15 November 1999

The Pony Depress

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Sometimes the post office forgets to cancel the stamps on outgoing mail.
The result is free postage, as far as I'm concerned. I've been hoarding those little jewels for months; just like I do those pennies that I drop in that change-sorting contraption I bought at Target. I've molested that stash plenty of times, and now it was the stamp I needed.

I tried to peel the stamp from the orphaned envelope, but tore it at the only place where the glue actually did what glue was supposed to do. "Shit."

I slammed around in the desk drawer for scissors, and liberated the stamp by simply cutting it out of the envelope. I rubbed a withered glue stick on it and pasted it to the envelope I was sending to the Veteran's Administration. It was still another copy of the addendum I sent to them three times before. I sent it every time they asked for more information, having overlooked the fact that my 10 page letter was not a synopsis for my next novel, but actual details about my claim.

I licked one side of the envelope, feeling an odd sensation on the burned portion of my tongue where I had been a bit overzealous with my first sip of coffee that morning. Years of coffee consumption have left my taste-buds a little retarded. I can no longer tell the difference between a Pop-Tart and a sprouted wheat bagel. It would be nice if my hips and stomach did the same, and just cataloged everything "fat free." Anyway, I licked the other side and got a paper-cut on my tongue.

I grabbed my forearm crutches and stood up awkwardly, my tongue bleeding out onto my lip and down my chin. I nestled the envelope between my teeth, and had to quell the urge to bite through the paper, tear it to shreds like a lonely puppy left at home all day.

Hobbling out of the tiny guestroom, crammed with all the worldly goods I could fit into it, I made my way to the door. Halfway down the rickety front steps, I caught the rubber base of one crutch in the crack between the boards, and had to fight to keep my balance. I would not allow myself to do something as theatrical as fall down the steps and lie there in the dirt until my erstwhile roommates-cum-sugar-mamas returned from work.

I wriggled my forearm out of the bent metal cuff, and pulled on the crutch. It came free without much effort, and my excess exertion was rewarded when I managed to knock myself in the head with the top of the crutch. I stood there with my eyes closed for a long moment, waiting for the line of blood to tickle its way down my forehead and pool above my right eyebrow, thankfully not merging with the blood oozing from my paper-cut tongue into a river of crimson disbelief. So that's what eyebrows were for. . .

I didn't bother to touch the wound, I just continued gingerly down the steps and along the driveway toward the mailbox, numb with self-resolve.

When I reached the box and opened its drawbridge-door, a bee flew out and stung me on the chin. I swiped him to the dirt and ground him into it with the rubber tip of my crutch. Taking the envelope from my teeth, I thought about how I'd like to be a bee on the wall when it arrived at the Department of Veteran's Affairs with the bloody imprint of teeth on it. Perhaps it would help my case.

Barely making it to the bathroom, my bladder aching and threatening to inflict still more humiliation, I tried to pull my pants down and deal with the crutches at the same time, and promptly knocked my last roll of toilet paper in the toilet (it wanted to go home). I made do with a paper towel and paused in the bathroom only long enough to apply more antibiotic on the boils I'd developed on my chin.

By the time I made my way back to my old brown desk chair, I needed a cigarette. I know I should quit, but it's one of the few creature comforts I have left. Every time I quit smoking, something bad happens and makes me want a cigarette, so I figure if I continue to smoke, things are bound to improve.

I set flame to the blessed cheroot and inhaled, allowing the cigarette to dangle from my mouth like I was James Dean while I logged on to get my e-mail.

I watched the junk mail fill my box with promises of work-at-home riches, zero-percent Master Cards, and sales on peripherals I could never dream of buying. I reached up to pull the evil fire-stick from my lips, discovering too late that it was sort of glued there by whatever magic that's created by spit and dry paper. This caused my fingers to slide down the length of it, where I summarily burned both of them. I yelped, the action tearing skin from my lips as my mouth came open. This released the cigarette, which then fell to my lap and nearly caught a certain intimate clump of bush on fire.

It was going to be another one of those days where I should have just rolled back over into Narnia, and forgot about waking up.

Share/Save/Bookmark

01 November 1999

Clearly Not An Alternative

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)


With a phone and a pager, I could manage to drum up some clients for my little home pseudo- business. I spent almost all the income from a previous set of shows to make that happen. I went with a digital phone company because I liked the features and they only required $250 for a deposit.

My recent Chapter 7 Bankruptcy insured that a deposit would be required with any new service. Oddly, my previous good standing with the local phone company did nothing to decrease the $500 deposit they required from me in order to have cell phone service.

My first bill arrived, to the tune of $400. I knew there would probably be taxes and such added to the bill, but since I was expecting the $49.99 monthly charge, this was a bit of a shock. In examining the bill, I noticed that I was being charged for an additional month of service, another phone number, the phone itself (which I did not even purchase from them, but from Radio Shack), a month of service for the other phone number, plus taxes, and another deposit AGAIN.

