by Zoe Parker
Which I used the last of to buy that dickhead’s dinner.
I have every right in the world to feel like shit right now. However temporary it needs to be, I can’t dwell on it, but I can take my minute to sulk. My small hidden window of time to let the hurt from the entire fiasco out a little.
Finally, the fan belt decides to cooperate and stop phoning home to its alien kin; I suck up the sad crap and leave. The drive home is uneventful and takes me around fifteen minutes. The drive’s view consists of mostly cornfields and trees. Driving super slow past my house I go to the end of the street and turn around. With a little bit of reverse-forward-reverse-oh-god-I-almost-hit-the-neighbors-car-reverse, I was able to back the car into the only parking spot left on the block. At least this far from the house I can mostly avoid my mother. I know that makes me a complete jerk, but she has at least 15 cats. 15! I have a severe allergy to all of them.
Plus, the whole hoarding thing.
I love my mom, she’s a good person, she’s just a bit of a keep everything person. Okay, not everything but she has every cat themed comic book, toy, and piece of Tupperware in existence. I’m not kidding, not one bit. There’s a narrow path that winds from room to room with every inch of the walls of stuff covered in cat hair. Lots and lots of cat hair. So much hair that, if I walk by when she has a window open, I break out in hives. I’ve tried a therapist, an interventionist, throwing stuff out… you name it, to help her. I realized at some point I only made it worse, I can’t make her take care of herself, she has to be willing.
Hoarding is a serious mental illness that people don’t realize is an actual illness. Having this issue doesn’t make her a bad person. Mom still goes to church every Sunday, every Wednesday and to every single optional service they have. She pays her taxes, mows her grass—shocker—the yard itself is pristine. She’s kind and giving, I couldn’t have asked for a better mom, but the cats and the things all over is too much. Living in that house was killing me. The doctor literally said my lungs were getting damaged.
I moved into the small one-room building in the backyard. We framed out the inside and put in a little shower, toilet and kitchen area—I even have a rug. The shed is 12x12 with enough space for me to basically exist, but do little else. I’m perfectly fine with it. Mom wanted me to stay close without me having to get Catfur’s Lung living in her house. The whole rent-free thing helps too. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure that it’s the only reason I’m not some homeless bum living in the park, surviving on the pigeon seed people throw out.
Taking a deep breath to prepare myself, I get out of the car and hoof it up the street, cutting through the half yard we share with our neighbor to bypass the front, where my Mom looks out the picture window like a… cat. Wow, it’s weird and yet accurate to think that. My Mom is that snoopy neighbor who knows if you’ve come home late and did the walk of shame. She also simple likes watching the cars go by sometimes, with a sweet, distracted smile on her face. So, cat definitely fits her.
As soon as I get close to my humble abode, the boys start making a racket that I can hear over the lawn mower, which needs to retire more than my car. Pausing, I look at our neighbor, he’s a bit of a peculiar one. He watches my Mom when she’s outside puttering around the yard, but not in that call-the-police way, but more in the I-wanna-touch-your-butt way.
Ew, now that I think about it.
His name is Earl, and he’s got a comb-over that he’s determined to keep no matter how many times I make a comment about it. He’s had it so long that he has tan lines from it. At least it shows he’s dedicated. Staring at him on his ancient mower, trying to watch our house and not get caught doing it is a bit amusing. His hair used to be bright orange, but as he’s aged it’s silvered out quite a bit, and he still dresses in clothes from the 70s, but some people consider that back in style. He’s a bit plump in the middle, but his legs are so skinny and white that they look like popsicle sticks when he wears shorts.
As he meets my eyes, I smile and wave at him. I can see why Mom secretly stares back at him. He has a pretty pair of green eyes that remind me of the tall grass outside of town, in the spring. Vivid and bright and always with a sparkle in them. I give him a lot of shit, but when it comes down to it, he’s sweet as hell. After his cheeks pinken to a ruddy red, he waves back and turns his riding lawn mower the opposite direction.
Making him blush is the highlight of my day sometimes.
