Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 11
The prior day was one to be remembered by all the residents. A regular shadow of it would suffice for all of my future. No complaints, no excursions to the rocks, no hlooping, no government visits and no work. There was not even a possible excursion to the rocks as they were removed by two contractors with a backhoe. They didn’t charge as they said they could sell them for loads. Martha and I slept front to back, the warmth generated necessitating only the skimpiest of covers. The insistent sun has positioned itself in my eastern window and bathes my eyes in an irresistible display of colors. I want to stay in bed. My closed eyes can no longer go blank. I see pink, purple, yellow and a morphing red which wakes me despite my protests.
Rousing to a bright new day infuses me with glorious possibilities; despite my unfulfilled hopes of desperately sought prior dreams. It seems a curse, at least insofar as my non-divine mind can envision. Dreams have always been squelched by the boorish imposition of reality. I leave Martha in bed, still asleep in a glow the world has a nasty habit of abruptly clouding to oblivion. But, not today. I wonder if the disgustingly happy New Age contingent ever actually felt this good. I’d bet money on that one.
Page 148
I descend the stairs and enter the kitchen where I am mildly stunned to see Reba and David. Unlike my usual demeanor I greet them with a cheery; “Good morning.”
They glower as if their day had just been ruined by something gauche and undesirable invading their private party; shades of Cortez. I understand, but have no other good choice than being in my own house and ready for breakfast.
Reba nasally intones; “Up early,” without the routine question mark at the end of the observation.
Desiring not to have my early day marred, I search for some idea of a response; both verbal and operational. Before I can do or think anything operational, David, in a staccato and weary voice informs me; “You are an Outback.”
I don’t understand. I think of Outbacks as those who reside in the snake-infested, remote parts of Australia. And besides, I always thought of Crocodile Dundee as a cool person. I wonder if the different generation had some other take on the matter.
David’s intonation suggested something pathetic. I appreciate his direct approach and briefly ponder how he would characterize Neil Young. I realize that that thought was not conducive to the matter at hand, so I merely asked him to define his term, saying: “I believe we have a different take on Outback; age gap no doubt. Can you tell me what one is?”
Page 149
David uses his right hand to push his two-toned hair back off his creased forehead in a manner suggesting tolerance-at-the-brink; at the same time mixing the facsimile purple with the facsimile blonde. He says; “Outbacks live in remote, older, un-renovated houses. Some think it reflects an anti-social condition in need of correction.”
I find his definition does not stray from mine in anything other than judgment. So, I defiantly say; “Yeah, okay; I’m an Outback. So what?”
David considers the floor as an alternative to speech and Reba steps in to graciously, as far as she currently understood the term, respond. Without any detectable sign of personal opinion, she said; “Outbacks are as disdained by the homeless population of today as much as the “Garbage People,” (GP) who live in dumpsters and get first shot at the ‘good stuff.’”
I am jolted by, what I view as discriminatory beliefs, held by ones who have experienced and presumably understand the inequity of discrimination. I am at a loss; at the same time in full recognition of the fact that Martha and I had always had a goal of being removed from the problems and impositions of those less able to cope. From the beginnings of time immemorial, as recorded by the comfortable, they are always there. Martha and I did not find it a virtue to spend our lives with the lepers; only to be unappreciated while we contracted the same disease.
Page 150
It seemed incredulous to me that one could be faulted for taking that which was unwanted; and then be subjected to the criticism that they had done something immoral or indulgent. The words;
“self-defeating stupidity,” came to mind. I consider the distinct possibility that my mindset has become much too serious and thereby unproductive, and choose to respond in a flip and put-down manner, saying; “Oh, really. Has it ever occurred to you that we ‘Outbacks’ have the same disdain for you perennial, helpless seekers of charity?”
Reba says; “Of course we have. ....... We got over it.”
What a difference five minutes make. I couldn’t help but conclude that the judgments which we had made were a guarantee of our inability to live together; though the tragedy of the situation dictated that we would be stuck in the same space. I said; “So did I until they shoved your ass right next to me.”
With an overly sarcastic tone David says; “Did we upset your little world? I’m so sorry.”
I say; “You think that is some kind of revelation; don’t you moron? You’re as welcome as any parasite ever was.” I ignored them, and they returned the favor as I went about making my coffee and heating up my ham and eggs. As I ate and drank I vowed to forget their incompetent, argumentative and contradictory existence. One of those words rings an inharmonious yet familiar bell with me. The sun streaming
Page 151
through the smudged and spider-webbed kitchen window becomes my focal point. I open it and am greeted with warmer air than is inside. I am refreshed as it infers the promise that I may be able to cope. Though I am doing my best to forget their existence, I can’t help but be happy that the bloodsuckers didn’t call me ‘New Age.’”
