That’s when Janet walked into my life, like some god-damned guardian angel. She had apparently been watching me since I had moved in across the hall and wasn’t a fan of the people who I kept dragging through the door. Trash I believe was the proper term she used.
And she really didn’t like the smell of schnapps that radiated off of my presence.
“Everyday,” she complained at my door, her face infused with rage, “you walk out this door waddling like a fucking duck. Stumbling into things. You like my wall a lot–particularly when it’s fucking three am and I’m sleeping.”
She screamed at me for what felt like hours that morning. The next time I pulled any of that crap, specially bringing around the trash because she knows who they really are–she lowered her eyes–she was calling the cops.
Now that last bit finally got my attention. Jail had been fun and all, but I certainly didn’t want to go back. Cops were not what I wanted to see when probation was still hung around your neck.
And then, as she just kept on yammering, I realized something. The person she was describing….the woman she was so pissed about….was my mother. I had become just like my disgusting, delusional mother.
In my shock, I started crying. I think at one point it got so out of control I had to sit on the ground, clutching my knees to my chest as a strange source of comfort.
I didn’t know Janet and it had become apparent that she hated me with the list of complaints she just presented. But even as I went into this fit of hysterics, she didn’t leave. She stayed right there with me. A little astonished and taken a back at first, but for whatever reason she understood. She sat with me and held me, not saying a word.
For the first time in my life, someone cared. She stayed.