A Lost Man

Posted on 23-July-202123-July-2021 by Alan Webb

A whole lot of the murders in this country are perpetrated by someone the victim knew. So many that early in a homicide investigation the detectives will start with friends and family of the victim. And . . . that’s all I’m going to say about that. I want to talk about David. He is Ophie’s Dad. David (Dave to his friends) Teale is impressive. He is also a lost man. After graduating from Richmond’s St. Catherine’s, then Naval Academy, then BUDS graduate, worked in Signal Intelligence on an AEGIS Destroyer during the first Gulf War, then as a classified liaison to SAIC until he retired O-5 with twenty-five years active duty.

Fun fact: at some DARPA labs we have developers creating malware. Dave’s role at SAIC was contract oversight on some of these tech warfare projects. Some of these escape the labs and find their way into the wild. Dave’s connection to Inger is through Ophie as well as being friends with her Mom & Dad.

One thing kept carefully housed at SAIC was a series of experiments in powering desktop pc monitors through induction. The idea was to send a signal aimed at a powered-down monitor such that it would display an image even though it wasn’t connected to the building electrical service. This was so that psyops attacks could be done against our enemies. SAIC pursued it for a few years because Dave wanted it to work. Then brass got wind of it and killed it as unnecessary. Dave, though, kept working on it.

Naked Warrior Navy Seal Monument A Lost Man

Mayhaps Wetback, Mayhaps a Lost Man

Another fun fact: many of the better special operators look like wetbacks. Dark brown, nearly black, straight hair, full-bearded, short, and stocky. Dave is 5’6″, 156 lbs, black hair, brown eyes, brown-skinned, and in his late forties. He was often mistaken for a local on his deployments to Iraq, Afghanistan, and Turkey. He is a seven-time graduate of the Defense Language Institute with fluency in Arabic, Turkish, Pashto, Afghani, French, Russian, and English.

More curriculum vitae: For grins, he completed sniper training as a Navy SEAL. Oh, and he is certified as a combat medic and civilian paramedic. He volunteered with the Tuckahoe Rescue Squad for a few years after retiring from the Navy. As I said, he is a warrior at home.

Great stuff, no? Enough to retire to a Pop-Pop chair and binge-watch your way through the entire Netflix catalog. For most of us, yes. Dave and his fellow retired SEALS? Ever met a retired Navy SEAL? I have. OMG, the drive of this guy. I’ve met Dave a couple of times when he was helping Inger with some of Charlie’s stuff at the Stuart Street house. Dave still has that warrior drive. Dave will relax when Death kindly stops for him.

Street Life, Safe Life

So . . . where is Dave? Good question. Nobody in Inger’s circle of influence really knows. Anne (Annie), Ophie’s Mom, divorced him because he disappeared and left her unable to manage the house. She had the worst time paying the mortgage and property taxes without him. So she filed for divorce and petitioned to get the house. The judge awarded her the house and his 1949 Bug. She has a VA Pension and her own money so that isn’t a concern.

Right around the time Inger freaked out and accused a coworker of rape Ophie got a text message from her Dad. They chatted for a bit. He said he’d met someone who filled his heart with joy and pushed aside all the dark shit he normally lived with. A few days later he was his usual, pissed-off self, saying the girl had left and she was a cunt anyway so good riddance. tbh, Ophie wanted her Dad to come home. McGuire has a program for homeless vets. He could get help.

David Teale has been to all the programs, done all the classes, and even accepted the gift of an apartment donated by CARITAS. He was game for a while but after a few months, I’d see him again at Lombardy and West Broad with a cardboard sign asking for spare change. Dave lives outside in camps he builds for himself. There is a parade of well-meaning Christians and social workers and so on that have tried to get him to stay on track. It never lasts.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Ophie managed to figure out that his phone was near a homeless camp in Santa Clara, CA, while Inger had her breakdown and went off the radar. She tried asking Inger about that summer when she was out of contact. Inger won’t talk about it. Ophie wondered if maybe Dave and Inger met up in Santa Clara. It’s crazy to think that Inger could be the girl her Dad was talking about. I mean… Lolita… eww!

Then there is all the weirdness with Inger’s electronics on Stuart Street. Charlie denies profusely that he had anything to do with the messages that kept showing up on Inger’s TV, her laptop, her phone, and the monitor she used with her laptop. Messages would display even when everything was powered off.

The big reason why Inger bought the bungalow on 16th Street is that it was an 80-year-old house from tobacco’s heyday in Richmond. Period plumbing and wiring from post-WWII. She felt safe that this crappy old house couldn’t be hacked. It’s a bungalow very similar to mine. I can understand her feeling that both houses are too old and thus, safer.

Once a Good Dad, Now a Lost Man

Guys like Dave are hard to understand. Why not accept the help? The war is over but Dave still fights an unseen war with the nightmares he brought home. His bedevilment is what drives him from place to place. It’s a familiar wish, that the new city won’t have the same demons he tried to leave in the last place he made camp. Yet, those demons follow him. The echoes of war still serenade him with terrible music.

It is that music. The music in his head is what tortures him. You and I hear normal urban sounds. Dave hears weapons fire and screams from those that got hit. It is still Fallujah, 2004. He has medication from the VA that he doesn’t take. Why? It makes him foggy instead of froggy.

Answers. Not yet. Dave is still drifting. One of the hard things about addiction and mental illness is that we can’t do much until the addict or crazy person surrenders. They have to take that first step, admit that they have a problem, and are powerless against it. Dave is a highly trained warrior. He doesn’t surrender.

So Ophie will hear from her Dad again. He’ll be in some other, warmer weather city, either ecstatic or morose. When he’s ecstatic he’s ready to take on the world and master it. The other mood, morose, is what it sounds like. God is only, personally pissing on Dave. Nobody else gets this treatment from God. Nobody understands the pain he is in. You maybe don’t know Dave but I’d guess you have someone like him within your circle of influence. If so, sorry. It’s not fun.

Madam Teale

Posted on 21-June-202123-June-2021 by Alan Webb

Ophelia-Teale Tailiafero aka Madam Teale was born in 1988 to old Virginia money. Her parents, Calvin Taliafero and Iris Rolfe invested in Microsoft and Apple when both companies were small. They also bought income property in NVA before DC encroached on Fairfax County. Quickly, nobody but her Mom ever calls her by her given name. Everybody knows her as Ophie.

Another thing to get out of the way. Ophie’s genealogy is curious. She did a DNA test through Ancestry. She’s mostly Nottaway with Scotts Irish/Dutch/French the next major component and a bit of Igbo from an elopement by her great grandmother. I don’t typically describe a female character’s appearance. A woman’s physique has very little to do with whether she can entertain for 1500 words. Ophie’s, though, is worth describing.

Born This Way

Ophie isn’t much of a looker just out of bed. Post putting her face on, though, and she gets those looks. She shops in Paris twice a year. She usually wears jeans, boots, some sort of close-fitting blouse, a serape, and a hat, all from Paris designers. Wears jewelry, most of it Navaho, and made by a guy she met during Fashion Week. Straight-haired brunette, 5’3″, 116lbs, 34C, blue eyes, olive-skinned from her Igbo and Nottaway ancestors. Most of the time her hair is dyed purple or pink or both.

The Inger connection: Inger and Ophelia are childhood friends. Ophie’s juvenile record involves shoplifting from NVA boutiques and various traffic violations. A Family Court Judge and friend of her Mom set her straight. Inger’s is longer with her incident at Black Hand Coffee being the most recent.

Ophie graduated from St. Catherine’s k-12, has a BA in Classical Studies from William & Mary, and an incomplete law degree from Swarthmore. Swarthmore’s bad attitude towards old money pissed her off. Still, don’t debate Ophie. She still studies on her own after completing her Certificate in Paralegal Studies at UofR. She also has an Associates’s Degree from Liberty University in Apologetics. You . . . believing your sausage gives you brilliance missing from her clam, will get owned.

Ixnay Boogaloo Couch Slugs

Charlie, of this space, had the hots for her and was sure the cure for Ophie was to be barefoot, wear an apron, and knocked up. He told *everyone* that she was stupid, needed a man to bring her to heel and that they would be married in 3 years. All before the first date. That date is worth 5,000 words. It’s enough to say that Charlie woke up in the drunk tank in a restraint chair. That went well.