I spent the next two months trying like crazy to remind them of the concept of "customer service." Each time I called the local store, I was confronted with a menu of options. If you’d like information about this, press one. . . If you’d like information about that, press two. . .If you’d like to hear an endless list of our promotions whether you’re interested or not, press three. . . I kept waiting for that selection, If you’d like to speak to a human, press twenty-seven. . . But it never came. Once it got to the end of the menu, the honey-dripping voice instructed me to stay on the line to speak to a "customer advocate." I waited, enjoying the strains of Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, and then Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made it. I recalled this as my High School Prom theme song. Appropriate, since it was a surprise to most of us and our parents that we graduated at all.

Finally, a "Customer Advocate" answered—not by saying "How may I help you?" like in yesteryear, but "Your account number, please." Whether we admit it or not, we have all become just numbers, like those prisoners you see in old movies in striped shirts with digits across their chests. I always hated that. I didn’t want to give them all my information, I wanted to get right to the point. But of course they had to have it in order to pull up my account and verify everything I was saying, because, you know, most customers lie through their teeth about everything.

In great, put-upon detail, I described the problem and got very little sympathy, and a whole lot of attitude. I was put on hold several times while she "researched the problem," and each time she returned from this dubious research, she assured me, in so many words, that they don’t make those mistakes. She asked me if I had a receipt for the deposit, and I said no (kicking myself) because I had paid in cash. *A method of currency unrecognizable and non-transferable after the year 1990.

"We always give you a receipt," she said haughtily.

I told her I received some sort of invoice, but that my deposit was not noted on it. Further, I recounted the fact that after my information was entered that day, their computer system went down, and the clerk had to re-enter everything, and wasn't it possible that the deposit wasn't noted the second time?

She didn't believe this was possible. "Our cash drawers would have been off by that amount if it wasn't."

All I knew was that I had paid the deposit. And maybe, just maybe, the charge was noted, payment noted, bringing me to zero, then entered as a charge, but not noted as paid the second time. This would be an error in their favor, and therefore resistant to change. Money is always the bottom line. My lack of money is always the norm. My lack of luck is always the norm, too. It was like my Guardian Angel was on vacation. I have this theory about Guardian Angels. Some of them are good at their jobs, and some aren't. What I know about the machinations of heaven, you can fit on the head of a pin, but at least I know what the pins are for. They're for gouging out the eyes of some Guardian Angels. I lovingly refer to mine as Murphy: as in "Murphy's First Law: Anything that can go wrong, WILL."

The debate continued with all the other items on the bill, and I explained that I had signed up first on the Internet from their web page, but found out later the page was outdated, and no longer counted as a real order. It must have counted somewhere, because I got charged for the first number and all the fees that went along with it. She said she would research the issue and call me right back.

I listened intently, but never heard my phone ring.

Since I was getting no semblance of "customer service," I called back, waded through the tiresome recordings, reached another human, explained it all again, and asked for the number of a district manager. Happy to be rid of me, she gave me the number, and I hung up to call him. Predictably, I got his voice mail, and left a message, again explaining the problem.

This game of cat and mouse went on for the next few months. Explaining and re-explaining the problem to each new Customer Advocate and District Manager, until I was ready to kill them all. Meanwhile, my bill went unpaid, as I refused to send payment until everything was worked out. My service was disconnected just before a flat tire in the middle of nowhere required me to use my phone to call for help. Naturally, this was necessary because I had a flat spare tire awaiting the emergency in which I could curse it. I had to walk several miles to a pay phone and fill it with change in order to find someone to come fetch me. With my physical disabilities this was particularly unpleasant.

Eventually, I actually spoke to one of the managers, and he agreed to "meet me halfway" by charging me half the deposit again and one month’s service charge. Reminiscent of the cop who was nice enough to give me only two tickets. He assured me the service would be restored if I paid this amount at the local store.

At this point, I was endangering the few clients I had for my computer work, and felt that if I had my service, I could get on with things and eventually get the credit back to me or onto my account. I agreed to pay, albeit under duress. *Murphy’s Technology Law #16: To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.

So I went down to the store as the District Manager said to, and gave them the cash (everything I could scrap up including my rolled pennies). After they took my money, they informed me that I had to pay for next month too, or they wouldn't turn my service on.

I stood there, my system REALLY low on Paxil, and began to feel a little like one of those Postal Workers who show up with an empty conscience and a full clip. I said, "I was told by the District Manager that if I came down here and paid this, my service would be turned back on." She gave me some slime about "policy" tempered with a really shitty attitude, like I was some gutter rat who had the audacity to touch one of their phones--and I just lost it. "I want you to call him and verify what I've said. And I want you to call him right now."

"He's not available right now."

