A Pox Eclipse Now

 “I need you to play ‘Customer’ and ‘Mary’, and by “play” I mean really play the roles ‘cause we’re trying to get you a speaking part, my AD informed me with a cheerful insider wink. 

It was a kind gesture indeed, thoughtful too, but as deadly a phrase to an actor as the equivalent superstitious dagger of saying “good luck”.  (Seriously, you might as well just trip my foot as I make a grand entrance.)

But I’ve always attempted to play every role to the best of my ability for two understandable reasons:  #1, I want to do my job well. And #2, I will milk the hell out of a bit part if I think I can get a laugh!  So regardless of the AD jinx (seriously, is this “how to successfully kill a role” kiss of death listed somewhere in their DGA manuals?), I remained sunny and hopeful!

After all, my performance at the Network run-thru got laughs in all the right places, my gracious cast were kind enough to tell me “great job!”, and heck, even my glamorous Actress’ chocolate Pomeranian ‘smiled’ at me as she was pamper-pushed set to set by a personal assistant in her baby stroller!  (Don’t know; don’t need to know…)

Arriving home happily around five, head in the clouds, I joyously retrieved a residual check from the mailbox for old episodes of on-camera appearances and voice-overs from “Saved by the Bell”; a whopping total of forty-two dollars yet potentially a sign of the future?!?!

And has Fate would intervene I nearly bumped into my landlord head on, a lovely (so I thought) happenstance as all but one of the overhead fluorescents in my kitchen sighed a final breath ominously the night before, leaving a spooky glow as I attempted to pour celebratory cocktails by the light of the open refrigerator door.  (Yeah, I still managed.)

“I get radder” Mr. Yang toddled off politely as my day became even that much rosier.

>>><<<

FLIP TO:

I HATE my landlord.

The word “hate” is powerful and not a verb I’m terribly comfortable with, but after seventy-two hours, yes, I HATE my landlord.  Berating me for “too much crutter in riving loom” and threatening to call the “Hef Depaltment” for having my kitty’s litter box surrounded by a protective moat of clumping sand to protect the carpet, he asked me if I have any education.

“Yes, I have a college degree.”

“Well, maybe Hef Depaltment gives you moh education!” the little man continued his verbal assault on me in my home.  “Dis apartment go for $1,600 and you only pay haf because of lent contlol!  I give you fwee days!  Or I call Hef Depaltment and have you evicted!” he threatened menacingly.  “I not let anybody have pet no moh!” he continued.  “Fix prace or I make kitty go!  And crutter go too!  You want to rive on street, fine!  But I work hahd to buy building, and you take care of apahtment or I give eviction!”

“My kitty is nineteen years old.  I can’t ship her off to a shelter” I replied defensively.

“You can’t talk to me dis way!” he cringed.  (I’ve always suspected that his wife beats him on a daily basis.  I’ve got no proof, but given the chance with a sack full of rocks, well, I’m just sayin’…)

Regardless, I began the lengthy process of trying to appease the annoying little man, if not to secure the sanctuary of the rent-controlled bat-cave, but to resiliently protect by all means necessary the continued companionship of my comforting kitty!

And from 5:30PM ‘til 2:00AM, I boxed, bagged, lugged, trashed and hauled as much as possible by myself.  Sure the pressure from my landlord was a deciding factor, but to be completely honest, yeah, after 23 years in the same apartment some shit really needed to go.  But as a recycling addict, I couldn’t just stuff things into the trash bin. 

With obsolete computers (3), non-working printers (3), one crappy heavy nearly unusable vacuum cleaner, one well-used manual treadmill (well, used as a coat rack anyway) and a couple piles of scripts, tax documents, plus clothing and shoes that haven’t seen the light of day in over a decade, I ponied up the cash for the boys at 1-800-GOT-JUNK?.

“Garments are here, technology over there, kitchen wares in these three and paperwork in that pile over there” I sighed at the overload of trash bags brimming in my living room.  “So… is this bad…?” I asked Charles who surveyed the apartment officially.

“SHEE-IT!” he laughed.  “Yesterday we tackled a possum in a laundry room!  This is MILD by our standards!” he giggled, putting me at ease for the first time in two highly stressful days. 

“And compared to what we usually see” his hefty partner Sven piped up, “DAY-UM you’re organized!” he beamed.

Filling up half a truck bed in approximately one hour, I handed over my credit card with all due gratitude and one final container that nearly broke my heart.  Presenting the box with extreme reverence, I stroked the lid lovingly.  The contents were no less than priceless works of art to me, $150 retail, but purchased at Overstock.com at 75% off.

“I hope one of you have a special lady in your life who might appreciate these.  They’ve never been worn outside because unless someone is going to pick me up, carry me to the car, carry me to dinner and carry me home, I bloody hell can’t even stand up in these, let alone walk!” 

And while I’m sure that the effect of revealing the contents was nothing more than the blinding new fluorescent lights from the kitchen, I could’ve sworn the boots were emanating their very own special aura from within the wrappings: 

“DAY-UM!” Sven gaped, dabbing a bead of sweat off his brow.  “I just might try to squeeze into ‘em myself!”

>>><<<

Having shelled out $443 bucks to 1-800-GOT-JUNK?, $140 for a new Hoover Windtunnel vacuum cleaner that ravenously scarfed up everything in its path (with excellent attachments as well!), two new throw rugs ($25 total) and a covered kitty litter box for $24 (to exist from now on in the linoleum-floor covered bathroom), my deadline for possible eviction passed quietly by. 

>>><<<

Reticent to share the stress of the prior days with anyone who might choose to label and dismiss me as a “hoarder”, eventually I had to literally “come clean” with a couple of friends who just know my usually happy demeanor far too well (and obvious lack therein).  And unburdening my tale, I was gratefully comforted by their extreme compassion – coupled with a startling look of panic in their eyes should their sanctuaries suddenly be scrutinized so harshly by a landlord.  “He can’t do that to you, can he?!”  “Is that even legal?!”  “How can he decide what constitutes clutter?!” they fretted.

For what it’s worth though, the deed is done, and aside from lots of sore muscles, physical and mental exhaustion and the oddest feeling that I’m walking into someone else’s home every time I open the door to my bat-cave, my astonishingly adaptable feline sidekick Pretty and I are coping to the best of our abilities.

Now, if I could just learn that I don’t have to “banana” around the ghost of the treadmill/coat rack as I’ve done for so many years, perhaps I will find my new path…

NOT sorry to NOT get a speaking part on the show this week!

~Partially Pressure-Free P