House on a Line - A Chapter

The rented car’s tires gripped the road. Gazing past the red flaked hood the ascent up this humble mountain was met with a view of a green verdant valley. My initial fear driving up this route was only barricaded in with a single guardrail that assured drivers they wouldn’t immediately plunge to their death at the right speed and angle of impact. Some of parts of this climb had no guard and instinctively drove safer around these. A gentle illusion of safety.

The pavement wrapped around the dirt and slate of this mountain. The dark blue slate was intermixed with vegetation and mounds of dirt that had not yet slid off into the valley below. “Time takes us all.” I muttered. I glanced at the plush and gray passenger seat at my phone. No calls yet from my agent. The seat had years of service. The velvety plush material was impacted right where dozens had sat. Evidence that there was once life there.

Finally the end point of regular society. Stretched into a thick unkempt wood was a dirt road. There was once an attempt to pack the dirt with gravel. A rusted shovel and a pile of the speckled stone with weed growth sat next to a gate with no surrounding fence. The pig iron gate once sat ornate in an attempt to add class to the height and magnitude of the mountain. Now it sat rusted and slightly twisted.

The Fluer de lis was crafted well even though the paint was well beyond it. The symmetric flower arrangement curved into itself on the outer most petals while the center stalk pointed in a harrowing spike.  In the center there was an iron-casted face of a lion or humanoid looking creature. It’s hollow eyes narrowed in a seemingly wrathful visage leering over the valley behind me. The gate was an easy push and after wiping the deep red rust off my hands on my blue jeans I re-entered the idling red car. This road was too rough for a fancy car, my agent warned. The tires crushed the gravel and beige clay dirt as I retreated to the cabin my agent rented for me.

It was supposed to be a holiday.

#Fiction #Odd

The metallic blue polycarbonite floor was soaked with insulator fluid. Druid could see through the hazed glass, breath obscuring the disaster in Chamber 32-A. As the only one on board and one of the only known earthseed this far out of the old radius. Druid then batted away a sort of unknown cable. Walking back through the empty ship there was only Druid and the autopilot.

In the empty mess and lone gaze of an obscured star field through a port Druid gulped down the protein assembler drink. The texture of wet cardboard slurry was knocked back. Fifty days had passed since Druid awoke to an abandoned spaceship with the pilot logs wiped. No signs of a struggle from a crew of 243 or the 14 other civilian travelers.

No scrawling of Roanoke on any of the massive ships alloyed posts.

Time made little difference adrift floating in cosmic absence. With the captain's chambers Druid made himself comfortable. He remembered at first when social convention and politeness were part of the initial exploratory process. All of the spacebound and vetted earthseeds poked a tad bit of fun at him along the way to his father's outpost. Druid missed the comfortable jesting. Now he was stuck in a giant ship with no means or gains to operate.

The autopilot allotted access to the wheelhouse and all of the sensory array. The A.I. had a protocol that made Druid the emergency temporary captain as the only person on board. There was no notion of controlling the ship with vocal or manual codex commands without a pilots license or having access to the logs that contain the manual codex itself. A proprietary security feature that fails without crew or logs.

Barring navigational controls Druid had full access to the spacecraft and inner-workings. He particularly enjoyed going to the greenhouse and the onboard labs. It was like home. The ambient temperature and humidity fluctuated in each area as if he rapidly traveled the globe. Mechanical hands with multiple segmented joints tended to the nursery and checked vitality of each plant. Snake like hands bent at odd impossible angles pushing and stretching the translucent membrane that protected the joint system. As a plant surgeon it loosely adjusted each leaf inspecting, scanning for deficiencies. Aerosol sprays went off like timers.

Larger model robots would patrol the larger and more permanent soil layers tending to the plants fetched from the last phase of the nursery.  When Druid first came to the gardens it was desiccated as if the science department was restarting the entire batch. The automated systems were offline and in maintenance mode and restarting was simple. Only sixteen more days until the radishes are ready.

Musings I

Just writing to express myself sans theme.

