and I know just how to find out. So he won. How fast was I goin anyway?"
"I don't know." She said. "I only got up to 55 before you shut it down. How fast were you going?" She arched a devastatingly sexy eyebrow at me.
"I'll have to take the fifth on that." I said. "I got bigger problems anyway. I just bought this thing and haven't even switched the title, tag, or insurance yet, and I left my wallet and my license on my bedside table."
"You wanna go with me while I get it or do you get to handcuff me right here and now?"
She smiled. "I don't write tickets." she said. "I bust druggies."
"Fascinating!" I said. "Tell me about it over dinner, or in the morning?"
"You have a nice day, and slow down before you wind up in trouble." She said to me, getting back into her car.
"But you're the kind of trouble I'm trying to get into!" I yelled!
She had a huge grin on her face as she drove right out of my life forever.
I went back and sat down in the Camaro.
"Well?" My incredulous buddy demanded.
"Well what? She turned me down cold. Where's that joint?"
"I ate it." He replied.
"You sonofabitch!" That really upset me. "You owe me a joint now. And a hamburger!"
This day just wasn't going the way I was hoping it would.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Old Buzzard
The turkey buzzard sat high in the crown of the tallest pine tree.
I watched him through the rising mist. I studied him for a long time sitting up there with the fading sun shining on him above the forested lake.
He was a magnificent bird, really. He was an old man. His head and neck were completely devoid of plumage. His leathery skin shone in the sunlight.
Though the distance was great I imagined that I could see his yellowish, beady eyes staring straight into my heart, reading my intentions.
I took a deep breath, and slowly let it all the way out, pushing my diaphragm up with my belly muscles, then gulped down another deep, slow inhalation.
Imperceptably I began to let it out as the old vulture spread his wings a little, pumped his neck, and settled deeper into his perch.
He was a good 300 yards away, and 150 feet up, in fading light.
Tricky.
Gently I stopped breathing.
I had been steadily tensing the muscles in my right hand, squeezing more and more firmly with my finger.
The rifle bucked suddenly against my shoulder.
The large bird folded his head up beneath his wing, as if to go to sleep.
I followed him through the scope as he fell, striking several branches along the way.
I lowered the weapon, cleared it, and put it on safe.
The old buzzard tried to shake his head, but couldn't for the neck brace. He took another sip from his bottle of Crown.
"You just lost another $100 boss." I said.
"You're a bastard." he replied.
I watched him through the rising mist. I studied him for a long time sitting up there with the fading sun shining on him above the forested lake.
He was a magnificent bird, really. He was an old man. His head and neck were completely devoid of plumage. His leathery skin shone in the sunlight.
Though the distance was great I imagined that I could see his yellowish, beady eyes staring straight into my heart, reading my intentions.
I took a deep breath, and slowly let it all the way out, pushing my diaphragm up with my belly muscles, then gulped down another deep, slow inhalation.
Imperceptably I began to let it out as the old vulture spread his wings a little, pumped his neck, and settled deeper into his perch.
He was a good 300 yards away, and 150 feet up, in fading light.
Tricky.
Gently I stopped breathing.
I had been steadily tensing the muscles in my right hand, squeezing more and more firmly with my finger.
The rifle bucked suddenly against my shoulder.
The large bird folded his head up beneath his wing, as if to go to sleep.
I followed him through the scope as he fell, striking several branches along the way.
I lowered the weapon, cleared it, and put it on safe.
The old buzzard tried to shake his head, but couldn't for the neck brace. He took another sip from his bottle of Crown.
"You just lost another $100 boss." I said.
"You're a bastard." he replied.
Flower in the rain
I was walking alone in a driving rain.
My life as miserable as the tears flowing in through the hole in my shoe.
I spied a flower, drooping desperately under the deluge.
Did I just happen to stroll by and see it there?
Or did the flower call to me from far away?
Were our destinies intertwined, this flower and I?
The rain poured down my face.
I stood in awe of the beauty of the creation I beheld.
Enthralled by the intricate complexity.
Enraptured by the simplicity.
Intrigued by the danger that lie coiled down inside of this flower in the rain.
I felt a deep loss for the flower as the realization dawned that this flower in the rain could not survive.