Madam Teale has enough net worth that employment is an option. Two of the proffered narratives for women—career/super Mom or Wife/Mom are not for her. Mom? Maybe. But within her circle of influence are far too many Charlies. The good guys are either married or gay. She’s dated too many who become deaf and dumb when the bar tab arrives, leave the toilet seat up, don’t clean after themselves, and get petulant in the morning when breakfast isn’t a given.

Ophie is a member of St. Bridgettes. She grew up in this church. Like many, from High School graduation through her mid-twenties she told everyone she was agnostic. Ophie couldn’t shake a feeling that her social justice friends didn’t really accept her. She was too bougie. It didn’t matter that her charitable giving put her in leadership positions. Nor was her broad nose, high cheekbones, and light brown skin any help. She had privilege and this put her in a caste that the woke resented. So one by one, the organizations she supported strongly suggested she take her racism and privilege elsewhere.

No Place Like Home

This upset her. Ophelia wants to be liked, obvi. Her social justice friends would talk long and loud about inclusion and diversity yet when met with doubt would shout her down and insist she was an FBI informant. She met with Monsignor Carr because the church she rejected was more welcoming than the social justice groups she supported. Fr. Carr’s answer was simple: come home and we’ll work out the rest. That was 1996. Since then she’s discovered apologetics and priests who get a big happy grin when she starts asking questions about Revelations.

One more thing. When Ophelia left her board seats and took her money the social justice organizations she supported devolved into vicious bickering and self-destruction. Turns out the lack of other people’s money exposed the ugly underbelly of these organizations and led to their closing.

Since then Ophelia has volunteered at the Housing Resource Center and CARITAS. She does volunteer paralegal work and is a Stephen’s Minister. Her Mom is a Junior Leaguer as is Ophie. Madam Teale/Ophelia and Noelle also do spa days for the women in CARITAS. Social Media? Canceled. Being Catholic and Pro-Life is a problem.

Let’s talk about Madam Teale and Inger’s Finger. Where Ophie is all the expected things of her upbringing Inger isn’t. Inger’s answer to her privilege is to fight. Fight whom? Anybody. Inger also believes in her core that people should follow the law. Ophie’s place is within the Catholic Church working with it to help those who need it. Inger keeps hearing the siren call of the street. She likes being in the mix and solving crimes. Inger is also one of the star-crossed who seems to attract attention from the cops. They are childhood friends so when Inger gets caught she calls Ophie.

Rainy Day Friends

Ophie is also where Inger disappears to when 16th Street, Stuart Street, and Paradise are too hot. It’s good. Ophie is a customer of Jennifer Stoner Interiors, the same company that did Inger’s Stuart Street home. The house is a 4 bedroom, 3 bath rancher on East Old Gunn Road with a view of the James River. It was built in 1963 by her Grandpa on her Dad’s side. Ophie got it as a gift on her 18th birthday. She didn’t live in it for a few years while she traveled with Inger to various protests and concerts around the country.

Inger can decompress at Ophie’s. This is where Madame Teale enters Inger’s Finger. The post titled Tucker is a chapter in the embedded serial novel on this blog titled, “Inger’s Finger”. I have Inger staying at 16th Street in that post. 16th Street is only one of three places Inger lives at. Her room with Ophie has some of the forensic lab equipment Inger bought. Think steampunk and NCIS New Orleans done by a professional decorator.

Breakfast at Ophies

Ophie’s kitchen is mid-century modern. The appliances all appear to be late 1950’s. Formica countertops and matching dining set. Tile floors that look like the old asbestos tiles but are low VOC organic composites. Open doors and the guts of all of it are modern, “How are you?”
Inger, “Medicated. Sort of foggy.”
“I guess that’s better than bouncing between the Justice Center and Tucker.”
“Yeah. Tucker is kind of ok. I saw Neesha there.”
“How is she?”
“Surprisingly well. She’s got a little thing going bartering feminine sanitary supplies and underwear.”
“Nice. When does she get out?”
“I don’t know. It’s a medical sentence so it depends on what the doctors say about her ability to stand trial. Anyway, she kind of likes it at Tucker so it might be a while.”

Day Starts

“I’ll pray for her.”
“She’s not feeling Jesus these days.”
“That’s ok. I do and that’s enough.”
Inger smiles, “Hey, is there any blueberry cobbler left?”
“Yeah. Want coffee? I can start some.”
“That’d be great.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Not really. Got anything good?”
“Leftover breakfast tacos from Tio Pablo.”
“I love that.”
“Well, there you go. Coffee beans are in their usual place with the pour-over carafe and mugs. Help yourself.”
“Thanks. Are you working today?”
“Yeah, and it’s getting late. I gotta go.”
“Ok, don’t work too hard.”

It’s Monday as I write this. Ophelia’s gig with CARITAS is an 8-5, M-F thing. The need for paralegals among the less fortunate far outstrips the available resources. There is no shortage of work for Ophelia, “Hey, I gotta go. Feel free to stick around as long as you need.”
“Thanks. I want to look at some prints I lifted from the abandoned Cadillac.”
“Cool. Take it easy.”
“You too.”
Ophelia gathered her things and headed to the garage. She got into her XT5 and headed to CARITAS. Inger set about cleaning up breakfast and headed to her room.

– 30 –

Neesha Love

Posted on 18-June-202118-June-2021 by Alan Webb

I’m too nice. I believe in the basic goodness of man. What a good Christian man does is confess his sin and repent. Neesha . . . not so much. Neesha love is poison. She is evil. I tried visiting her at Chippenham Hospital’s Tucker Pavilion. It didn’t go well.

I’ll get to that in a minute. A couple bits of housekeeping before I do. First, I’ve been told by a friend that this is annoying: I describe a character and then abandon them. Eugene Lefkowitz and others appeared in this space only to collect dust in a remote corner of my imagination. Instead, I try to speak to the outrage headline of the day.

I’ve avoided turning this space into a serialized? novel? for a couple of years. Fiction is my biggest fear. Just making shit up defies my social worker and electrical engineering upbringing. Truth should be evidence-based. Facts are those that can be tasted and seen. Not.

Truth Rebellion

I rebel against my upbringing in this space. Truth is a five-letter word that wriggles out of the box the sciency folk tries to stuff it in. It’s much more than what can be tasted and seen. World of Webb is my fight against the crowd that insists their Maoist pseudo-religion of “science” is fact and the rest is blasphemy. It is also my truth rebellion against my social worker mother and engineer father.

I’m losing this fight. Maoists have been waging a cultural revolution in this country since Woodrow Wilson and maybe earlier. They are winning–for now. I’m also losing the fight against the purpose of this space by trying to write prose about today’s latest outrage. It’s time to stop fighting.

What then? Silence? I am incapable of silence. Instead, fiction. I’ll tell you something shocking. Fiction writers have been telling truth since like, forever. It’s just not the simple “taste and see” truth that is currently fashy. Something else. Our dear leaders and propagandists insist that their truth is fact yet their fact turns out to be fiction upon further review. Knowing this–I choose fiction.

Neesha is Truth

Almost there. Almost to “Neesha Love”. My purpose in visiting Neesha was foolish. I was looking for affirmation in all the wrong places. A passenger complained about a ride I gave them. I am accused of raping them. Crazy? Yes. Doesn’t matter. Our modern world listens to the accusation and equates such with guilt. The accused has no recourse. Accused = guilty. With that, I am a baby-raping queer.

Am I? Nobody cares. The accusation stands like an electric neon brand glued to my forehead. No matter what I say in protest, no matter how loudly I shout my innocence, nobody cares. I am a baby-raping queer. Neesha has spoken.

This is what I walked into the Tucker Pavillion with as I sought to visit with Neesha. I should have stayed home. I’d done everything you need to visit a patient at Tucker’s locked ward. You have to call ahead, make an appointment, then on the day and time, get checked in. This includes capturing your ID information, getting searched for contraband, and taking your temperature. With that all good, you get your visitor badge and a Deputy escorts you to the visiting room.

