Adjusting VI

 

VI

It's Monday morning and I wake at 4am, from what I do not know. Sabina is soundly asleep at my side. Willow is on the windowsill. I listen for Brooklyn whimpering downstairs but all is silent. Good, at least I think. My back hurts and I know I won't get back to sleep. Cursing myself for ditching out of my last few weeks of chiropractic care and physical therapy, I adjust my sleeping bag around me and knock my pillows to the floor in frustration. Sabina wakes up and at first I'm worried she'll leave. Beanie... I whisper into her fur. She purrs and licks my nose, then nestles herself atop my chest. Her tiny paws make my empty stomach twist in agony but I ignore it. I need her there. Her weight confirming what is real. I am here, in my bedroom, in a ghost town. The orange glow of snow, sulfur lamps and smoke filter in through curtains made of scarves I've collected over the years and tacked to the window frame. The steel mill groans in the distance, a small symphony of clangs, whistles and the low whir of its constant flame. I am here, I remind myself again, laying a protective arm over Sabina's small mass. I am here, in Braddock, where there's more stray cats than people, but most importantly, I'm here where it is safe. Memories of [R] and I rise to the surface of my brain like oil on water. I shake them off and they seem to multiply. He becomes stray cats and the faces of strangers on the bus in half conscious dreams. I love him and always have, this my loose lips has made to plain for too many, but I fear I've gone to far. That he knows me all to well and that my recent cyber interactions and pleas for attention (mixed with his recent strife for which I've been less than consoling in my own dilemmas) have pushed us to an edge. To lose his love, though its bold for me to even say that, would be one thing I would not mind (as long as he is happy) but to lose his friendship is a separate situation which I'm not sure I could bear to survive. Assuming what I lead can be considered a life.

The morning drags on as such.

The sun rises at 6:48am, I know because I wrote it on my calendar before I retired the night before. [W], my roommate rises soon after. Brooklyn begins to cry when she opens her bedroom door and I feel guilty at first, knowing shes going to have to deal with him even though I am awake. I make a mental not that I seriously need to pick up that dog crate from the Mayors wife so I can have him in my room again instead of getting up. Though I may be restless I am tired, there is no doubt about that. Its about half an hour after she leaves that I give in and stumble downstairs. I pick up the wreckage from the night before and make a mental note that I need to start drinking less, among other things. Everyday feels like a resolution to do more of one thing and less of another. Stop smoking cigarettes, start eating, stop pitying myself, start taking out the trash. Stop letting people get away with the excuse, I can't donate because I have no cash.

The day drags on. I make a bed of memories and curl up inside it. I watch the palm trees sway in the wind outside the La Jolla Whole Foods in San Diego, pondering the bleached white Mormon church on the other side of the street. I watch a ghost of myself in a halter top wielding a clip board like it will save humanity. It's a good day, I was given a $173 check and my staff partner is lenient with his cigarettes. My favorite security guard checks up on my every hour, teasing me about my numbers and if I need to borrow another pen from him yet. He gave me that clip board one day too. I proudly show my dog tags off to everyone who stops. They were given to me just a few days before hand, and though we lost the election, I am far from defeated. You'll see me in November 2012! I tell them, the date of the next ballot.

A sharp sting snaps me back to reality. My knuckles are bruised and the door I just knocked on is inlaid with stone. I'm mildly surprised to find that my body is cold and shivering. The sunlight is still vivid as it fades into my own reflection, staring back at me helplessly on a rich mans porch. Then a light flickers on and it disappears all together.

“Hello?”

“Hi! How are ya?”

“Good... what's up?”

“My names Miranda and I'm with Working America, AFL-CIO, out here tonight fighting for god jobs and keeping funding in our schools. Take a look!”

“Oh... I'm not interested.”

“I hear ya. I'm just taking down names of support to join Working America so we don't see any more of our schools get shut down. It's like a petition... but stronger.”

“No, thanks.”

“Sir, it's really important I get everyone involved, If you just take a look....”

“NO.”

The door slams shut. I know I need to leave California if I'm going to make my quota tonight. I begin to whistle, its my little trick to force myself into a feign of cheeriness. Not that I don't ever whistle for fun, it just works in a pinch. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I can go back to being my regular miserable self when my shift is over at 9 o'clock.

My numbers pick up and soon the night ends. I return home and pour a glass of wine. Brooklyn licks the sorrow off my face. Sabina nudges my shoulder from the counter top and purrs. They are part of the reason why I'm stuck here, but I don't know what I'd do with out them. My dad's cat Willow cries. She misses him and I do to. Things were easier for the week he was around. The house was clean and the laundry was done. Food was cooked, if I was willing to eat it. I even forgot about how homesick I was for a few days there. His parting words replay in my mind. Its gonna be like this for a few years Randa, only visiting every few months or so until my debt is paid off. Just hang in there, I'll be here soon and then you can do whatever you want. I'm angry at him and bitter, but deep down I know I have no where else to go. It was no better with my alcoholic mother in New York City, sleeping on the subways because I was to scared to sleep at home.

After a final glass of wine I round up the cats and settle in my sleeping bag. I prefer it to sheets because two people can't fit in a sleeping bag so I can't long for a body beside me, yet still memories laying on [R]'s chest dominates my restless thoughts.

He hasn't called or texted all week.