It’s 7:30 am. Jesus is chillin’ outside my apartment with
Enrique. They’re shootin’ the shit. This has been the routine for the last 2
weeks. Sometimes Julio is there too. I’m thankful that they appear to observe
Memorial Day as a holiday. I was left in peace on Monday morning. Throwing open
the window and screaming, “Shut the fuck up! It’s a holiday, you sick fucks!”
is not how I would have wanted to start my morning.
Typically, I open my blinds to greet the morning with a sunrise
salutation song and some rejuvenating yoga poses. Just kidding, that shit’s
ridiculous. I open them because the coffee pot is in the kitchen and that’s way far away. I need life pumped into my
being immediately. Nothing says, “get
the fuck on with it” like a brutal dose of sunshine to the unprepared retina.
There’s one problem: If I open the blinds and begin my
morning ritual, I risk exposing myself in my Chewbacca pajama short set to Jesus
and his disciples. To be fair, it’s excruciating how awkward and unruly my body
is in the morning. I don't wish for anyone to witness that without
proper medical reinforcements at the ready.
My hair is matted to one side of my head. It’s pasted to my
skull in a drastic slant, like I got drunk, leaned against a wall, and slid down
that bitch, then slept on the floor all night. There are creases in my face
from both the pillowcase and my hand. It’s not an imprint of my hand, it’s merely
creased by the excess skin from the back of my hand where my face has slid down
it during sleep. Then, there is the drool that has accumulated in the right
corner of my mouth. I favor sleeping on my right side - away from my snoring
husband. This is all so steamy.
Standing up, my feet hit the floor with the thud of a much
heavier individual. Did I suffer a stroke? Is there some sort of paralysis? Why
are my limbs so fucking heavy? All 132 lbs. of me are apparently located in
feet. My shorts are trying to crawl inside
of my body, and I can feel hair actively growing in my armpits and on my legs. Good
morning, world!
This is where I would normally throw open the blinds and
shock the shit out of myself with unforgiving daylight. Not today, and not in the
last 2 weeks. Jesus is outside. It’s obnoxious really. I get it, they’re roofers
and they have a job to do, but it’s 7:30 in the fucking morning! Can this shit wait until 8:30 am when most tenants have left for work? I find it unsettling that 3 tiny Mexicans are sitting
outside my apartment, doing nothing while I’m trying to seize the day or
whatever. Don’t get self-righteous; they are
miniature. None of them measures taller 5’5”. Don’t ask how I know this. Furthermore,
I’m still not convinced that one of them isn’t a biblical figure, so I’ll
refrain from slamming anyone too hard. Maybe.
Peeking through the blinds, I see one of the men drinking
from a Thermos. He spills on himself. He gets angry, starts swearing, then empties
some of its contents onto the pavement. I notice the color of the liquid is red,
not brown like coffee, but bright red. Is it Kool-Aid or Gatorade? Did he bring
Menudo in the Thermos? Whatever it is, I want to run downstairs and ask Jesus
to turn it into wine.
Dammit! Chewbacca jammies! The best-laid plans are always thwarted by Chewbacca pajamas. No
one can be taken seriously while wearing Chewbacca shorts that are being
consumed by their rear end and proudly wearing boulders of crusty sleep in the
corners of their eyes like amulets. Is this turning anyone on? No? Ok, moving
on…
To the best of my ability, I get ready for work. No sun
salutation song, no yoga poses. For the record, the sun salutation song goes: “Oh
holy shit fuck, oh goddamn it. Fuck it, let’s go!” My yoga poses involve me trying
to crawl out of bed without disturbing the two sleeping, asshole cats that are
on the bed.
The way they position themselves, it’s impossible to get out of bed
without twisting your spine, pulling a groin muscle, or most recently, giving
myself calf cramp. I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure the cats are comfortable
and haven’t been disturbed; it’s at this point one will get up of its own
volition and begin furiously licking its ass on my comforter. Fuck you very
much!
Jesus is climbing on my roof by this time. It’s just before 8
am. The other two men are stationed below and chatting. Do men actually chat?
Women chat, do men chat? The other two men were “talking.” They appear to be
finishing up their breakfast while Jesus makes no time for idle chitchat and
gets straight to work.
I often feel like a perv. Don’t get carried away, let me
finish that thought. I’m fluent in Spanish. I listen to public conversations. To
look at me, you wouldn’t assume that I’m Hispanic. Being bi-lingual (and
keeping it a secret) has worked in my favor and is a card I’ve played well –
when it mattered. Most of what I hear is innocuous, but occasionally I get sensitive
material. Today was not one of those occasions. I don’t care what Enrique said
to some dude at his cousin’s house last night. And yes, I know that sounds like
stereotyping, but I can’t change the facts. We all have a thousand cousins and we hang out with them all the fucking time.
Walking out to my car, I stop cold. What in the fuck is this monstrosity?!
The bible crew had erected a ladder impeding the path to my car. I’m not saying
there was a moat or a flaming hoop I needed to jump through - there wasn’t even
a bridge troll, but there was a ladder and I had to either crawl through the
bushes or walk underneath this ladder.
Grumbling, I crawl into the car with freshly muddied kicks.
Fuck walking underneath a ladder! Superstitious? You bet your sweet ass! I’m
not stupid about my superstitions though - I don’t go tossing salt over my
shoulder, that’s just wasteful.
Wasn’t it enough that these motherfuckers had changed my
whole morning routine for the last two weeks, now they wanted to try cursing me
with bad luck too? Fuck it! Bring it! Initially, I was nervous about the
implications of walking underneath this ladder. An appraisal of my current
standings helped me reassess my fears.
I just had a tooth extracted and two dental implants placed.
I’ve got a 12-yr. old boy who recently figured out masturbation. I know because
I walked in on it. I got served wage garnishment paperwork at my place of
business for a vehicle I stopped making payments on when I was a shitty drunk.
I didn’t know there were legal proceedings happening because all the court paperwork
was sent to an address that I haven’t lived at since I was 19 goddamn years old! Motherfucker, I’m 39! I figured it had gotten
repossessed as I never heard about it.
Did you know that a fuckton of interest can accrue over the
course of 6 years? My mother is transporting my Grandmother back to Mexico. It’s
always a crapshoot on the odds of someone getting detained at the border. We
ought to start drawing sticks for which of us will have to go get them when shit goes upside down. Yeah,
so, go ahead and put your rickety ladder there for the foreseeable future. As
far as I can tell, you’d have to wait at least another 1-2 years to collect on
any intended form of misery.
I still want to see Jesus turn the Gatorade into wine. I know
he can. I want to be able to open my blinds in the morning and not see the 3 Amigos
downstairs or hear them up on the roof for that matter. Santa hangs out on rooftops
and Jesus turned water into wine. Either leave me presents or make yourself useful
and turn shit into alcohol, then be on your way. Besides, at 5’5” you’re more
like an elf than a Santa or Jesus figure anyhow.
And with that, you may now all be offended.
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