With a furtive glance at the quiet house, I run a little to get to the shed. “Guys shut up before she hears you!” I whisper fiercely, while trying to enter the combination to the lock on the door. The noise increases instead of decreases and I know it’s because I spoil them rotten. The only men I manage to keep in my life are obnoxious feather brains. Finally, my stiff fingers work, I pop the lock off and duck inside.
“Rub dem titties all over me, baby!” Loki, the alpha male of the flock, yells from the kitchen counter where he’s pecking at the door of his cage.
With a sigh, I turn to him and say, “Loki, I have to teach you more words than that.” I admit that I say this every single time I enter the house and the parrot yells that particular phrase—which I think is his favorite—or some of the other colorful ones. Like, “just spit on it” or “It’s so big” for example. Loki, my adorable African Gray Parrot, is a rescue bird and his former owner was a porn producer. I’d bet my left kidney this bird knows more about sexual positions than I’ll ever know. He’s also a big softie despite having the vocabulary of a hooker.
When I unlatch the cage door, to prove my point, he follows the path of the rope strung all over the ceiling to the rafter above me and hops down to my shoulder to nuzzle my cheek. A loud tapping sound pulls my gaze back to the second cage on the kitchen counter where Hardy, God bless his blind ass, is pecking away at an old ashtray that’s leaning against the wall outside of his cage. A left over from when I used to smoke. I’d love to say I quit, instead I’ve gotten more sophisticated. I vape now. I even make my own vape juice which is incredibly cheaper than buying it.
Hardy is a blind parakeet, another rescue bird that was left when his former owner died. No one wanted him, so I took him. He’s adorable and loves to make little whistle noises and since he can’t see he mistakes everything for bird seed. Everything. Crossing the small room, I lightly bump his leg with my finger to let him know to climb on. With an excited squawk, he climbs on and does his happy dance where he bounces up and down with his feathers fluffed out.
I use my thumb to kind of hold him in place, as he gets excited and takes a tumble sometimes.
“Dick.” Willis, the last of my trio of men, calls from his hiding spot next to the patched-up inflatable mattress that makes up the bulk of my bedroom furniture. As in all of it. Willis is a cockatiel and is named after a man who is somewhat famous and as bald as he is. Completely and utterly bald, the crazy bird plucks out his own feathers and then insults you when you look at him.
A year ago, when I went to the city for a job interview, that I bombed horribly, I found a couple of homeless guys discussing how to eat him. For 10 bucks they gave him to me. I’ll freely admit that he’s a bit deranged, I think all 3 of them are, but most of it is from trauma inflicted upon them. People aren’t the only ones affected by such things.
We at least have the chance to get it treated and understood.
Crossing to his cage, I open the door and attempt to rub the top of his bald little head, but he nips my finger. Ungrateful butthole. Giving him a dirty look, I turn to dig through my small plastic wardrobe and get my pajamas out. Putting Loki on the rope, I climb into the only remotely luxurious part of this house, the shower. I found it at a church sale, still in the shrink wrap—I even installed it myself. Relatively without issue, at least, after a tiny flood in the backyard and a few leaks here and there.
Done with a quick shower, I look through my small, empty pantry while brushing my teeth. I’m not hungry but I’ve only had one meal, and I will be hungry later. There’s
nothing in there, no potted meat or even any unlabeled cans of mystery food. Opening the drawer at the bottom ends in another failure. All that’s in there is bird food, which means at least the boys get to eat.
Going back to the sink to rinse my mouth out, I inwardly vent as I gargle.
Why do I have this shitty luck? Did I piss off some mystical so-and-so and get jinxed for the rest of my life? The dating scene isn’t the only facet of my life that’s going to hell. Finding a job is at the bottom of the pot with all the shit piled on it. In every single interview, something goes wrong. If I luck out and get the job, within 2 months, I’m terminated for some off the wall reason. It’s never legit ones like me being late or missing work, nope—it’s always something weird.
Like the dog grooming job.
Or when I tried working at the Que-Mart, I was fired because the freezer shorted out in the middle of summer and all the cold stuff went bad. Somehow, that was my fault and my head rolled. Then you have my brief stint as an actual HR person, that lasted three entire days. I was fired for marking “other” as my ethnicity on my application. They said it was a form of dishonesty.