The storm raged on inside.
I cupped the flower in my hand and beheld it's beauty, if only for the fleeting moment.
I loved the flower with all of my soul.
I willed my life to the flower in the palm of my hand, that it might live, even though I die.
With one final carress I tenderly held the flower to my heart.
And got impaled on the bloody thorns.
I crushed the evil flower and threw it into the gutter where it disintegrated in the mud, and washed down the drain.
I hate flowers.
I hate the rain.
I hate myself.
I hate the pain.
I was walking alone in a driving rain.
My life as miserable as the tears flowing in through the hole in my shoe.
I spied a flower, drooping desperately under the deluge.
Did I just happen to stroll by and see it there?
Or did the flower call to me from far away?
Were our destinies intertwined, this flower and I?
The rain poured down my face.
I stood in awe of the beauty of the creation I beheld.
Enthralled by the intricate complexity.
Enraptured by the simplicity.
Intrigued by the danger that lie coiled down inside of this flower in the rain.
I felt a deep loss for the flower as the realization dawned that this flower in the rain could not survive.
The storm raged on inside.
I cupped the flower in my hand and beheld it's beauty, if only for the fleeting moment.
I loved the flower with all of my soul.
I willed my life to the flower in the palm of my hand, that it might live, even though I die.
With one final carress I tenderly held the flower to my heart.
And got impaled on the bloody thorns.
I crushed the evil flower and threw it into the gutter where it disintegrated in the mud, and washed down the drain.
I hate flowers.
I hate the rain.
I hate myself.
I hate the pain.
I was walking alone in a driving rain.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Failure to signal
Lawton, Oklahoma is a cool little town to stay in. It lies at the foot of a small range of squat mountains right in the middle of the plains. The constant echo of artillery from Ft. Sill reverberates across the town like thunder.
When I was staying in Lawton, the first Gulf War was on.
Lawton is a sleepy little town of fewer than 100,000 people and it's a long way from any major city. I don't mean OKC or Tulsa, but real cities like Dallas or New Orleans. But it has a mall downtown by golly! They have a Sears and a Dillards, and all that big city stuff.
I'm cruising down some side street with 45 degree parking on my right somewhere West of the mall on my V65 Magna. It was a bright, beautiful weekend and I was just picking up a few things before heading up into the mountains to spend the night.
I'm stylin. Got my Oakleys on. Hair halfway down my back. No skid lid. Black t-shirt and a grin from ear to ear. The speed limit is 20, and as I pass Chester Cheese back there on the corner I'm doing the speed limit, and my sh1t-eating grin is screaming "fuck you, porky."
He reads it on my face as I cruise on by, leaning against the hood of his car, staring right at me as I glide past him, barely making a sound on the Honda.
A van is in front of me crawling down the street looking for a parking spot. I could pass on the left in the other lane legally, but I didn't want to exceed the 20 mph limit with Barney Fife back there polishing his bullet, looking hard for someone who looks like me to work over.
So I crawled along behind the van for a block. Not today Porkskin, I got a different agenda than fooling with your punk ass.
Glancing in my rearview I notice that Granny Goodbitch in the Lincoln has made a right turn and is now following me at a distance of about 50 feet. I'm starting to feel a little bit uncomfortable here. Almost claustrophobic.
What's worse is that upon examining my rear-view mirrors I can see that Granny Goodbitch is having a hand-waving, eye-popping, positively engrossing conversation with Auntie Prisspanties.
And not paying one damn bit of attention to what's going on you know, like, on the damned road.
I sat up in the saddle and gave serious thought to getting myself out of harm's way, and threw a glance over my left shoulder.
That's when the brake lights came on and the van took a nose-dive. Someone had decided to just start backing out of that 45 degree parking right in front of her, and she wanted that spot.
I squeezed the clutch, kicked it down from 3rd to 2nd, let it go and gave a little twist all in the blink of an eye. And in so doing shot myself around the van and was to the stop sign before I heard the Lincoln impact the rear end of the van, and the van shove the car trying to back out into the parked car beside it.
Presence of mind had just saved me from being an incorrigible sandwich.
