The Trickster Diaries/Epilogue, Part 6
If you don’t drive, the downside of living in ultra rural Wonder Valley is far more extreme, far more unpleasant than I’d guessed. Doesn’t have to do so much with travel time on the bus—the 7am pickup, noon return—or the rough dirt roads pounding your organs, rattling your eardrums each way. Not even the three hours of dead time—if all you’re doing is going to market—is the problem. The problem, the punishing aspect of the roundtrip journey lies in dealing with the people you’re on board with. It’s like being trapped in an elevator with the same pathetic clowns that occupied the trailer park I used to live next door to. Endless meth and weed and alcohol and dropped-on-their-heads-as-children, rabbit ear TV induced yak, gossip, rumor and opinion so pitiful, so distorted and soul draining, so ignorant it makes the little cloud you’re staring at through the passenger window feel shame and sadness.
And then anger.
Sociologically, politically, culturally, Wonder Valley, (if you don’t or can’t drive), is nothing more than a spread out, run down trailer park. And I found myself in desperate need of isolating myself, somehow, from its residents.
So, understanding all this, Melissa decided to buy a house for me, back in town. Rent would equal her mortgage. But the deal fell through. She couldn’t get a loan.
Then Tom’s place fell through, because he changed his mind.
So I was stuck. Again. If I wanted shelter, if I wanted to save my cat’s lives, I was down to the option of renting the house Laura was fixing up for me, scheduled to be ready for move-in by my move-out date in early Feb, a place even further away from town.
But “if,” you understand, is a very big word. So big, in fact, it’s the locked door made of six inch steel keeping most of us from entering a room where words like “conceivably” live.
Fuck locked doors.