Archive | October, 2014

Dacota.

25 Oct

‘Dacota’ lives with his grandfather in a trailer in Idaho. Something befell his mom involving drugs and alcohol. Something terrible. Someone whispered ‘gun.’ He broke my heart. ‘Dacota’ spells his name wrong, poor little knucklehead. Or his drug-addled mother did so on his birth certificate. He has a dog that only a little boy could love, some hideous mange-y thing that looks like someone shot his face off. Truly. One wonders.

‘Dacota’ became rather attached to me on a tour over a year ago. He wouldn’t leave my side and became kind of protective of me as well, making New Yorkers, New Yorkers no less, clear a path on the sidewalk as we passed. He was a bit of a bully for a gnome, but he’d turn to me at three feet nothing with his little freckled face all tall as possible and proud of his misdemeanors like one of Hal Roach’s Little Rascals.

‘Dacota’ sends me a message via my public Facebook page like clockwork once a month.

“I miss you lots.” “Yes, I’ll study.” Yeah, I have a cool Halloween costume.” And again, always, “I miss you lots.”

Yes. ‘Dacota’ broke my heart.

Until today when ‘Dacota’s’ Facebook page read:

In a Relationship with Diana.

Even that little gnome with the fucked-up dog is in a relationship, dammit. You’re on your own, ‘Dacota’…

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Lemonaids.

22 Oct

I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.

So I ran across the street and bought a lemonade and a banana.

I was drinking my lemonade on the floor next to my bed.

I put it down on the side table–and it spilled. It spilled is an understatement.The lemonade splashed in so many places it was like a lemonade stand exploded in my apartment. It splashed all over everything on the side table, the floor, the lamp, the walls, and all over my brand new comforter.

I started to clean it up with Windex and paper towels.

I started to clean it up and stepped on the banana.

I was wiping down the floors and the walls when my new prescription for an antacid fell on to the floor, opened, and every pill got wet with lemonade and Windex and smushed banana.

I threw everything away, paper towels, banana, pantapraerazole or whatever the fuck it’s called, detritus from my side table, all of it down the garbage chute in the hall and then I came back to fling my soaking wet and ruined comforter over a chair when I realized I couldn’t see.

I had my glasses on, didn’t I?

Now I didn’t.

I had thrown them away.

So I went downstairs and told the doorman I just threw my glasses away.

Into the basement with us. If you have never seen how trash is handled in a major apartment building in New York City, you might be as surprised as I to learn it is the perfect place to hide a body.

Garbage tumbles down the chute eighteen floors and one more into the ground, enters a compactor where everything is rendered unrecognizable, and is pushed sausage-like into a never-ending bag that the porters must twist and tie off into manageable packages that are then hauled up to the street. It is revolting. And this is the life of the porter in my building. No wonder he looks so happy vacuuming the dreary hallways when he does.

Luckily, the doorman had been a porter once. He quickly determined the compacter had already activated and thrust my glasses into the sausage. He set about turning the whole contraption off, all kinds of switches, nuts and bolts, sectioning off the twenty yards of garbage, cutting blocks off, and after twenty more minutes, finding the last bag, mine, where sure enough, my glasses were found. In two pieces.

I will likely never get to sleep again.

And God only knows what diseases we both contracted. All that from a lemonade. Which reminds me of Sarah Silverman’s awful joke: When life gives you AIDS, make lemonaids.

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