How the hell do you fire someone for that?
The worst one to date, in my opinion, was the nursing home. I was briefly employed there as a CNA, briefly being a whole 2 hours. I was fired because I refused to stick my hand up this incredibly sweet lady’s hoo-ha to pull her false teeth out of it. She liked to shove things up there, and I was not her GYNO or doctor of any kind. For refusing, I was fired right there on the spot by the head nurse, who should’ve been the one helping the old gal remove her burden. Isn’t that part of the nurse’s job?
The entire fiasco of my working career is a never-ending, depressing, clusterfuck. Considering how it’s all worked out, how can I not feel a little sorry for myself for a second time today? Most people would. It doesn’t matter that I’m annoying myself with the bitterness of my self-pity. I think it’s deserved, today has just been the cherry on top of an entire lifetime of crap—
“Deeper baby, deeper,” Loki says. A surprised laugh lifts me out of my dark mood. I give him a bit of side-eye because I swear that bird knew I needed to be poked at. I rub his feathered chest and tuck him and the other boys into their cages. It’s bedtime for the lot of us, my brain needs to check out for a few hours, and I can’t trust the three of them loose. Wearily, I climb onto my bed. It’s not late, but I’m emotionally wrung out.
The tip-tap of rain hitting the roof makes me groan, I forgot to put a bag over the passenger window. Flopping back on the bed I decide to give up on life for a little while and nap.
Chapter Two
Birds are a miracle because they prove to us there is a finer, simpler state of being which we may strive to attain.
Douglas Coupland
Waking up slowly, with my body sunk into the bed at an awkward angle, I roll over and hit the power switch for the built-in pump on the mattress. The roar of the small motor fills the former quiet of the small room with a head pounding noise, as it slowly lifts my body. A necessary evil if you sleep on one of these as much as I do. They stretch and deflate in a constant vicious cycle, and this one has a new leak that I haven’t found yet. I woke up with my ass resting on the floor and my feet in the air, definite sign of a slow leak.
However, leaks or not, it’s much better than sleeping on the concrete floor. I know this because I slept on that cold, hard floor for a few weeks before I could buy this mattress. It sucked, I don’t want to do it again.
Speaking of doing it again, it’s time to look at the help wanted ads. I may have horrible luck with jobs, but I still need to have one. Opening my outdated but functional tablet, I start searching for openings on all jobs on the city job board. Beggars can’t be choosers and I’m definitely a beggar. Using the process I’ve honed from too many years of doing it, I weed out the legitimate jobs from the fakes. While making a list on a notepad and doing my best to ignore the rumbling of my stomach, I move through the lists and ads quickly. I’ve ignored an empty stomach for years too. Mom had a habit of forgetting to buy food and I had a habit of not saying anything.
She struggled financially, and I didn’t want to be a burden. When I came home from college and couldn’t keep a steady job, no matter how hard I tried, I had to figure out something. Moving out here to the shed doesn’t change the fact that I’m still living with my Mom, but it gives me some form of independence. The majority of people my age have successful careers and their own homes. Not me though, I can’t hold a job long enough to even discover what having a career is all about.
God, Mel stop lamenting how bad your life is. You’re alive, aren’t you?
Oh, shut up common sense, no one was talking to you.
After marking as many of the jobs as I could find that I might be able to do, and filling out the applications I could online, I decide to clean up my room a bit. The birds are pretty good at going to the bathroom in their cages, but feathers and birdseed get everywhere. Digging out the vacuum I found on a curb for free, I use it to clean up the birdseed and I pick up the feathers.
Carefully, I sort through them keeping a few that I like for my collection. Yes, I collect feathers instead of shoes or knickknacks like normal people. Apparently, this started when I was a pint sized 2 or 3 year old. Mom said that I picked one up one day at the zoo, a peacock feather, and that started my mini-obsession with them. They’re like gold to me, I have no idea why I like them so much. I just do.