At the stop sign I turned to look behind me and decided I'd better flip a bitch and go see if anyone was hurt. Barney Fife had stopped polishing his bullet and had rolled up to the scene of the accident with his purdy lights just a goin, and was talkin into his walkie-talkie as if he was the grand poobah of this here parade.
And he was lookin right at me.
Oh boy. Here we go. I have the hair and the beard and the motorcycle. I musta caused all this trouble.
I knew it before he even told me to wait until he saw to everyone.
5 minutes later, with the paramedics looking over the old folks, and his boss having arrived to oversee the traffic control and removal of vehicles from a 20 mph pileup, this cat was giving me hell for pulling that fool stunt, blasting off down the road like that, startling these old folks, and making them crash.
He was of a good mind to haul my butt off to jail right then and there.
He wrote me a ticket for speeding, and for failing to signal a lane change. He said he would let the DA decide whether or not to charge me with causing an accident.
WHAT?
I argued with him that all I had done was save my own life! That I saw the accident coming and knew what was going to happen and waited until damn near the last minute to do anything for fear of getting wrote up for that!
His response was that lots of people go to jail for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I think he was just a sonofabitch.
The judge agreed with me too. He threw out all of my citations, and told the cop to his face never to bring him that kind of BS again. I think maybe the judge rode a motorcycle. He told me to raise my left hand. I did. He looked at the cop and said there, he signaled. Case dismissed.
It was a good day to be incorrigible.
When I was staying in Lawton, the first Gulf War was on.
Lawton is a sleepy little town of fewer than 100,000 people and it's a long way from any major city. I don't mean OKC or Tulsa, but real cities like Dallas or New Orleans. But it has a mall downtown by golly! They have a Sears and a Dillards, and all that big city stuff.
I'm cruising down some side street with 45 degree parking on my right somewhere West of the mall on my V65 Magna. It was a bright, beautiful weekend and I was just picking up a few things before heading up into the mountains to spend the night.
I'm stylin. Got my Oakleys on. Hair halfway down my back. No skid lid. Black t-shirt and a grin from ear to ear. The speed limit is 20, and as I pass Chester Cheese back there on the corner I'm doing the speed limit, and my sh1t-eating grin is screaming "fuck you, porky."
He reads it on my face as I cruise on by, leaning against the hood of his car, staring right at me as I glide past him, barely making a sound on the Honda.
A van is in front of me crawling down the street looking for a parking spot. I could pass on the left in the other lane legally, but I didn't want to exceed the 20 mph limit with Barney Fife back there polishing his bullet, looking hard for someone who looks like me to work over.
So I crawled along behind the van for a block. Not today Porkskin, I got a different agenda than fooling with your punk ass.
Glancing in my rearview I notice that Granny Goodbitch in the Lincoln has made a right turn and is now following me at a distance of about 50 feet. I'm starting to feel a little bit uncomfortable here. Almost claustrophobic.
What's worse is that upon examining my rear-view mirrors I can see that Granny Goodbitch is having a hand-waving, eye-popping, positively engrossing conversation with Auntie Prisspanties.
And not paying one damn bit of attention to what's going on you know, like, on the damned road.
I sat up in the saddle and gave serious thought to getting myself out of harm's way, and threw a glance over my left shoulder.
That's when the brake lights came on and the van took a nose-dive. Someone had decided to just start backing out of that 45 degree parking right in front of her, and she wanted that spot.
I squeezed the clutch, kicked it down from 3rd to 2nd, let it go and gave a little twist all in the blink of an eye. And in so doing shot myself around the van and was to the stop sign before I heard the Lincoln impact the rear end of the van, and the van shove the car trying to back out into the parked car beside it.
Presence of mind had just saved me from being an incorrigible sandwich.
At the stop sign I turned to look behind me and decided I'd better flip a bitch and go see if anyone was hurt. Barney Fife had stopped polishing his bullet and had rolled up to the scene of the accident with his purdy lights just a goin, and was talkin into his walkie-talkie as if he was the grand poobah of this here parade.
And he was lookin right at me.
Oh boy. Here we go. I have the hair and the beard and the motorcycle. I musta caused all this trouble.
I knew it before he even told me to wait until he saw to everyone.