"How do you know that, until you call?"

"I know he's out of town."

"That's okay, he has a CELL PHONE!" I shouted.

"He's NOT available," she said again.

"Who's your supervisor?" I said, REALLY LOUD. *Murphy’s Technology Law #13: The first myth of management is that it exists.

She said SHE was the supervisor. I said, "Who'd you sleep with to get the job?"

The look on her face was almost worth all the hassle from the last few months. She said, "You can't have your service 'til you pay. Next!" And looked right past me to another customer.

It was at this point that I believe I went ballistic. I said, "I want to see a REAL manager, and I want to see one now!" And I went right past her BEHIND THE COUNTER and started searching the back offices. I was aware that I was causing a scene, and that other customers in the store were staring at me, thrilled that they would get to see something as exciting as a "Caught on Tape" episode.

She yelled at me, "I'm calling the police!"

I yelled back, "Call them! I need to file a report on THEFT BY DECEPTION!" and I continued to look for a manager. There was NO ONE to be found, and when I came back to the front, she was on the phone with the police.

I can't tell you how close I came to snatching the receiver from her hand and beating her to death with it. When she hung up, I had decided that those cell-bunks were a little less that friendly for my back, and I didn't want to spend the night on one. So I leaned over the counter and got in her face and whispered, "Watch your back," and walked out. I guess it was a threat. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to have some kind of last word with her before making my exit. "Caught on Tape" was now quickly turning into an episode of "Cops."

*Bad girl, bad girl, whatcha gonna do. . .whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

By the time I got to my car, I think a massive aneurysm was in order. I had earned 4 tickets, been up to my neck in the red tape and bureaucracy of government offices, totally overwhelmed with chronic pain, sick to death of struggling to get by on sandwiches and coffee and five dollars per week, feeling terribly worthless, victimized and generally sorry for myself.Then I had to deal with this garbage on top of all that. I mean, what had I done to deserve such turmoil and hardship? Hadn't I tried? Hadn't I kept my chin up and my head down?

On the way home I cursed God, Buddha, Mohammed, Ghandi, Republicans, fertile women, and a couple of Toyotas.
Share/Save/Bookmark

02 October 1999

The Wrong And Whining Road

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Music has always figured prominently into my life. I spent six years in an all-girl band, and then another two as a member of an acoustic female trio. Bookings had been sparse the last 12 months, since one of the women had decided to move to Colorado to be with the love of her life. We had just started another 6-week stint of gigging while she was in town, and again, my luck would be of the unfortunate variety. My financial security had become laughable, though I found no humor in it.

The band was my only source of dependable income. I left my little guest room one night, and headed for the city and the first of several gigs that would provide just enough to get my car tags renewed, along with insurance and registration. As I crested a hill after a sharp curve, the unmistakable strobing of blue lights erupted behind me. A local Barney Fife had been jarred from his Deer Hunter magazine long enough to look up and see the telling color on my tag sticker. He strutted up to my window in his little Smokey The Bear hat and asked to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Well, two out of three ain’t bad, as they say, so I pulled out my license and handed it to him. I then began to fumble in the glove box for those other two items, knowing I didn’t have them. I was just doing that, oh-my-god-a-cop-stopped-me-and-I-need-to-think stall. I usually carried an old insurance card that I used for emergencies like these, but it had landed in some box either in the back of the van or in the storage room I’d rented. I had scanned the card on my home computer and altered the date cleverly in my photo program, then printed out a copy It was a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself. It was convincing to those nagging locals who just wanted to see a piece of paper, and bought me a little time while avoiding a large fine. Survival Skills 101. Certified. I didn’t have THAT little piece of paper either, but I knew that for me auditing a class was just as good as taking it for credit.

"Registration and proof of insurance?"he asked again.

"Um. . . I just moved and I don’t have it with me." As if to verify, his flashlight beam moved to the back of my vehicle to the boxes and various items I had not unloaded into storage, yet.

“You are supposed to carry those things in your vehicle at all times."
And you are supposed to be nice, but you’re not.
"I know that, sir. Things have been really difficult for me lately."

“Do you have insurance?”

Is there a way to lie and still tell the truth? I wondered. I knew I didn’t have insurance. He didn’t know that yet. I was on the horns of a dilemma. If I didn’t tell him I was sans insurance, he might skip that ticket. It reminded me of when I was kid. In the days before caller ID boxes, the phone would ring, and my father was always afraid it was someone he wanted to avoid. He’d tell me to see who it was. Then he’d rush into the bathroom, and stand in the tub and say, “If it’s ‘so-and-so’ tell him I’m in the shower.” See, my Dad was no liar. He had a real conscience.That’s what I needed. A way to lie without lying. “. . . just moved in with some friends out here,” I heard myself say. “. . . and I’m waiting on a decision from SSI and the VA about my disability status. . .” Don’t tell him that, he doesn’t care, I reprimanded myself. My lips kept moving. “I’m living on $280 a month. . .I was on my way to a job to make enough money to get my tags and everything. . . it’s the only way I can get the money.”