A few months later, at the peak of summer heat, I am in the kitchen. It is early morning. The window is wide open from top and bottom. The southern breeze demonstrates its seasonal persistence of providing waves of heat and the sun is merciless in its clarity. I perspire as I devour my ham and eggs. I consider shutting the window which drenches the place in a voluptuous discomfort. I opt for leaving the shade-free portal gaping as the lucidity provided is the infinitely more difficult to take of the two distresses, and I know of no way to put an end to that. I am given a blessing in the temporary absence of Reba and David.
However, in the stillness, I hear a rumble coming from the gravel driveway. I go to the library window to see a sheriff’s car now parked there. I think I’d prefer to lock horns with Reba and David. Words from some song come to mind;
“See the man with the stage fright standing up there giving it all his might.
He got caught in the spotlight.
Page 152
But when it comes to the end,
he wants to start all over again.”
The end was in sight, in the person of a burly sheriff with a square-topped, crew cut, ambling slowly down the walkway, eyes on the ground. His sunburned and lined face showed no emotion.
It was just another day of unpleasant work. I knew this day was coming but had no idea it would be so soon. It seems that it was only yesterday that I stopped making mortgage payments. I recalled the absurdity of the somber voice of the collection lady on the answering machine. I had laughed at her overly serious tone and her frustration in not being able to line her back pockets with a percentage of the arrearage. I pictured this poor fat woman in a cubicle strewn with notices, an outdated computer and general ledger entry carbon paper all over. I thought; “Come on now. Get a little bit real. This is 2035. No one pays their debts.” I guessed that she found this job preferable to conjuring up the fantasies required to give computer or phone sex. The mailed notices were a source of torn garbage, stupidly and overly paid for by an antiquated institution with ideas from generations prior; their senior management.
The doorbell plays; “Taps.”
I open the door and facetiously say; “Is there something I can do for you, officer?”
Page 153
I am greeted with the flash of a badge, which is quickly returned to the cop’s top pocket. He says; “I’m Lieutenant Castro and here are your eviction papers,” as he shoves a collection of legalese into my stomach. What he said actually sounded like; “I’m Lew Cast and here viction pape.” He appears to be in a hurry. I glance at the documents, primarily to verify that they got the name and address right. Unfortunately they did and I don’t get the opportunity to bust his balls.
David and Reba must have been within earshot as they enter the kitchen and Reba boldly blares; “What’s going on here?”
The cop doesn’t even acknowledge their presence by looking in their direction. So, I say; “We’re being foreclosed.”
Reba says; “The hell we are.”
Martha enters the room, fussing with the untied belt on her robe which is still rather revealing.
This gets Castro’s attention. He looks at her with pupils high, as his head is still directed somewhere on the floor. With furrowed brows, he seems to strain to say; “Foreclosure, darling. Everyone out.”
Reba considers this to be her conversation and says; “They really should teach you cops some fundamentals of law.”
Castro looks around the room as if he was searching for something. He then says; “Look, lady. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”
Page 154
Reba says; “Look yourself, dude. Times change. David and I are here under the ‘Housing the Homeless’ program and can’t be thrown out.”
I’m intrigued.
With an air of disgust, Castro drones; “Don’t make it more difficult than it has to be, all right?”
Reba says; “You cannot deny David and I access to this house.” She goes into the adjoining room and gets her social worker, Michelle Stottmeyer, on the phone.
After a grueling hour of snide remarks and an emergency visit from a documented DYFS attorney accompanied by a local cop, Castro was still not completely certain that there wasn’t some sort of game being played on him. But, if he were a betting man he would have put a few bucks in Reba’s direction. He excuses himself, goes outside, and uses his cell phone to call someone he seems to think is top secret. He returns, points toward Reba and David, and firmly says; “You two can stay. But Mr. and Mrs. Michaels are out of here.” Martha actually finds that to be hysterical and couldn’t contain her laughter. I find it to be infectious. The others watch us, no doubt wondering if we were crazy, bearing no consideration of the possibility that their pragmatic and intelligent outlook might be missing something; which was accurate insofar as the thought goes; while
Page 155
the gloomy fact I could never convey, was that it was me who had missed everything of the beauty of my youthful dreams. Though I didn’t begrudge it to the others, I always asked this unresponsive god why I didn’t have the ability to just easily enjoy as the others seemed to.
Page 156