A Summer at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park: Big Pimpin’ Edition

Yesterday was an action packed adventure, so much of a one I’m inclined to share it all.

First thing’s first. I checked the internet for a symptom I’m having to see whether it’s a sign of cancer. Research inconclusive.

I tried to list some things on eBay for that much needed extra penny  towards the end of the month, but my penchant for being easily distracted and my cats getting in the way on my desk and lap, as well as the slowness of my desktop computer made productivity minimal.

Later I walked by Club Ghetto/Trailer Park’s pool, and lo, 73 degrees and a family, including a couple beating me in the pleasantly plump category, were in the water. That’s wanting to swim. Perhaps they were afraid that they wouldn’t have time between now and The Rapture to get in a good splash? I decided to take my chances and wait until it’s supposed to get into 80 and up in a few days. A woman and her small daughter walked by me on the sidewalk and I let out a slight “hello” for fear of being rude. No answer. I began wondering why she didn’t reply. My hair probably went in several directions. I didn’t look her in the eye, so perhaps she thought I was crazy or “challenged,” or, eh what the heck, both. The possibilities are endless!

Much later, after washing my ‘fro and doing violence upon it with my comb, also conceding defeat to my cats lounging on the desk and chair of my computer, I decided to go to Club Ghetto/Trailer Park Pool to catch up on my reading. This would be my first time on the deck of our hallowed pool since last year, a rite of passage from spring to summer.

“Hey!” cried a voice, that distinct accent of southern gay man. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, the gentleman who helped my mother with the groceries the other day. I was inside putting frozen and refrigerated stuff away, so I had not made his acquaintance, but had heard his praises. He asked me if he knew who he was.

“Yes, my mom told me how nice you were helping her the other day,” I replied. She also had said he greatly admired me for always having a book with me. Well, that’s nice, though the day of the grocery incident, I was into the adventures of Cardcaptor Sakura (I’ve discovered the joys of Japanese shoujo (for girls) manga about 18 years late). I was pleased anyway since “admired” in reference to me is a rare bird indeed.

Cardcaptor Sakura

So here he was, The Gentleman, the same fellow who had the delicacy to leave the groceries by our door lest my mother confuse him for a rapist. A large man, rather stout, perhaps around 40, three necklaces including a large cross against his sunburned flesh, blondish ponytail, this was The Gentleman who had given me praise. Here he was again, waxing upon my literary prowess, quizzing me on this awful book I’m reading about Obama, one of those “Hey, it was free for a review” wonders, but far less interesting than the Girl Finds Jesus Under a Train book.

“What chapter are you on?” he asked as he looked at the table of contents.

“Two or three.” The book is kind of interesting, but like I said it also has the distinction of being “awful.”

“Hey wait a moment, I want to talk to you about the book,” he said in a kinda gay, kinda kind sort of voice, as though he recognized me as just shy, not a retard. “What do you think so far?”

Not used to on the spot quizzes, I could only garble out about how I thought the author disliked Obama for being black, his funny Muslim name, and that he blamed Obama for everything.

“Yes, you see it was a very unique time, Never before has there been an African-American president, even though his mother was white, so many people aren’t going to like him.”

“Yes, true,” I replied.

At another point in the conversation, he said, “I love to read too! What kind of books do you read mostly?”

“A bit of everything.” It was though I had become the most interesting person around, just a regular intellectual in her Paris salon. The alcohol on his breath, not quite tempered by his cigar, no doubt helped add to my allure.

Shootin’ the Bull on Books Old World Style

Another man was with him who said nary a word, the opposite of Mr. Sunshine. Thin, dark, and older, with a full head of gray hair that would make Donald Trump jealous, this fellow was just there. Since he didn’t speak to me, I didn’t cast my  next “hello” before another unresponsive swine. I should have, mind, since when he’s drunk he gives stuff away, and one day I had a lovely piece of Ruby Red Glass from 1905 on our terrace from it, but I am horribly shy. One spurt of being uber friendly a day is all I’m worth. I wonder if he’s “The Cousin.”

Yes, The Cousin. As in my cousin, probably 20 times removed if at all. My father’s surname is rather uncommon, at least in these parts, so it makes me wonder. Though he grew up in a different part of Appalachia than my dearly departed papa, maybe there is a smidge of consanguinity. He certainly fits the bill of a relation on my father’s side, i.e., drunk. To be a male on that side of a family is to have alcohol running through the veins I understand –which would be great if they got a cut, but not so great for breeding.

“I want you to discuss this book with me when you’re done,” said The Gentleman.

“I’ll let you have it once I’m done with it,” I replied.

“Oh great, I’ll even pay you for it.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I got it for free myself for a review.” (Note I said nothing about my blog, but if he ever does find this, perhaps it’s forgivable).

Finally, I went to a lounge to sit and read. “Oh! Don’t you want a chair?” my new friend exclaimed.

“No, I prefer this kind of seat actually, thanks.”

“Why don’t you sit in the sun?” I moved in deference, though the late afternoon light tried to get into my eyes. I began reading the book I brought with the “awful” Obama book –a fascinating graphic novel about none other than Ronald Reagan. Well researched, it’s a fascinating read. You begin it thinking it will be an ass-kissing homage to the former president, but then it goes into the douchey things ol’ Dutch did, including the part about how Reagan made sure the Iranian hostages weren’t released until he was elected.

Suddenly I heard, “Adios!” I figured it was someone saying bye to the people in the pool then, but no, it was The Gentleman, carrying a sort of Moses-style cane for fashion’s sake. And the winner of the Best Gay Pimp Award goes to…

As the sun went further down, I began to feel chilled. It was barely 70 with no sun shining on the pool and yet a family continued swimming as I was WTF-ing. I’d have thought they were Canadian ex-pats had they not been both dark-skinned and speaking fluent Spanish to each other. Far braver souls than I.

As I wobbled home, I spotted The Gentleman far off. Feeling shy with anyone I haven’t known some 15 years or so, I walked on until he began waving. “Hi, Lisaaaaa! I live here!”

And so the first day at Club Ghetto/Trailer Park ended and I already made a friend. It’s true I’ve been very lonely, wishing I had my blog friends here, someone who “got me.” Maybe this is in part what I wished for (though the Nervous Nelly in me says, “Personal space, too, please”).

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