We are standing on a global precipice if you flip the infection bell curve upside down. There is a greater possibility of surviving individual infections so I am not going to play the ‘we-are-doomed’ card. Nor the ‘Open-the-Marts’ card. There are too many questions that are not satisfactorily answered.

No one wants to shed much life in their communities. Yes some say they are willing to sacrifice lives and votes to call the bluff of the dangers of Covid-19. I want to be very clear and direct at this juncture: You are endangering an already fragile health care system that is fairly infested with parasitic non-medical health care ‘professionals’. That industry exists as a tower of babel and I do recognize the importance of accounting. How much medical wreckage your body mind and spirit procures over the course of character development. A measure of self-care and self-abuse.

Make sure it is just Your Life you are sacrificing.

When you go out horde of zombies style you will not have to wait long for that call out to become true. The real killer in pandemics is not just the virus but the repercussions of repeated poor decisions. Adding a 0.001 percent chance a few times is not great. In this math problem there are Thousands upon Thousands of actors deciding to work on the behalf of the virus.

Local medical professionals will be overtaxed as a result. Medical workers in the entirety of the field will be wiped out faster than you can replace the skill vacuum. The survival rate of yourself and the ones in your community decreases.

Sickeningly the Insurance Industry will generate greatest profits at the lowest risk available.

With no one to patch up the arteries that are the food delivery lines and the mechanisms to get essential goods you are condemning people to death with only regard to the luxuries once enjoyed.

We were promised Make America Great Again, Change, Safer World/Hope, Compassion, Bridges, Change (Again), Kindness, Gentleness, Mornings, Make America Great Again (Again), Change…………………….. Again.

Where am I reading this from? How long will this last? Will I be able to have a full meal for my loved ones tomorrow? Do people in flint Michigan have clean water yet? Will I find out I have a simple health complication that went detected because of that ever-growing sweet spot of poverty? Could I die?

These are semi-personal questions. Given the spectrum of people around my age started off working right around when the recession of 2008 made its impact. Some went to school on many promises of jobs only to find out the saturation of mass produced degrees made markets difficult and there were hardships in trying to pay (sometimes) predatory student debt.

At this level of poverty there is an entire class that are expected to give to a country that has figured out how much disposable income it can take through economic incentives to leave them at the same level with no movement forward. So it is expected of us to just take it.

The current White House administration as of 2020 16^th of April is by far the most concentrated worst example. For reasons alluding to the legions of sockpuppets and robotic troll armies I do not want to debate these facts. Let facts stand as they are until the mounting evidence washes over the din and noise.

My time is going to be spent inventing with what little I have to solve huge problems. People need to work but safely and using some science and basic engineering skills. Self-sustenance, ingenuity, and learning from harsh mistakes are going to be a theme over the next few months.

Across a Bound

I couldn’t believe it. An entire year and a month passed. Decidedly curious I wifi’d off of a van’s internet. If that sounds strange that is what I had to do in the backyard of upper florida. It was a mucky swampland. The right combination of florida rain and sun in succession would turn less than a football field walk into a 30 minute trek. You needed those rubberized boots that went up past your knee. Fences lined both sides of this neighborly driveway marking the slow passage.

Neighbors would help neighbors in that part, as long as there was not a long standing feud. So there wasn’t an outstanding need to leave. There was something I missed from my not home.

Scrolling past with what limited time I had there was a trend growing. Friends getting sick. Family kind of acting weird. Calling up would net the same response and there was a concern. Then one about a blood clot and my skin kind of went cold.

Port Richey has a few sides to it. It seems to attract bad decision after bad decision. Even two of our mayors are guilty of some things. I originally left because I got assaulted and mugged for 10 dollars.

So I made a plan to escape from Palatka. Yes.

Palatka, Florida like from that one movie.

Initially I thought of every single method possible to effectively travel the distance. Three weeks went by and every plan I had thought of struck out. I was left with bicycling with a one speed beachcruiser tank and hitchhiking.

I decided upon the idiotic move of riding the cruiser.

