There Aren't Enough Staples in the World to Fix This

"Okay, and staples... and rope...and here we go..." That, from the handyman crouched upon my roof fixing my swamp cooler.

My swamp cooler needs to be filled with water, that is all.  If this guy falls through my roof, he's not getting paid.

Now he is on my front porch clearing his sinuses in loud, short bursts. He does not spit.  I don't know what's worse keeping the spit in or letting it fly in my yard.

Now he is using my bathroom. He has been in there for a long time. Thank God I cleaned up my typically messy bras-on-the-shower-rail-bathroom before he came over.

He's back in the front yard, annnnd, he spits.... and "JOSH! YO!" Waves at friend down the street.

He hovers in my front doorway.  I am waiting to write him a check just to get him to leave the property. He says that he and his girlfriend, who happens to live up the street from me, broke up over a financial dispute ("his bad", he admits). He didn't apologize "all the way" enough for her.

If he talks to me for another 30 minutes I'm going to stop, drop and roll right on the ground in front of him.

"Yep, my mom and dad got divorced when I was eight..." he continues, craning his neck around to see if he knows the guy driving by in the pockmarked Chevy truck. He doesn't. He loses his train of thought. I see my chance and leap at it. "Well thanks for your help, I've got a phone call to make... business... you know... gotta call into work... (door shutting)..thanks again... (his eyes still peering in the crack in the door). I close the door and lock it.

Finally. I am $25. lighter and he is gone.

I switch on the swamp cooler, and the electricity go out.

Hindsight

It has been seven months since I hightailed it out of Tujunga and took up residence in my old home town of Redondo Beach. I can't say I miss Tujunga much. I can say that I miss the freedom of wearing cut off shorts and a wife beater with my stomach sticking out day after day without anyone noticing.

Redondo is pretty and proper. It is Starbucks and luncheons and clean nails. Tujunga is ratty, semi dangerous and if it could talk, it would have a smoker's rasp.

Now that I'm back here in the relative safety of my childhood community, I find myself wandering, curious, out into the less traveled parts of the South Bay. Rusting gates and the derelict buildings compel me to travel deeper, poking my head into areas that are alien to me.

Goodbye Tujunga

Well, I'm moving. Despite Tujunga's many charms and pot dispensaries, I am heading out. It's time for me to downsize. I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, no more neighbors begging for money, booze and toilet paper. On the other hand, no more apricot tree, garden or extra room in which to paint. My paintings will get smaller, I will buy apricots at the store and I'm sure I'll be able to find a place for a little container garden. I will miss the kid that walks by every day with the gigantic yellow afro.

My neighbors, the Borrowers, are also moving. They rent the house next to me and the owner is selling it- or rather, has sold it. If I'm lucky, the neighbors will end up living next door to me in my new hood.

So now I begin the task of paring down my belongings.
Shoes. I have so many. I have two feet and a hundred shoes, most of which pinch my broad, hoagie-like feet. Clothes. Millions, ranging five sizes since my body can't decide where on the scale it should stick.
Children's books. I thought I wanted to be a children's book illustrator my whole life, then I had the chance to actually try it and I hated it. God it was boring and stressful at the same time. I have boxes and boxes of children's books that need to go away.
Beads. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to buy hundreds and thousands of beads for jewelry making? Clasps and jump rings and shiny and matte beads... all gorgeous and untouched. Maybe I'll keep them. Just to look at. And dream.
Knee socks. Tons. All striped. All too small. They sounded like a great idea at the time.
Hello Goodwill.

I guess I'm writing this as a documentary for myself- to sort of keep track of my brain throughout this process.

Wherever I go, rest assured, there will be a diary.

Neighborhood News

My toothless neighbor had a heart attack. With his blue feet and all, and his chain smoking, one wouldn't say he was in the best of health in the first place.

I got home from work last night and Toothless's wife sidled up and vodka'd in my ear, "Toothless had a heart attack". I was like, "WHAT?!" and then I noticed that she was dressed up (aka out of her house dress), and he had eye makeup on. And she seemed chipper. Hmm, dislike your husband much?

