R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 14

Bureaucracy Can Eat Me

Bureaucracy Can Eat Me

Today has been one of those hell days where putting your fist through a wall seems like the best idea. That is until your brain say, “Yeah, try that. Let’s see how fast you can snap some bones, dumb ass.” Instead of causing physical injury I’ll opt for word vomiting all over this page.

Over the last six, or is it seven, weeks I’ve been going round-and-round with my mom’s ex. He feels entitled to her car and wants it for his new fiance [whom I believe was mentioned in an earlier post]. Of course, I disagree, mainly because I was clearly instructed to do so. Trying to take the appropriate route, I reached out to a lawyer, made it clear I would pay off the remainder of the loan. All the ex needed to do was sign over the title as they jointly owned the vehicle, though he never made a payment nor drove the vehicle in the last two years. Of course, the ex said he wouldn’t sign over the title and I was left in a what-the-fuck situation.

Flash forward to this morning. Finally, the lawyer was able to get the car signed over but bureaucracy has stepped in to make things more difficult. The plan has always been to sell the care to cover the cost of the funeral and other items left to me [Utilities, credit cards, etc.] Surprise! I can’t sell the car because the moron lawyer allowed the ex to say I don’t have power of attorney over the thing. Now it’s a battle of paperwork to prove the car was left in my possession while trying to avoid additional state taxes for licensing a car I will never drive.

This is the car that refuses to die. What was supposed to help alleviate some stress has caused ten times more problems than anything I could imagine. I’m half tempted to ditch the damn thing in the Bronx just to get it off my back.

I hated cars before and hated ex’s even more. I think between the two they are at the top of my all time ‘Would Rather Die Than Deal With’ list. F. F me right in the A.

R.B. Winters
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Hello Me

Hello Me

We spend our lives trying to figure out who we are…or who we think we are and who people perceive us. For a long time I’ve thought I figured this piece of life out, so much so that the voices in my head were identified as additional personalities to keep life entertaining and to provide an easy excuse to turn people into characters and plot lines. Though I’m not clinically crazy, but look forward to the day, I actually feel like there are two people vying for control.

Let me explain. Once I made the decision to swallow my emotions relating to my mom’s death, mainly because I despise their presence, it meant using a great deal of energy focused solely on distracting the mind. Avoiding places with memories, hiding belongings that relate to funny stories, taking new routes to avoid familiar locations. All in an effort to move forward and behave normally. But tucking these things away leaves a gap, now being filled by something of an alter ego: different exteriors appearance (clothing, hair), different tastes (no desire for beer, craving for the scent of cigarettes), lack of interest (bars suddenly seem less fun, jokes aren’t as funny even when I make them).

To look in the mirror everything appears the same, but now it’s like looking at yourself from another person’s point of view. Not necessarily a bad thing, perhaps this is forced character development and growth. But it still feels unusual and awkward.

I’m sure this is all mental gymnastics as it is my character trait to do such and maybe in six months or six years I’ll look back and see a life lesson. Unfortunately, we live in the now and this is what’s happening now. No matter what lesson there is to be learned, how much better would it be to skip over it, get the compressed television version and move on.

R.B. Winters
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Get the “Un” Out

Get the “Un” Out

Death is an unpleasant, uninvited, unexpected and at times even unimaginable guest that makes an appearance in all lives. Feeling as freshly painful today as it did yesterday, the day before, the day before that and the week before. But rather than continue to wallow in a mental prison of repetitive torture, it seems time to take the advice I would give any other person: Let go and start moving on.

In order to move on, even if I may never be able to let go, it’s best to say all the things I’m thinking. Once they’re out in the world they become real outside of my head and perhaps less taunting. There is no rhyme or reason to this list, but here we go:

In an effort to take care of all loose ends and provide closure to the people around me, I fear that my grief window may have been missed. Now I feel clogged having not taken the time to expressively feel these things. Now sad songs, touching movie moments, anything can cause a lump in the back of my throat. Every bit of willpower is required to return feelings to the pit of my stomach where they belong.
Three weeks of barely any work and neglected school lessons; This is bad to say the least. So, with all the energy and fake enthusiasm I can muster I am dragging myself through lessons and the work day, though even getting out of bed has been a forced decision. To add some motivation, I’ve returned to my French studies. A project is useful right now if only for distraction.
To provide something to look forward to I’ve decided on a trip to Paris for my birthday in September. Here’s where the French comes in handy.
A positive area, my friends have not allowed me to withdraw into a hole of depression, forcing me to remain engaged.
And as a final goal, I’ll get this new book out on schedule. My mom is in this one and I did my best to make it as dirty as she would have liked, but equally comical. My only regret is that I didn’t have the chance to put it in her hands.
As far as the fears, I’m worried I no longer have the drive/interest to complete life goals…no one is paying attention any longer. There’s no one to please, make proud or provide encouragement.
But worst of all, the daily reminder. Each time something funny or annoying happens, I want to call my mom and complain or laugh about it. When the phone rings in the day I reach for it, anticipating her call that’s not coming. I would like to tuck this little piece of metal and glass away where I don’t have to look at its face. Unfortunately, this one device connects to all parts of my life, even controlling a few. The phone is one thing I can’t get away from and it’s the most active supporter when it comes to feeling wretched.

It’s too bad we can’t predict the future or change the past. All we can do is live in the now, as annoying and life-affirming as that sounds. But as my mom would have said, “It’s time to pick yourself up by the boot straps, dust yourself off and put on your big girl panties.” So here goes.

R.B. Winters
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Let Go

Let Go

I love control. Everything about it is something I enjoy and it’s become a cornerstone in my life. As a writer, especially spewing information about my life, to keep things interesting it is often necessary to push people with comments they may not realize as manipulation or place yourself in situations you know will be uncomfortable to come out the other side with a great story.

However, I am finally in one situation for which I lack all control. This situation is controlling me, adding to the level of frustration and unpleasantness that I feel. But the feelings, they’re the worst of it all. Again, something I would usually shove down into the pit of my stomach and back corner of my mind where they are forgotten, these feelings are suddenly forcing themselves out at unexpected moments. Generally when alone, or when I’m in public situations without friends. A stranger’s comment or random song in the background flood my mind with memories and out through the eyes come unwanted emotions. Strangers look at me knowing there’s something wrong, having no idea what and not daring to ask. The one stranger that has engaged me was verbally assaulted by a bitter tongue on the train, likely ensuring he’ll never approach a stranger again.

Today is particularly low for me as St. Patrick’s Day was one holiday my mother usually came to New York to celebrate. We bar hopped, laughed at drunk strangers wobbling about and had a fantastic time. I’m told to take comfort in the memories. But that’s not how my mind works, and it will never work in that fashion. My mind tells me I want a dozen more St. Patrick’s Day stories to share. And it’s internally deafening to know that none can be had and I’m at the mercy of a situation for which there is no solution and no way to fix. There is nothing to do but sit here and feel this way until eventually there is enough time between the moment and myself that it feels like something that never happened or my mind learns to forget the feelings.

Which of those will come first I have no idea, either would be ideal, today I was able to force myself out of bed around noon, in time to accomplish a small amount of work. Suddenly it seems that all the routines are meaningless tasks of no importance. A side effect of my bitter-shock state. And though everyone is doing their best to be a kind ear and helpful hand it is my head that’s the problem and unfortunately there is no escape.

R.B. Winters
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Breathe Again

Breathe Again

The last nine days have gone by with such ferocity that it’s difficult to recall which things happened when and where. Everyone has been very kind in trying to do their best to reach out and show support. Those who know me well understand that being in the vicinity of me is more than enough to show support. There is no need to provide condolences, apologies or well wishes. For normal people these help them to feel better, for me they itch like a heavy wool coat I’m unable to remove.

Some have asked me what has happened over the last few days, others have probed for information, so in an effort to let everyone in while keeping you at arms length here it is…

I arrived in Utah late last Monday night. Having fallen apart on the plane I pulled it together once we were on the ground as I had to stop grieving and begin working. And work I did, hitting the ground running, early the next morning myself and four others went to my mother’s apartment. I was intent on cleaning out the entire place in one afternoon. It was my first visit, and it was going to be the last. With the help of additional hands and my completely unemotional decision making, every item was either given to someone who could make use, donated to charity, or kept by me. I strictly kept things I knew my mother loved, or I had been instructed to take and care for.

You see, when we arrived at the apartment, I was already numb. Directly before heading to the small town, it was necessary to stop by the mortuary and finalize all the details. My siblings were required to come as I needed their signatures to approve the cremation. Everyone in the room was teary eyed, except for me. The gentleman assisting seemed surprised. I’ll admit, even I was a bit surprised by how stone faced I was able to remain as we picked through family history and unpleasant details, such as which urn in which to place the cremains. The decisions were simple, a hundred times my mother had told me exactly what she wanted done. All that time I thought she was being morbid, I didn’t realize their was something wrong. And I’m glad that on one of those occasions, when she insisted I spread her remains, I asked if I could keep just a little. She agreed and so in a silver cylinder a piece of her hangs around my neck.