There was a pack list of everything I really didn’t need. Pounds of stuff. Provisions. Food. Then there was the concern of weather and planning around a wet spell or two.

The day was set after feeding the livestock on that tiny farm. Time to go.

The black and chrome beachcruiser had both red lining and rust that had penetrated the chrome. The gear was strapped on with a network of belts and clothesline. Honestly I had way too much stuff and I had intended to bicycle back with far, far less. There was a jug, tarp, knife, blanket, and a few changes of clothes as well as food items. The food selection was random bars but the king was to be the oatmeal and peanut butter. Additionally I had the challenge of transporting an assortment of crustacean themed beanie babies to my father. Why not.

So off I go… 

save for the walk out. That usually wet driveway was a silty dune. With the extra weight on the bike and it being slightly top heavy I pushed the useless brickwheels through the dunes.

Anti-climatic start but now that the road is pavement and not desert driveway off I go. 

Oh.

Oh wait.

Let me…

…

…….

………...AH

I have to adjust this strap and change the orientation of the gear so I don’t veer left. I would learn that I would readjust constantly after this initial tiedown. Aaaaand we’re off.

The piece of road I was on had no shoulder to speak of. At one point trash littered both sides of the entire stretch of tar. Beer cans, food service wrappers, animal entrails of unknown species. At one point someone had to dispose of a bag of sextoys. Animals tore into a silicone proxy of a wasteline plus appropriate anatomy. There was a penis pump too. Disturbingly it sat there for weeks until I dubbed it the Penis Pump of Palatka.

As I started out this journey the trash was gone from its usual hangout. It was a pleasant wood to leave with younger pine trees being select cut for the local paper industry. I turned onto a dangerous country road. Here the beer cans and trash returned. The country road was the new spot.

I could have hitched but this road by foot I had already walked. It’s four hours from nothing to where the Walmart is. The time was increased every time I heard a car or trucks tires sticking on the pavement hundreds of feet away. As a precaution I would jump off the bike to avoid getting struck. This also was a reoccurring theme and a nightmare.

Successfully reached one of the main roads that actually lead into the town of Palatka. But I was not going there. A bicycle trail extending southwest was built and it accommodated my phobia of cars well. I also ran into a bit of luck with navigation as well. Even though the cell phone I had didn’t have service as long as I conserved the battery the cell towers still triangulate gps on the map precisely. No, it could not tell you directions but it was definitely better than going without.

Also I made this in good spirits right before the trip is a millipede marker:

https://twitter.com/ChristoKelm/status/1118227332479758339?s=20

An Omen.

So the adventure was invigorated by going down this special path built for pedestrians and bicyclist. It lasted quite a while. In fact… far to long. I had missed a crucial point that would have shortened the trip by a bit through the country side roads with nothing between them for a while. It is at that point the next decision probably saved me. I thought why not find my way back but screw back tracking. I have a map. That I didn’t read right at first and travelled far from the bikepath.

Disheartened and a bit lost I decide why not travel through Gainesville. Go see something different.

The cut through I decided to take was a dirt road. It was fine for a third of the stretch… luring me in with the sweet promise of an easy ride. It didn’t even last past the treeline. That’s when it turned into speed bump hell. It tore apart the straps of my gear and countless hubcaps from tires alike. That is when handling the carried gear became a constant struggle. In the distance where I stopped to keep the binds of my whole world from coming undone I saw graveyards of macerated and broken tires.

Out of the shortcut I went through a town that lead up to an intersection. This town was incredibly barren. Once it held business and care. Now it was broken glass, a dilapidated gas station, and a few sparse dots of places that trickle in money.

Finally. I reached this intersection. I had been moving the bike for a full six hours or so. Long enough to tell I was going to run out of light if I didn’t hurry the pace up. As I passed a blues brother statue I went to the promised land of Gainesville.

Little did I know it would lead me through unpleasant car only highways and bridges. In the dark. As someone who has a phobia of cars in a dangerous situation I can’t say I held it together well. Made it but there were a few times the cars came too close even when I was far on the other side of the shoulder.

