My house was a prison the other night. And I was the warden.
The phone kept waking me up hourly about 3:AM. I ignored it -- don't bother calling after nine, unless you just want to leave a voicemail. I blearily got up when the damned alarm clock went off, started my coffee, took a shit, poured a cup and looked at my missed calls.
Amy. Connor. And a number I didn't recognize. Apparently Amy was fighting with Tim again, and voicemail messages confirmed it. "It's (sob) AMY, I'm in trouble, please call!"
I didn't; she wouldn't be home. She'd be with Connor or more likely, somebody else since there was that third number after his. As I was pouring my second cup the door knocked. Amy, of course. She was sporting a gause bandage on her right arm.
"That bastard beat the fuck out of me! There were five cop cars and an ambulance! He had me down beating my head against the street. I hope that cocksucker went to jail. Feel the bump on my head!"
There was a huge goose egg. "You're all wet," I observed.
"I walked all the way here from the hospital in the rain," she said. "you got a beer? What time is it?"
"Lets go to bed. That fucking bastard!"
I love it when my friends are fighting with their boyfriends.
I dropped her and my laundry off at their house on my way to work. After work I watched some TV, then went to the bar. Which was becoming routine, and the reason there haven't been any journals -- my life has been happily boring lately. Until then.
Bree walked past as I was sipping my first beer. "I need to talk to you," she said. "In private."
I had my little netbook with me, still trying to install Linux. I at least got GRUB installed, thanks to a utility I found on Sourceforge called Unetbootin. Still no Linux, though, despite putting Mandriva on a thumb drive. It didn't want to boot from the drive, saying it couldn't find the kernel. I think I'll make a Linux distro and call it Sanders, or maybe Klink. If I can ever get it installed, that is.
I seeded The Paxil Diaries Volume One on bittorrent. If you want it and can't find it, comment with a throwaway email address and I'll email it to you. I'm releasing it under a noncommercial use GPL license, so feel free to post it if you like. I'm looking for a vanity publisher for those of you who've shown interest in a dead tree version.
Later, as I was sitting outside in the beer garden she came up again. "I have a big problem. My boyfriend threw me out, and I need a place to stay for a while, because if I don't have a permanent address they're going to send me back to prison. Could I stay at your place?"
"I'll have to think about it."
"I need to know tonight!"
She'd gone to Dwight, a maximum security women's prison in February for credit card fraud and gotten out on parole in July. Prison seemed to have, in this instance, changed her for the better. She even had a job, probably the first in her young life (I think she's 25)
Right after she got out her boyfriend, Billy, had some bad luck... cocaine is always bad luck. He lost his home and moved in with another woman. She'd found the new boyfriend and moved in with him; I don't even know the fellow's name.
I didn't want a roommate, but I didn't want her going back to prison, either. I grudgingly said Ok. We collected her things, including her ankle bracelet's transmitter, from the BF's house.
"I can only be gone from an hour before work to two hours later," she said as she plugged what looked like an oversixed wi-fi router into the power socket. We drank a few beers and went to bed.
It was nice not sleeping alone; been a long time, not counting Ms Lady, who was always gone by three. In the morning I gave her a key and went to work.
When I got home she showed up a few minutes later to get her things and give the key back. They'd kissed and made up. I was off the hook -- I was only warden for a day!