Son of a bitch. I posted at 20721 and forgot to tick the anonymous box.
Oh well, live and learn.
Resigned, I told her I was reclaiming my bike. That's when she cried hardship about being laid off and her husband being a worthless mooch. Eventually we forged an agreement, for five bucks a month she could rent my bike until she's back on her feet. Once she's on her feet then I expect that tribute until I'm restituted which I figured would take twenty four months. We went into her house, a run down two story place where I see her weaselly, scrawny husband watching TV on an overstuffed, ripped armchair. He had one of those greasy, little teenager mustaches and a rapidly receding hairline. Upstairs she propositioned me with sex by stripping down which makes her even thinner.
I am not swayed in the least.
Back outside, I get a message from siggy. It's like she's talking in my ear but it's not something I can hear. Telepathic. She dishes dirt like it's still high school, the woman is named Debbie O'Brien who is a complete cooze and is a kleptomaniac. Finally siggy relates a couplem lurid friend-of-a-friend stories about her friends falling on hard times or being fucked over by or because this woman. Disoriented by the information overdose, I can't find my way back to that run down house.
Even in dreams, my bike is forever lost.
For the first time in a long time, I had a full, hour-long lunch. I went to Denny's to find some peace and quiet. My elevated mood kept me from being annoyed at the numerous interruptions from my reading. Connie told me about how she grew up near Hartsel, which is the location of raddidge's compo^H^H^H^H^H campsite, and how the stars are really beautiful out there beyond the city lights.
Halfway through lunch, an old man who must've been about nine feet tall came over to say hello to a waitress sitting at my table and remarked upon my beard. He said he was from the Flying W Ranch and he was looking for guys with beards for a fan club. I didn't know about the Flying W and he said I must've been living under a rock. I agreed, living in a basement is pretty damned close to living under a rock. He leaned in real close, my face reflected in his wrap-around sunglasses, and said he was really from Mississippi after I said I was from New Jersey.
Even transplants who have been in Colorado for decades have to keep their true regional heritage a secret lest they arouse the ire of the "natives".
Once again, you're not a native unless you're a member of one of the original Indian tribes like the Ute and Cheyenne. Having one's grandfather participate in the Sand Creek massacre does not make one a native.
The end of my work day was a bit distressing but my mood kept me afloat despite the fact that things are only going to get busier with little or no respite for managers or processors.
Meh, overtime means an easier time getting a bike for me.
I did enjoy the feeling of control that came over me with this, for lack of a better term, happy mood. It beats the fuck out of careening out of control over the icy roads of despair.
