In the morning time, I didn't have much to do in Padre because my shift at the hotel didn't start until 3pm. I did a lot of writing at my kitchen table and observed the palm trees swaying across the empty field.
Not long after the wet-lady and Mickey-the-crack-head were evicted, the view of my beautiful palm trees was obstructed by a hideous creature with leather skin, short hair and dark circles beneath her eyes that went on for days. The circles under her eyes were like the dark god of death staring into my soul...and that's what she was doing. Staring at my soul...or at least my face, through my kitchen window.
I opened my door and went out to her. I didn't invite her in. Not because I thought she was a vampire or anything (though her eyes suggested otherwise). I didn't invite her in because too many people who pass through my door end up spilling their life story about drug addictions to me. I guess I'd rather just assume that everyone's not addicted to ridiculous drugs (Crack, I consider to be in this category).
"Umm..Hi! I'm your new neighbor. My name's Sheila," creature said. "I was wondering, do you have a phone?"
"Yes, would you like to use it?"
"Oh yes!" she said with a far too much enthusiasm. 2 silent minutes pass. "Darn it. They didn't answer."
"Would you like to call back and leave a message for them?"
"Oh could I?!?!?" she said in wonderment, as if I were Alexander Graham Bell. So she calls...
"Hi Betty! This is Sheila. I'm at Chris' house! He's letting me use his phone! He's SUPER cool. Just give me a call when you get this."
Okay, I'm not sure if I mentioned that hideous-death-eyes just moved in next door the previous day. When I suggested she leave a message for her friend, I assumed it would be, "Meet me at my new place...I made it here safely....here's my address...."
Nay. She merely wanted to tell her friend (whom I'd clearly never met) that she was at MY house and that I was super cool...and that it was okay to call my phone back.
At this point, nothing surprises me about these people called neighbors, so clearly designed to be caricatures of themselves. The phone call ends.
"Thank you so much! Here's a Sacajawea dollar...." ... . awkward silence as I try to slip back into my apartment......."So..." she says, not letting me get away that easy. "I don't know what you're up to right now...but I've got a bottle of Jack if you want to........." At that point she flashed a smile, which was meant to be coy and accompanied with a head nod back into her apartment.
But it's hard to be coy when you don't have a full set of teeth and when you nod your head, you start hacking up so violently that it resembles the mating call of...I don't know...Satan?
"What are you talking about!? It's 9:45 in the morning! Who drinks this early?"
"Oh, well, see my foot just has this problem..."
I looked down at her foot. I don't know why. I knew that looking meant being grossed out. I looked. Grossed out isn't the proper word. Dry heaves might substitute well. PTSD--yes. That it. Because HER FOOT WAS DEAD! I mean, you could see dark veins creeping their way into her foot as a place to go to die.
"Oh! Lady! You need to go to the doctor! Not drink Jack Daniels!" I'd never been so concerned with the well being of a foot before in my entire life.
"Umm....yeah. Well, I'm 42, and you're how old??? I think I know what I'm doing." She exits dramatically back into her apartment.
I went to the beach that day and came back around 4pm. There laid Sheila, on her first full day at her new residence, passed out in the front yard, wearing nothing but granny panties and a bra in the front yard...with a dead foot.
42-year-olds seem to have life down to a science!