She told me it was a mild heart attack and I was glad for that. As much as I make fun of my neighbors, I do like him. He's a sweet man. He's the man who screams at his wiener dog.

I have new neighbors renting the house just to the south of me. A woman, a man and a stepson. The woman is short, stocky and rough- she looks like she should be smoking a cigar and balling up twine on a schooner. The husband looks like a has-been fashion model. He's tall with hair "wings" that bounce and behave as he lopes around the backyard fixing stuff. He wears odd things. I suspect he shops at the Goodwill but not in an ironic way. Think Dolphin shorts.

The stepson mostly stands around in the backyard with a twig or a rock in his hand. Just stands.

So they're digging this hole. It is right outside my kitchen window. It's big enough for a body right now. They haven't dug in a while. Perhaps it's the rain, or maybe they're done and they're just waiting to kill me.

My kitchen sink faces their living room where they sit on the couch and watch TV. So once a year when I do dishes, I essentially look right in at them. It wouldn't be so unnerving if they could tell that I was doing dishes, but the window doesn't begin until about my mid chest. So, for all they know, I'm just standing at the window, watching them watch TV. Ah well. What are they going to do, call the police? Not with that open grave out back.

Maybe Toothless will be back from the hospital tonight when I get home from work. That would be good. I miss his shouts and yips.

Classy

I sunk to a new low and embraced my inner Tujungan today. No I did not smoke meth with the one legged guy who does donuts on his moped in the KFC parking lot.

I bought a battery operated pumpkin pie scented candle.

Here's what happens when your life begins to unravel.

It starts with a CVS being the only "store" in your town. Then, you get yourself a Saturday night alone, add one Atkins bar (hors d'oeuvre), one gluten free beer (cocktail), one battery operated candle (ambiance) and and voila, instant class!

The "best part" is that it is made out of real wax (shamWOW! Buy it today for only $19.99!), so when the candle warms up, the wax foofs out the scent of pumpkin pie spice.

Somebody give me my life back.

80

I drive home to Tujunga at 80 miles per hour every weeknight. My drive is a twelve mile, traffic-free commute. It is always the same, though some nights, it seems to take forever.

Mmmuh, trucks...
off ramp...
more trucks...
tail gaiter...
JPL...
La Canada...
La Crescenta...
Tujunga...
Datsun pickup truck with missing taillight...
my exit...
tweaker...
hobo....
clown...
dog...
open field with river stones stacked one on top of the other, like little men, everywhere...
wild horsetails growing out of a swampy spot in the gutter...
enormous lumps in the road...
day laborers...
7-11...
motorcycle guys...
Bonner's Equipment Rental...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
apartments...
tree...
more trees...
houses...
home...
neighbor...
"can I borrow three dollars. I'm outa cigarettes".

Medicine

A nap is a sacred thing. A nap should not be interrupted unless there is a big fire.

My neighbor has a sixth sense about naps. This is how it works: When my eyes close, hers pop open and something in her brain tells her, much like a pigeon's homing instinct, to come over to my house and ask for money.

Her hair is always pulled back in a banana clip. Her eyes are a shocking blue...and red. Her brown acrylic cardigan is pilled and stained. It stretches down, over her stomach and covers half the length of her shorts. Her sweater pockets are filled with handmade, beaded jewelry to sell. Stuff she made a few years ago, when she wasn't, as she explains it "depressed" because of all of her "family shit".

The husband doesn't let loose on the details of their lives but the wife does. She is usually drunk on her "medicine" (vodka and milk), so she'll say revealing things as she wanders back down my front path. Most of her remarks make me want to run screaming away from her and this town. And then she'll say "you have such cute shoes" and I'll give her a dollar.

Saturday, after a refreshing 1.5 minute nap, I stood at my front window, wifebeater on, vodka and milk in my sippy cup, and wondered WTF I was doing in this hick town.

Learning something probably.