It was well past dusk when I reached a literal fork in the road. I took out my digital map and tried to divine to the best of my ability. Take a slightly less longer route with unknown risk or the shorter route. Both could be equally as dangerous. Decidedly choose the shorter route with how tired I was.

Passing what I found out to be a correction facility right outside of Gainesville I thought it would be nice to get murdered in the dark for a get away bicycle. So I kept peddling until rural turned to suburbia. Houses. Apparent bad crime rate. The usual one mart in the whole neighborhood that’s been robbed so many times it closes earlier. May have passed some of the marts bandits earlier.

Suburbia morphed into city twilight quickly. On a Tuesday their were young women dressed in impossibly tight miniskirts paired with boys in baggy clothes and caps. Not sure how that polarity is kept in orbit.

There was quite a surge of people. Far more than I expected. Taken aback I surmised that the lack of direct human contact and socializing made me feel blunt and outside of my comfort zone. Also I was starting to develop a fabulous wrecked look. It was great.

Staying on the same street I rode into I walked my bicycle to another intersection westward. The southern part of the main artery held the giant College Campus. I found SW 13^th street and a homeless older man squinted at the burdens I was walking through the city. Nothing was said or mentioned until I turned away and he howled at a stone planter.

There was an amazement at the sheer scope of the buildings. An organization of young brains and stupid chemicals that paid to be shaped by academia only to be lead off by hormones. Electric scooters, student apartment buildings. Here I was this rough sweating looking skinny thing wide eyed at it all. Until I got to the center of the main hub of this campus.

A dead crow. Murdered in his prime. Bloody. Poised but defeated in a raised flowerbed a few feet above the sidewalk with expensive bricks.

I felt unease and I shed any thoughts of sheltering in Gainesville.

SW 13^th slopes a long way down so I let the weight of the situation coast me down. At a minimart still open I met another homeless guy. This one pretty much plastered. He is black, sitting on the sidewalk that led to the entrance of the minimart. His venerated scruff blanched white stood out on his skin. As I am looking at directions and guessing spots I could nap and hide my bike at the man starts to sway and talks incoherently.

He asks another person and another. Decidedly feeling a gram or several over my weight capacity I give him the rest of my change and speak with him for a minute. There was nothing learned.

As I had discovered the SW exit that lead out of Gainesville was lined with gated apartment complexes with zero bushes or cover. It was not until I reach outside of Gainesville where I encountered the forest again. Large houses with huge properties I will never own. I pressed on until I felt like I could rest. Just for a second.

It’s likely 1 am in the morning and I am standing in pitch black. There are no street lights anymore. I stop peddling my bicycle for just a few. Scouting for maybe a fire ant free ground I can lay a tarp on and crash with a blanket wrapped around me. I searched through my bags to begin the ninja camping process.

Except I heard what sounded like pissed off boar in the distance. Unhappy with that I jumped on my bicycle and booked it. I used what little light there was to travel on the road. Perhaps one of the strangest things I encountered on this journey was quite a few feet after the boar noise I heard shrill screeching and the treetops violently shaking. Never in my life did I want to think about that one. Was it the herpes monkeys I have heard so much about that were loosed upon Florida? No, no time to think about that one.

A red backlight and flashlight to get through this entire journey. To whatever cars that were traveling this late at night it must have looked like a single red star on the horizon until I was in front of their headlights. During this night movement there was a need to alternate walking and biking muscles.

I wouldn’t rest until I reached the start of a small town. Decided an hour and a half of sleep would do me well and the brain was tired of figuring out steps in the dark. A large blue warehouse that was empty and for rent had enough palm trees and bushes to obscure the rest. Too tired to retrieve items of comfort I laid down a tarp and crashed sitting up, back resting on the cold sheet metal.

There were no dreams.

Waking to the scream of tires mashing pavement and squeaky bearings of vehicles out of slight disrepair I jumped to my feet. If you could call it rest I could say I was ready to go. Again.

