She must have been my age
now, though she seemed so old, so lava-like, to my early 20's self, perched on
her lawn chair, on the side porch, a dangerous troll obstructing my access to
my third floor walk up.
It was Brattleboro, VT, in the early 70's,
where a legion of us young ones rented apartments, and all worked at The
Brattleboro Retreat, most of them as aides, but myself as a bookkeeper. Slowly
I was leaving behind a large group of friends grown up with my ex, and taking
free Community College classes toward an affordable degree, hanging out with
the working class Vermont kids from my office.
Most of them were married, and young; nice
cars, double wides, pot aficionados, proper and funny. Taken aback by all these
hippie types, and yet human, so office friends, warning each other when the
young obnoxious boss made his rounds.
The morning deal was to wake 1/2 hour
before work, toss on clothes, and race down the long stairs, and somehow sneak
past the landlady there, before she could capture you and hold you in her
grasp. Race down the frozen or already hot steep side streets, round the
corner, run down the hill, and arrive at the great steps of the Main Building,
breathless, ready to face another day.
Independence, for me, was priceless.
Working at whatever, if not waitressing, was fine. Fresh out of a 7 year
relationship, the world held such promise. The distance from parents the best
thing that ever happened to me. The slow creation of my own circle of friends a
welcome relief.
Once a month at my office job,the time
came. I was sequestered in the small NCR room down the hall, with this huge
dinosaur of a machine, to post the relevant information for each Social Welfare
account, then hit the push button, and have the long arm bang back and forth as
it printed out what I pressed in. Of course, if it had been a late, wild night,
or I was off my perilously balanced game, I'd miss a number somewhere, and sit,
aghast, as it pounded out the mistake, on the card. Then, I'd need to repost
the very same thing, to take it off. Such a mess. And at the end of the month's
posting, somehow, my accounts would need to balance. All this, with a 21 year
old, unable to do the simplest math in my head, ever. I never did get what that
nice big boss, Mr. Landry, was thinking, when he hired me. Maybe just assuming
the best?
And, of course, I'd go into the front
room, where the 'old biddies' were, who handled the Private accounts, and were
always, always meticulous. Vergis' accounts immaculate, perfect, her winged
glasses and her prim proper self distressed just by being in my presence. Her
monthly shock at the sight of my cards, in what I came to understand was her
pride in her work, versus my 'I'm trying; I'm ...sort of...trying, here' deal.
Barbara was divorced, also in her 60's,
friendly and kind to me, always delighted to hang out and talk, if Vergis was
out of the room, but quickly looking back to her desk if Vergis returned.
Jealous.
Arlena an easily jostled, confused woman
with a wig that shifted and tilted. Sweet, with a sweet old husband at home,
who told the best stories of her youth. Always low heels that were too big, so
they'd slip and slide, as she walked about. Best story? As a youth, Rattlesnake
Mountain, across the Connecticut from Brattleboro (a small town built on a
cliff above the river) caught fire. The townspeople went across the bridge to
watch, as snakes of all kinds raced down into the waters.
We young ones all watched the clock from
10 am on, and be ready to race away at 12. My young friends to their homes, for
a sandwich and a toke, and some gossip. Me most of the time without a car,
running up the hill and round the corner to my apartment, where out on the
porch would be...the landlady.
Day after day, with my 1/2 hour- get
lunch; eat lunch; race back on time break, she'd sit in wait, and as I
approached, wishing I had the courage to take the shaky, unstable wooden fire
escape instead. She would seem to ready herself, take a few deep breaths, to
leap into the ring.
Begin talking about some subject, without
a gap, seriously, and on she would go..as I was pinned, like a struggling
butterfly, or beetle, to the page. Til I would glance at my watch, and be
compelled by hunger and the 8 hour day of pure boredom, to launch myself
finally out of her clutches, race up the winding old stairs, throw myself at my
refrigerator, pat my cat, stuff cheese, lettuce and bread into my hand, and
tumble back down, only to be captured again. Standing there, one foot to the
other, stuffing sandwich makings surreptitiously into my mouth, feeling
alternately rude and enraged. Only to check my watch again, and back away, uh
huh-ing to her inaudible diatribe, til out of sight, I would turn, and run back
to work.