5 minutes later, with the paramedics looking over the old folks, and his boss having arrived to oversee the traffic control and removal of vehicles from a 20 mph pileup, this cat was giving me hell for pulling that fool stunt, blasting off down the road like that, startling these old folks, and making them crash.
He was of a good mind to haul my butt off to jail right then and there.
He wrote me a ticket for speeding, and for failing to signal a lane change. He said he would let the DA decide whether or not to charge me with causing an accident.
WHAT?
I argued with him that all I had done was save my own life! That I saw the accident coming and knew what was going to happen and waited until damn near the last minute to do anything for fear of getting wrote up for that!
His response was that lots of people go to jail for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I think he was just a sonofabitch.
The judge agreed with me too. He threw out all of my citations, and told the cop to his face never to bring him that kind of BS again. I think maybe the judge rode a motorcycle. He told me to raise my left hand. I did. He looked at the cop and said there, he signaled. Case dismissed.
It was a good day to be incorrigible.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
You might get to keep the knee
"You might get to keep the knee." the doctor said. "They just won't know until they start to amputate. One thing is for certain. If we don't remove your leg within the next few hours, you're going to die, and it will be a slow and painful death."
Fucking doctors! I was so mad I could have chewed 16p nails and spat machinegun bullets. The results of my bone scan had just come back and the results weren't pretty. My right leg was black all the way up to just below the knee.
I had a gangrene infection working it's way up the marrow of my leg bones, and all of the muscle tissue and skin too. My foot had turned black, and was about the size of a regulation football. My leg was a deep shiny purple mottled with patches of a sickly creamy color, the color of infection.
Red, angry, veinous runners ran up my leg to the bottom of my thigh.
I had gone from healthy as a horse, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, to half-way dead in about 36 hours.
This was the 6th time I was in the ER in that time. Most of 'em being seen by this doctor. This doctor who had sent me home five times with keflex and tylenol.
This guy had given me such sage and accurate medical advice before, that I gave his words the due consideration that they were worth now.
With great gravity I replied to him: "If I lose my leg you lose yours. Not only will I sue you and the hospital for everything you've got, but they'll put my name on the front of this place and I'll own your first born child. But before any of that happens I'll go home and get my shotgun and you'll lose a leg too you son of a bitch. You'd better come up with a better goddam solution than that." The thought of losing my leg had me just a little bit pissed.
I spent the next 10 days flat on my back in a hospital bed on IV antibiotics that were brand spankin' new. They were so new I was the first patient in the whole town to even get 'em, ever.
Imagine that. Those just happened to be sitting there, waiting for some VIP to need 'em or something.
But I was gonna lose a leg before they were gonna break 'em out until I got nasty about it, and swore a blood oath of revenge.
Infuckingcorrigible.
The day came that they were going to want to take that piece of dirty Rebok out of the bone in my foot it was laying against. I had stepped on a nail in my garage while building a speaker box with a built-in arms locker for my '77 Cougar with the tinted windows and the Cragar mags, and the nail had gone all the way through my foot.
Well I wasn't gonna walk around with a nail and a 2x4 stuck on the bottom of my foot, so I pulled it out. It was just a good puncture. Didn't even bleed much. I cleaned it with peroxide, dabbed it with some neosporin, and wrapped it in a cut up clean t-shirt and duct tape. I even ate an old tylox I had laying around.
Shoulda been fine, right? Well there we were and these ghouls who wanted to cut off my leg were now wanting to put me out so they could go get a piece of rubber the size of a pencil eraser.
I wasn't in to it. I didn't trust these folks as far as I could punt them.
The last ten days had been pretty hellish. Since I was on new IV drugs and they were running them in me like a river, they had this sweet little thing sitting with me and writing something down every ten minutes or so.
She didn't like me much. She said I was a pig, and a sexist, and my cigarettes stank. Damned hospitals. Just becaused they had banned cigarette smoking even in private rooms a few months before they thought a guy hooked up to an IV pole who couldn't get out of bed was gonna suddenly quit smoking.
They shoulda known better. My friends made sure I got bourbon with that tight little twat sitting there. Pizza too. I got anything I wanted. It's good to have people. The little nazi nurses tried to take my cigarettes one time. Only one time. Funny how I remember it always being the same pinch-faced little candy striper, and not more than one. Bah. I was on a lot of painkillers too.
