Out of the Gutter Art

Blog

  • Go West, Lost Woman

       Endless miles…

    °Z

       …rolled under the big wheels. All the hype about this bridge over Lake Ponchetrain was nothing compared to the reality. I hope I never have to cross that swaying monster again.

       Being raised in Pittsburgh, I had been on many bridges, so I reasoned this would be a piece of cake. The wind had kicked up quite a bit; Danny and I were unnerved feeling the expanse swaying as we inched along. Beads of sweat had formed on Joe’s forehead as his knuckles turned white and tightened on the steering wheel. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and it was then I saw the sign declaring this bridge was 23 miles long. Now beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, too. Feeling the tension, Spice’s panting could be heard above the grinding engine. Danny slept on, oblivious.

       Forty-five minutes later, we were safely off the bridge and due for another rest stop. I had witnessed Joe becoming  more and more agitated as night fell. He brought up the danger of picking up passengers, wild-eyed he suggested we might be planning to assault him overnight. Danny and I tried to assure him, but it became obvious it was time for us to get out of his rig. Joe must have been crashing from his drugs, and the tension was about to boil over. After the truck came to a stop we hurriedly thanked him and unloaded. We took up a space of sidewalk behind the truckstop, contemplating our next move…

    Looking Ahead…

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    Crossing the Mighty Mississipp…

    …wasn’t easy on foot, with a brindle boxer, calico kitten and Danny.

    Fortunately, before we got a few miles out of Fort Deposit, an 18-wheeler rolled onto the shoulder. Although my recollection was challenged by a bad case of the heebee-geebees at the time, and many years of hard knocks since, I recall a strange exchange of words. The skinny driver had one good eye and a drawl, and asked how we thought we’d get a ride with a stupid dog. Maybe he let us get in as a source of entertainment, but he let us all pile in. In retrospect, I’m sure he was jacked as high as 4 blue Aces; at the time we had no trepidation at all. Spice was all wiggly, wagging her stump of a tail and slobbering; she was quickly settled on the floorboard, while Binky burrowed further into my sweatshirt.

    °Z

    Danny wasn’t keen on leading conversations. He was a quiet, contemplative man. It had been less than a year since I’d gotten out of jail; he seemed content to exist in my orbit. I was quite a handful in those years before a proper diagnosis and medication regimen. Bipolar Disorder was previously known as Manic Depression, and my brain loved to latch onto the mania. (One of my nicknames was “Runs With Scissors”.) In this instance I was chatting my head off to our new trucker friend. We got underway, his truck shuddering as he skipped a gear or two pulling onto the interstate.

    The ride was rough, this was no tricked-out big truck. I forget what he was hauling, but I remember bouncing around the cab over the poorer sections of pavement. As the engine roared and belched, conversation became impossible. I dozed on Danny’s shoulder as the miles slowly crept past.

    Half a day later we rolled into a truck stop, gassing up before the Mississippi River Bridge. Our driver showed some extraordinary kindness. Buying a bunch of hot dogs, peanut butter and bread, we had a veritable feast. The temperature really dropped that night, and he made us get out while he slept a few hours. He may have been generous- he was also careful. Near daybreak he suggested we all stretch and use the restroom, as he wouldn’t be stopping for a while. He said something about “the bridge”; it really didn’t seem important at the time…we loaded up and held on.

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry!

    Cross Country: On the Fly…

    Escape Artist by Susan T Martin 2023

       I really dont want to make myself sound heroic…but then, again, I really do. I think I am, in the sense that I survived. The odds were definitely not on mine and Danny’s side, not even with his martial arts abilities and my athleticism and amazing wit. No, we were not favored to make it out of this situation. Our addiction was the biggest obstacle.

       If ever there were 2 humans inclined towards getting high, Danny and I were they. We lived just to escape the fact that we did. I knew that bucket of slop that lurked I my locked closet of memory, but I was not too certain what his closet contained. He spoke of childhood abuse in vague terms, a mean father who could break cinder blocks with his nether parts. A trick from the old Hungarian countryside, I presumed. I was really too stoned to see past my own misery, too selfish to feel pity for what he had been through. The world owed me, and I was going to steal what I could to get back at everyone.

       At the time of my leaving Palm City, I had been telling everyone that I was really Hank William’s daughter. By virtue of a blood transfusion when I was born, that by some magic, this had made me his offspring. I insisted to my Danny that we drive up to Alabama, to Hank’s hometown, where I would find my lost family. All we found was a bar where we spent our last few dollars.

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    chapter 2

    Sleep never came that night,

    and morning had our breath turning to steam in the frosty air. Dear Danny had laid across my freezing feet for the hours before dawn…I hadn’t left Palm City prepared for this experience. I was still resolute to keep heading west, car or no car. I had burned my last proverbial bridge, in my mind there was no turning back, no forgiveness left to beg. I had disappointed my parents for the last time.