Inside Tucker

On with it. The judge (racist bitch) remanded Neesha into Max holding so f2f visits were out. Analog phones were the way. After I was seated, Neesha appeared on the other side of the visiting window, “Hey Neesha, how are you?”
“FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!!” Whoa. A Deputy arrived behind Neesha and spoke to her, “Ok. Sorry. What’s up?”
“Inger asked about you.”
“Liar.”
“Not lying”
“She’s in here. They picked her up.”

“When?”
“Last week”
“I hadn’t heard from her in a minute. I guess that explains why.”
“No shit. What do you want?”
“Just to talk.”
“About what? You are a white privileged racist asshole. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I got accused of rape.”
“Accused? You did it.”
“Hear me out.”
“Why? She accused you. Case closed.”
“The courts have charged you with assault on a police officer. Are you guilty?”
“That’s different. Cops are racist assholes. They deserve it. I was delivering justice.”
“So accusation = guilt deserving of punishment?”
“Yeah. Especially for bougie white men like you.”
The deputy appeared behind Neesha and motioned for me to hang up the phone. Another deputy on my side called to me, “Mr. Webb, your visit is over. Please exit the room.”

You are White so . . .

So here we are. I am accused of rape by a passenger. Uber’s adjudication method does not allow me to hear details of the accusation. I don’t know which ride it was nor which passenger is making the accusation. I have no counter to the claim. Uber has deactivated my account. I can’t even order a ride from them.

Here are my dogs in this fight: I bet my life on Uber. My sole source of income was Uber. Next, I let my Lyft driver account lapse. To get it back I need a clear background check. The request for the background check was initiated on 6/10/2021. Checkr says they’ll have it done next Tuesday the 22^nd. Too late for me. More: I am renting from Hertz based on my deactivated Uber account. I should return the car and pay off my balance. I don’t have the money I owe Hertz.

Let’s review: I owe bills. I can’t pay for the rented car I need to work. Lyft can’t rent to me until my background check clears. And I went to Neesha looking for comfort. Awesome. Is this the end? Seems like it.

This is the End

Or not. A feature of “How I Built This” is the turning point for entrepreneurs. They start, show early success then things get bad, really bad. It isn’t the end for them. After talking with kin and friends they choose to stick it out–and win.

I need to remember a bitter lesson from my Mom. She was a good woman with a flaw. She was a terrible person to confess to. I’d pour my heart out to her and in reply, she’d start to work up a case management plan. She wanted scheduled deliverables. I wanted my Mom.

Two of my mistakes are believing I can find my Mom in the women I meet and not considering that some people are unsafe. Witness what happened with Neesha. I went there thinking I could confess to her and get comfort. Bad idea. My bad.

Not the End

Tim, my son, was upset that I keep choosing the hard way to a goal. The simple way, my Dad’s way, is a white-collar, upper-middle-class job. I’ve never been able to wear a white-collar suit for very long. I don’t fit. There is a place where I do fit. It’s the hard road less traveled by.

So I’m at my best when things are at their worst. In my other trade, Enterprise Technology Infrastructure, I’m the guy you want when all the king’s men are telling his Highness that the castle’s ETI is fucked and there is no solution. This started in grade school with Eric and Russell. Both these guys fought a maneuvering war with me. They wanted to beat me up. I wanted to get home without getting beat up. The guys failed. I won.

I won by outmaneuvering my bullies. Twice a day my battle was to get to school and home without encountering my bullies. I did that until Russell’s friends cornered me at lunchtime and said that if I beat Russell in a fight they’d stop bullying me.

Bullies Lose

I blackened his eye. He bloodied my lip. Seeing his blackened eye I kept attacking the injured eye. Russell’s friends pulled him out of the fight to prevent further injury and declared him the victor since I had the bloody lip. Russell told his friends to leave me alone. Why? I told him if we fought again I’d hurt him worse.

Since then I’ve had countless situations where I get into trouble, it looks really bad for me, and then I come through mostly ok. This one, where I don’t have an income after Uber deactivated my account, is pretty scary. I have fifty years of experience with trouble that comes out ok. I’ll be fine.

For Neesha, I need to leave her be. She has a place in Inger’s Finger. That’s healthy. What isn’t healthy is my sixty-one-year-old self looking to a woman young enough to be my granddaughter for comfort and affirmation. It’s upside down.

For my Mom: I feel like this is that moment for an entrepreneur; the one where the counter-intuitive choice is to keep going. Yes, I have a bit of a plan. But not one laid out in beautifully engineered detail. I’m still a “fire, reaDY!, AIM! shit.” guy. I may not be a driver much longer. This doesn’t stop me from building BHC/@transitwebb into a positive force for change with transportation in RVA. Cliche but true, “the best thing about rock-bottom is that the only direction is up.” Stick around, it’s gonna get good.

Neesha Has Spoken

Posted on 19-May-202127-June-2021 by Alan Webb

Neesha, Queen of Karinostan. You’ve met Neesha. She’s the perpetually angry, easily triggered woman whose every third word is “racist”. Roses are racist. Daisies are racist. Roaches are racist. Marlboro Red is racist. White people? Born racist and innately evil. Neesha has spoken. Let’s add the word, “innately” because Neesha doesn’t know it.

Neesha’s Kindle library has a complete list of Communist, Socialist, and Black History titles. Oh, just a reminder, you are racist. Neesha has spoken. Don’t worry. You have good company. God is racist. For good measure, the weather is racist.

Neesha is late on her rent at a public housing project. Biden and Fouci said she didn’t have to pay her bills because Pimp Daddy Unka Sam would pay. Unka Sam is racist because he won’t give her checks. She been tryina get paid since last year when Trump tore up the capital building. Trump was an asshole but at least he paid.

Homeless Woman (Not Neesha) Neesha Has Spoken — Not Neesha

You Owe Neesha

Hate eats the soul. Neesha, a decade or so ago, was a promising GED graduate working the counter at Popeyes. Her greatest wish was to get out of the generational poverty she grew up in. She applied for scholarships, maintained her FAFSA, looked for colleges that would accept her. Then all that deep dive into Maoism and Marxism and so on addicted her to the hate and sadism that is a big feature of Communism. Neesha isn’t the hater, you are.

Neesha’s 26th birthday came and went in the thick of the COVID-19 panic. Her Popeye’s store closed. She got unemployment and became the primary breadwinner for her Mom and four brothers. Yes, like that. Why would you question the sequence? You are racist for challenging her narrative. It’s her truth, white supremacist bitch.

Systemic Karinostan

And now, for a word from Neesha’s sponsor, Karinostan. Karinostan is a cult. In Karinostan all conflicts end with an appeal to a manager whose authority is unquestionable. Free will is racist in Karinostan. The managers of Karinostan promise that its citizens will be provided for. They needn’t trouble themselves with small worries like groceries, rent (no mortgages), Internet connectivity, electricity, trash service, or transportation. Everything will be taken care of–all in exchange for total surrender to the managers.

The managers are racist. Neesha has spoken. Neesha lives in Karinostan. She had no electricity, water, or other basic utilities. Until she did a thing and got arrested.

Karinostan is racist. Some of its citizens are more equal than others. Oy, enough. I can only tolerate so much of Neesha and Karinostan. Let’s get on with a story. Starting here: Neesha likes jail. Why? In exchange for the little freedom she had, she gets taken care of. Plus, you can win in jail if you know how to cheat. Neesha is a brilliant cheat. I’ll tell you how she learned this.

Peak Bottom

It was a peak moment for Neesha. There was one pack of ramen noodles and a Popeyes chicken wing in the apartment for her and the five family members who lived with her. The roaches were eating better than they were. Dirty dishes filled every horizontal surface in the kitchen. On top of that was a festering pile of take-out containers, styrene foam bowls, plates, and red solo cups. Something had to give. So Neesha gave up the little bit of freedom she had left. She robbed the corner store.

The whole thing was stupid. Her gun was her index finger stuck into a jacket pocket. She demanded money from the register after shoplifting more ramen noodle packs and a liter of Mellow Yellow. Neesha made it out of the store with her stolen goods and a couple of blocks down the street before an RPD cop pulled up and initiated a felony arrest. She wasn’t wearing a mask, btw.

