Fear of Ghosts
I knew that letting go could mean death. My fingers clasped down on the tailgate of the small red pickup truck, and the rubber soles of my shoes stuck down to the steel bumper, as the truck sailed down the freeway overpass at 90mph. I knew the driver and his friends were drunk. I knew they couldn't hear me. I couldn't imagine why I had accepted a ride from them.
The truck darted back and forth through the sparse slow midnight traffic. Without warning it started down an exit ramp, and then swerved back across the grass, catching air on the incline, jumping over the small guard rail, and landing back on the freeway lane. I was desperate to hang on.
As we sailed past each grassy patch, I tried to think of a way I could jump off without killing myself. A downhill slope with lots of grass, I thought. And I'd have to roll, or else I'd tear myself to pieces. And I'd have to avoid hitting my head.
Each time an area which vaguely matched my requirements came scrolling up to the side of the truck, I still couldn't do it. I couldn't jump.
* * *
I found myself walking the opposite direction on the freeway several miles ahead. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten off the truck, but I did.
Ahead of me I saw a tiny beat-up trailer with a light on inside. The door was open. I went in.
In the middle of the tiny trailer stood my brother, in worn out jeans, boots, and no shirt. He had a large sketch-like tattoo on his back of an upright left forearm and open hand, palm facing out.
I asked him about the tattoo. He said it was new. I said it was quite good, but seemed not quite natural, as if the hand should be tilted outward a little bit. He didn't know.
I began recounting a story to him of where I'd spent the day. There was another trailer, out in the middle of a red dirt field, where a tattoo artist and porn director lived with two women. I'd been there most of the afternoon, trying to talk the man out of something I needed. It had been obvious I wasn't in a good bargaining position to get it and had finally given up.
My brother and I walked to the building which contained an apartment in which I had previously lived and was in the process of moving out of. The place was completely empty at this point, with bare hardwood floors and empty white wood panelled walls.
All the doors in the apartment had been violently kicked from the hinges, in some cases taking the whole hinges and splinters of the wall with them. The shattered doors lay around at various places on the floor.
"I think you'd better give up on getting your deposit back," he said.
I told him I'd be lucky if they didn't charge me, or even sue me. "Have you seen these?" I asked, handing him a stack of Polaroid photos of the apartment which I'd taken as an obligation to file any previous damage claims.
We looked at the top Polaroid together, which was a shot, from approximately the same spot, looking at the doorway directly in front of us. In the photo, not only was the door kicked out, but many areas of the hardwood floor were torn through as well, with dangers slivers of wood strips sticking out in all directions. The entire floor was covered with debris. Dust covered everything. The window in the living room behind the doorway was shattered, with tree limbs poking into the room. And, most strikingly, practically every inch of the white walls were covered with drawings of screaming, thrashing, grasping people, and angry phrases scrawled their way across all of them at various sizes and angles.
All the other photos were the same. New drawings, new words, and still all the debris and damage.
"Fucking ghosts," he said.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I answered. "Didn't even know they were here until they started kicking the doors out at night. Glad I'm getting out now, if that's only the beginning."
"No shit," he responded.
"Yeah."
"Well, want to fix up the rest of what we can, before you get out of this place?"
"Sure."
I walked around the kitchen, picking up various small things still rolling around in near-empty drawers, and putting them into a plastic bag.
After a while, I went looking for my brother. He was in the bathroom, reinstalling the original shower-head which had been in the tub. He turned the water on to test it. The angle had been all wrong, and water not only overshot the tub, but sprayed all over me and the floor.
"Thanks," I said. "Forgot to tell you, the angle was important."
I climbed up with my feet straddling the tub, popped off a small plug which covered a screw that held the shower-head in place, loosened it, and turned it around a few degrees. Testing the water again, it now landed in the tub. I replaced the screw cover.
Satisfied with this small but successful repair job, I shook some of the water droplets off my arms and hands, and we left the apartment, not bothering to lock it behind us.
— 2005-06-11
The truck darted back and forth through the sparse slow midnight traffic. Without warning it started down an exit ramp, and then swerved back across the grass, catching air on the incline, jumping over the small guard rail, and landing back on the freeway lane. I was desperate to hang on.
As we sailed past each grassy patch, I tried to think of a way I could jump off without killing myself. A downhill slope with lots of grass, I thought. And I'd have to roll, or else I'd tear myself to pieces. And I'd have to avoid hitting my head.
Each time an area which vaguely matched my requirements came scrolling up to the side of the truck, I still couldn't do it. I couldn't jump.
* * *
I found myself walking the opposite direction on the freeway several miles ahead. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten off the truck, but I did.
Ahead of me I saw a tiny beat-up trailer with a light on inside. The door was open. I went in.
In the middle of the tiny trailer stood my brother, in worn out jeans, boots, and no shirt. He had a large sketch-like tattoo on his back of an upright left forearm and open hand, palm facing out.
I asked him about the tattoo. He said it was new. I said it was quite good, but seemed not quite natural, as if the hand should be tilted outward a little bit. He didn't know.
I began recounting a story to him of where I'd spent the day. There was another trailer, out in the middle of a red dirt field, where a tattoo artist and porn director lived with two women. I'd been there most of the afternoon, trying to talk the man out of something I needed. It had been obvious I wasn't in a good bargaining position to get it and had finally given up.
My brother and I walked to the building which contained an apartment in which I had previously lived and was in the process of moving out of. The place was completely empty at this point, with bare hardwood floors and empty white wood panelled walls.
All the doors in the apartment had been violently kicked from the hinges, in some cases taking the whole hinges and splinters of the wall with them. The shattered doors lay around at various places on the floor.
"I think you'd better give up on getting your deposit back," he said.
I told him I'd be lucky if they didn't charge me, or even sue me. "Have you seen these?" I asked, handing him a stack of Polaroid photos of the apartment which I'd taken as an obligation to file any previous damage claims.
We looked at the top Polaroid together, which was a shot, from approximately the same spot, looking at the doorway directly in front of us. In the photo, not only was the door kicked out, but many areas of the hardwood floor were torn through as well, with dangers slivers of wood strips sticking out in all directions. The entire floor was covered with debris. Dust covered everything. The window in the living room behind the doorway was shattered, with tree limbs poking into the room. And, most strikingly, practically every inch of the white walls were covered with drawings of screaming, thrashing, grasping people, and angry phrases scrawled their way across all of them at various sizes and angles.
All the other photos were the same. New drawings, new words, and still all the debris and damage.
"Fucking ghosts," he said.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I answered. "Didn't even know they were here until they started kicking the doors out at night. Glad I'm getting out now, if that's only the beginning."
"No shit," he responded.
"Yeah."
"Well, want to fix up the rest of what we can, before you get out of this place?"
"Sure."
I walked around the kitchen, picking up various small things still rolling around in near-empty drawers, and putting them into a plastic bag.
After a while, I went looking for my brother. He was in the bathroom, reinstalling the original shower-head which had been in the tub. He turned the water on to test it. The angle had been all wrong, and water not only overshot the tub, but sprayed all over me and the floor.
"Thanks," I said. "Forgot to tell you, the angle was important."
I climbed up with my feet straddling the tub, popped off a small plug which covered a screw that held the shower-head in place, loosened it, and turned it around a few degrees. Testing the water again, it now landed in the tub. I replaced the screw cover.
Satisfied with this small but successful repair job, I shook some of the water droplets off my arms and hands, and we left the apartment, not bothering to lock it behind us.
— 2005-06-11