Opening the other cabinet in the room, which is the only glass object in my house, I carefully add the 2 feathers I picked from the boys’ leavings to the gold metallic box that I designated specifically for them. The rest of the three shelves are occupied by feathers from a multitude of bird species. I tend to favor the ones that have hidden colors, like certain ducks or crows and ravens. Raven feathers tend to look purple and blue in the light, while crow feathers are a purple and green color. I don’t have a feather from either species, but not for lack of trying. The birds are all over the place and yet, no matter how much I look, no dropped feathers. Swiping at non-existent dust, I make sure everything is in its place before I shut the door. Other than my boys these feathers are the most valuable thing I own. Purely sentimental, but they mean more than money to me.
As that ugly, twisted little Stoor would say, “My precious.”
Smirking at my own silly thoughts, I finish cleaning up and find myself standing, once again, in front of the small, empty fridge. There’s not even ketchup in there, this is bad. I lightly slam the door in frustration. My eyes go automatically to the change jar I keep on the fridge. Empty like everything else. I can go without food for tonight, but come tomorrow I’ll start feeling ill. Grabbing a glass, I fill it up with water, chug it, and then repeat. The hunger pangs temporarily abate, but they’ll return. They always do.
I’ll have to brave my Mom’s house. She won’t mind me taking a couple slices of bread and a piece of cheese. I can’t go to a job interview and have my stomach growl through the entire thing, people are super judgmental about those kinds of things, and I need a job. Quickly I check on the boys, change their food and water and then settle down with the tablet on the bean bag I found in the neighbor’s garbage. Well, it was beside their garbage, but I asked before I took it. They were moving anyhow. I’ve washed it with the hose and Lysol, but it still smells faintly of pickles. I have no idea why, but it is what it is, and I can overlook that smell most of the time. Most of my furniture was found on a curb or in a dumpster.
Logging into KissingCupids I find my inbox empty. Not that I’m terribly surprised, especially after Steven, who is presumably the cream of the crop for this website. With a bit of an evil smile on my face I go to his profile and enter my rating of our date.
2 Stars: Steven has a nice watch, a nice suit and an empty wallet. He got the red light for the booty and the only stiff thing I got was the check he bailed on.
Honestly, I only gave him 2 stars because he was
a good-looking guy and even though it’s not significant in any part of my life, this website supposedly takes these reviews seriously. In fact, by their TOS, he should be suspended for stiffing me for the meal. My smile grows bigger as I type out an email to the admins of the site. Listing the time and date, the restaurant, the amount of the bill and how I paid it, I send screenshots of our conversation and agreement to meet.
Guys like him though, won’t be stopped by my comments on a dating app.
Grabbing my beat-up notepad, I check over the list and feel a little hopeful because there are over a dozen jobs here. While I’m uptown I’ll also look for hiring signs in windows. Someone has to hire me; I’m a good worker… I need the money. Finishing up I stand with resolve. Time to brave the cat hell.
Just outside the door, in a tub, I keep a pair of house shoes specifically for Mom’s house. This way my normal shoes don’t get cat hair on them. I look down at the yellowed unicorn slippers. Once upon a time they were glittery and white, not yellow with something green potentially growing on them. One of them is also missing the horn. Grabbing the poncho out of the tub and a shower cap, I don my armor and, with a deep breath for bravery, head towards the back door. I don’t need a key, because she never locks the damn thing. The light in the dining room is on which means she’s napping in the chair in the living room.
I squash the guilt, I genuinely love her but if she sees me, she’s going to want to help me. I can’t have that. Mom has enough of her own worries, her health, her collections… those cats. Quietly, I open the door and immediately push a furry almost escapee back into the kitchen. Forcing myself to avoid looking anywhere but the small path that’s in front of me, I creep towards the fridges. She has 2 of them and she keeps all her food in there, except canned food. The cats get into it if she doesn’t. The smell is awful, seriously awful. Cat urine and crap galore. I have no idea how she deals with it, I couldn’t when I came back home from college. In the four years I was gone she quadrupled everything, including the cats. I couldn’t even find my bed the night I returned and ended up sleeping in my car, it was the only way I could breathe. The next day I rolled up my sleeves to dig my bed out. Plastic sheets all the way, woo! That and I locked the cats out of my room, which Mom didn’t like, but understood.