So said Neesha, the cop is racist and ought to be arrested for murdering her. But . . . Neesha is serving time in County Jail for assaulting a police officer with the liter of Mellow Yellow. You are racist for claiming that she assaulted the police officer. She did no such thing. Also, the cop owes Neesha a liter of Mellow Yellow. Neesha has spoken.

Systemic Evil

The Judge was racist. The Public Defender is racist and farts too much. The ADA who argued for a plea deal is a racist asshole. He supposed to be down for the cause and buy her a Popeyes Big Family Feast after he gets her out of County Max. No, you can’t have any of her Popeyes and you are racist for asking. Goddamned ADA is a racist bitch.

This is what happened. Neesha robbed the corner store and got caught. Then she flipped out and threw her liter of Mellow Yellow at the cop. The soda bottle missed the cop and burst open on his patrol car. There is body camera footage of Neesha throwing ramen noodle packs at the cop, some of which hit their target. Which . . . is stupid enough but the video made its way to YouTube and got a million likes.

Because the 911 caller reported being robbed at gunpoint the cops did a felony stop. Five cars with a sergeant running point. Neesha would not comply so . . . things didn’t go smoothly. Along the way to being cuffed she ran out of ramen noodle packs to throw and used her shoes, her yoga pants, the thong, the bra and the hoodie as things to toss at the cops. You are not only racist you are a creepy asshole. Neesha has to fight the police. It is the Way.

Neesha’s Way

The cops sexually abused Neesha. While cuffing her they touched her. The cop that cuffed her was in a KKK grand dragon uniform and put his knee on her back for an hour. Neesha has spoken. That you don’t believe her is proof that you are racist.

So . . . long story short, Neesha is in County Max on psychiatric hold. She will be there for a month while the docs and social workers figure out how to get her lucid. The doctors and social workers are racist.

The middle part, from being arrested through arrival in the Psych Ward of County Jail, is predictable. The system did its job. Neesha didn’t and spent some time in a confinement chair. Confinement chairs are racist. Neesha accused everyone along the way of raping her, assaulting her, murdering her, of systemic racism and general evil. Because . . . COVID-19. She wasn’t wearing a mask, remember. COVID-19 is racist. The vaccines are racist.

Conclusions are Racist

The usual thing is to end on a moral, a point. Or . . . it was at one time. In the Recovery Community, during a meeting, one of the rules is a ban on sermonizing. Also, if you have to explain a joke it ceases to be funny. So with that said, I’m not going to say what the moral of this story is. I have spoken.

I will add this. There is help if you are struggling. You don’t have to go the way that Neesha went. In RVA we have Commonwealth Catholic Charities. I suggest starting there instead of Social Services.

Last thing, Neesha, a devoted Maoist, has discovered Black Market trade in jail. She’s made herself a nice little nest egg supplying fellow inmates with feminine hygiene products and underwear. Neesha, the fierce Communist warrior, is an evil capitalist in the psych ward. That’s her cheat that has made jail a place to be. Oh, and one more important detail—Neesha is white.

She Kissed Me

Posted on 24-February-202127-June-2021 by Alan Webb

She kissed me. Inger kissed me. I haven’t heard from her in a minute. She PM’s me saying she needs to see me. Ok. So . . . I pick her up on Southside. Well, more than that. I did the usual pull-over, get out to open the door and two things happen: she sits up front and before that, I get a big hug and a kiss, “I missed you.”
Oh. Uhm . . . “Missed you too.” There is so much in my head as I walked around to the driver’s seat. So many questions. Starting with, “missed me“? That’s boyfriend language. I’m a grumpy old man being kissed by a SHYT who says she misses me. WTF?!
This feline SHYT adjusts the seat so she can stretch out reclined, buckles up and waits for me to start driving. Where, tho? “Let’s go to your place,” says she. My place? Really? Oh my lord!

You can fill in some back story here. We started chatting on the way to Oak Grove where I live. The update is that she’s been laying low in hotels since last summer. She didn’t show up for court on her vandalism case from when she trashed the counter at Black Hand coffee. So there is a capias warrant out for her. The cops are watching her 16th Street place. Peachy.

Hot Mess Cat

This sucks. Inger is wanted by the cops and she’s flirting with me. I put a lot of effort into achieving boring. I’d be an idiot if I got too close to somebody that would challenge all that hard work. I’m an idiot. “Alan, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Can I stay with you for a while?” No. Hell no, “Sure. The extra bedroom is kind of a mess. But I can help you with that.” Don’t remind me that you should not feed a stray cat, “You are awesome.” I don’t know about that.

Woo. I’ve acquired a stray cat as a pet. Even better, she’s a wealthy hot mess. Everything was good with her until she had a breakdown, accused a coworker of raping her, and ran away from her wealthy, first-world family and life. Since then she’s lengthened her criminal record and psych-ward chart. Since March of 2019 with COVID-19 she’s set up camp in the 16th street bungalow and self-quarantined (sort of). she’s picked up a pit bull from a rescue shelter per the fashion of our neighborhood. I keep finding girl flotsam in my bathroom and the guest bedroom even though I have an alarm system to which she does not have a code. She kissed me.

She kissed me on a Friday night in the thick of bar close when my fondest wish is a string of tipsy young women headed home. Our dear guvnut Knawthem has decided that one answer to the apocalyptic pandemic is to force bars to close by 10pm. Because that way people won’t share the same air and spread COVID-19. As if COVID-19 is sentient and obeys the guvnut’s dictums. Bar close, thus, has been underwhelming. The kiss was nice–familiar like been dating for a year.

No Tell Motel Kiss

She Kissed Me My Guest Bedroom/Home Office.

Right on Commerce to head to my house, “who was the guy?“
“Just some guy. I don’t think you know him. I hate being alone.“
“Boyfriend?“
“No. I met him in Santa Clara when I lived in the park. Just a friend.” Then dead air while we drove home.

Instant Decorator Nice

At the house, it was clear she’d been there. We came in through the back door. The guest bedroom and kitchen were clean and organized. Curtains replaced the blinds. I have a day bed I didn’t have before, “what’s all this?“
“Like it?” No . . . erm . . . yes, “I guess. Your work?“
“My Mom’s decorating company. You are welcome.“

Bother, two women who have good intentions but didn’t include me, “Thanks. It’s nice.” One of those gifts. Like a husband giving the wife a gas grill. Though . . . they have me pegged. The guest room has a leather “Poppa” chair. That’s a secret wish of mine, “Is the leather real?“
“Yes. I hate those fake things the Dump sells.” She has a point. “So do you like it?” accompanied by tugging on her shirt bottom so that more cleavage is visible.

Cringe. I like it in very taboo ways, “Yeah, it’s good.” A little secret. I like small women with itty-bitty titties. Inger is just under 5′ and probably 90lbs. Short pink hair showing red roots. She had on yoga pants, a cotton tank top, and a half-buttoned Pendleton shirt, “I think I still have quiche in the fridge.“
“Nope. That was my breakfast,” Inger’s eyes smiling.
“Ok, I need to know something. Are you my burglar?“
“No. Would a burglar decorate your guest bedroom and clean your kitchen?“

SECURITY!

“How are you getting past my alarm?“
“I have your code.”
“Only three people have a tag with a code, TJ, Tim, and me. None of them are written down.“
“Your laptop pin is 4261.“
Crap, “How?“
“I helped Saito-san’s people with access because you have a door in your living room closet. Your living room closet is the closest door to Paradise. I use it to get to Saito’s casino.“
Oh. I need that door. I guess Inger needs it also. It isn’t so free, bother, “You can’t use your 16th Street place?“
“Seriously? You don’t know?” Her face says incredulous.
“Hungry? We can order take-out.”
“I’m not hungry,” crossing the room to hug me. We kiss, longer and sloppier this time. I try touching her chest and she presses my hand into her left tit. 10 pm.

