Writing from threefour days ahead from behind; on a little ketchup run.

Sometimes Wrongside Tracks is a very strange place to me, even though I’ve lived in it all my life.

Early on, at this particular manifestation of it (ay chihuahua), there was the night of Gollum Girl stumbling down from the weeds on the hill, talking about how her boyfriend had just shotgunned somebody, and asking in her crazy voice if I knew where The Director lived.

There was the birdseed poop incident.

There was Robert from next door wanting to run a new sewer line through this lot, and then his mother’s weird email threatening a ‘subpina’ … look lady, I’m just the renter, but I think your tactics are about the stupidest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness, not counting the daily routines of Deans and Chairs.

About the time I was supposed to be filling this space of the 9th with words, at 4 AM on that very dark and very cold morning, I was up early and well rested. I heard a vague noise on the porch and swung open the door to investigate. There was someone there. I never really saw him. He started in by saying he thought this was Rebecca’s house. It’s not; it hasn’t been for a long time if ever, and I would guess it was some kind of awkward and pointless lie that was trying to break the literal ice … or, some kind of justification for even being on my porch in what was still the middle of the night.

As I was closing the door in his face he was chattering about how he’d give me twenty bucks for a jump start.

There was no stranded car in sight. I checked afterwards.

If I had to guess, I’d say he lived in the complex of way too many people living in way too small a space with way too little money, just down below me. He probably did have a dead battery, and someplace to go, and looked around and saw exactly one house with lights on inside, and took his shot. He had to clamber over the porch rail to do it, because the gate was hooked from inside and still was when he left, so … yeah. So … no.

It shook me a little and made me think about integrating my gun back into my working kit. It’s still sitting in a box up in Sand Rock where it has sat for a dozen years. Time to clean it? Maybe, maybe for reasons right, or wrong.

Shook me mainly because I wasn’t really expecting there to be anyone out there, in spite of the little noise I heard.

Shook me for some days. Led to this gap I’m filling, in some weird metaphysical way I’ll never understand.

Then this morning, which is actually the 12th in real time, the Stove People called to say that the money they were supposed to get for the new stove was apparently in dispute. Mister James asked me if I thought my landlady was ‘pulling a fraud’. Basically I laughed in his phone face. “Look, dude, I’m just the renter … “, but even if she was, what percentage could I possibly have in concurring with your lame suspicions of criminal activity? Do you not understand how the world works? Do you think I’m stupid, bro?

Send me a sub pina, you witless tool.

***

I tell you all that to tell you this.

I am the anointed Janitor of the Southwest Temple, at least for the next eight weeks, and this

Is my origin story.