The travel into the heart of this small town of Williston was eye opening. Tightly packed small businesses. Colorful custom art on the front porch of rustic but kept up houses. I could tell this was a place that was so tightly knit by the time I left I assumed everyone was aware of my presence.

Of course there was a logistical hang up on which road to travel. With three paths to pick from I had to make a decision. Water was becoming imperative. The constant stress on the body was requiring a constant flow of aqua. Also I had forgotten the peanut butter.

How can you forget the peanut butter you jester?

The endurance levels were waning. Sodium I could acquire from a food joint as I could sugar. The oatmeal I had left provided carbohydrates. Without the PB I knew I was at the mercy of muscle entropy and fatigue. Standing at the crossroads of this small folksy town was this young disheveled man staring at the one lifeline he had left on the phone. This was Determination. Go through Goethe Forest.

That determination was about to be tested in what was called the Highlands. The geography of florida is typically flat and gets flatter the further south you go. It stops being a Karst geography and the sand lays down into giant swamp beach.

Well these Highlands must have been the hands of this Giant Florida Man. The last bastion of stone and drainage before the dust washes away any semblance of nutrients in the ground. And you could tell. There was farmland and wide expanses around me. At first there were only small slopes and it was possible with the energy I had to power through these tiny hills. The outer tips of the phalanges clasped over knuckles.

The gradient eventually steepened and it was no longer possible to power through anything. At the crest of these hills I would think about the hills and valleys in Deerfield, Virginia. These were nothing compared to the insanity of those slate peaks. Yet they still had the character of knuckles. Mine started to whiten.

These hills were not modest for Florida and even coasting down these hills my grip and tension of my arms were weakening. Coasting down the last hill I was finally done with that hot expanse. Being on the road with all of that black body radiation and between two parabolas concentrating the sun cooked me. Even with a wide brimmed hat and long drenched sleeves.

Goethe Forest had spats of shade but mostly was open to the sun on the road. There was a bend and a clearing with workers clearing out trees and forest management inspecting. I sat on an open spot for twenty minutes consuming the rest of my water. The workers of the forest didn’t mind and I continued through Goethe Forest feeling dehydrated even though I just consumed. Hyperthermia was approaching.

I was spit out of the forest wet onto Highway 98/19. The plan to stay on this road until two more streets. This far north there was a definitive difference in development. If there was an urban sprawl this was its cousin, rural spreading. All of these houses were tucked into the treeline and artificially raised with time and human intervention. Prisoners were busy picking up trash on the side of the highway while a lone warden looked on.

Stopped sweating with quite a few miles left to get into town. There were vague distant memories of that driveway of dunes. A lack of sleep will make yesterday and a mile seem like forever. There was a critical point where the hyperthermia was close to leading into the more fatal symptoms and I happened upon a store where they sold Seashells and other amazing things. The shopkeep was an older woman and I asked to get some water from anywhere. “Sure, the bathroom over there” she responded. I must have been beet red. I asked a few questions and told her a few details and left.

There was a theme to this town for sure. It tried casting itself as a Georga style fishing community transplanted fifty years ago. As I passed over the bridge in Inglis there was a 70’s style plaza with odd angles built into the structure of the oldest building off the path some. Even the signage that towered over the barren adjacent allotments had a “This is the 70’s aesthetic you remember” vibe, an obvious tell it was likely built in the early 80’s. What an important detail I mused as I filled my water jug several times at a nearby fast food place. Water loss is quicker now.

Cooling down I decided rest would be important and since every person in town saw the savagery of my travels thus far I must have looked ripe to be picked up for vagrancy. Dipping into a sparsely wooded lot and beyond exhaustion I tried setting up camp once again. For whatever reason in this haze I decided to cut a fresh palm frond down. Maybe it was an attempt to hide the shine of the chrome of the bike from the street. I also cut myself pretty deep with my folding pocket knife.

Traveling back to the fast food place I had to conceal the blood on my hand. It looked as if I had just stabbed someone. Washing up I made an emergency band-aid from toilet paper and a walmart bag. The adrenaline kicked into hyperdrive. Just power through, I thought. Just power through.