Saturday

Saturday morning. I usually start work around 10 am. Inger and I didn’t get moving until after lunch, “Anything planned today?“
“I have to stop by 16th Street and check my mail. Maybe do a load of wash. You could come over and save your laundromat money.“
The laundry basket overflowed a few days ago. It smells bad, “Sure.“

It was a domestic weekend. Self-care stuff got done. We walked Belle Island. Inger’s 16th Street house is the same model as mine. 672 sq. ft., 5 rooms. She set up the front bedroom as a yoga studio. Her closet door has a Nest Yale lock on it. So that was a fib that my living room closet door is the only nearby door to Paradise. Whatever.

“Honey, I need to go see my Mom. Are you staying?“
“I miss my house. I think I’ll walk home. Thanks for letting me use your wash machine.” I’ve graduated to being honey. One thing that happens in relationships is that you lose your first name. You become a title–honey, babe, and later, husband, wife, Dad, or Mom. Until you are in trouble. Then it’s “ALAN!” or worse, “Alan Webb!”
“Text me later, ok?“
“Ok. Thanks again for everything.“
“Anytime, text me.” Last word disease. It’s chronic in my family. Seems like Inger’s got it too. The cure is to shut up.

Sunday Afternoon

I walked home. We walked the laundry home yesterday after I got back from church. Inger is spiritual, she says, but she doesn’t like church. Her parents are members of Tabernacle Baptist. I’ve been a member of St. Giles Church for 20 years. She likes it that I am faithful. I know how Jesus tends to bleed into our hearts until one day we find ourselves talking to the pastor about a confession of faith.

Tuesday morning I was dressed and ready, keys to the Flex in one hand, coffee in the other. I finished my ten hours and booked $165. Not bad.

A weekend with Inger had me wound up. I was nervous about her. So many ways that an old guy like me should stay away from a SHYT like her. She’s young enough to be a granddaughter. It was a good weekend. My phone lights up, “Hey, can we go to Paradise this weekend?“
“Sure,” Just walk through my living room closet door. Phone again, this time from an unknown number, “we need to talk.” I reply, “why?“
“You could get mixed up in Inger’s mess.” Too late.
“Who is this?“
“The Red Roof Inn friend.“
“What mess?“
“Remember the finger she found in the abandoned Cadillac?“
“What about it?“
“The cops think she’s good for it.” Great. I break my dry spell with a wanted rich girl. Now I’m getting attention I don’t want.

Boogaloo Couch Slug

Posted on 10-August-202027-June-2021 by Alan Webb

Charlie is useless Boogaloo Couch Slug. He howls like a wounded toddler at the suggestion that the empty bag of Cheetos belongs in the trash. Then he’ll petulantly ask you to do that for him. The empty Chinese Takeout containers? Ain’t there people for that?

Charlie the Boogaloo Couch Slug occupies space in this blog because he befriended Inger’s parents. The boy inveigled his way into house sitting and being a roommate to Inger. Mom thought he was a perfect ten. This meant that for Inger, Charlie was a perfect zero. I get it that Inger would rather have this couch slug disappear into some forgotten depth of my imagination.

The World Ended, Not

Charlie is forgettable. He’s one of many business school graduates who completed the punch list of items one does as a desirable future husband and career functionary in some cubicle at KPMG. Charlie comes to this blog as a couch slug who slimed Inger’s basement. He was invited in by Inger’s parents because they thought she’d like him, maybe marry him and settle into hausfrau bliss. They thought wrong.

In front of Mom and Dad he’s the perfect boy. Pleated khakis, Florsheim Oxfords, Phi Beta socks, Land’s End Oxford shirt, boxers, not briefs, and wife beaters. Axe body spray because his Mom likes it. Natural orange hair, blue eyes, freckles, chubby, and wreaking of Old Virginia money. It’s a beard he wears to keep Mom & Dad at bay.

The rest of the time he’s in an electric boogaloo t-shirt, pajama pants, and dear foam slippers. His living space is a shrine to empty Chinese takeout containers. Front and center is a wet dream gaming setup consisting of 9 32″ monitors hung from an Ergotron stand, an Alienware Aurora PC worth three months pay for me, Razor keyboard and mouse and Logitech G560 speakers. It’s good to be rich.

Chicken Fried Steak

Here is my beef with Charlie. He has no opinion. Actually, he has your opinion until your opinion is something he disagrees with. Then he gets this face like he’s shit his pants. And his normal baritone shifts up to right where the vocal break is. So he sounds like a prepubescent tweenie struggling to sound grown. Suddenly he is full of opinions on what you need to do so that he can be happy.

Also, Charlie snores–Boogaloo Couch Slug snores. I made the mistake of letting him crash on my couch this summer. Great bellowing, sleep apnea snores filled my night. I spent too many homeless nights sharing a church social hall with 39 other guys in an unconscious chorus of elephant seal snores to be OK with this.

Stop Smiling

Next, Charlie is melancholy. He’s an Eeyore. Everything is OK until it isn’t. And it mostly isn’t OK. The sun is out and it’s too hot. It’s cloudy and he’s worried about the rain. It’s raining and I have to listen to him talk about a tropical storm somewhere in the Atlantic that is going to wipe out D.C. and cause Mama Pelosi to be queen—the worst dystopian nightmare ever.

I can’t do Charlie. Charlie the Boogaloo Couch Slug is like having whiskey in the house for a recovering drunk. His social chameleon thing scratches an itch to be contrary just to get a rise out of him. I have to fight urges to slap him silly so he’ll have an opinion of his own.

You can disagree with me. I like it when someone believes in their opinion enough to argue with me. Charlie weasels about until he figures out if you are red or blue and then changes his skin to match. He does this with stupid stuff like picking from a bbq menu. On politics, he has the opinion of whatever headline is on breitbart.com. Or whatever he thinks will ingratiate himself to you. Religion? He was raised Synanon, so there is that.

Free Will is Scary

IMHO, Charlie has a few major malfunctions. The first is his presumption that he does not have free will. He has no agency, no ability to act in his own self-interest. So he molders on a couch of his choosing and binge watches YouTube videos of other guys winning at some random VRPG/D&D thing. Next, he is a victim of the evil Maoists who won’t let him shine. Yeah, let that rattle around your stomach for a bit. Last is his morose character. One more, he’s more choleric than melancholy. Oh, and the Walking Dead was a documentary, fact.

I’ve started to describe Charlie’s safe space. He built the first one in the basement of Inger’s Stuart Street house. If you are a gamer you would kill to own his setup. The equipment was kept pristine. The rest of the living space was a shit-hole.

He dug his current safe space into the yard of his farm in Goochland. The bunker is 1600 sq ft. The house has gone to seed. The only evidence of the bunker is a sunken storm door near the house. OTA TV, shortwave radio, satellite Internet, and so on are on antennas on the roof of the barn and cabled to the bunker by underground lines. Electricity is solar backed by a Tesla PowerWall and underground lines to Dominion Power. There is a well and a creek on the property. Sewer is done with a septic system.

He bought the property with the contents, including a tractor and equipment for growing and harvesting hay. Locals have tried to contact him about selling the tractor and equipment. Or farming with it. Charlie is nonplussed. He’s too busy with Rift.

Understand that Boogaloo Couch Slug Charlie is Right

One more thing about Charlie the Boogaloo Couch Slug. Actually, it’s the same thing mentioned above. Charlie has your opinion until you stumble across something he disagrees with. Then, it’s not that you are entitled to his opinion. I have a lot of family members who believe they are correct and you need to get used to that. Charlie goes further. Now the fangs come out and you discover that not only is he correct but his approval depends on your compliance with his advice. You have to do as he says or there will be trouble. There is trouble. I don’t take kindly to being ordered around and Inger doesn’t either.

Charlie failed a shit test when BLM was in Richmond this summer. He was at the Lee Monument standing at the fringe of the crowd. A girl dressed in some sort of goth/black block/club hot outfit walked up to him holding a rattle can of fluorescent pink paint, “Hey! Want to do something real? Go up there and spray ‘F12’ on the Lee Monument.”

Charlie got a look on his face as if someone had just shoved a chickenshit covered glass dildo up his ass, “Uhm, yeah, so . . . I dunno . . .”

Wrong answer, “are you for real or not?” He is not, “Hey, so, uhm, sorry but I have this thing I have to go to,” and he headed east on North Lombardy.

