Let me explain.
I am not meaning to suggest that people dying as part of the mining of diamonds in Africa are suffering at the same level as me.
No, not at all.
In fact, I would willingly volunteer to mine diamonds right now rather than spend one more night with my vacation renters.
“Oh please!” you’re probably thinking. “It’s not that bad!” you might insist.
Well, I would have to bitch slap you at that point. Let me tell you: you are so f#cking wrong.
IT. IS. THAT. BAD.
It is worse.
In space, no one can hear you scream.
In Maui, no one can hear you scream over the sounds of the nuclear farts…and no one would enter to help even if they did hear you dying inside.
Forget “Hostel III” and “Saw VI”: this situation is a horror too real and too unspeakable to document.
And yet I’m going to try.
Exhibit A: tonight R, the male half of my elderly tenants, shared with me – unsolicited, of course. The only thing I would actively solicit at this point would be details of their return flight itinerary – the list of everyone he’s ever voted for, and I believe that list started with Lincoln. I am not making this up. Who could make this up??? Who would want to?????
I stood there, my mind a blur of annoyance and narcolepsy, and yet I somehow managed to maintain both consciousness and cordiality until the tedium – Ford when he was running against Carter, but Carter when he was running against Reagan. – finally ceased…and then a new line of “I could not care less if you put a gun to my head” information commenced. It had to do with a son-in-law’s brother’s stint in the Army, or deer hunting in Northern Wisconsin, or maybe he gave me a list of pre-school children he murdered and buried under his house. I would not know because my brain - no doubt in an effort to protect itself – shut off for a while. However, if that is the case, I can honestly say there were moments this evening that I would have envied those children the peace and quiet of their shallow graves.
It hasn’t all been bad, however.
I have learned a thing or two about the lifestyles and habits of the senior population. If I were to ever head up an anthropological study on such matters, I would be well ahead of the pack.
For instance, thanks to the Viagra prescription bottle in my bathroom, I now know I have to burn my bed after they’re gone.
And perhaps more significantly to my own survival, I am now equipped to dodge a gastrointestinal disaster before the pin is even pulled from the grenade. This morning I was on my back lanai with a friend, when I heard the telltale jangle of my male roommate’s belt buckle through the adjacent bathroom window.
“Clear the deck!” I bellowed, throwing anyone and anything in my path to the ground. I fled into my living room just as a colon-collapsing fart emanated – long and low – from striking distance. We dodged inside before the actual toxic cloud hit us, and that’s probably why I’m still coherent enough to type this up for you now. Sadly, I was not so lucky a few times this last week, and I can only say the odor was an affront to nature, if not God Himself.
So, yes, I probably have some PTSD from this experience, but they helped a lot with the rent and it looks like I”m going to be left with a half bottle of Wild Turkey 101 – not that I ever drink that, ever…but I may need to start in the hopes of blocking some of the memories from my mind.
Ah, the memories.
Misty, water-colored nightmares…
And still, I would honestly say there were nice people. I wish them well. Truly.
Godspeed, R and B. Safe travels and happy homecoming…just don’t come around here no more.