the pushy cow in the chariot of tin

Page Seventy-three

Wednesday 8 December 2010 Turners Tarts

Another post that’s brand new, rather than a copy of the original Sehnens. I know I keep bouncing back and forth between new and old, but I get bored easily with the copying, and there are some new posts that simply belong in the Sehnen blog.

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The day under discussion is a Saturday, the date is July 15, and the year is 2006. It’s a nice morning and I’m out in the front yard working on my flower beds. A person drives by on the main road headed towards town and honks. I look up and see a cheap, small white convertible made by Ford of tin and chewing gum — Found On Road Dead we used to say where I grew up. I don’t know this car, and I don’t know the driver, so I wonder why the honk.

I go inside for a while, then return to my gardening. The car comes by yet again, this time in the opposite direction, and this time the driver gives me a wave with her arm stretched out in the air and her hand flapping back and forth like that of a blithering idiot, and I don’t know her. I go inside again, and a few minutes later she speeds up in front of my apartment and comes to my door. Babbling 90 miles an hour, quite probably high on something besides caffeine, but I don’t yet know about her substance use. She’s interested in the empty apartments in the house, one a studio and the other a one bedroom. This drive-by shit and waving and honking were my very first clue that she was out of it mentally, but I missed it at that moment. Later I realized that a halfway normal individual would simply have driven in in a civilized manner on one of the first two passes, and inquired politely about vacancies.

She babbles on; I can barely sneak in a word. We make a circle of the house, while she goes on and on. She tries both doors of the two apartements, even though I’ve already told her they’re locked. She stretches up on tiptoe to look in every freaking window. And she tells fables. — I used to have a friend who lived here. Her daugther was Mikaila. This was Mikaila’s bedroom. I don’t have any kids. — But then later: I had to ship my son off to his father, you know, puberty (much later I found out from someone else that her son wants nothing to do with her)… My daughter lives out west. We tried to buy a house, but the bank’s giving us a hassle. We’re living in a trailer, and I hate it. I want to rent both the apartments and make them into one, bla bla. I interject that if the studio is going to be melded with the other apartment, that I a long time ago had asked if I could have the sunroom, which had originally been part of my apartment anyway, before I got there. Oh, okay, moos the cow. Fine.

We arrive back at the chariot after our circling. I take out a cigarette. She pulls one out too, and says: I don’t really smoke. And I’m thinking, so you only pretend smoke? What’s that thing in your mouth?

She demands to know if the landlady is around, and she is, but I lie and say not. The landlady is so unbalanced herself that I fear if I send this blabbermouth over to her on her day off, I might well be punished, and I’ve had a snootful of her little punishments already. But  psycho landlady comes walking out her door, and mafia-chick looks over and says Is that her, and I say yes, and over she goes to lie and bullshit the landlady. When she comes back to me, she says: She’s gonna open up the studio and you can have that room with the windows. After more verbal diarrhea, she finally goes away.

Next day landlady comes to the house to wait the arrival of mafia-chick and boyfriend-on-leash so that they can view the place. Tells me that Judith wants all the space for herself, including the sunroom, and she’s going to get it.

That was the very first time that the chick with the family member married to the mob screwed me over, but it was by no means the last. Sure, landlady screwed me over too. She could have given me the room. But I’d already spent two years with her mental crap, and I wasn’t much surprised that she’d rather give the room to a blabbermouth and liar that she’d only just met, than to scummy old me.

And though my conscious mind could not know on that July day so long ago, that the meeting in the sunshine of the these two females who are so profoundly unstrung upstairs, would eventually mean the end of everything that was my life. But in the subconscious, something must have been registering, because from that day on I was nervous and anxious constantly, and I was always afraid. And from that day on I was told more lies by the landlady and was handed out more snide little punishments than ever before. 

Yesterday mafia-maid came trawling for me again. She does that once in a while. That is, she happened to be on one street, and I was on one very near it, and when she saw me, she decided to drive to the street I was on and proceed down it very slowly, hugging the right side where I was very closely, and rubber-necking so far over to point her homely face at me that she almost toppled into the passenger seat. And what is the expression on her face saying when she does this, when she leans over so far and points her homely face at me? It’s saying: I won. And she did. She lost nothing, I lost everything. She was never arrested, so far as I know, for her drug dealing, or for asking her mobfriends to physically damage me. And I always thought that both of those things were against the law. Ah, but Matthew didn’t want her. He wanted the “big fish.”

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this post is part of the book Spite and Malice

(funky doll at www.signals.com)

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