Petting the Hounds of Hell

from my memoir, "The Misadventures of No One Famous"

There was that short period in my life in 1998, when I actually believed all would be well. I had a great job that I loved, it paid well, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I got back on my financial feet. I began to feel good about myself again. Deeply spiritual. Like I had just returned from a sabbatical in an ashram with the Dalai Lama, and was blessed and sanctified by my victory over previous hardships.

Then my paycheck bounced. Then another, and another, and the NSF charges began to pile up since I wrote checks for bills on that amount I expected to be there. I confronted my boss with the admonition that I would need to be compensated immediately or I could not continue to work. The conversation deteriorated from there, turned into an altercation, and a refusal to pay, and I threatened to leave and take the extra computer with me as collateral until he paid me. That's when he called the police.

The officers arrived, a report was filed, and I was escorted to my car-- without a paycheck, and without the computer. I entertained the idea of sugar in his gas tank, or a well-placed banana peel, but thought myself above that sort of pettiness. I was out of sugar and bananas.

Many weeks later, my ex-boss finally sent a check, painfully short of what was actually owed, and wrote a little legal statement on the back stating that endorsement of that check meant that it was payment in full. By that time, my financial status was so bad, I didn't have a choice. I had to take what he offered, even though he owed me over a thousand dollars. So I signed my name to the back of the check, all the while sending really nasty black energy in his direction.

Jobless and in financial hot-water, I took my disabled self to the first job I could find. Delivering pizza. Problem was, the original job description was that I would deliver only. It developed into being on my feet 8-10 hours, carrying large trays of very heavy dough, enormous cans of sauce, mopping, sweeping... all the sorts of things "normal" people can do.

I told the manager on duty that I couldn't do those things, wasn't supposed to do them, but got no sympathy. That conversation ended in sophomoric chastisement in front of several customers. I knew it was only a matter of time before my back gave out. And when that actually happened, I headed for the door with a slipping disc, bent over like a great-grandmother with osteoporosis.

I was practically bedridden for the next two weeks, as the bills continued to pile up. My water was turned off, my electricity was about to be, and I knew I had to find other work, regardless of how long I could keep it.

I started a job at Blockbuster, but soon discovered that 4 to 8 hours on my feet was just as bad as short hours lifting things. I started missing work, and finally went down with another slipped disc and had to turn in my notice. I also had to turn in my notice to the landlord since I was two months behind and saw no end in sight.

A Chapter 7 Bankruptcy and the guest room of an old friend were all that saved me from living in my van. I moved almost all my things to storage in January, '99, while applying for increases in my VA disability and compensation from Social Security.

I still owed the landlord for that month's rent, and wasn't able to sell that furniture to pay him--which is still in the living room of my ex-house. And Tyler (my ex--the one who ripped my heart to shreds) is moving into that house since they raised the rent where she was...odd...like some sort of personal insult...

So this morning, after a long night of anxiety dreams, I pulled myself out of bed and started a strong pot of coffee... Checked the mail...My thoughts kept wandering back and forth between these things:

• what's the going price for cocaine?
• how many people do I have to kill to join a gang?
• how exactly does one contact the devil in order to sell one's soul?
  
• Does he carry a "sell" phone?
• what should be said in my suicide note?
  

This delightful frame of mind is brought to you by the Sherwood Municipal Court, Hot Check Division: "We're just doing our jobs." These fine people now hold a warrant for my arrest. Talk about adding insult to injury, salt to a wound...

Funny, they managed to put out a warrant for me, but that check from my ex Boss-From-Hell never was covered, even though I filed an affidavit on him. I continue to feel he's responsible for much of this Misfortune Circus that is my life. If he hadn't written me those hot paychecks and thrown me into financial devastation, which meant I had to leave the job-- well, none of this would have happened.

And if I had never joined the Army, none of the past eleven years of crap would have happened, and I would be able to find other work, no matter how physical it was. But my choices are limited.

So there was every possibility I'd end up getting arrested and going to jail--all because I couldn't whip out my checkbook and pay for this fine.

I kept trying to see the point of it-- the larger spiritual picture...I just continued to feel like the Biblical figure, JOB. Funny, that name looks an awful lot like something I wish I had. They should have added an "e" to the end of it. Hey, I even have boils again. Didn't "JOBe" have to deal with that, too? (I would ask the POWERS THAT BE please not to kill my family). That story strikes me as bogus anyway. A Loving God? God kills a man's family in order to test HIS faith....mmm. I must remember to ask Reverend Sid to explain that one.

So what have I learned?

I've learned that it's not a good idea to save the unused canned biscuits for later baking. They come out flat and firm like hardtack. (I only opened them because all I had was a can of 10, and I was hungry. I couldn't very well eat 10 Texas-sized biscuits, even if I am hungry most of the time lately).

So I've learned that now, God. I understand. Now, call off your Hounds.

Petting the Hounds of Hell

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.

The Wrong And Whining Road