Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Articifial Limbs (Part Three)

Now, when a person is focused and determined they have a tendency to ignore certain signs, and given my desperate need for a change in my life I failed to see the sign posts that Mama Universe had laid directly in my line of sight.  Signs that were an indicator that moving to Pollo Mierda was probably not the best idea.  The sign posts were blazingly, blindingly obvious.  For example, the reports of the probable collapse of the California economy, or the collapse of the entire American economy, should have been enough to give us pause; however, as I mentioned, I was desperate, which can lead to such things as hysterical blindness, hysterical pregnancy, or just plain hysteria.   I think at one point I experienced all of them, including hysterical pregnancy as I was just THAT kind of crazy.  

The next sign post involved the loss of our car.  Granted, the VW Bug was always on the verge of death, but I had poured so much money into repairs that I was sure nothing else could happen.  Then the week I was preparing to leave my job, the Bug died.  Well, it didn't really give up the ghost as much as me pulling the plug.  Sometimes, you just gotta let go, and I gladly did.  It was a blow to our savings to purchase a "gently used" vehicle, but as my friend Doug said, "Better to buy a car now, then when you're unemployed."  Sage advice to be sure.  A 2003 Honda Accord was procured, and peace of mind flowed through my veins.  At least for a few hours. 

Once the issue of the car was settled, our final week in Seattle progressed with virtually no drama.  Mama Universe was saving all of it for moving day.  It was January 17th and I was using every ounce of my office managerial skills to ensure a smooth moving process.  Unfortunately, the best laid plans aren’t really plans, but a series of comical events that are not amusing until one has completed six  months of therapy, or six months of binge drinking.  I did both.  I’m not endorsing that kind of behavior, it’s just what worked for me. 

The morning of the 17th started as clear, blue and brutally cold.  My dear friend, Darcie, dropped me off at the U-Haul dealer.  I was uncomfortable.  Not just from the cold, but from the sight of the dealer’s storefront.  Supposedly, it was a hardware store.  An ancient, decaying piece of real estate that was more of a lean-to than an actual solid structure.  It was eight a.m, my scheduled pick-up time, and the door was locked.  I was forced to wait outside.  Then the rain came.

Nearly twenty minutes would pass before a hygienically challenged individual would arrive to unlock the front door and permit me, and a few other customers, in.  He barely acknowledged us, and from his stench, I determined that he had a fondness for cheap bourbon, cheaper cigarettes, and an aversion to basic dental home care.  Let’s call him Halitosis Harry, or Hal for short.

There were three of us.  Me and a young, cute straight couple.  They were very blonde, very pretty and very, very happy.  Obviously, they had never moved before.  They were also very well-dressed.  Another sign they had never moved before.  For those of you who don’t know, “well-dressed” in Seattle means they appeared to have bathed within the last 48 hours, and were wearing little backpacks strapped to their Gortex jackets.  In Seattle, if you don’t appear to be on a quest to climb Everest at any given moment, then you just don’t belong.

I motioned for the adorable couple to enter the facility first.  I followed.  I thought this was the best course of action in the event whatever lived in the structure would consume them first and I could simply run for my life.  Upon entering I was struck by how much colder it was inside as opposed to outside, and particularly struck by the stench.  Like a men’s urinal just without the cake.  The couple made faces at each other and giggled.  It would be the last time they would ever smile again.  I was sure of it.  There was one light fixture, and while there were two huge storefront windows, light could barely creep in due to the enormous amount of filth that was clinging to them.  If the color grey in my Crayola box were scratch-n-sniff, it would smell like this pit.

We attempted to form a line, but there was hardly room to stand as the store was packed with an amazing amount of merchandise.  I use the term “merchandise” loosely as that would imply these were items worthy of retail sale.  No.  This was a dump.  This was a landfill.  This was a place that would make anyone wish for a pair of latex gloves, or a body condom.  This was a physical representation of what the next seven months would mean to me and Aster.  We were preparing to enter a shit storm.

Within minutes a series of errors began to occur.  First, Hal was unable to locate a pen.  Then there was a bit of confusion as to where Hal had placed the keyboard to the computer.  Once the keyboard was located, and the computer turned on, it crashed.  I wasn’t surprised.  How could anything live, electronic or otherwise, buried under jars of nails, bags of M&M’s, old milk crates, newspapers and rat traps?  Yes, there were rat traps.