On the second floor lived a friend of that
old circle of friends, who was too fond of drink and other terrible things, on
that long slow slippery road to nowhere. He worked at an office, had a nice
apartment, and somehow was there to
suggest we go to a bar to help my terrible cold, or other great ideas. I
watched how he handled the landlady so beautifully, taking the initiative in
conversation, the helm as it were, and how she preened with his words. Which of
course lit the proverbial bulb of possibility in my head, or over it, or
whatever.
Years later, at a gathering of those old
friends...in fact, a housewarming of an old boyfriend, this neighbor would be
there, saying hello, while I nursed and then diapered my beloved firstborn,
urging me to try some white powder he had on him. An amazement to me, but I got
it. That deal, with mind-twisting addiction.
But back then, I got it. The dynamic
needed. Just the beginning of the 'school of life', as my brother calls it.
Realizing there were all kinds of people. To take care who you put yourself in
proximity to. And that there were all kinds of ways of both imagining what it
was like to be another person, that helped
you understand the best way to communicate with them.
I got that she was lonely, that she was
somehow getting something she needed from her capturing. That it was
intentional, but eligible. That I needed to take control of the interaction,
and that somehow she could get something out of it, still.
So
I began. Huffing up the hills. Approaching the tall Victorian. Feeling
like handlers patting my shoulders,
giving me pep talks; squirting water into to my mouth, as I hepped myself
up...jogging in place, til they grabbed the towel, and I took off into the
ring.
I'd round the corner, having a monologue
prepared, and launch, loud and forceful, at her, taking her off her guard.
Never letting up.
Voicing all the words with energetic
delivery, keeping up until I got my hand on my door knob to the stairs, and was
free.
Went up to say hi to the beautiful 20
pound black cat, love of my life, grabbed whatever to stuff into my mouth on
the way back, clambered down the stairs, preparing myself once again, stepped
onto the porch to see my opponent about to launch, beat her to the punch with
another laced rant that pretended interest and rationality and all sorts of odd
things, and continued, til out of sight. Breathless. Replete with satisfaction
and victory.
Of course, this didn't preclude her from
fighting the good fight. From trying to edge herself into whatever I was going
on about. And if I was a bit distracted, and not really focused, ah. She would
take over! Again! And I'd vow to myself to improve my technique, to have
alternatives always in place for if I ran out, to never let her get a word in.
Edgewise.
Over time, she gave up. She stopped
hunting and capturing. The continued defeats taking their toll.
Over time, she began to just sit in the
sunlight, and eventually we could just greet each other. Have a small
conversation.
Sure, when I was ill, and had to move out,
and my second floor neighbor parked a pickup down in the driveway, leaned back
smoking his cigarette and sipping from his flask, as he urged me to toss taped boxes and furniture out my window, onto
the mattress-lined truck below, she asked a few questions.
Maybe even laughed with me, as we said our
goodbyes, and I moved a few streets over, in with friends. Into a third floor
walk-up, with a grand porch and view of the beautiful small town. Just down the
street, a closer race to work. To classes. To nights out with friends. To star
lit skies.
Further from the sinking neighbor. Closer
to an apartment filled with the sounds of a roommate's String Band rehearsing.
To early mornings of coffee and house
plants and mandolins and big group meals.
To big new friends adventures and coffee
houses and neighborhood bars, political activity for reproductive rights and
women's rights, and Central America and our dear CIA.
Safe walks home in the darkness, passing
by endless, closely situated old homes, curving back roads, views everywhere
you turned. Majestic old trees, flowering bushes in spring and mounds of
muffling snow in winter. And the endless pounding out of poetry ,at the
bookkeeper's desk.
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