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in the alley

2004-03-23 - 7:11 p.m.

the phrase "happy little clowns" is in my head and I don't know why. I don't even like clowns.

I'm nearing the sad time again, where I feel bad for everyone and take on the sufferings of all animals, old people, distorted looking kids, and anyone who is being made fun of unneccessarily. I love everyone in a special kind of way this week. I see sickly puffy faces at the market and I could cry. Someone tells a Hallmark story and I'm a puddle of tears.

Next week, fuck everyone again.

A lot of times, and lately, since I buy so much stuff I don't need, I try to balance it by eventually giving it away and putting it in the alley. The alley is where some strange and wonderful things have happened. A rooster (or a hen, I failed farm at camp) lives in a house next to the alley. He walks into the alley and fucks with the two dogs who live next door behind the fence. He is free, and they are caged. When anything moving comes through the alley, he runs back to home base, where a nice Mexican family (well, half a family) lives.

I was living here 3 months when I heard a shooting in the alley at 4 am. There were a lot of shots, and I figured whoever was involved was dead and the other guy was gone, so I woke up my roommate Ben and got his ass outside with me to check it out, because I was scared to go alone. After waiting for

a) Ben to go potty

b) Ben to drink water

c) Ben to ask what happened while looking in the mirror blankly

we finally made the 50 foot pilgrimmage to where the alley was. My car was wedged between two police do not cross signs, ( illegally parked, thank you very much) and my neighbor, the block captain or neighborhood watch guy, or Narc fucker bastard, as he was more commonly known by the nicer kids in the neighborhood, was wedged beween a puddle of blood and a vinyl police blankie. He was dead, but I had to ask anyway. I'm not a policeman and I think it's nice when they get recognized for giving out the correct info. The seriousness hadn't gotten to me yet, so I made sure that I was ok with my car being parked illegally and all.

"No it's fine for today Maam, but you really shouldn't park it there where you could feasibly get a ticket."

"But I'm not getting one today, right?"

"No, not today, but you're gonna be moving it soon, right?"

"Right. I have to go to work in the a.m."

"It is the a.m. Maam."

"Yeah I know, but I mean the later a.m. But you wouldn't give me a ticket. Not with this poor guy. Who is the guy?"

"It was the neighborhood watch guy, I'm told, Maam."

"Not a popular in demand job, is it."

"I wouldn't think so. But try not to park your car here again, ok?"

"I think I got it. I'll let you tend to your murder now."

"Have a nice morning."

I didn't have a nice morning. Or a nice week. In fact, the death complex kicked up tenfold and I was sure whoever killed the guy was looking for me too, because he was probably psychic too and could hear me thinking so loud, I was willing him toward me. Sometimes thoughts are like that.

Anyway, I got off track with this story. I put a few bags of clothes in the alley because the people in the area seem to really like the stuff. People leave all kinds of stuff in the alley. I just wanted less stuff, it was making me crazy. Then, today as I was coming home, I saw one of the old Mexican ladies next door walking (hobbling) by with an outfit on that I used to wear. It was adorable, and way too tight. She didn't seem to care, and she did look sassy. I just wanted to squeeze her little arms, and invite her in, and give her a bunch of stuff to try on, and we could blast Enya (even though I'm not into Enya) and eat coconuts, and she could twirl around and let her white hair out of that tight braid, and she could tell me about the old days and how she still sees the young lover in her beraggled mate, that she met at the dance in 8th grade, in Mexico. And while she combs her long freeflowing silken white hair cascading down past her shoulders, she would look up at me and say "next time, we don't play Enya."

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