After the mortuary and after the apartment, you’d think things were complete. What I didn’t realize is that you have to go through a person’s entire life: Bank accounts, electric accounts, cable accounts, credit cards and turn each of them off. Explaining to the customer service representative what has happened, throwing salt in your wound over and over. And then to add the icing, they send you the final bill. I don’t mind paying them, I don’t mind paying for any of this. I’m happy to do so to ensure that my mother’s name is forever clean and not stained with angry creditors trying to chase her in death. The worst of this is her car. She and her ex had a deal that when it was paid off the title would revert to her. Now he’s battling me for the car to give to his new fiance. I’ve never had such a low opinion of any human being…and I’ve met some real trash. Even this is something I don’t mind dealing with, my mother made it clear the ex could not have the car, and so I will fight him in court with everything I have until he either gives up or eventually dies. The reality is I’m younger and have a lot more time to drag this out.

Ending the official strings attached to death was the wake. For years, my mother, had told me she wanted beer and rock music. No crying. I found a pub with a jukebox, set up a Facebook invitation, sent a few text messages and provided one last party for someone who shaped the entirety my life.

Though things are resolved for the most part, there is this nagging voice coming from a hole in me. It reminds me constantly that the person who always encouraged every endeavor of mine, pushed me to be better, reminded me how proud they were of my accomplishments and knew everything about me is gone. Though there’s nothing left unsaid between us, no regrets, I am severely disappointed that twenty-eight years was all the time we were allotted.

So this is for my mom:

 

And this is for me:

R.B. Winters
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Beneath the Apple Tree

Beneath the Apple Tree

I heard the news,time just stopped.

It was so unreal,

my heart stopped.

A childish trick,

my mind stopped.

A thousand tears,

a broken heart,

a torn up soul,

forming this hole.

Maybe things were bad,

did you feel alone?

An empty feeling of sad,

I feel alone.

And now I know,

you’re never coming home.

All night I cried,

I want to hide,

a piece died,

someone stop this ride.

Now in the silence, I think:

You’ll never again,

feel the grass on your skin,

the breath of the wind,

a summer rain,

or any pain.

The story ended.

And though I wish,

things so different,

I sit here alone,

beneath the apple tree.

For me it began here,

and here I’ll have to let it end.

R.B. Winters
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You’re Your Mother’s Son

You’re Your Mother’s Son

Two hours ago my dad called. He was hesitant and said he had something he wished he didn’t have to tell me. I knew by the tone he was going to say someone had died. What I could never have prepared for was him telling me my mom died last night.

Even typing the phrase is surreal. To say that I was close to my mom would be a tragic understatement. We spoke on the phone every day, every single day. Except yesterday, she called and I didn’t answer. I was at a dinner party enjoying myself and didn’t want to step away. My dad said he spoke with her last night and she was a mess. Was she just having a bad day or did she know something was about to happen?

It turns out my mom had terminal lung cancer. Which explains why she has lost so much weight over the past year. I feel like a shit because more than once I told her to go to the doctor because it could be cancer. Jokes on me, it was. But before we go farther into the hole of sadness that this is, and deal with her estate…

I want to remember the amazing things about my mom. She was the strongest, toughest person I ever knew. She always pushed me to do whatever I wanted and never let people get in the way. We are so much alike that we’re practically the same person. I know I made her proud because she often told me. I’m glad I dedicated my first book to my parents. I’m glad she got to experience New York because of me. Most of all I’m glad that we had a short twenty-eight years together. I will always miss her.

R.B. Winters
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The Terrible Twenties

The Terrible Twenties

Business’ birthday rolled around and upon his request a group of us gathered at Artichoke to celebrate. Those attending were some I rarely see, mainly because they’re couples who don’t make it out to the bar often…Business included.

While I may have met my verbal match in one half of one couple, it was odd to sit between the twosome as they tossed emotional missiles across the table. Being together for a decade is enough to make anyone resentful, though it sure doesn’t seem like the key to an extended relationship, happy or other. When the comments literally moved below the belt to share what should be considered intimate details it makes me wonder if it’s possible for anyone to have a happy relationship. Or, is it a matter of finding someone who fits a role well enough to no longer qualify yourself as single to meet the rules of society that shun you after your twenties?