    There had been so many second, third and fourth chances at a stable, successful life. This was my geographical cure, no real plan except to keep moving-as far away from consequences and reality as I could get. How does a person in the depths of delusional thinking reason on dire reality? How does one say to their own manic, unmedicated self that their decisions will lead to near death experiences. Danger and adrenaline were my beloved companions, more intensely now befriended than ever before. The discomfort of freezing and detoxing, in a tee shirt and shorts in the bushes by a highway was less important that being the coolest person I knew. “Go West young woman!”

    Westward Ho! Westward Hoe?

       As dawn broke we tried to consolidate our belongings, and, while unbagging this and bagging that, I donned more layers of clothes. I put on a pair of Danny’s jeans and an old concert tee-shirt.

       I was at my 23 year old finest in those days. A year in the county lock-up had left me many hours as a trustee to watch “The Body Electric” Aerobics program, and follow along with my cell-mate Sally. On our breaks in the exercise yard I had run in circles around the yard for the hour, minus some time to slip notes to Danny thru the chain link fence. He was a carpenter on the new jail annex, and my former fiancé had quit taking my calls months before. Upon my release on Christmas eve of ’87, it was only hours before Danny and I shared a joint and a passionate kiss. He was a sandy-blonde, tanned, 3rd degree black belt in Jui Jitsu, and a yellow belt in Taekwondo. Looking at old photos now he looked like a pot-smoking, rough cut Patrick Swayze. He was very kind, and gentle, with the oddest habit of falling asleep at random moments when doing so was wholly inappropriate! But, alas, I have veered into the weeds in my story…

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    42 Degrees in Fort Deposit, Alabama…

    Going through withdrawals on this night, in the woods alongside Interstate 8; I was a whining, bleary-eyed mess. My boyfriend and fellow addict, Danny, had just stolen 2 cans of tuna from an old country store across the four-lane highway. Night was setting in as he stabbed the cans with his buck knife, spilling tuna juice on the upturned, anxious face of our boxer dog, Spice. She was as hungry as I was, as the kitten, Binky-Boots was. And as surely hungry as Danny was too at that moment.

    We took turns, taking bites from the tuna can with our fingers; we each got two, the animals one apiece. Danny insisted we save the other can till morning, which seemed a freezing eternity away. Whether the longing to get high, the tightness in my stomach, or my freezing feet bothered me more I can’t recall. What I do remember is that dull ache in my feet soon became the most miserable as the temperature continued to drop.

    The rash decision to leave southeast Florida had been made only 18 hours before. We had loaded my 1970 Mach One in a frenzy, stuffing duffle bags, dog and cat into the back seat, and placing electronics he had stolen gently into the trunk. I had given Danny an ultimatum, make up his mind whether to leave for the West Coast with me that very night, or never see me again.

    I knew in my heart: if I didn’t leave Palm City that day, I wouldn’t live another. I had been an addict over a decade, only turning 23 a month before this crisis. In this span of time I my habit (and as of yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder) had resulted in a thirty day stint in a locked psych ward, a detox, a month in a Florida rehab and a year in the Martin County jail for Grand Theft. (The conviction stemmed from robbing the clothing store I managed in the Martin Square Mall. But I digress.)

    Getting back to our present dilemma roadside, an Alabama State Trooper has unkindly relieved me of my beloved Mustang when it had died along the Interstate. Danny and I hadn’t been there more than two hours, hood up, debating our next move. We decided we would take the “kids” and hitch a ride to a phone booth. There I would plead with my Mom to Western Union me enough money to fix the car and rent a room till the car was fixed. I would never get that chance because the aforementioned State Trooper rolled up while we were unloading the dog.

    “Looks like an abandoned vehicle to me” he stated, putting on his hat and rising to an impressive height. He continued, “Let me see some ID, the tow truck’s on it’s way.”

    I started to give some lame explanation of my plan, but realized he meant business. In just a few more words he let us know that non-compliance would not only include my car being impounded, but also our arrest for vagrancy and seizing of Spice and Binky. I think he saw visions of himself cruising the town in his hopped-up Mach One with the Boss 302 engine under it’s hood.

    Sigh…

    There was nothing to do but let him tow the car, and within the hour it was hitched up. The driver was “kind” enough to give all four of us a lift to the impound yard where we now unloaded all we could carry under the hostile glare of four or five “good ole boys” sitting on a porch. My shorts felt very short under their gaze, and we shouldered our bags and walked haltingly down the shoulder of the road. I looked back a couple times, longingly, at my prized muscle car behind the 12 foot fence. It probably belongs to Mr. Trooper’s grandson now…

    to be continued…

  • I Refuse to Give Up!

       Down, but not out. I am digging deep, putting more effort each day into getting well. Physically, pushing my body, my muscles to heal. The hip surgery set me back, I’m older and the fight to get back to my old energy level is very hard.