I wanted these quacks to get that piece of tennis shoe outta me, but I didn't want to go to sleep for it. I just knew they were gonna take off my leg.
I really had this phobia that if I let them operate on me asleep, I was gonna be a pegleg. It was unreasonable. It was irrational. It was a real pain in the ass for me to act like that and I could plainly see that these folks were professionally offended by my suspicions of them.
And I didn't give a single damn.
That's my leg.
And I'm keepin it.
Can't you guys just do that spinal block thing, like they do for c-sections on women?
The docs looked at each other.
And I relaxed a little bit.
That afternoon I sat and watched, my girlfriend holding a hand mirror for me, while two surgeons opened up my right foot, removed a piece of rubber, and scraped the crud from a bone in my foot with a knife.
But...
I got to keep my whole leg. I'm kinda fond of it.
Fucking doctors! I was so mad I could have chewed 16p nails and spat machinegun bullets. The results of my bone scan had just come back and the results weren't pretty. My right leg was black all the way up to just below the knee.
I had a gangrene infection working it's way up the marrow of my leg bones, and all of the muscle tissue and skin too. My foot had turned black, and was about the size of a regulation football. My leg was a deep shiny purple mottled with patches of a sickly creamy color, the color of infection.
Red, angry, veinous runners ran up my leg to the bottom of my thigh.
I had gone from healthy as a horse, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, to half-way dead in about 36 hours.
This was the 6th time I was in the ER in that time. Most of 'em being seen by this doctor. This doctor who had sent me home five times with keflex and tylenol.
This guy had given me such sage and accurate medical advice before, that I gave his words the due consideration that they were worth now.
With great gravity I replied to him: "If I lose my leg you lose yours. Not only will I sue you and the hospital for everything you've got, but they'll put my name on the front of this place and I'll own your first born child. But before any of that happens I'll go home and get my shotgun and you'll lose a leg too you son of a bitch. You'd better come up with a better goddam solution than that." The thought of losing my leg had me just a little bit pissed.
I spent the next 10 days flat on my back in a hospital bed on IV antibiotics that were brand spankin' new. They were so new I was the first patient in the whole town to even get 'em, ever.
Imagine that. Those just happened to be sitting there, waiting for some VIP to need 'em or something.
But I was gonna lose a leg before they were gonna break 'em out until I got nasty about it, and swore a blood oath of revenge.
Infuckingcorrigible.
The day came that they were going to want to take that piece of dirty Rebok out of the bone in my foot it was laying against. I had stepped on a nail in my garage while building a speaker box with a built-in arms locker for my '77 Cougar with the tinted windows and the Cragar mags, and the nail had gone all the way through my foot.
Well I wasn't gonna walk around with a nail and a 2x4 stuck on the bottom of my foot, so I pulled it out. It was just a good puncture. Didn't even bleed much. I cleaned it with peroxide, dabbed it with some neosporin, and wrapped it in a cut up clean t-shirt and duct tape. I even ate an old tylox I had laying around.
Shoulda been fine, right? Well there we were and these ghouls who wanted to cut off my leg were now wanting to put me out so they could go get a piece of rubber the size of a pencil eraser.
I wasn't in to it. I didn't trust these folks as far as I could punt them.
The last ten days had been pretty hellish. Since I was on new IV drugs and they were running them in me like a river, they had this sweet little thing sitting with me and writing something down every ten minutes or so.
She didn't like me much. She said I was a pig, and a sexist, and my cigarettes stank. Damned hospitals. Just becaused they had banned cigarette smoking even in private rooms a few months before they thought a guy hooked up to an IV pole who couldn't get out of bed was gonna suddenly quit smoking.
They shoulda known better. My friends made sure I got bourbon with that tight little twat sitting there. Pizza too. I got anything I wanted. It's good to have people. The little nazi nurses tried to take my cigarettes one time. Only one time. Funny how I remember it always being the same pinch-faced little candy striper, and not more than one. Bah. I was on a lot of painkillers too.
I wanted these quacks to get that piece of tennis shoe outta me, but I didn't want to go to sleep for it. I just knew they were gonna take off my leg.
