I drove up the street, off Bellevue and Rampart? The sidewalk is dingy, grey and strewn with litter. It's around a curve that I often miss (intentionally) and have to back track - never locking it into permanent memory. With intent to misplace or forget in my mind. I don't ever want to remember how to get to this place. I refuse to know the street address, only the spot.
I walk up to the right front bungalow that's one out of a triplex. The entire street is quiet, as if evacuated and there's not a soul in sight. There are sounds of cars whizzing by from the nearby freeway off ramp. And, the rustling of leaves and the creaking of trees bending with the wind. It's almost the end of summer.
I have the keys to unlock the door that seems to almost be hanging off it's rusty hinges, behind the old screen. I look through crooked and bent blinds trying to get a glimpse of the inside. I stare at the stucco'd side walls of the building walls before I enter. I take a deep breath and hold the knob in my right hand ready. I'm not sure I can go in. But, I know I must. I just came here to get some things.
I'm 21 going to school and working. I left work early, just east of Downtown. It was only 15 minutes away. Still early evening with light outside. The electricity and gas was turned off some time ago. It's been almost three months since someone has been here. I brought candles for later on. I like candles.
I turn the knob and let the door slowly creak open. It's dark and I try to get my eyes focused before I walk through the entrance. After a few minutes of hesitation, I walk in and take two short steps forward. The smell is musty and an old dying sickness fills each breath - old food, dust, decay and filth. I lift a pile of papers and a band of roaches scurry away. I feel like puking and hold my hand over my nose and mouth. It's disgusting. I wish I hadn't come here alone.
The space is small. A one bedroom that's about 400 sq ft, at most. There's a kitchen off to the right side that's set up with one of those cheap, folding card tables and chairs. There are spices, boxes and cans of food, utensils, a white microwave, rice cooker, chrome pop-up toaster, pots and pans on the counters. I open the refrigerator and the same scent of sickness pervades as if a spirit escaping it's carcass.
I walk to the living room. Boxes, piles of papers, a tv and old style radio by the window. The couch is by the wall heater, covered with blankets and throws on the opposite side. The pillows are slumped and disheveled. In the corner is a side table where a cordless phone sits, along with some toys and clothes. Everything is in disarray. I slowly and purposefully walk through - scanning, lifting, sorting through the remnants looking for small pieces of treasure to hold onto. There's not much.
I go through this process with the rest of the place - the bathroom and bedroom. My mind going through random episodes of childhood and memories, trying to resolve it with what I was dealing with before me. I spend about 5 hours there and it's almost 9pm. By the door I set aside a small tv, photos albums, some vhs tapes, some LP's of the Beach Boys, the Carpenters, Elvis Presley and a watch. That's all I wanted to leave with.
I don't know where anyone in my family was that day... my mom, brother, my sister? We all handled this in our own ways, independently. I didn't tell them I was going. I also didn't allow myself to let anyone else in my life know. *Sigh* It seemed less complicated that way.
I lit up a cigarette and took a slow drag and exhaled. I really shouldn't smoke. I never thought I would. I place my hand on one of the photo album covers and remove dust with my fingers. Feeling around it's edges and bindings, but not opening to it's pages.
I do know where my father is this night. He's laying sick on a hospital bed in county general. I hate hospitals and especially that place. It was the only place he was admitted under the circumstances. Suffering a stroke and then a heartattack, he lapsed into a coma for a month. He had came out of it. But, his faculties would never be the same. His liver and kidneys were no longer functional on their own. We were told he'd have to be on dialysis 3 times a week and under constant supervision to stay alive. He would need to be transferred to a convalescent hospital for long term care. His 2nd wife disappeared when all this happened... along with a 4 year old half brother I would never get to know.
I was overcome with intense swirls of love, sadness, guilt, embarassment, regret and compassion for this man who lived a Bukowski'sh life. With random spurts of successes that only brought temporary reprieve... Layers upon layers of insecurities and doubts of self worth that formed skin and host to the embodiment of demons... haunted... ceremonius torture... the cause of his own impending demise. Still, I loved him.
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