Posts tagged as:

bad neighborhoods

I Want My MTV

January 22, 2009

I used to live in a shitty apartment. I know everyone says this, but I mean it. This was the kind of place where there were more pit bulls than people, and clusters of stray shopping carts replaced what would’ve otherwise been landscaping . The kitchen cabinets looked like they were engineered by a blind ten year old, and the counters were made of a beautiful cork (painted white) that broke off in large chunks whenever it was wet. The carpet was soaked in what I hope was pet urine, which after a vat of Febreze, smelled like urine and…laundry. Bob Villa himself couldn’t have made this place habitable, but it at least had cable, so I couldn’t complain too much.

I watched a lot of TV back then, usually while eating a platter of egg and cheese biscuits I made for myself. I attribute this to the fact that my dick well was bone dry and I wasn’t expecting it to fill up anytime soon. So one day, when my ex and I got into a fight (the origins of which I have long forgotten) and he tried to take his TV, I snapped. I lost it. I thought, “You deprive me of dick and now you want to take away the TV?! Why don’t you just come out in the middle of the night when I am masturbating on the couch where I sleep now and cut my fingers off? Then you could really take away everything I have.”

This is all sounding exceedingly pathetic (because it is), so I believe it deserves an explanation. My ex, James, and I were together for a little over 3 years, 2 of which were spent living together in Joe’s Apartment. However, our relationship slowly devolved into more of a friendship as time passed, but we both failed to properly recognize it. Instead, I slept on the couch in another room, we never had sex,  and I sought companionship in a puddle of Kraft cheese.

This should come as no surprise, but the same apartment with the paper mache walls and spider infestation, didn’t exactly have windows made of bullet proof glass either. They were more like panes of solidified sugar. I learned this when I tried to push him out of one of them.

During this fight, James threatened to take all of his belongings and move them into the bedroom, and essentially turn our one bedroom apartment into two, with me occupying the living room. He would pull this card a lot, and every time, I felt like Harry Potter when he was forced to live under the stairs at his Uncle’s house. Sure, he would’ve been gracious enough to permit me use of the couch and the coffee table that I bought for $4 at the Salvation Army, but other than that, everything else was his and he had plans to cram it all in one room.

I leapt at him from my masturbation pad (couch) as I saw him advance toward the TV and attempt to take it out of my life forever. At this point, he had a choice to make. He could fend me off and surrender the television, or risk breaking the television and have to explain a black eye the next day. There was, however, Secret Option C, which resulted in a broken window and fragmented relationship, the pieces of which were never fully retrieved. I still remember the look in his eyes as I tried my best to expel him from the second floor of our apartment and onto the rotten shrubs below. It was a mix of “Oh my god I am going to die”, and “I can’t believe she is doing this over an episode of Top Chef.”

The window was eventually remedied with a trash bag and duct tape, which was probably an improvement from what we had before. The large black pane was a constant reminder of my broken relationship, but seeing it out of the corner of my eye as I watched my precious TV, somehow made the biscuit sandwiches taste a little sweeter.

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Have You Seen Me?

November 16, 2008

I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Not because I fear punitive repercussions or because I answer to a higher power but because I am lazy. I am also impulsive. This means that if I have to have something, I will either fail to even walk to the register or forget about it completely within minutes. Evading security cameras, suppressing my perpetually shifty eyes and not walking out with a grinch-like grin is more than I can bear to consider. Aside from that, my concept of stealing is clearly a parody at best. If somehow Bluebeard ruled the world and I was forced to steal, I would look like a child who broke into their mother’s makeup. Just replace the lipstick, blush, and mascara with a ski mask, black turtleneck and a canvas sack sloppily painted with a lopsided dollar sign. However, this doesn’t mean that I don’t understand what it’s like to be stolen from.

I wouldn’t say I live in a bad neighborhood, just a questionable one. This, I’ve learned is more dangerous because, like a man luring children into his van with promises of candy, my trust is tenuously earned and then I am mysteriously sore the next day. This is why I felt comfortable leaving my bike unchained outside my apartment. Although, this isn’t completely true. In defense of the ne’er-do-wells who live around me, I wanted my bike to be stolen. I’m no Abbie Hoffman, I just hated this bike. It was ugly, the seat gave me hemorrhoids and sometimes I could hear the rusted chain cackling as it capriciously dissociated itself from the structure of the bike. I think I would’ve had better luck replacing this so-called chain with a rubber band, but instead, I stopped riding my bike and left it out, waiting for someone to take it off my hands. When someone actually did, I felt an odd sense of remorse, as if a sweater I really hated had been shrunk to fit Paddington Bear.

My grieving didn’t last long because soon I found myself devouring a casserole of smug satisfaction. This time, I was confident that whoever did this would swiftly get what was coming to them. Gone were the days where I would have to rely on karma to do the job for me. In my experience, karma was like downloading porn via dial up. It got the job done, sure, but it took too long and the results were often very disappointing. Now though, I knew. I could see them on the side of the road readjusting the chain, their hands orange from rust and repeated repair attempts. I could taste their tears as the patched tires flattened and mercilessly threw them to the jagged asphalt. This must be what it feels like to be happy, I thought. I finally had a hobby and it was baiting people to steal from me. I dreamed of carrying around Faberge eggs secretly designed to release nerve gas or gold bullion laced with strychnine. This was extreme, of course, so I agreed to settle on one day luring someone to steal an expensive pair of pants that just happened to be really itchy.

I retired my hobby when, weeks later, I watched an 80 year old man glide by on my bike. ‘Glide’ is probably a generous term to use, as his age prohibited him from doing much more than gum the handlebars. Still though, I knew this bike. I had fantasized endlessly about one day sending it to a watery grave. I had memorized all of its characteristics, so when the police would come to question me, I could casually say “Oh, the bike with forest green trim, yellowed handlebars, and 3 minor scratches on the frame? Haven’t seen it, but I’ll be sure to give you a call if I hear anything.”

The perp had placed his cane strategically within the skeleton of the bike, in a way that caused it to harmonize with the structure, but not interfere with its function. I watched with awe, wondering if he had actually been the one to steal it. I thought about it, but didn’t want to believe, so instead I accused his wayward but ultimately well meaning grandson. I pictured an 11 or 12 year old boy, kicking rocks around the neighborhood, hands in pockets, cursing himself for spending his allowance on all of those fireworks because it was pop pop’s birthday tomorrow and he didn’t have a gift. Then, seeing my bike, he had decided to make a move.

Either option was unsettling because it meant that there was a feeble old man riding a ticking time bomb. I wanted to say something, I really did. Instead, apathy set in and I went back to checking my mail, seeking comfort in the ample reflectors of what used to be my bike.

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