MLK & Half Addresses

One thing I haven’t before mentioned in this blog hqed at 47 Monroe is its arch nemesis, 47½ Monroe. Sharing our eastern-most wall is another apartment, a cramped studio, maybe 12 feet by 20, inhabited by a fella we know only as Mike. A short, stocky man, middle-aged, fronting a crew cut & business tattoos, Mike moved in last summer & was quite hospitable. He seemed of the easy going, neighbourly variety, sort of kept to himself but wasn’t one to shy away from conversation & when he did converse with you it was open & honest, to the point where within the first week of moving in he told us that he had just recently been released from ‘work camp’, which I know to be synonymous with jail, penal institute, prison, where he had served a notable twelve months. Still, everything stayed respectable. Our largest concern when he moved in wasn’t that he’d break in in the middle of the night, cut us from ear to ear, violate our cat & run off with our electronics to hawk for crack money, but only that he not complain whenever we had band practice. Which he didn’t, & in recompense we didn’t complain when he left his five year old parrot outside all alone when he was at work, squawking & squealing for hours on end. So it went for months, the only variance coming when the weather went south & the bird went indoors. Then Mike found himself a lady friend. & oh, was this lady friend a catch. Drives a ran down ‘vette, with one head light always out & a rattling muffler. Mopish, bleach blonde hair, wears white-washed denim which she tucks into her off-white ankle boots. Mike didn’t seem offer much to the world & the first thought I had upon seeing here was ‘bar whore’. I’m not putting any money on it but I’d give an educated guess that a good majority of those spending a year in Lane County’s ‘work camp’ are probably there for domestic violence. It didn’t take long before the arguments started. Mostly arguments between Mike & his girlfriend, but there were also those between Mike & his ex-wife. Mike & his telephone. Mike & his kitchen lino. Typically late in the evening, when he should have been out careening drunkenly in the dark, explaining to strangers in overly polite language the procedures taken to rip your enemy’s arm out of its socket so you could then beat them with it, he was at home, screaming obscenities at some faceless foe, waking Brian or I, & being all around a straight up dick. I bring Mike up now only because as I write this he is outside, screaming & being a dick to his ex-wife & she’s finally standing up to him. Ex-wife: “I hold the keys to your worthless life so give me a check & help me out or you are going back to jail!” Yeah, ex-wife.

I spent the holiday with my wonderful girlfriend, Aliza Kate Fones, at the fones’ beach house in Lincoln City. It was so nice to get out of town, just the two of us, relaxing & necking. Honestly it was great, sorely needed. Aliza has now acquired herself a third & hopefully final job, which now means she is working all of the seven days the dear lord has given us, so we will only have occasion to take a trip whenever there’s a federal holiday. At times I think she’s crazy, a time bomb, but still she’s swell. & the coast was amazing. Not long before we left I jammed a knuckle of one of my fingers & it is still swollen & painful. Now it’s even worse for all the typing & I’m off to ice it.