The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

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СКАЧАТЬ I will endeavor not to be pathetic.” I wondered if I could bring my knitting? Rosvita had decided that I needed something to do with my hands that was germ-free so she was teaching me how to knit each evening. But perhaps knitting would make me look pathetic?

      “So, your screening interview will be this Friday at noon. Do not be late.”

      “My screening interview?” What, she had to evaluate me to see if I’m angry enough to be included in the class? Perhaps I should bring something to throw while I was there to display my anger? Like Slick Dick’s head?

      “Yes. Your screening interview. You and I can get to know each other and I can decide whether or not I like you.”

      Whether or not she liked me? Now that’s a tricky one. Most people do like me, I think, if they weren’t scared of me. I do think that. Except for my twenty-three-year-old ladder-climbing assistant who wanted my job, but that was nothing personal and I can’t blame her for it. “Why would you care if you liked me or not? I’m a client. I’m not coming to be your best friend.”

      “Well, hell’s bells,” she snapped. “Can you hear me crying onto my files? Sniffling into my hankie? For God’s sake, I don’t need a best friend. I have one already, the same one I’ve had since fifth grade. Her name’s Sheri and she’s got big teeth and laughs all the time. No, I need to know if I like you enough to fix your problems for you.”

      “Gee whiz. Lemme see,” I said. “I have a true abundance of problems: I have no job. I’m so skinny my bones rattle. I have assault charges filed against me. Slick Dick has also filed a civil suit against me for a horrendous sum of money. He will probably win, leaving me bankrupt. I’m currently, even at this very moment, having a nervous breakdown. With a criminal record, it will be difficult for me to become employed again. Would you like me to repeat what I told eight-hundred-thirty-four people in a meeting in the near past about vaginal cream and sugary cereals? That’s going to be a real problem in terms of being employed in advertising again. And, dear me, I don’t want to forget to mention that my mother also died recently. I miss her more than I would miss my own heart. Did I mention Slick Dick took my mountain bike? If you could solve even one of my problems, that would be super. I had no idea psychologists could do so much for people these days. None.”

      There was a silence. “I thought I told you not to be pathetic,” she said.

      “I’m not pathetic.” Yes I was, I told myself. Pathetic and mean and extremely stupid.

      “You are. PA.THET.IC. Be here Friday at noon. We’ll test your likability factor.”

      She hung up without saying good-bye. I stared at the phone awhile then told her that she was a supercilious, superior slug who was probably super-fat, much like a hippo pregnant with triplets, and hung up.

      CHAPTER 4

      Several days later, on my daily multihour crying/drinking walk, I decided to go to see what Rosvita kept referring to at our knitting sessions as the Hell of All Germs of Hell. In other words, the migrant camp. I crossed back toward town, then took a gravel road, which gave way to a dirt road, planted fields.

      Miles and miles of planted fields.

      My eyes were caught by a row of sheds starting at about ten feet from the road. They looked like they were slouching. I mean it. They were slouching sheds. Each building sagged like it couldn’t possibly stand up straight. The roofs were made of metal. There were two windows in the front of each shed, but they were lopsided, one or two were broken. The doors barely hung on a hinge.

      I stared at those doors, all hanging on one hinge. They were like my mind, I thought, my mind was currently unhinged. Still there, still clinging, but with a big gust of wind…well, whoosh, anything could happen.

      As I got closer the smell of raw sewage settled over me like a giant rotting toilet. I yanked my t-shirt up over my mouth and nose. Yuck. I assumed that the farmer had used an extrapotent fertilizer on his property.

      That’s when I saw the dot.

      A tiny little jumping dot. The dot was red.

      As I got closer and closer to the red dot, a blue dot with black hair joined it. They ran about in circles, tackling each other.

      Children.

      In front of the slouching sheds with the tin roofs, almost unhinged doors, and broken windows.

      I strode closer to the children so I could tell them not to go into the sheds because they didn’t look safe. I also wanted to inquire where their parents were. This was a huge field; it didn’t seem right that children this young should be out and about by themselves.

      When I was twenty yards away, a woman appeared at the door of one of the sheds. She wore a blue shirt and jeans. I blinked. She spoke to the children and the children ran to her and grabbed something out of her hand.

      She saw me and froze. I froze.

      The truth hit me, ugly and rotten and suffocating.

      People lived in those sheds.

      This was the situation that enraged Rosvita.

      People lived in those sheds.

      The only person who should live there is Slick Dick. I felt a wave of bitterness rain down on me like a human-size tsunami.

      The woman stood staring at me. I pitied her-who wouldn’t?-but I smashed that smack down. She would not appreciate having to deal with my white-woman pity. I waved my hand.

      Reluctantly, it seemed, as if an invisible string were yanking her hand up, she waved back.

      I glanced at the fields again, the dilapidated sheds, the huge white house about a half mile away, up on a little hill.

      Appalling.

      Sickening.

      People lived in those sheds.

      I jogged past the sheds, past the debris on the ground, past the smell that wrapped itself around me like a viper choking on bile. I jogged back through the fields to the path. I found the river again and continued jogging, the water rustling and bubbling and gurgling, the trees overhead swaying and blowing.

      The river offered me no peace the rest of that day.

      None.

      With every step I took away from the Hell of All Germs of Hell I became more angry. Soon I was livid and knew I would not be surprised if my head blew off with flames of fire.

      You see, though I am currently demented and stumbling through life in a wretched manner, I know something valuable: The reason I am in the position I am is because of luck, pure and simple.

      People get so snotty about their stations in life, the money they have, the homes, the toys, but what it mostly boils down to is luck. I was lucky to be born in America and not in a war zone in Somalia or Afghanistan. I was lucky to have loving parents not strung out on drugs. I was lucky to have a father who worked hard and provided for his family even after he died. I was lucky to have a mother who insisted I drag my rear through college. I might also mention that I have had plenty of food, water, electricity, and plumbing in my life.

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