A Black Man’s M3 Wish Matters

“You SUCK! BLACK LIVES MATTER!” shouted the fashy goth girl as she melded into a gaggle of black block protesters. Charlie’s thing was his M3 parked in the Kroger parking lot. Shit test fail.

Inger, for her part, has been at her home (sort of) on East 16th Street from her bar-tending job. There is a door to Paradise in her 16th Street house. So, yeah, she’s home but not really. She watched the riots through local TV news. Black Lives to Matter to her but not at the cost of her city on fire.

When it comes to social justice or the fight against Communism Charlie ain’t shit. Fashy girl discovered he’s a titan on reddit and a total loser IRL. He’s good as long as he looks awesome in his selfies while he cheers on the Boogaloos.

Zero Sum

I’m not done ranting about Charlie. He’s transactional. You’ll have to forgive a bit of mansplaining. If you know, you know. If you don’t, well . . . nothing is free with these people. Nothing is free with Charlie. He has a memorized ledger for everyone he believes owes him or worse, he owes. It’s a loss of face for him if he owes someone.

So I can’t do any favors for Charlie because kindness creates a debt. The stint on my couch meant that I started getting hentai manga. Hot? No. I like my women warm-blooded.

He found some beef jerky coated in dried red pepper branded Ming-Ha. My ex, the Empress, has a similar first name. Big yucks for Charlie, big zero for me.

No Hope of Return

Why do I care about transactional people? First, the Empress is a brilliant and talented trader. She tends to win against white monkeys like Charlie. I could never win with her because I grew up with pink panty parents who felt entitled to their upper-middle-class lifestyle. They were not transactional so I never learned how to fight like that.

Second, the way I practice my faith is self-sacrificing. I do stuff for people with no hope of return. This is offensive to the Empress and to Charlie. Good. Moving on.

Last, this post is one of 16 that lay out the story I’m building related to Inger’s finger. In previous posts, I wrote about Paradise and the doors you use to get there. Charlie owes Saito-san some huge gambling debts. So his key is shut off. Which would deter most reasonable folk. Charlie isn’t reasonable. What he’s been doing is sweet-talking other key holders into letting him use their key. Trouble? Do you think?

Sympathy for the Living

Posted on 5-March-201916-June-2021 by Alan Webb

Inger heard that my Dad died. I’m used to being alone. Sympathy for the Living is harder for me than a full measure of salty, shady bitterness. Still, it’s nice that she’s making my extra bedroom the third domicile. It’s Sunday after church. I’m back in Richmond the weekend after the viewing. I’ve tried working. It’s bad. Too small cash flow and I’m spent.

Fancy Biscuitt Sympathy for the Living — From Fancy Biscuit on West Cary Street in Richmond, VA

At my Dad’s house I’m lucky if my sisters will let me near the coffee pot. I brew caffeinated beans I grind myself. The beans come from places that are not on the fashy list. That’s two things wrong with the coffee I make. It’s two things too many. Plus, somehow, buying coffee beans and placing them on the counter is some sort of toxic masculine demand that I be served coffee by one of my sisters.

I can’t do anything in my father’s house without being judged. A simple chicken is sexist. Politics and religion are fighting words. I am the son my family feels is a reason to apologize. It’s big trouble if I suggest that mayhaps more government isn’t an assurance of desirous outcomes.

You Get Shade

All this to explain my reaction to Inger nearly done making Sunday supper–greens, crockpot pulled pork, black-eyed peas, and a pie. She had coffee ready. I entered the house by the back door as is my habit and was greeted with a mug of coffee, “Hey.”

She remembered that I like cream in my coffee, “Hey, this is kind of awesome. What’s the occasion?“

“No occasion. I was hungry and I can’t do this meal for my parents. My Mom is doing a vegan paleo thing and my Dad is fighting back by declaring he can do Atkins with fast food.“

“Looks awesome. Any news on the investigation?”

“Well . . . they won’t tell me who owns the finger. Only that they ran the DNA and got a hit on NCIC. Hungry?”

It’s been a shitty four months since my Dad went into the hospital last October and we worried that he might not make it. He rallied and was able to go home. I spent three weeks taking care of him because my sister had to go back to work. There is more to life than my continuing saga of struggling to make ends meet. I’m making it but it’s been a bitch, “Yeah, give me a minute.”

Clean Sheets and Hospital Corners

I picked up the coffee mug and continued through the kitchen to my bedroom. Ok, kinda not cool. I have new bedding. Less man cave vibe and more shared bed vibe. Right, I needed new bedding. Just . . . not sure an SHYT is the right person to make that choice for me. And my room is clean and organized.

I maintain piles of papers on any horizontal surface in my house. The piles are a filing system of sorts. I own a seldom-used filing cabinet. Anything I want to preserve is usually scanned and stored on Google Drive. The piles of papers are gone. Food first.

The coffee is good. I don’t know how to deal with a woman who is nice to me in traditionally domestic ways–cooking, cleaning and so on. It’s weird, “Hey, how deep does this domestic diva thing go?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, I have new bedding, you cooked Sunday Supper and made coffee. My house is cleaner than it has ever been. I’m not used to this.“

“Your Dad died. I thought you would like some Southern comfort.”

Love Hurts

My eyes welled up. I’ve dealt with so much bitterness through my life that sweetness messes me up. I can do an angry drunk wanting to go home from the bar. A born-here Richmond girl in her twenties showing me a little southern love is a lot to accept. She saw my tears and started to hug me, “Been a bitch of a life lately, huh?”

“Goddamnit. Yeah. Thanks,” I also am one of those old school stoics who has a hard time showing emotion. “Can you fix me a plate?”

Inger released the hug and set about fixing a plate. Supper was uneventful and good. Two cans of “Shut Up” have me gabby and silly. I’m so badly behind on revenue targets that what I should do is get out there and find some money. Two beers, so . . . nope.

I don’t usually bother with the spam queue on my blog. 99.999% of the time it’s some iteration of “come look at porn” or “take this supplement and grow a horse dick” or “Lose the weight and feel forty years younger.” Then there are the machine generated compliments on my writing. All very forgettable.

Bitter Normie

So . . . some Bill Cohen commenting on my recent “Off the Estate” post is usually just dumped. Mr. Bill was trashing a fellow blogger with comments that should just get tossed. Maybe I am a fool, but I copied the text of it before dumping it, “Fucking hell. I just got out of jail on a bullshit case. I have to use the goddamned library to get online because they took my shit. Now, tell that asshole Antidem that he’s not worthy to breathe my air. White privileged, Nazi son of a bitch. Get a little education already. It’s you bougie people that are the problem. All we need to do is wipe the earth clean of scourge like you. Take your wealth and privilege and distribute it to the 99% who need it. Oh my God, you are evil. Do us all a favor and eat worms and die! “

Inger saw it then dived into her phone. Dunno what she was typing or doing but whatever, “That’s hate speech, Alan. That guy deserves to be doxed.”

k. I’m drunk and tired. I have a SHYT talking about doxing. None of the Sunday shows on over-the-air TV interest me. My old duvet and something mindless from Netflix sounds awesome. Don’t care, “Inger, I’m going to take a nap.”

Case Update

Inger has other ideas. Not those, you little shit, “Hey, like, can we talk?” Ruh-roh. Her timing is not awesome. Still drunk and tired, “Can it wait until I’ve had my nap?“
“Uhm, kinda no. It’s important.” Ruh-roh, “Ok, what’s up?“
The case.
The missing finger?
Kind of. The comment from Bill Cohen.
The one in my SPAM queue?
“Yeah. I saw it before you dumped it. Bill Cohen is IRL. He’s scary.“
“Whyzzat?“
“He used to be Antifa until he got too violent.“
“That’s saying something. What’s his connection to you?“
“We hooked up a couple of times.“
“And this relates to the finger how?“
“It doesn’t. But he’s scary and I might need to hide here for a bit.“
“Whatever. You already have a toothbrush here.“
“I need it.“
“I need that nap.“
“Give me the TV remote.” Done. The Bachelor is on. Bleh.

