it seems like whenever I get on top of my bills & it looks like I can start socking away a little bit of money towards my eventual escape, SOMETHING will pop up to divest me.
a couple of days ago I recieved one of those bland, plain white envelopes with bland black printing that you know, without there being any external clues or ominous music swelling on the soundtrack, is from a collection agency.
of course it was. the number at the bottom was a little shy of 2 thousand dollars, for unpaid rent for an apartment I lived at in SLC for a few years in the last century. I called the agency, & they told me it was for a string of months during which the rent was not paid, & some structural damage was inflicted that had to be expensively repaired, back in 1999.
thing is, I moved to NYC in 1998.
thing is, my name was still on the lease.
thing is, I knew my landlords well, & they knew I was moving out (they'd been to the going-away party)
the guy at the agency said they'd been trying to track down my former roommate (a cool guy, good friend--altho I haven't talked to him in few years--but kinda...dodgy: shoplifted most of the things he owned, got paid under the table for most of the jobs he did) with no luck.
so, I'm left holding the bag. poor me.
(as a side-note: I had a friend that worked at this particular collection agency a few years ago, & might still, but one night we ran into each other at a bar & ended up having a rather wild night together. & I kind of never called her afterwards. because I am a jerk. & that doesn't help things.)
-----------------
read most of "Will There Ever Be a Morning?" by (altho I hear there's some dispute about this) Frances Farmer last night, & highly recommend it, with the caveat that it's about as grim as grim gets, autobiography-wise.
a section that I kinda like:
(Ms. Farmer has just been involuntarily committed to an asylum--she's just been released from her starightjacket , in the confines of which she's been subjected to some particularly humiliating & sadistic abuse by the attendants & nurses : )
"The two attendants left, & I sat down on the cot & pivoted my head, trying to work out the stiffness in my neck. My body luxuriated in its freedom & I stretched out on the cot & groaned in relief.
"The nurse, watching me, abruptly said, 'You're Frances Farmer, aren't you? I've seen all your pictures.' She went on, 'Why, it looks to me like you'd be in one of those fancy places. I can't imagine why a big movie star would end up here. No indeed, I just can't imagine.'
"I covered my eyes with the back of my hand & yawned.
"She stood over me & furtively said, 'Could I have your autograph?'
"I cocked one eye open, not quite believing my ears.
"'Here, you can write on this,' She stuck out a yellow pad & offered me a stub of pencil.
"I sat up, gave one of my warmest smiles, & said, with controlled charm, 'Why, aren't you nice.'
"I took the pad & pencil, smiled at her again, & she responded in typical fan fashion, embarassed but pleased.
"'What's your name?' I asked sweetly.
"'Foster. Marion Foster.'
"I wrote with a great flourish & handed it to her. She snatched it & anxiously began to read, but as she did, her face caught fire. She pulled her lips together & stomped from the cell, slamming the door behind her. I heard the bolt fall in place with a loud clang, & I was in darkness. As I heard the leather soles of her shoes slapping anrily down the hall, I squealed with delight.
"I was pleased with myself & sat on the cot & giggled, for I had written, 'Dear Marion Foster. Fuck you. Sincerely, Frances Farmer."
-------
I think those last 8 words would make a good title for a short-story collection.
--also: a good reason to check out entries once they've been posted--inj the previous text I used a colon followed by a close-parenthesis, which this site (perversely, in the context) transformed into a smiley-face.
god I hate emoticons.
a couple of days ago I recieved one of those bland, plain white envelopes with bland black printing that you know, without there being any external clues or ominous music swelling on the soundtrack, is from a collection agency.
of course it was. the number at the bottom was a little shy of 2 thousand dollars, for unpaid rent for an apartment I lived at in SLC for a few years in the last century. I called the agency, & they told me it was for a string of months during which the rent was not paid, & some structural damage was inflicted that had to be expensively repaired, back in 1999.
thing is, I moved to NYC in 1998.
thing is, my name was still on the lease.
thing is, I knew my landlords well, & they knew I was moving out (they'd been to the going-away party)
the guy at the agency said they'd been trying to track down my former roommate (a cool guy, good friend--altho I haven't talked to him in few years--but kinda...dodgy: shoplifted most of the things he owned, got paid under the table for most of the jobs he did) with no luck.
so, I'm left holding the bag. poor me.
(as a side-note: I had a friend that worked at this particular collection agency a few years ago, & might still, but one night we ran into each other at a bar & ended up having a rather wild night together. & I kind of never called her afterwards. because I am a jerk. & that doesn't help things.)
-----------------
read most of "Will There Ever Be a Morning?" by (altho I hear there's some dispute about this) Frances Farmer last night, & highly recommend it, with the caveat that it's about as grim as grim gets, autobiography-wise.
a section that I kinda like:
(Ms. Farmer has just been involuntarily committed to an asylum--she's just been released from her starightjacket , in the confines of which she's been subjected to some particularly humiliating & sadistic abuse by the attendants & nurses : )
"The two attendants left, & I sat down on the cot & pivoted my head, trying to work out the stiffness in my neck. My body luxuriated in its freedom & I stretched out on the cot & groaned in relief.
"The nurse, watching me, abruptly said, 'You're Frances Farmer, aren't you? I've seen all your pictures.' She went on, 'Why, it looks to me like you'd be in one of those fancy places. I can't imagine why a big movie star would end up here. No indeed, I just can't imagine.'
"I covered my eyes with the back of my hand & yawned.
"She stood over me & furtively said, 'Could I have your autograph?'
"I cocked one eye open, not quite believing my ears.
"'Here, you can write on this,' She stuck out a yellow pad & offered me a stub of pencil.
"I sat up, gave one of my warmest smiles, & said, with controlled charm, 'Why, aren't you nice.'
"I took the pad & pencil, smiled at her again, & she responded in typical fan fashion, embarassed but pleased.
"'What's your name?' I asked sweetly.
"'Foster. Marion Foster.'
"I wrote with a great flourish & handed it to her. She snatched it & anxiously began to read, but as she did, her face caught fire. She pulled her lips together & stomped from the cell, slamming the door behind her. I heard the bolt fall in place with a loud clang, & I was in darkness. As I heard the leather soles of her shoes slapping anrily down the hall, I squealed with delight.
"I was pleased with myself & sat on the cot & giggled, for I had written, 'Dear Marion Foster. Fuck you. Sincerely, Frances Farmer."
-------
I think those last 8 words would make a good title for a short-story collection.
--also: a good reason to check out entries once they've been posted--inj the previous text I used a colon followed by a close-parenthesis, which this site (perversely, in the context) transformed into a smiley-face.
god I hate emoticons.
Kinda sucks about the apartment thing though. Iif it was me, I'd think the girl from the collection agency was out to get me (ok, a little too many conspiracy theories... :p)