life in bandon, part II

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Story time. This is a good’un.

Fast forward two years. Fresh off a winter of East Coast road tripping, I’ve returned to Bandon to save for a fall move to New York City. Here we find Mike hopelessly depressed (New York : Bandon :: Tom Waits : James Blunt), living alone at the motel mentioned in part I of this installation. I become more hermetic by the hour, tangled in vague existential crises that know no antidote. My routine numbs the mind and sucks the soul; I caddie during the day, return to an empty room at night, read Vonnegut and Capote. Sometimes I watch very bad television, blinds drawn. I retreat further and further inside my head and rarely emerge from my four-walled cave.

Then:

A simple twist of fate (cheers, Bobby). My peepers fall on a handwritten ad thumbtacked to the caddie shack bulletin board. It reads something like this: “Room for rent. $275/mo. Clean, spacious. Inquire at 347-xxxx.” So I do. I inquire. Her voice sounds like alley rocks. She asks me where I am. “Ray’s,” I say. “Near the blue benches.” Ray’s is the supermarket. She: “I’ll pick you up.” Her car is a sleek, black Pontiac that exists outside of time and space. And taste. It may be from 1989 or, say, 2006. I'm not really sure. Of course the windows are tinted. Two white, fuzzy dice swing from the rearview mirror. "Get in," she says. Her name is Sandra. She is 54.

Minutes later, we arrive at her home.

RED FLAGS:

1) Chloe, the dog, is a monstrous creature who has not been bathed in months. Though diminutive and perfectly harmless, tempermentally speaking, she’s spoiled to shit and probably disease-ridden, judging from the odor. Chloe massages herself by rubbing her fetid hindquarters against the legs of the living room couch. That dog needs a good punting.

2) Mike, Sandra’s “roommate” (are they sleeping together? no one knows), is an older, vaguely creepy man with no teeth and sad, watery eyes. He occupies the bedroom across the hall from Sandra. Mike’s mustache is stone grey, except for a very thin patch between his nostril and upper lip, which is burnt to a fine orange from years of ciggie smoking. He looks like prison. (More on that later.)

3) Mike dates (see: sleeps with) Charla, a flannelled mother of two who belongs in a sentence with these three words: “archetypical,” “trailor,” and “trash.” She drives a rusted, dented Buick that is not of this decade, swills vodka straight from the bottle and wears--unironically--black, stonewashed jeans that rise to her nipples.

4) The bed in my would-be room is a 70s-style waterbed (see: lumps in all the wrong places, zero lumbar support).

5) The house reeks of cigarette smoke.

“I’ll take it!” I say.

First few weeks pass without incident. I discover that Sandra is a raging alcoholic, but a highly disciplined one. She drinks exactly once a week, from noon on Saturday to four a.m. on Sunday. My bedroom flanks the enclosed back porch, which is, admittedly, a pretty sweet party room. There’s a diner-style booth, a few scattered couches and a stereo. Full bar in the back. Every Saturday Sandra takes to her chair next to the record player and pours herself a malicious whiskey-‘n’-water, but not before queuing a Greatest Hits Of The 70s compilation and calling all her degenerate friends to take part in the festivities. Before night's end, ten or twelve locals--Sandra's posse--hiccup their way onto the porch, each louder than the last.

A window in my room looks out into the porch. I can see them, but, due to the lighting and the blinds, they can’t see me.

One Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) I awake to hear Mike and Charla doing the old in-out, in-out on the porch after Sandra and the trolls pass out. This horrid, eyeball-breaking act takes place ten paces from my window. I am nonplussed.

Sometimes I make an appearance at the Saturday parties. Sandra and Mike adore me because I’m young (they live vicariously through me) and fairly sociable, and because they get a kick out of my stories. Their crazy friends take to me immediately. I spend hours on that porch, sipping microbrew and yabbering away.

[A completely random aside: Sandra’s skin is frighteningly sallow. I know why. All she eats are mini Crunch bars and Reese’s cups. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. In my four months there, I never once see her consume regular, nutritional food. One day I peer into her room to confirm my suspicions, and, sure enough, there's five or six of those 10-Piece Fun Packs on the carpet next to her bed. Sandra runs on chocolate, yet--surprisingly--she’s skinnier than I am.]

Sandra’s daughter, Amy, is 23. Sandra tries to hook us up. “Amy will be coming down this weekend from Portland,” she says. “You MUST meet her.” Then she shows me pictures of Amy. I look at the pictures. They're nice pictures. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll meet her.” Amy arrives. She pretends I do not exist. Cold shoulder. On the third day, Amy offers this: “We--my friends and I--are hitting the pub, if you wanna go.” “Sure,” I say. “I’m in.” We go. We drink. After two or three, Amy gives me the eye and slinks over to my side, bolstered by that liquid courage. I don’t know what to make of all this. I was fairly convinced she hated me, but that hand on my arm suggests otherwise. That’s when Jay, her ex-boyfriend, steamrolls across the bar and takes a swing at me. My first bar fight! (Ok, so it isn’t really a fight. Four or five people intervene before any punches land.)

Amy and I flee the bar hand in hand. Twenty minutes later, we’re in her car en route to Portland. On the way up, we listen to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" probably 45 times. So it goes.

A few weeks later, I’m reading on the living room couch, minding my business, when Mike emerges from the back porch. He’s wrecked. I can see it in his eyes. He sways in front of me before slurring--inches from my face--something along these lines: “If you EVER cross me, Mike, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll end you. I’ll fucking end you.” I realize, then and there, that this man is capable of murder. It takes me a few minutes to talk him down and put him to bed.

Days later, I discover (via Sandra) that Mike has spent 20+ years of his life in prison, though to this day I don’t what crime brought about such a sentence. She doesn’t volunteer that information. Swell, Sandra.

I get out of there, eventually. Alive, one piece, all my digits. Phew!
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