I really had this phobia that if I let them operate on me asleep, I was gonna be a pegleg. It was unreasonable. It was irrational. It was a real pain in the ass for me to act like that and I could plainly see that these folks were professionally offended by my suspicions of them.
And I didn't give a single damn.
That's my leg.
And I'm keepin it.
Can't you guys just do that spinal block thing, like they do for c-sections on women?
The docs looked at each other.
And I relaxed a little bit.
That afternoon I sat and watched, my girlfriend holding a hand mirror for me, while two surgeons opened up my right foot, removed a piece of rubber, and scraped the crud from a bone in my foot with a knife.
But...
I got to keep my whole leg. I'm kinda fond of it.
Friday, May 1, 2009
No deposit, no return
When I landed in Georgia, I had $200 cash, an old riotgun, and a shiny new pistol.
Something was going to break my way, but that's the subject of another story.
This one is about the first place I ever rented in Georgia.
Rural Georgia is not a renter's paradise. Having few resources and a limited amount of time, I rented a small 2 bedroom trailer in a little dirt-road shithole of a park off of GA 300.
Cue Ugly Kid Joe's "Neighbor".
And so I moved in with my girlfriend, who was working as a stripper (much to her exes displeasure), and her 3 tricycle motors.
We were just the talk of the trailer park. It was a torrid little dump of a tornado magnet, ran by an old prune whose husband had left it to her, and a crotchety lazy old cracker who pretended to be the maintenance man in exchange for free lot rent, and his wife who lived on the other side of the park from him in a different trailer.
It was....temporary housing.
But we both worked and we worked hard and eventually the time came to move on to nicer quarters.
We had even gotten along amicably with the people in the park up until now. The rent was paid, a month's notice of departure was given, and everything should have been just fine...
but there was a little snag.
The old prune that ran the place had nitpicked and nitpicked us to death while we lived there. I think alot of it had to do with us not sending our kids to her church for proper religious indoctrination.
We sent them to the one they wanted to go to with their friends instead.
How terrible. I think Baptists just don't care much for Pentecostals. The kids didn't care much. The Pentacostals had more fun. And we got a break from them after Saturday night.
But hey, life in the trailer park trying to scrape out a living, right?
Come the weekend of the move-out, the snag was my security deposit. The lady said she just never returned it. Never. No way.
Now I had taken good care of this place for about 8 months. I even rebuilt the bathroom floor, replaced a floor beam, and installed a new cradle, sewer line, tub, linoleum, and trim in her old trailer when the rickety old maintenance man suddenly had an asthma attack and had to be on oxygen for two weeks the moment real work had to be done.
I was going to hand this place back to the old bat in better shape than I found it. She had already gotten my labor for free so I could have a bathroom the month before.
Well I called everyone I could think of trying to find a way to make her return my $100.
Yeah. A hundred bucks.
But there is no cop on the beat for a dried-up, old nag of a landlady who just won't do right.
Incorrigible is as incorrigible does.
I went to her one last time. I let her know I was going to throw a party the night before I moved out. I invited her. Told her we were going to have a housewrecking good time.
Or she could give me my money. $100. It'll prevent a thousand worth of damage lady.
She promised to call the cops.
I offered one final time to not cause trouble, and to clean the place immaculately. I really needed that $100 to get ahead of my bills while moving.
So we had a bash.
The cops came of course. We offered them beer. Demonstrated that we were well within our rights.
The second time they came they told the bizatch not to call them again unless someone was getting murdered or she was going to jail.
Partay time!
I don't have to tell you what the aftermath was like. We didn't damage her property in any way, but we didn't clean up behind ourselves either, if you know what I mean.
I got my $100 worth. And nobody cleaned it up Sunday.
Monday morning I happened to be having breakfast at the little ptomaine shack across the highway from the cesspool when I saw the car from county code enforcement show up a few minutes after nine.
I had made a few phone calls Friday afternoon, about 4 o'clock.
Before I could finish a second cup of hot cocoa, a car had arrived from the tax assessor's office as well, and a pickup truck from animal control. While all of these people were in the old bat's front yard waiting for a chance to talk with her, the health department arrived.