So I went back to the site where my blood blessed the earth and retrieved all the gear and bicycle. It was the only time I was distanced from my Stuff. All those unnecessary provisions that I didn’t really use.

I hit Crystal River at night. The homeless population must have been bad around these parts. An officer immediately stopped me to tell me Im not allowed to use the wifi on this property anymore.

“Any more?”

“Yeah aren’t you that…?”

The officer with his crew cut takes a second look at me. His eye brow raises in slight confusion.

“Really I just got here from a bit away and will continue through.” I told him. At this point I didn’t care what he had to say. At some level he respected my drive forward because he just said “Ah no you’re not that guy, good luck man.”

There was an attempt to sleep but this time it was interrupted by a slight drizzle turned heavy. I had picked a side yard of a wholesaler of something I can’t clearly remember and it was exposed to the sky. I searched everywhere for cover from the coming storm.

It started to rain hard at four in the morning. Wrapping my possessions in the tarp I had to protect the gifts. I had no such tarp for myself and so I snuck onto a raised loading dock where semi truck trailers were unloaded.

It rained so hard I was absolutely soaked by just the mist that bounced off the hard rock cement.

There was no sleep at that point. The constant vigilance was automatic. I just meditated until the gray dawn appeared. It was misting again.

Using this opportunity I found church to blink a powernap at. Another wall to lean on, this time brick. It didn’t last long as I jolted my self awake.

This was the perfect time haul down the road. The rain turned to drizzle and I had put on my flip-flops and changed out my shoes to dry, hanging them off the back of the bag on the little backwheel platform. Wobbling through construction cones there was a bridge with heavy and active construction. Fresh work being done on the inside of a concrete barrier. I had a tiny shoulder of loose dirt to somehow and magically cling a bike to. It was the highest slope a pile of loose dirt could be and I had to tap into my goat like characteristics.

It didn’t work. I kept losing strength manhandling the top heavy beachcruiser. Almost fell into the construction waste water that was under the bridge three times. It was the narrowest shoulder to pass over and while it wasn’t personally dangerous there was concern for the well being of the presents I had.

After wresting through a troubled bridge I continued down the road for some time. A mile or two. I check the back tire and see I am missing shoes. I lost it, screaming in the mist.

Cognitive functions were starting to deplete. A mile of back tracking may not seem like much unless you are halfway through a long journey of your own power. It was a punishment for not paying attention to everything all the time. I did get those shoes back from a mud puddle.

The rest of the day was met with sunshine and humidity. Homosassa was a relative breeze to pass through. The impromptu shower I had taken restored some kind of feeling of momentum. North Weeki Wachee had a few hills to overcome. Nothing like the Highlands I had passed through the day before.

I passed a line to the infamous mermaid tanks and water park. There was no time to stop and look at anything. Every sinew and tendon was now trained in a forward direction. Outside of Weeki Wachee society quieted down. Stopping at a grocery store and a Wall of Marts to replenish.

Outside of the Wall of Marts there was a woman carrying on full conversations with people as they walked by while she sat. People would say a thing and walk away and this woman would continue as if it was the same conversation with the same person. Disproportionately overweight it seemed like she may have had a mental problem or two.

I walked by noticing a quarter on the ground in front of her. “Is this yours?” I asked. I wasn’t about to take this ladies dropped change even though I desperately needed it. “Yeah but you can have it. I don’t care I got…” she prattled on as I bent over to scrape the coin off the ground. Then the sound of clanking. This woman threw more change at me.

“Aahhhh” I let out a confused guttural squeak.

“Yeah so if you want to come back to my place I have lots of money in fact its like a mansion oh I own two mansions so if you want to see them thats cool do you need more money I can give you money how about food I can get you food or you can go back to my house to eat my food….” There was no pause and any inhale was used to say certain words. This woman was exploding with words.