Off the Estate

Posted on 2-January-201911-July-2021 by Alan Webb

I had a visit from PUDFARB ICE (People’s United Democratic Free Anarchist Republik of Berkeley Immigration and Customs Enforcement). My Dad passed so the fact that I am off the estate living in the capital of racism is a renewed outrage. If I knew what was good for me I’d sign off on my inheritance and agree to live in Amistad House.

[edited 07-11-2021] More on socialism since I first published this piece.

It is likely that I’ll inherit some money. It’s fast money, though. Fast money tends to go as quickly as it came. As you hold the check in your hand the legion of ways to spend it rave in your head. As an example, all those lottery winners who are broke within a few years of cashing the check. PUDFARB ICE had an answer they thought was awesome: give it to them.

A pretty girl was running point. She had a sheaf of papers I was supposed to sign. Somehow a rumor surfaced that I would take my windfall and start a business. Incredibly, PUDFARB ICE claimed that I was not free to do as I pleased with my own money. No, I had to sign it over to them.

✠ ✠ ✠

The potential crime was owning a business that PUDFARB ICE could not control. It was fine as long as their union goons could dictate how it would be run. In the small print was language that said my business would be taxed at 90% of the gross revenue. But that tax would pay for a free Cadillac and a new iPhone plus art classes and getting fast-tracked for Medicaid and Section 8.

“What’s wrong with socialism?” My son asked this. Many things are wrong with socialism. Signing over my inheritance to PUDFARB ICE in exchange for being fast-tracked into Amistad ought to be a reasonable choice. It isn’t. Nor is spending the imagined amount on “reasonable” purchases that leave me destitute and unable to refuse commitment to Amistad House.

Pretty girl said I was getting old and I’d need someone to help me run the business. She offered to be office manager. There was an employment offer in my name for cab driver. PUDFARB ICE would own the business and Pretty girl wanted to run it. How about . . . no.

Off the Estate and Not Silent Now

Because, tbh, it’s not about being down for the struggle.

I don’t like answering the phone because of PUDFARB ICE. They are like a corrupt collection agency. Except that the thing in collections is me. They call, e-mail, post to my FB wall, and generally try to intrude. I left in 1992 for Cal State EBay (Hayward). 25 years ago and they persist.

After 25 years they’d gone silent. Then my Dad passes and they found a way to interrogate me while I was working in Philly. Same thing as always, I need to understand that I didn’t belong out of PUDFARB. I had to come home. The room in Amistad was nice, they said. I could devote myself to writing propaganda and be taken care of.

“Taken care of” to a guy who grew up with Greek Mafia neighbors has a bad ring to it. I don’t trust it. Nor do I trust the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE who just wants me to sign my life away. First class flight to SFO if I would just sign my name to multiple forms. I’m not signing.

✠ ✠ ✠

I own a house on Lost Souls Road far, far off the estate. Sometimes when I go to the curb to get my mail I find bodies in the gutter. Some of the bodies are people who got disappeared by PUDFARB ICE. Others are SJW’s who knew what we ought to be doing instead of being a hot mess and didn’t get the hint. You can live a quiet life on Lost Souls Road if you make the right friends.

I mention my address because the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE triggers memories of those bodies I sometimes find. This pisses ICE off. If I was a good man I’d just sign and make things easy for everybody. Come home and stop posting to the blog. Stop spewing hate. Pretty tells me that they have a special meal plan I’d really enjoy. Uh Huh.

Idea #2 is that they’d take the money coming to me and buy an annuity that would fund my retirement living in Amistad. Pretty girl could be my home care aid. Good idea but not happening.

On Bottom Everything Points Up

Then the threats come. My reputation will be destroyed. They’ll ruin me financially. I’ll be eating dog food and living on the street.

These are threats that would intimidate someone who believes they have something to lose. PUDFARB ICE pretty girl is a fool. I am one of Billary’s deplorables. I’ve been down, been homeless, convicted of crimes, broke and lost my reputation, thrown off the estate for being a WASP. Every threat they have is something I survived. I’d rather not start from the bottom at my age. But if I must I will.

Socialism asks us to surrender everything to the government and trust that they will be less corrupt than the rest of society. I should trust the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE with the social work degree.

✠ ✠ ✠

Don’t care. I decided last summer that I wasn’t going back to work as a cube rat. It was cab driving even if that job ruined me.

And with that, they showed me a video of my sister reading a prepared statement. I was a disappointment to my father. I’d failed him. And now I’d broken my trust with her. All I had to do is sign the papers and come back to PUDFARB. Everything would be fine.

I don’t know what’s coming next year. 2019 is only a day old as I started this post. One thing it won’t bring is a docile me who behaves as my kin wishes. My sister wants me to conform to her norms. Be a good brother and live as she believes I should. The nice people at PUDFARB ICE told her that things would be good if only I would sign the papers.

Lipstick Isn’t Enough

She signed. They gave her a house in the Berkeley hills. Her daughter is in a private school for the deaf. Her husband works at an NGO. She got a job teaching school for PUDFARB. It’s lovely. I should visit sometime.

Then I noticed something. She was quietly signing just with her hands over and over. bs, bs, bs, bs. Thought so.

The problem with socialism is us. Socialism needs perfect compliance. It tends to get into a destructive spiral where control is resisted so control is increased, rinse repeat. Ergo Nazi Germany. The other destructive spiral comes from the idea that those with ability will feed those with need. Very quickly those with ability figure out that survival means becoming one with need. In short order, there are no resources nor people with ability to feed on.

Sign the Contract

The pretty girl put the package of papers in front of me. I looked them over. and told her I could do better with the principle if I invested it and lived off the capital gains. I think it was the word capital. Anyhoo, she lost her shit. A stream of cuss words and crimes of old, fat WASP men spewed out of her mouth. I was every sin ever committed by every man throughout time. It was an impressive tantrum. Capital is an evil word, it seems.

My Dad was given an offer he couldn’t refuse. Take a pension buyout or get fired. He took the buyout. It was about two years’ worth of salary. He was a little younger than I am now. His two years of salary had to take care of him and my Mom until they died. It wasn’t enough.

It could be enough if he did what my family has done since we were landed gentry in England–invest and live off the profits of said investments. Pretty girl slapped me for saying that. Fuck her . . . no, asshole, not sex, shit. Right, so my Dad used his initial amount in the buyout to grow it into income that supported him for nearly thirty years and paid for my Mom’s care as she declined from dementia.

✠ ✠ ✠

Capital gains or passive income is the answer to the wish to drink Mai Tai’s under an umbrella on a tropical island beach. Somehow, “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” is racist. Whatever. Read it if you want to escape a cube rat life.

His hard work and wise investments mean we are left with an inheritance that PUDFARB ICE wants. Sucks to be them. Free will is a problem for socialists. People might not fully comply. They might take a small pension buyout and get rich with it. I might do that.

So, PUDFARB ICE, do your worst. I’m not signing. I’m not agreeing to give you my inheritance for an annuity that you say will take care of me for the next forty years. Our family has survived retirement by remaining king of our own investment sandbox. Thanks for the offer but I’ll keep my faith in an absurd martyr from Nazareth who was crucified at the request of his church elders and the power of compound interest.

Tucker

Posted on 29-October-201821-June-2021 by Alan Webb

Black Hand Coffee

I picked up Inger from Tucker. She was hanging out with friends at Black Hand Coffee and had a breakdown. She started out explaining the abandoned car that was in front of my house last spring. In short order, it turned to a story about the car belonging to Donald Trump.

Prezzy Darling, she said, stole the car to escape the Secret Service and hook up with her at her East 16th Street house. The drugs and money the cops found belonged to the Donald. Ditto the used condom.

Then . . . she got triggered. There was a guy in line for coffee at Black Hand who had a scant resemblance to the Donald. Not Trump, obvi, but with Inger, once she launches there is no stopping her. She bolted from her table and ran up to the guy, trying to jump into his arms, “Donny!! What’s Up!”

False Positive

Dude was stunned. Total deer in headlights. He didn’t catch her, Inger stumbled into the coffee counter and hit her head, “why didn’t you catch me, Prezzy Darling!? I thought we were a thing!”

