After watching Fight Club for the 90th time, I would honestly like to borrow Ed Norton's phrase, "I am Jack's Smirking Revenge." But that's not going to happen. Not likely for a long time. My life is up for review.
I am Jack's complete lack of surprise.
Dorchester, a solid and honest friend from my lonely welfare experience of 2008, called my cell in shock upon hearing that I ended up down here. "Why didn't you call me?", she asked. Because I needed to take my cats with me (something Dorch wouldn't allow given her own Alpha male, Dragon) and I need the possibility of low overhead. I want to be the person who can sleep late and not have to pay rent. Fuck you, princesses! I need to lick my wounds and be far away from the place that has caused me so much loss, depression and grief. I can no longer handle reminders of things I cannot live nor have staring me in the face day after day. It's just too damn painful.
I realized somewhere between losing my luggage in Miami the day I flew here and falling asleep with Dexter under my feet while transferring to Orlando that I can't possibly bear any more reminders of merely existing in a place that does not want/respect/support people such as myself: people who were born in NYC. We are chattel, offal, scraps of delapidated drywall to be torn down, ripped away and tossed into the landfill to make room for luxury housing in order to coddle the rich and privileged from Indiana and Wisconsin in their search to live Sex and the City. And, from what I'm seeing, I am part of a mass exodus of the jobless and destitute to another small town, another place that barely fits those that need it.
Enough with my emotions for now. I'm sure some of you don't really know how much I actually gave up. Here's the final count.
I now have no couch, radiator cover, mattress, dresser, bed, or kitchen table. I am missing all of my cleaning supplies, all of my soap and shampoo (and it was SUBSTANTIAL), my microwave, the stand it was on, my blender, chopper, knife set, most of my mugs, most of my junk drawer contents (wine openers, melon ballers, kitchen doodads, and cheese spreaders from 1980-forward), my cookware (excepting five pots and 2 pans), all of my cookie sheets, my silicone bakeware, mops, buckets, swiffer sets (wet and dry), and Butchy's original cat dish from 1975. I bought that with my father in an old pet store, now long-gone, on a cold October day near 88th street. It was red. With Snoopy designs on the side. Butchy would scratch my arms to death. Most of my clothes, my bookshelves, and the contents of my hallway, living room set, and bathroom are now in a heap somewhere. My music, documents, and computer desk was saved. That's about it. I came down with one suitcase of summer clothes and two cats in carriers. Not much at all.
Here is where everyone says, "Let go. It's only stuff." Well, no. IT WAS MY FUCKING STUFF AND NOW IT'S IN THE TRASH. And, dear readers, this is NOT the first time this has happened. It's actually the FOURTH.
The 1st time a minor offing of my stuff happened was in 1982. From 1738 to 6735. A noted mobster bought the land my house was on, and our rent was raised from $175 to $400, a Manhattan amount for what was a tiny beat-down section of mobbed-up Bensonhurst. My beloved Peter Rabbit was left in the basement. I still haven't gotten over it.
The 2nd time was 1999, when I went from the hell of 6B to the closet of 2E. 17 years of stuff in five rooms, four closets and one loooong hallway to a place the size of a college dorm room. More mementos gone, most notably my grandmother's trains and crystal and the $770 lace graduation dress that I graduated in.
The 3rd time was 2001, which was not my space, but the lockers my father kept in the old NY Post. 210 South Street. He had anywhere from 9-12 lockers packed with crap and I was only allowed to clean out one of them. Thanks to the kindness of Patrick Finnerty, I reclaimed some of my old drawings and school pictures he had tacked up.
My other pictures, his shaving set, and most of his work clothes (which I had planned to donate) were gone. More trash. Another landfill.
And now? My wondrous eviction. I hate to admit this, but I don't even know if my skates are safe. I forgot to put them in storage. MY SKATES ARE WHO I AM. Who the HELL am I?????
I can say my cats are getting well-adjusted. I, your little blogger, am falling apart. My worst nightmare has come true: I am stuck in a tiny place that has no history. This compound was built in 1988, another shitty year in my life which is a blog in itself. I am among people who have lived their lives and only want to be near other people exactly like them in order to forget. What am I saying? I have seen a total of 4 black people, 1 puerto rican, 2 asians, and 1 person from the pacific islands. This is a twilight zone episode and I don't have a remote to click myself to another channel.
If there is a lesson in this, I don't know what the hell it is. At least not yet.
I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.