“No, I’m good I have to go south.” I said in the most tactful way possible. I thanked and left her there on that bench. Her voice audibly lessened in decibel the further I traveled back to Highway 19. I stopped at a gas station. With the few dollars hailed upon me from the goddess of babble it was enough to get enough fuel for the final leg of my southbound journey.

The great thing about this part is I was so exhausted and sleep deprived I had achieved one of the greatest endorphin highs I had ever experienced. It was at the cost of my tiny pelvis and tailbone being constantly impacted through travel but there is always a tradeoff somewhere. Some greater unknown cost to reap.

I barely remember traveling through Hudson. The sun passed it’s zenith. The wide brimmed hat provided just enough shade so I could keep the sweat down to a minimum. Gradually the place I had left a year plus previous became more and more familiar.

Gliding through Port Richey I pulled up to my father’s house. It was three in the afternoon and he had just finished fishing with his friend unloading the days catch and fishing poles while talking about boats, coordinates, and the like. My father in his fish-gut stained white pants and shirt stood there fidgeting the bill of his Bob Marley sweat stained baseball cap looking for some words. In a years time he became visibly older and grayer. Crystal River Dawn Gray.

“What the….” were the only words in his dictionary.

His friend let out a rabid expletive in complete dismay at my arrival.

“Well how are you doing Christopher?”

My voice was hoarse even though I spoke very few words to people on my trip that lasted two and a half days. Moving in a dream-like state dumbly and proud of my insane maneuvers on that driveway. Even though I had a weird arrhythmic heart I battled that fear after confronting the ailments of others. I couldn’t think of how I was doing. My father handed me his two word dictionary. Typically to justify the how or why the brain can find some logical mode of operation. This was on a calculated whim as guided by the Universe. The birds were still singing telling their bird neighbors to screw off sweetly. Cars were whistling down Highway 19 southbound to where ever their hearts led them. Some of my fear was that highway I’ve aptly named Grinder 19. Glad it didn’t cast its fate my direction. It has a habit of eating pedestrians.

I came out more Alive than I thought even with mistakes abound.

“I brought you presents from a far away land called Palatka.”

A Novel Ephemeral Economy

So Congrats America. We did it.

Lets get right back to work. Unfortunately with the law of the local land and quite a few disagreements on how the microcosm of my life is i’m not in a position to do what I normally do. I hustle quite a bit, scurrying around town on a beat-up road bike. That bike is my only source of transportation.

I do scraps of work for an AFCH which never paid enough. There was an agreement to trade rent for labor but rent for a corner of a living room with roommates isn’t worth 300 dollars a month. It’s a half-way house of sorts that I am also expected to manage.

Before Covid-19 dominated our collective existence I was already struggling to not have my food not eaten by rats or roommates. In Port Richey, Florida unless you have a car you get low-tier gigs that pay minimum for 12 to 28 hrs a week. Work ethic not needed. They won’t pay you for it. I tried.

Complacent would be my attitude. There was a crappy routine and for the many times in my life since the 2008 recession I was trying to overcome it by myself. Even if I have a slew of health complications.

Then the facility lockdown initiated.

Everything went out the window through the thin plane of glass. For privacy reasons I will truncate most information to its pure basics leaving out names for Confidentiality and Legal Reasons.

On the 18^th of March I tried telling my mentally handicapped drug addict room mate about the dangers of the virus and how he needs to wash his hands. I tell him he needs to stay home and social distance soon because it may get interesting. I had just given him an old ps2 around and tried convincing him to fix it at a shop to alleviate his boredom. He already had a bunch of games, controllers, and whatnot.

He left the next day with everything he had. Presumably to sell it for his drug of choice. While all this is going on. I confronted the person I have The Deal with. To protect the chain of contact I tell the one other room mate since he moved out and has free will not to let him back in the house. I was relieved really. He ate my food, used my soaps, did whatever the hell he wanted. Sweet. He was an older adult so be it.

No, I’m told.

He has to move back. He’s going to move back.

