I have no idea when she’s supposed to arrive. Morning. Noon. Night. I dunno. I also don’t know how she is supposed to arrive. Let me explain. She evidently was going to go to some reunion in Michigan on the 29th with her goofball husband Bob and then they were going to rent a car and drive to see her daughter in New Hampshire. Now since I’m on the way, she was going to stop and visit, but I have no idea if goofball Bob was going to be with her (Gawd, I hope not. I’ve never liked him in the 25 years I’ve known her. Ever) or not.
Plus my apartment is about the size of a McDonald’s restroom, as in everytime the phone rings out in the kitchen, me and Guardcat have to jump over the top of each other, because she thinks she’s Pavlov’s Dog and gets to eat Fancy Feast everytime the phone rings.
And if the answer seems obvious, like of course witty, if they’re driving together, he’s going to be there. Well, she made it sound like he had some kind of alternative mode of transportation and was going to go on without her and she would rent a car. But now I’m not totally sure. Plus I have no idea how long she is going to stay. Argh!
So what did we talk about when we chatted on the phone? Oh lots of stuff. Life. The whole Bob wouldn’t let her come to New York because its so dangerous thingie. Her laughing about it. Me laughing about it. But dang, I like totally forgot to ask about any specific details about her time of arrival. And then we even talked about cell phones. She was shocked I didn’t have one. And that was certainly my cue to, well, I don’t know, maybe get her cell phone number so I could call her tonight and ask her how she liked Niagara Falls today, and did Bob fall off the Maid of the Mist boat and get sucked into some horrible watery vortex and ended up in Newfoundland (hope, hope). But no, I was too busy getting all indignant about someone calling my hometown dangerous and unsafe.
But who knows, maybe Bob is right. Maybe I am just hardened by life on the streets of the Village. Accustomed to the sounds
of ducks quacking out in the creek gunfire from nearby driveby shootings. I mean look at the ‘hood where I live…
I mean wouldn’t you be scared to walk by one of the scariest crack houses on the East Coast? I know I am, or at least I used to be. I mean I’d walk by and see Big Ralphie “the Hand” Lauren looking out of the curtains with those dead eyes of his. I mean I wasn’t fooled by those khaki pants, Polo shirt and SUV out in the driveway with that “Stop Global Warming, Hug a Republican” bumpersticker. I knew he was a killah. I just knew it.
I also knew he was the guy the two cops in our police department (we only have two) talked about when they parked out behind my apartment building in their police cruisers. They were
chatting about the newest flavored lattes down at Starbucks discussing the recent decline in the neighborhood and the recent upswing of violent crimes and also probably wondering who in the hell took chalk and drew a giant penis and balls in the middle of the street at Chapel and Clinton. Although there is really no surprise that there are balls on Clinton. This is New York after all.
I do have to admit my life has been touched by crime recently. I’ve actually been too distraught to talk about it. It happened about a month ago when I was doing my laundry in the next Village over, which is actually even far worse than here. I went for a walk during the spin cycle and was minding my own business when suddenly I was viciously and I might add, brutally attacked. And it was totally unprovoked. One minute I was walking along a path in relative safety and then the next…
Like freakin’ ow! But I chose not to contact the authorities, since, well, you know, people don’t always believe bipolars. They think we make things up and live in a fantasy world and want to steal creamers from restaurants and shit, but we really aren’t that bad. And if you had to live where I live…scary and unsafe New York, you might understand.
So maybe its best that I didn’t tell “S” the whole truth about what she’s getting herself into if she stops to see me tomorrow. We all pretty much pack heat here in the Village. Or it might be those little MP3 thingies….I’m not really sure. Fortunately though, I’m already scary enough with the Village Crack Whore Gangsta look I’ve been procurring the last couple of years….although it may just be called “middle aged woman with menopause” but boy is it ever scary. Even real crackhead whores are afraid of you when you come walking down the street with your Fuju digital camera taking pictures of flowers….let.me.tell.you!!!
See what I mean???
I just hope I don’t scare my friend when she comes to visit tomorrow. I’d never forgive myself.