Being without a computer meant that Hal could not access the U-Haul database to confirm our reservations, or to provide us with the necessary documents we would need for our move.  In essence, we would have no proof that we were actually entitled to take possession of our van.  Furthermore, should we encounter law enforcement on our journey, our goods would be confiscated, and we would be held on suspicion of stolen property.  Once again, due to my desperation, I took his handwritten note and said a small prayer that the day would improve.  I should have known better.  I am, after all, me.

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Artificial Limbs (Part Two)

The conversation with Todd began innocently enough.  We touched on my ridiculous job, and how it was costing me my sanity, and how the card business was not working out, and we threw in a few new stories about our crappy neighborhood.  Then, Todd began to disclose the reason for his visit.  He wanted us to consider moving to Pollo Mierda (a small town outside of San Francisco) and caring for his home...rent free.  We had heard this before, just the year prior, as he had offered his home for a period of a year, but we weren't about to give up my job, our home, and our friends for just one year in California.  This time the offer was even more enticing.  This time he said, "Listen, the house is just sitting there, and with the housing market the way it is, I won't be able to sell it for at least five years.  Come down, bring your cat, all your stuff, and take advantage of this.  Stay as long as you like.  I've even got warehouse space for your cards.  You could set up shop at my office, and work on getting the business back up and running." 

Aster and I were speechless.  I took a deep breath and then asked, "But Todd, what about you?  Where will you live?"  He turned towards me, paused, met my gaze and said, "I'm not coming back."   At that point all I could do was blink and poop my pants.  What else do you do when you feel like you’ve been given an opportunity on such a grand scale?  It’s unattractive, but it’s understandable.

Nomads are defined as a group of people who have no fixed home and move according to the seasons from place to place in search of food, water, and grazing land.  When I was younger, my nomadic tribe moved according to the whims of the government, and to keep Mama out of jail.  It happens.  You can only forge so many prescriptions before your local pharmacist gets suspicious. 

In my 18 years living with my military family we moved 13 times.  One year we were scheduled to move to Germany; however, Mama refused to go, saying that she couldn’t handle those “harsh German winters.”  As if the temperature of a region mattered given that she only left the home once a month to get her nails done .  She was like a a poor man’s Howard Hughes only with better hygiene, a manicure, and an Ogilvie home perm.  

Given that Europe was no longer an option, the military sent us to Puerto Rico.  Despite the constant warm weather, Mama rarely left the house.  When she did, a dramatic event always ensued, especially if she ever left the base.  I lived for her to leave the base. 

In the two years we lived in Puerto Rico (according to her)  Mama’s purse was stolen twice, she was involved in a high speed chase through downtown San Juan, and stalked by a “snot-nosed-pan-handlin’-midget” who once cornered her at a local pharmacy and peed on her favorite pair of Nine West shoes.  It was like she was living a life out of one of her Sidney Sheldon novels.  I used to imagine that Diane Cannon would play her in a mini-series.  Fun.

Mama’s sanity was further tested when the island of Grenada was invaded in 1983.  Not only would she not leave the base, but she refused to leave the home altogether.  Daddy attempted to explain that we were in no danger, but Mama laughed and said, “The hell we are!  This is an island, Colonel...they can get at us from all sides!”  She would then mumble something about Sherman burning Atlanta, hurricane preparedness, and finding a firearm that was small enough to fit in her purse, but deadly enough to “punch a hole in those sons-of-bitches!”   

Our three year Puerto Rican tour was quickly shortened to two.  We moved back to the States where Mama no longer had to concern herself with the threat of an island invasion, and could troll pharmacies without the fear of being urinated on.  Life was good.

Enduring a military life for 18 years, I had no worries about moving to California.  Granted, it is much easier when the federal government is involved (like the bill) but why be worried?  I would only need to secure employment, and recover from an eviscerated social life.  At least we would be living in wine country where drinking before noon is not only permissible, it’s mandatory.  We would be fine.  Drunk, but fine.   So, the decision was made.  We would take a risk, and move to Pollo Mierda.