Alphabet, A History (J)

Alphabet, A History (J) Jefferson St.

I can hear my neighbors on Jefferson St. having sex again. Our bedrooms share a wall and I can hear them screwing from the other side on a near-daily basis. They're both women, not that that matters, but they are. Angel and Dawn, or "Heaven and Sunrise" as they like to call themselves. They're both big and sloppy and that's basically how their sex sounds, too. Like a walrus mating session.

Angel doesn't work. She stays home doing God knows what while Dawn goes to her telemarketing gig 4 nights a week. They both smoke Marlboro Reds, maybe 2 or 3 packs each a day and I can smell their apartment on the second floor from the bottom of the steps. One time Angel was leaning over the balcony smoking a cigarette when she saw me pulling into the parking lot. "Wendy!!!" she shrieked, like I'd been away at camp all summer. She promptly flicked her cigarette over the ledge and barreled down the stairs to greet me, her long loose top bouncing up and down all the way, revealing a totally naked bottom half, her big, hairy crotch in plain view for me and anyone else to see.

It's winter now so thank God Angel's dressing in more layers these days. She doesn't hang around the balcony or in the parking lot too much anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't have to see her. Now she just comes over whenever she's in the mood to visually assault someone. She'll come over with magazine clippings or homemade cookies or a couple of beers, and I'm too nice and too bad of a liar to ever say I have somewhere I need to be, something else I need to do.

One time she brings a photo album filled with pictures of herself and all these different kids.
"These are my babies," she says matter-of-factly like she's pointing to a picture of a mountain range she visited on vacation.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"They're my babies," she says again, grinning.
"Like, yours-yours?" I say, "I didn't know you had kids."
"I did. I do." she says. "I have four kids. I had five, but one died. And I had three abortions, so I've actually been pregnant eight times."
"Wow." I reply. "That's a lot."
"Yeah. But I'm done now," she says decisively like she's just announced she's giving up meat. Or men. Or smoking.
I'm not sure what question to ask first.
"So...you were married?" I say. "Or, I mean, well, where do your kids live? With their dad?"
"No, I was never married," she replied. "And they all have different dads. Well, they have three different dads -- Bobbi and Belinda are twins. They're in foster care now in Florida."
"Oh," I say and finish my beer.

I don't ask any more questions. I don't really want to know anything else. I try to imagine Angel as a mother and all I can picture is that hairy crotch barreling down the stairs towards me, it's all just too much.

Dawn is teaching herself the guitar. She knows I like Patsy Cline so one day she comes over plays "Crazy." "I learned it just for you," she says smiling, after she's done. Her voice isn't half bad, actually, but she's got a face like ground-up beef, uneven and pockmarked, and when she asks if I think she can be a big star one day, I just shrug and say, "Absolutely." After all, who am I to crush Sunshine's dreams?

Comments

[Natalee]

Wow. Um, all I can picture now is that woman's crotch. Must. Think. Of. Something. Else. Quickly.

Other than that, superb writing as always.

[teahouseblossom]

This priceless! I can picture it all in my head, just as if it's actually happening to me. I'm sure a huge crotch barreling down the stairs towards you must have been a frightening thing to behold! (shudder)

[Beave]

Oh. Dear. God.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. They remind me of my old roommates, and their big nasty walrus asses.