Months later I drove through the trailer park in my hippie van that they didn't recognize and went to see an old neighbor. The roads in the park were paved. They had newly installed city water...the old well was found to be contaminated. The mangy animals were all gone, the septic tanks were properly capped with concrete instead of plywood and a few inches of dirt, and all of the trailers had current registration stickers on them.
My friend told me that the entire trailer park knew that not returning my deposit had cost this woman almost $95,000.
He also said I probably shouldn't let her catch me there.
Now why would she feel like that I wonder?
Something was going to break my way, but that's the subject of another story.
This one is about the first place I ever rented in Georgia.
Rural Georgia is not a renter's paradise. Having few resources and a limited amount of time, I rented a small 2 bedroom trailer in a little dirt-road shithole of a park off of GA 300.
Cue Ugly Kid Joe's "Neighbor".
And so I moved in with my girlfriend, who was working as a stripper (much to her exes displeasure), and her 3 tricycle motors.
We were just the talk of the trailer park. It was a torrid little dump of a tornado magnet, ran by an old prune whose husband had left it to her, and a crotchety lazy old cracker who pretended to be the maintenance man in exchange for free lot rent, and his wife who lived on the other side of the park from him in a different trailer.
It was....temporary housing.
But we both worked and we worked hard and eventually the time came to move on to nicer quarters.
We had even gotten along amicably with the people in the park up until now. The rent was paid, a month's notice of departure was given, and everything should have been just fine...
but there was a little snag.
The old prune that ran the place had nitpicked and nitpicked us to death while we lived there. I think alot of it had to do with us not sending our kids to her church for proper religious indoctrination.
We sent them to the one they wanted to go to with their friends instead.
How terrible. I think Baptists just don't care much for Pentecostals. The kids didn't care much. The Pentacostals had more fun. And we got a break from them after Saturday night.
But hey, life in the trailer park trying to scrape out a living, right?
Come the weekend of the move-out, the snag was my security deposit. The lady said she just never returned it. Never. No way.
Now I had taken good care of this place for about 8 months. I even rebuilt the bathroom floor, replaced a floor beam, and installed a new cradle, sewer line, tub, linoleum, and trim in her old trailer when the rickety old maintenance man suddenly had an asthma attack and had to be on oxygen for two weeks the moment real work had to be done.
I was going to hand this place back to the old bat in better shape than I found it. She had already gotten my labor for free so I could have a bathroom the month before.
Well I called everyone I could think of trying to find a way to make her return my $100.
Yeah. A hundred bucks.
But there is no cop on the beat for a dried-up, old nag of a landlady who just won't do right.
Incorrigible is as incorrigible does.
I went to her one last time. I let her know I was going to throw a party the night before I moved out. I invited her. Told her we were going to have a housewrecking good time.
Or she could give me my money. $100. It'll prevent a thousand worth of damage lady.
She promised to call the cops.
I offered one final time to not cause trouble, and to clean the place immaculately. I really needed that $100 to get ahead of my bills while moving.
So we had a bash.
The cops came of course. We offered them beer. Demonstrated that we were well within our rights.
The second time they came they told the bizatch not to call them again unless someone was getting murdered or she was going to jail.
Partay time!
I don't have to tell you what the aftermath was like. We didn't damage her property in any way, but we didn't clean up behind ourselves either, if you know what I mean.
I got my $100 worth. And nobody cleaned it up Sunday.
Monday morning I happened to be having breakfast at the little ptomaine shack across the highway from the cesspool when I saw the car from county code enforcement show up a few minutes after nine.
I had made a few phone calls Friday afternoon, about 4 o'clock.
Before I could finish a second cup of hot cocoa, a car had arrived from the tax assessor's office as well, and a pickup truck from animal control. While all of these people were in the old bat's front yard waiting for a chance to talk with her, the health department arrived.
Months later I drove through the trailer park in my hippie van that they didn't recognize and went to see an old neighbor. The roads in the park were paved. They had newly installed city water...the old well was found to be contaminated. The mangy animals were all gone, the septic tanks were properly capped with concrete instead of plywood and a few inches of dirt, and all of the trailers had current registration stickers on them.
My friend told me that the entire trailer park knew that not returning my deposit had cost this woman almost $95,000.
He also said I probably shouldn't let her catch me there.
Now why would she feel like that I wonder?
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