I like chicks. They don't have to be black.
Call me McDonald's, because I just wanna see 'em smile.
I'll call her Arlene, because that's what her name is. Just say "lean".
She was like a cat. I was in an indelible crash at the old hospice, the sun outside my dark dream box just peeking in on a new day. I heard a sharp wail, in my dark first and then in my awakening. It had an odd melodic quality, rising up and down like a siren, without the mechanistic rythm. It gave my heart a brutal chill.
I slowly picked myself up and walked to the window. Lean was there, wailing into the window of the landlady's bedroom. They were sisters.
The caturwauling broke into a sort of angry song, accusatory and interrogative. The gist of it was that Arlene's boyfriend was in some deep deep shit. With Arlene.
We partied some. A few years later, my dead wife kicked me well out of the house, and forced me to pay up six months of mortgage that I couldn't accommodate at the time, due to the unemployment caused by my recent return to California by her request.
I landed a job and got a really nice apartment in Vacaville. I was seeing Arlene from time to time, and it progressed, she began using my beat-up and extremeley over-powered pickup truck to drive work everyday in Oakland, where she was from originally. I loved Arlene alright, but she would not allow the lust. I'm not really sure aht she wanted, maybe just some help.
Eventually, she needed a place to stay, and my place was just irresistable. She appeared outside one day with the truck all loaded up with her stuff. "Fuckin-A-right", I said. We started bringing it in.
Here comes bitch apartment manager. "You can't do this, didn't you read your lease?" She's red in the face. "All occupants must clear our credit requirements..."
"Really? What if we were traditionally married? I mean, if I worked and she stayed home? Is there no one like that living here?"
"We can and will evict you".
So here's the thing: We weren't married, or even making love. It was a two bedroom apartment. I was just helping her out, and letting my penis make the decisions.
Well, maybe it wasn't because she was black, but they wouldn't even let Lean try to muster credit. Lawyers were zero help. The provision was there, and unless you have thousands of dollars to contest it, then you must abide by your signature. The bill of rights is for those who can afford to enforce it. You can't call a cop.
I could have just said, "you have to find another place". But I wasn't making the decisions. We moved together to a poor neighborhood, where her credit standing appeared to be a non-issue. I had lived in that neighborhood before, and I didn't like it. You wouldn't either.
One night, she brought home a lover, and the next morning I loaded up the truck and told Arlene I was moving back east. She asked if I could leave the television. I couldn't.
I left California, and moved here:
http://www.geocities.com/aropeleash/pond8-02.jpg
You can't see the mosquitos...
