10:58 a.m. - 2005-06-01
Kittyridge Rant
I remember humming Paul McCartney's "My Love" as I watched my Cajun friend lug the few pieces rejected by the furniture buyer up the stairs. The lyrics in my head were directed not at his gap toothed grin, but rather at the little slice of heaven for which I had gratefully just signed on the dotted line. 11800 Kittridge, Apt. 211. He affectionately called it "Kittyridge". It was on a horrible street in a horrible neighborhood where no self respecting kitty who valued its life might wander. Fortunately, I was completely immune. Protected by some invisible shield of youth, ignorance and the exhileration of sudden freedom. And so, Kittyridge was soon to become the safest haven in which my soul had ever reclined. It had green wall to wall carpeting. Green. But, to me, it was Neptune's own kingdom, full of exotic and shimmering surprises. I marvelled at the walk-in closet in which I could hang my collection of midriff tops and innumerable jeans. Never having shown an interest in cooking, the modern all electric kitchen sang like a siren with its shiny cabinets and spotless matching appliances. The apartment was a one bedroom, initially paid for with the little that Fred and I split from the sale of our house plus the monthly child support that Fred was happy to pay, being "a nice guy, but not for me". I gave the huge bedroom to my son, who clearly had more belongings than I. His crib, wide mouthed frog toy box and chest of drawers fit neatly in the room, still allowing more than ample play space. There were huge sliding windows that let in more sun than I ever knew existed. It was bright and welcoming and ours. My parents, who tend to come around after inflicting and experiencing much unnecessary emotional pain, gave me an old dark green sofa-bed. Growing up in nothing but white linens, I purchased incredibly colorful sheets with cartoon characters of a carefree Noah and his ark full of goofy animals. I never rested so well as on that king sized pillow, surrounded by lions and tigers and bears. I can feel it still, crisp and cool against my cheek. I had a cheap, plastic stereo I had bought at Akron, an import store (precursor of Pier I). It cost twenty nine dollars and was appropriately beige and cheesy. I set it proudly on the bar area which divided the living room from the kitchen. The first album I bought was Alladin Sane by David Bowie. I played it constantly. "Panic in Detroit" became the soundtrack of my independence. I bought my son two goldfish, which he named "Keetah and Momo". They used to swim to the surface of the small bowl and let me scratch their little heads, much to my son's delight. Later, I was told that this no doubt cut significantly into their lifespan. Something about the oil on my fingers. How like me to, with the very best of intentions, hurt and wound those I most loved. And also to silently absorb the blows of comments such as this from those I will call the 'well meaning', who I seemed to attract at every turn. Still, nothing could dim the glow of liberation, adventure, self discovery. One night, a huge beetle appeared on the wall. Having no one to call, I took care of it myself. Yet another night, I set fire to a London Broil in my all electric stove. Having no one to call, I took care of it. One night, returning from a club where I would dance on weekends, I was carrying my son in my arms after picking him up from his grandparents home at about 1:30 a.m. Not finding close parking, I was walking down the sidewalk and happened to notice the shadow of a man walking in the middle of the street. "Any reason I should be afraid?", I boldly asked. "None I can think of", he replied. I continued on into the courtyard and up the stairs. Opening the door to 211, I knew not an inkling of fear. I felt competent and invincible and safe and free and home. And home I was.
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