Well, this morning I woke up to a frantic phone call from my grandmother where she was screaming into the phone about Cane attacking her. Cane? groggily, I’m still asleep, in a man’s bed, what?
Are you okay?
Yes, she is, she’s speaking to me. No, she’s not, she’s panicking. I feel a strict tightening in my chest and ask what happened, digging my face into the pillow. Came outside. Cane, broke his chain, was on top of Sasha. Cane. Ran to her. On top of her, knocked to the ground, he was right in my face. I said HELP ME JESUS. and I ran into the porch. That dog lunged at the screen door. Woulda got me.
Would have gotten her? Shush shush, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’ll be over there here soon.
But I didn’t rush out of bed, no. You have me confused with the hero.
Instead, I put my head back on the pillow and threw the covers over my head, wishing that I could go to sleep. (See, in this post I’m speaking very literally. In this one I’m speaking very… well, that’s not figuratively exactly, it’s more metaphysical, I suppose.) And I did. Easily I fall back asleep, but I don’t slip down to dreams, no, that’s when I have my nightmares.
The fears of Real Life begin to sink in. Sink in. Into where? Onto me.
I wake up to texts and missed calls, all of which I ignore as I finally, hours later, put my feet upon the floor. I brew coffee on his coffee machine. Smoked a joint he rolled for me. And read a book. Just as I do in my own home. Oh, god. I think something is happening.
(I write that consciously knowing that he may read this one day because I’ve already told him about this “blog”. I imagine him grinning that cute—<em>shhhh</em> wait. you told him about your blog?)
I put on my clothes. I gather my belongings. I look for my keys…but, wait, they’re not there. They’re not anywhere. Frantically I’m looking under things, around things, passing through each room because, oh fuck, god damn it, not again.
I push a cigarette in my mouth and fumble around looking for a lighter, which I find, thankfully, and take the walk of shame to my car. Knowing already that when I peer in through the window I’ll see my keys on my seat, the bronze Statue of Liberty keychain glittering in the sun.
And I laugh. I can’t help but laugh. shitshitshit. I light the cigarette and call Popalock. (I’ve got it on speed dial. See, this happens often to me. It happened last week.) I look behind me at the converted-garage-turned-apartment and tell him the address, yeah, I’ll be with it. And then I call mimi and tell her, ask her if she’s okay. She’s doing better. A bit. I doubt. shitshitshit. My phone rings and it’s a number, not a name that appears, but I know who it is on the other line.
On the other line it’s a little girl reaching out to me, manipulating me? or telling me the truth? ohshitshitshit I let it go to voicemail. 2 new notifications show up: 1 missed call, 1 new voicemail. god damn it, not again.
See, last week this little girl called me and I let it go to voicemail. She calls me a lot. She’s in a creative writing class that I teach to middle schoolers once a week. She’s very talented, but very unlucky, poor thing. And I gave her my number, and right when I handed it to her I knew that I shouldn’t have.
She left me a voicemail that haunts me.
But this time it was just her saying, Lindsey, I need to talk to you.
I’ll tell Stacy later, I don’t want to bug her on Spring Break.
what was I talking about?
the car? the keys? the guy? the girl? my grandmother back at home panicking and I’m nervous to go back because I know what anxiety feels like it pinches me and I wish it would stop but it’s biting her, it’s got her knocked down, pinned to the ground, sometimes, and…?
Let’s skip to the end here.
Cane’s a pit bull and he pinned her to the ground today. She showed me her bruises. She is the strongest woman that I know. I am amazed and inspired by her each day. My cousin promised it wouldn’t happen again. I spent 30 minutes listening to him tell me why Cane did it, he’s establishing dominance. It could have been a lot worse. A lot worse. Yeah, I know.
He leaves. I sit there on the porch knowing that I should go to sleep. Tomorrow I’m bartending. On Saint Patrick’s Day. In Savannah, Georgia, a city with an underwhelming Irish Population, but for some reason is 1 of the only 3 cities in America who goes all out for it. The fountains are all turned green. My bar manager gave us a battle speech. I don’t know what we’re celebrating except for the fact that Irish like to drink, and hey, we can cheers to that.
I can’t hate it. It’s crazy. It’s insane.But it’s my home.
I’m working 9am to 2am tomorrow, then 12pm to 1am Friday and Saturday. And please, please, rain on Sunday, drain the booze away, so the roof will be closed, and I shall have my day of rest.
Tomorrow I’ll be saying ohshitohshitohshit a lot. But it’s a chance for me to battle my anxiety, conquer my fears, (I’m convinced that I’m a bad bartender. (Just like I’m convinced I’m a bad comedian. (Just like I’m convinced I’m a bad person.))) But I’m not, see. I’m a good writer. I’m a good granddaughter. I’m a good person.
(If you read all of this I love you. I THINK I’M FIGURING OUT A COOL STYLE. I like this style of writing. I’ve been reading some modern authors and nobody used quotation marks anymore, what’s with that?
But fuck it, I love it. Just discovered Hubert Selby, Jr. And I am IN LOVE with Last Exit to Brooklyn. If you’re familiar with it, then you’ll probably notice that I’m basically just copying him here.
Seriously, I need to go to bed. But I wrote two pages and I’m elated, and zzzZZZzzzZZ)