Consuming more than my share of drinks, I exited the bar early, heading home to enjoy a little party of my own. Falling asleep that night, not only did I find random dreams, but also a portal into the past. The sun rose and a vicious bang rang through the bedroom, catapulting me out of the sheets. There, six stories up on the fire escape, was some random guy trying to get through. It’s a good thing I was sleeping naked otherwise I would have jumped out of my underwear. The shock, the rush of anxiety, exactly what I felt in Brooklyn five years ago when I awoke to a similar bang to discover a guy halfway through the window. I could hear the guy complaining about the wooden dowel in the window, never have I felt so secure in a tiny piece of wood. By the time I found pants and pulled back the curtain the guy was long gone.

After I calmed my nerves it sent my mind racing. Conversations from the night before replayed, people talking about how awful it was to be twenty, then being surprised when they realized I was a twenty-something. I’m nearing the end of my twenties and though I like to think so much has changed, other than the location and friends, so much seems to be the same. My mouth is my identifier, and not in a sexual manner, people are still climbing in my windows, not in a storybook manner, I’m picking the guys that are the obvious bad choice, them thinking it’s okay to make me the backup plan…and of course, I spend an inappropriate amount of time in my head analyzing everything.

Here’s to the terrible twenties and knowing that no matter how far away from them you get, they’re lurking just over your shoulder to remind you of where you’ve been.

R.B. Winters
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Say Goodbye

Say Goodbye

Endings are the worst. If they aren’t painful and tragic it’s as if they didn’t matter. When the ending is wrapped up in a box and placed in a truck before vanishing into the distance it’s like everything before never happened.

It’s the last night in my apartment. People keep asking if I’m excited to move, I think that’s the emotion or feeling that a person is supposed to feel. I am relieved that the stress of the lease ending and signing, the apartment hunt, that all of the mess is over…but I’m not excited. I’m sad to leave this apartment.

This apartment was the first apartment I had in Manhattan and it meant something in my head. When you’re from a small town people don’t really expect much, which is why half of the people I know are on their second marriage and third child. This was my goal and I met it, every painful, struggle filled moment.

Now I’m moving, yes, only twenty-two blocks downtown, but it’s not my Upper East Side. It won’t be my neighborhood, my wine store, my bodega. It’s new and foreign and maybe that’s the adventure of life, but don’t you ever just wish things wouldn’t change?

I’m sure I’ll end up content in the new apartment. It’s closer to friends and fun, avoids the 6 train and allows me to walk to more places. But this is still an ending and I hate endings as much as I hate change. So, we need a really big bottle of wine tomorrow because new doesn’t mean spontaneous happiness.

R.B. Winters
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Uncharted

Uncharted

It seems that first dates have been going well…the few I’ve had over the past year. Because they all go so well, it is beginning to appear that everyone is showing their poker face on date one, while holding out until date two to be themselves. This has proven true for a few gentlemen.

Example: There was a guy I met a few weeks back for coffee, plans for the second date were extended and then never executed upon. Would it be so terrible to not make plans for a second date and just say something like, ‘I’m not interested’?

And a week or so back the first date with yet to be named, person X, went extremely well. We shared a bottle of wine in the Village and chatted for a few hours. I was probably overly chatty on date one. In truth, I began boxing up my apartment earlier in the day and needed a glass of wine to calm myself. A single glass turned into one full bottle…it’s only a problem when other people start making excuses for you. Like I said, things went well, the date ending with me receiving a kiss on the cheek. I usually don’t swoon, but it was a cute gesture and a refreshing change from the usual guys that go right for the zipper.

When the second date rolled around, I was eager to see person X again. Again, meeting to share a bottle of wine, we hit a couple of places, me making the mistake of selecting a random bar which turned out to be inside a Koreatown hotel, but it did make for interesting conversation as we were the only non-tourists. In a bold gesture, and to escape our bar selection disaster, I was invited to have a drink at X’s place, to which I consented and followed his lead to the UWS.

What was remarkable, other than us having plenty to talk about, was X’s collection of old school records (Actual vinyl). It’s like we were having a date fifty years in the past – yes, this appeals to me. It was different and unusually comfortable. A stark contrast to many of the individuals I’ve gone out with and discussed in exhausting detail.

I’m assuming there will be a third date as I’m looking forward to one. If there’s not then I definitely deserve an uncomfortable text message stating why. My theory is that the first date is a sham and the second date is now the new first date that counts for something.

R.B. Winters
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