The creaking wooden
staircase which zigzags it's away up and up through the main
vestibule, through the relics of mutilated fridges and rusted out
ovens and abandoned cupboardery, overstrewn with old sneakers and
ornamented by used undergarments in varying degrees of wear and
fashionability, this staircase ascending to our heavenly abode, it is
far from an undistracted climb for our distractable wife with
dementia. Our Deathrock Apartments arises grimly amidst a side
street of fashionable 19th century vintage homes, now much
the worse for their wear. The front lawns are kept neatly flattened
by the plenitude of young gang men who cut willy nilly through every
available breach in the infrastructure on their missions of
expediency. Cats and dogs vanish into the potholes of our narrow
'break my window' parking zone while the odd car careens by overhead.
The kiddies found tadpoles halfway down the block.
Free enterprise
certainly boasts it's proficiency in the spurned beats of this, our
constabulary. The other night as we returned from an outing, low and
behold our local entrepreneurs had borrowed the scaffolding from a
nearby construction site and were busily painting our Deathrock
Apartment building. Twenty foot high pics exalting the virtues of
our local ladies of the day and night with readily available phone
numbers in bold form. There was excellent artistic talent in the
ranks of these merchandisers as most of the portraits were quite
recognizable, or perhaps the savvy involved some local virtuosi
paying off a debt or two. Next morning our building looked quite
resplendent with it's new revitalization. Our next door neighbour
who is studying law is rather pleased with the response so far, says
it pays much better than having three kids, even after the
protection. And the billionaire brothers who own our Deathrock
Apartments will no doubt be rather pleased that their building got
all spiffed up not costing them a dime.
We
were sitting in the parking lot of our homely depot while we hashed
out our plans for a brand new heat gun to do justice to the hoards of
lowly beddy bye bugs who ceaselessly circle the perimeter of our
heavily caulked baseboards and weather stripped fortress on the top
floor to find that one little opening where to they can call forth
their comrades to meander aimlessly exploring the shiny tin cans on
the bed feet which thwart their efforts at finding cozy warmth under
our blankets. “Gloria Rubenstein” she said, she did, my wife,
“Did you know my name was Gloria Rubenstein?” That took us for
a loop, it did. Had no idea on her lineage, here we'd thought for
the last thirty years she was French and Cree. Dementia brings out
the truth on so many relevant subjects. Kept our mind busy musing as
we toured the aisles in search of our weaponry.
Sat that heat gun down
on the table in it's shiny cardboard box when we arrived home. “Is
that thing loaded?” asked our Gloria Rubenstein. One doesn't
always have an answer at ready so we just smiled from ear to ear.
“Oh” says she, so we guess we're learning dementia speak. Sat
her bare naked in the middle of the floor we did, that night.
Roasted a whole mountain of the little buggers, we did. Did you know
some of them go 'pop' when you roast them? Our Gloria Rubenstein was
sore amazed. As we tucked her in nighty night night in her securely
fortified bed we ventured to beseech on the origins of one Gloria
Rubenstein. She bequested unto us her virtues, “Oh that's me,
Gloria Rubenstein, in the nice picture by our front door outside.”
Taken somewhat aback we asked “But that's not your phone number, is
it?” She just smiled from ear to ear and fell sound asleep.
Seasons will come and
seasons will go. The artistry will fade, the phone numbers will be
defaced, but the ephemeral unveiling of Gloria Rubenstein will bring
a smile from ear to ear in our memories.
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