Seeing how I was forced to sleep in a room with a drug addict who disappears for days at a time it left me in a no-win situation where I would have to move out of the corner of room I had to keep working and be homeless or stop working at the facility and find a new job and most likely get Covid-19 from the guy I share a living room with in a house with three other people. Yikes.

None of it made sense unless you consider the entirety of the story and see the motive. You figure it out.

The general response from the person with whom I have the deal with freaks out on me telling me I control too much.

But I am expected to take on responsibility for it but no control.

I couldn’t stand. For the first time in my adult life I was so infuriated with the logical paradox presented towards me; The lack of actual care for the well being of his residents, the lack of well being for someone he stiffs over on pay, the lack of care for the other people in the subrented house.

There was an agreement in place with someone else about the living room mate that made it economically feasible for him to stay and do whatever he wanted. So everything must be exactly as it was.

I left crying. Lately I have been shedding a few lachrymal tears but this was a sorrowful cry. I know this Deal Person personally. So it hurt. It hurt to see this person chose Trumps words over the concerns of the agencies responsible for paying out money for taking care of his Residents.

And not taking heed of my words, time and time again. This time though there was a real mortal danger. Choosing a deal over a life is not worth it. That night I slept in a park. It was better than that room that was infested with fleas due to it being a place where cats are deposited in the female residents room by the dealmaker’s wife. Plus the eyelids were giving up gravity.

I had an hour worth of sleep before light pieced through my eyelids. It was bright enough that in my stupor I had though the outline of a shadow was finally the aliens. They got me. No it was the police standing a good distance away asking I not trespass. Apologies tossed out I simply left for 'home'.

The haze text to the dealmaker I made must have stirred some deep emotions. When I had awaken at the corner of living space I had my phone was sparking. I had 48 hrs to leave or get evicted.

I spilled the beans on everything I had felt about the situation. The bottom of this whole shade was a pit. Then the threats of violence. Let me tell you I was not in a mood what-so-ever. I called him out on everything. He called me out on my two vices. Ten years of working for a slumlord. It didn’t start out like this until we Made America Great Again.

His bluff was obliterated. I was going anyway. The chances of living a normal life again were set back to zero. Again.

The cruel nature of this beast is I’m not sure how I am going to make it. At the current moment I am on lockdown with close friends. They are a married couple and are lucky enough to be in a situation where they can work from home for now.

For the past couple of days my brain has been racked at night while adjusting myself on a flealess but inflatable bed. The cat allergies are acting up due to the impossibly fluffy nature of the cat which sends me into just mild panic attacks. There is a garden growing next to a few different trees in the backyard.

Then there is the world out there. The Covid19 plague winds carrying bits of what seems like roulette death. A virus that seems to favor the old and vunerable but… “you’re good enough too healthy one.” I think about people that may not know they have it traveling down the road with the window open coughing droplets.

Those very droplets get carried into the street vortex of sheering into the wind giving a lift greater than a stationary human in the wind. Those droplets getting sucked into the open windows of the car Im in every time I risk going out. Yes I told my new quarantine mate my concerns and his response as an older male was to Roll The Windows All The Way Down In An Attempt To Spite My Caution. Don’t worry I’ll get him on board with that idea (I hope).

I feel like if it is going to be like this it is only a matter of time until I burden the health care system too. Even if I can dodge all those inevitable bullets I’m still a burden now with zero income and outside of the range of unemployment since the dealmaker decided paperwork and legitimacy was a burden.

A part of me feels like this is a slight on those on the very bottom of the barrel. I’ve already given up half of the possessions I’ve acquired at the dealmakers halfway house. Some items I’ve rescued from the house after I learned the living room mate at the former place returned. Right now those items are outside under a weighed down tarp for at least a week.

For now I am living off cannibalizing my collection of weird artifacts. Already ready to dispose of half or more items under quarantine due to needing less to move around when traveling.

I went from poor to destitute in nearly a flash and the current administration has let us know where the classes should serve. This does not appear to be a survivable situation if you are at the razor edge of poverty and a death sentence if you have underlying health complications you can't afford to figure out.