      But I’m not going to take this aging thing lying down! Which is, literally, what my mind is telling me to do. There is a heaviness to my limbs…the word for how I feel is CUMBERSOME.

       I joined a Weight loss app for a 3 week trial. I am fighting the negative voices from my childhood about my weight. NO! I refuse to go back to being slovenly, to not caring, to eating entire bags of cookies in half an hour, then wallowing in guilt and self-loathing for weeks. NO!!

       I CAN get well, I AM fine now. My energy is returning, I am improving, exercising, tracking my food, my mood, my steps. Being accountable feels good. So, now I rest. A good day, doing good things.

       I am GRATEFUL today. Thank you , my God. For your Son, Jesus. For forgiving me…for loving me. I CAN do this. I AM doing this!!

  • Gone. Baby Gone.

    Gone. Baby Gone.

    The Weight is mine, mine alone. I tried to offer some lame kind of comfort, but I could feel the other pet parents staring right through me...

    .

    A sad situation…

      Pippy herself did not show anger, or hatred; I wish she had. Her gentle, knowing glance as the vets assistant lugged her away unceremoniously drove a spike through my heart.

    “Please take care, ” I whispered, so obviously a vile animal destroyer to the ten plus persons waiting for their babies.

      “WHAT,” the huge matron stopped in her tracks and did a slow spin, somehow holding onto dear queasy Pips in the jostling cage.

      All attention swung in slow motion, onto my horrified visage, the paint splattered clothes just screaming “loser”, “sinner” and “jail her”.

      Now struck dumb in my dismay, I gathered the last tiny drop of spittle I could muster, and in a voice only heard by Pippy and God, I said loud and clearly,

    ” I love you Pippy, and I’m sorry..”

      She heard, she knows and I will carry her in my heart always..

    How fo I say Goodbye?

    CHAPTER 5

       You see, Pippy had some terrible kind of mental breakdown that coincided with the introduction of my neighbor’s cat, Lilly, being brought into the home.

       Almost instantly Lilly pounced on and actively hunted Pippy, terrorizing her. The change in Pippy was swift. No longer social, friendly and well adjusted; Pippy became nervous and unsettled. Hiding, flinching and neglecting to groom. Or, the flip side: overgrooming. To an unbelievable degree.

      Now Pippy would spend hours, every waking moment, actively pulling out her fur. Rapidly, her underbelly was devoid of fur except for a few lonely tufts clinging onto her for dear life.

       Then, when I thought this was the extent of her problems: a disturbing new issue. Out of the blue, on a given Saturday, Pippy had some sort of twitching fit that escalated to her biting at herself and racing full tilt around the trailer. I was also beside myself, deeply regretting my lack of funds to take her to a vet. I called the SPCA to see if they would treat her free, they said, “No, there is no program.” I was at, what I thought at the time, feeling ultimately that I had caused her distress. I alone bore the guilt.

    Pippy knows: it’s me who betrayed her…

      In the aftermath of this episode, Pippy began hiding in the top.of my closet, in my studio. This posed no issue- I was glad she found a cubby hole. Until she refused to come out at all. Not to eat, not to be petted and, most devastating, not using her litterbox.

            To be continued…

    Poor Dear Pippy-puppet…

        I am so guilty…

  • REALIZATIONS dawn…

    The Cold Weight of Guilt

       CHAPTER 5, ORANGE BABY…

       My little “farm” now included 3 indoor kitties in 2022: Zignatious the Fluffball, Zagnut the Torti-Tabby Tom, and my nameless rescue kitten, “Orange Baby”.

        Her beautiful sister had been adopted by my Aunt, her name was Peach; she was as healthy and robust as a young cat could be…unfortunately, Orange Baby didn’t get the same bill of health. She had the gingivitis and malnutrition from their time “on the street” as orphans. She had all the hallmarks of being the runt of the litter. My heart swelled with love for the odd little tyke. It seemed like all would be well, watching all three interact, tumbling and tussling all day.

       So began a time of quiet family life…

    Zignatious Horatio Needlefingers
    AKA The Golden Fluffball

    Orange Baby after smacking Kleo the Shih Tzu in the left eye, resulting in near total blindness and a $500 vet bill…
    Frenchy, the Nature Guide
    Orange Baby in Cuteness Overload Mode
    Orange Baby in Shades of Grey Kitten

    The Pandemic Ends, New Tenant Arrives

          My isolation, and the entire populations’ came to an end, finally. Life was still tumultuous and uncertain in so many ways. Over the years I had developed a good relationship with my next door neighbors, a gruff New Yorker and her wife and daughter. Because we live in tiny mobile homes at about an arms length apart, being kind makes life more pleasant here.

      There was major familial friction in their home, however. It centered around the wife’s blood sister who had recently  become homeless, in the process  of moving in with them to sleep on their couch . This was a new wrinkle…