He looked up from his ticket book. “I also clocked you at 40 in a 30.” In my own defense, the roads leading to and from this hick town were winding and hilly. In order to maintain a constant speed, you would have to have two sets of eyes. If you watch the speedometer, you’ll miss a curve. I always opted for staying on the road and not hitting a mailbox or an oncoming Subaru. But now I was being penalized for being a safe driver. All that counted was the letter of the law.

“—but I’m only going to site you for expired tags, and no proof of insurance.” I hated this town. What do you call favors like that? Underhanded? Backhanded? Backwoods. “I won’t steal your pig this time, just your chickens.” Uh. . .okey-dokey Smokey. Say hi to the wife and kids. The ones ensconced in your dream-single-wide, no doubt. “Thanks,” I muttered, signing my name to the tickets, as he informed me of the court date. I expected him to add, “Tell it to the judge,” but he didn’t. And that’s not the end of it. The “thlot plickens.”

The very next week, I was on my way to another gig, and got nailed again. This time, at least they were nice. There were two of them. Word must have gotten around that it takes two to stop me from driving illegally. One cop even apologized to me for the inconvenience. I was accommodating and polite to him. I accepted my two additional tickets with grace and aplomb. Double-jeopardy obviously did not apply to moving violations.

At the court date in April, the local (hanging) judge had no mercy, even though I explained my extenuating circumstances and told him I was driving without all that stuff because I was trying to make enough money to GET all that stuff. He still made me pay, because by golly, I was a law breaker and needed to be taught a lesson. There I stood on my crutches, having dragged myself out of bed in a Darvon-stupor to be there while Hiz Honor was an hour and a half late for court. So I got gouged with over $400 for that, and had to beg for the payments of $33 per month, which only meant I had to do without a few things. Like food. Deodorant. Gasoline. It would be a challenge to figure out which necessity I would be trimming this time.
Share/Save/Bookmark

01 October 1999

That Dark Thing on my Head


(Excerpt from my memoir, "Falling Through the Cracks: The Misadventures of No One Famous")

Terra has recently discovered the power of her own gift of intuition. She's a baby-psychic, really. She also has an uncanny sense of smell.

Once when we were getting in my van, she sniffed the air like a bloodhound and said, "Someone just lit a cigarette-" and then frowned over at me, since I'm a smoker and she's not, and we always go round and round about it. It wasn't me, and I accused her of being so sensitive, that she imagines things.

Well, we pulled away from the curb, and around the corner. And there stood a young man puffing away. She looked over at me victoriously, and I could only shake my head. Scary, really, these visions of things and people and objects that prove accurate.

At night while she's falling asleep, she has graphic images of snakes and big rocks falling on her head. This sounds like the sort of images I should be having, but I digress...

About a year ago, during one of our prolonged phone conversations in the wee hours of the morning, she announced that she could see "a dark thing on my head."

I said, "You mean a freckle?"

"Well, no...it's big...and like, attached...sort of like a spider--"

"You mean, like that thing in Alien?"

"Well, yeah, except it's dark, like that goopy stuff you find in old plumbing...Its legs wrap around your head and hold the sides of your face...one of them goes into the corner of your eye..."

The pregnant silence that followed was enough to make her try to wiggle out of the subject, but I pressed. She believed it was somehow symbolic of this negative energy that follows me around like the proverbial black cloud. Only this was a dark growth of some sort. Like Cancer. Not exactly what I wanted to hear before going sleep.


Share/Save/Bookmark

11 August 1999

Lotion?

I plopped down on the sofa, which is really a love-seat, and not nearly long enough for an adult to sleep on, but I do, because I have a very nice bed that is also exceedingly uncomfortable and puts knots in my back. I pulled open a book that claimed to spoof the coming of the new millennium and began to read, when I reached up to turn the page and saw that I had some white goo on my thumb. Surmising that it came off my shirt, I thought back. What could this be?

Immediately, I knew. It was lotion. I had dripped it there while getting ready for bed the night before. So I rubbed it into the palms of my hands, as they were in need of some softening, and thought about how fortunate I was to
have some lotion without being awakened by aggravating thoughts of how dry my hands were and how much I couldn’t afford to let my skin get any older than it was.

But a nanosecond later, I realized that my palms were sticky, and then my mind flashed to that cinnamon roll I had yesterday morning, and I recalled that my Great Aunt Candace was a proper Southern belle and had corrected me once when I said "cinnamon roll." That is nowt a cin’mon rowl, that’s a stickay buyn," she drawled. Regardless, it was icing, not lotion, and I had to get up anyway, just to wash my hands.


Share/Save/Bookmark