Inger touched her scalp and saw the blood on her fingers, “what did you do?” Dude didn’t, but now he was caught up in Inger’s reality distortion field, “DONALD!! Are you trying to kill me!?” He was not. Black Hand Coffee just become a crime scene.

Some of the cafe customers started to rush the guy believing Inger’s accusing tone of voice. There was some pushing and shoving as opposing narratives embodied were litigated in the cafe. The barrista pulled on the hand of Dude and both of them headed for the kitchen at the back.

Not the Donald

Friends of Inger sat her down away from the guy. There are cell phone videos and it’s clear that Inger is the aggressor. Someone in the cafe called the cops to report an assault.

Officer Khalid Harris got there in a half-hour. It took another ninety minutes to collect statements and fill out the police report. Inger was still amped so her statement didn’t make sense. She still thought Dude was the Donald and that he had tried to kill her by shoving her into the coffee counter. Khalid listened to her and quietly requested medical transport, ‘Khalid! What the fuck!? I’m the victim here. That guy tried to kill me! What are you doing! I’ll have your job! Fucking asshole!” And so on.

Inger was cuffed, searched and placed in a transport van while they waited for the ambulance. That just enraged Inger so they had to pull her from the van, pepper spray her and put her in a hobble. All on YouTube with the usual recriminations about how the cops are brutal, uncaring asshats.

Broken Windows

The Twitter Outrage mob kicked into high gear. The evening after Inger was hauled away there was a mob that threw rocks and Molotov cocktails at Black Hand Coffee. They finished the night on Monument Boulevard chanting, “No Justice, No Peace” on the median near the J.E.B. Stuart memorial. 3 arrests were made. Black Hand Coffee suffered some broken windows and a bit of charring from the Molotov cocktails.

CBS-6 interviewed one of the protestors who claimed that Black Hand Coffee was a racist cafe oppressing minorities. This was based on the name and an unchallenged assumption that Inger was brown and a lesbian. When the reporter tried to tell the protestor he was incorrect he shoved her in the face. The protestor also attacked the photographer. Riot over at that point. RPD stepped in and began pushing the crowd away from the J.E.B. Stuart memorial.

I drove by Black Hand this week. They are open. The broken windows are boarded up and the char scrubbed off the tan brick.

Sugar Cookie Finger

Inger is out. I picked her up last Monday. In her things were some summons charging her with assault and public intoxication. She’d stopped taking her meds because she was feeling good. That bomb kept ticking all summer. Then she started talking about Halloween and it got weirder. Then Black Hand Coffee. The Secret Service said, “meh.” They looked into what Inger was saying and dismissed it.

Now, the finger. I’m in the First Precinct. Inger’s Stuart Avenue house is in the Third. She’s created her own cross precinct footprint within the police department. The finger is in the hands of RPD and is evidence. Inger has Officer Harris’ card. She’s convinced that the Russian Mafia had something to do with the abandoned whip and that it is connected to the Donald. Officer Harris is convinced that Inger needs better meds. Inger is on the Secret Service’s radar now, though.

Officer Harris came to my house and spent a half-hour asking me what I knew about the whip and Inger. I pointed him to the two prior blog posts on the story: Inger’s Finger and No Pulse, Just a Finger. Khalid said they had DNA from the whip and were investigating. It’s not clear who the stray finger belonged to.

Bougie Breakfast

So, Inger . . . has turned her East 16th Street house into her own private detective office. She doesn’t have the evidence that the cops have so she’s been using her social connections to follow up leads. This is not making friends and influencing people within RPD. I mentioned Inger to Khalid and he let out a snort then an annoyed look flashed across his face. He doubled down, “we are looking into it.”

I’m writing this from my desk in the extra bedroom. Door knock. I hear the back door unlock. It’s her, “Alan I’m hungry.”

Kitten has a dry pantry you could eat out of for a year. She throws away food in her fridge because it’s gone bad. The last time I was over there her trash was full of Chinese takeout containers. She had wings and veggie fried rice circled on East Villa’s menu, “And you want me to cook?”

“I mean, if you want to.”

Not Cooking Today

“There is plenty of stuff in the fridge, help yourself,” I guess I didn’t want to fast enough. Inger gives me a dirty look and then starts opening and slamming closed the few cabinets I have in my galley kitchen. She bangs pots and pans as she works. My stove has a drawer on the oven that makes a satisfying bang if you aren’t careful closing it. She wasn’t careful.

It’s 11 am on a Monday, my day off. Since getting fired in August I’ve been working six days a week doing Uber and Lyft. I was up at 6:30 as usual and ate breakfast then.

I find this interesting. On Stuart Avenue everything is pretty. Nothing is ever out of place. The fridge is immaculate. Everything came from either Whole Foods or Ellwood Thompson’s. Inger tells me that her Mom and her people take care of Stuart Avenue. If she was there she could get her Mom’s chef to cook for her and it would be lovely. 16th Street? Not so much.

Wingz

And this is the thing for Inger. She wants something of her own. Something she made. It would be so easy to slip into her lane, use her Gender and Sexuality Studies minor and Political Science major to work on K-Street, hook up with Charles, and slow walk through a career in lobbying, some kids, and retirement with a nice GS5 pension. All that went away when Inger lost her shit and claimed that a co-worker raped her. Plus, the stench of Charles still lingers on Stuart Avenue.

East 16th Street is a dump. It smells of hickory smoke, greens, and bacon. For the neighborhood it’s bougie. But Inger is from Old Gun Road. Her Mom thinks the house is a dump. This pleases Inger. Plus, the neighbors don’t really care what goes on inside her house.

She made two french omelets, “You are out of eggs. I made Orange Juice. Hungry? ” she asks me while doing something on her phone.

Not really, but the omelet looks good. Again with the tablecloth, cloth napkins, and service from Saks. Inger has upped her toothbrush game to include one of my kitchen cabinets. I seem to be the middle path between antiseptic and photogenic Stuart Avenue and chicken wings East 16th Street.

Stray Finger

“What’s the latest on the stray finger?”

“Khalid is looking into some leads that point to Charles. I hope so. Asshole.”

Chuck E Cheese, last I heard, was off the radar in Taipei competing in Fortnite. Inger is good there, “what points to Charles?”

“The cops found an ac adapter for an XBox One and some dandruff. I had a swab of the back seat that I paid to have analyzed. Some of the DNA matched Charlie boy. He’s in ancestry.com. Creepy bastard.” You can say the evidence points to him being in the whip at some point. It doesn’t explain the expired New Jersey temporary tags or the pile of fast food leftovers with a receipt from Earl of Sandwich. “Plus, I found evidence of blood all over the way-back. I couldn’t get a sample, though.”

“Topic change. How are you? That was a pretty nasty scab on your scalp.” I haven’t heard anything more from the local news about what happened at Black Hand Coffee. Inger seems to have let it go except for the cut on her scalp, “I’m good. Scalp cuts bleed a lot so they look worse than they are. I got a couple of stitches and have to go to my doctor next week.”

“How about your meds?”

“Yeah, uhm, can you take me to the pharmacy? It’s CVS on West Broad at Boulevard.” Sure. Woo. Inger didn’t clean as she cooked. I don’t bother to ask who is washing dishes. I already know. Dirty dishes in the sink for just us two. I start to wash up. That gets me a hug.

Inger’s Finger

Posted on 4-September-2018 by Alan Webb

You know how if you feed a stray cat it won’t go away. I let Inger stay in my living room and obsess over the finger she found in the whip for all of Saturday. It ought to be a good thing that a SHYT is stretched out on my couch under my comforter, the extra pillows propping her up and the TV remote somewhere under all that hair and blanket. It’s not. Inger’s finger is a problem. I want this kittie to go home. I want my house back.

And now for one of my usual tangents. There are things about Inger I have not figured out yet. Then I ran across Katie Was Here. Exactly. What was Inger doing between her freakout at the social media company and her discovery of a finger in a whip? Whelp, not what Katie was doing because Katie is IRL and Inger isn’t. But now I can steal bits of IRL from Katie’s story to fill in some gaps about Inger. Katie, if you read this, sorry. You’ll figure out soon enough that I earn my nom de plume of Chief Liar at the Liars Club. I take things IRL and twist them to suit my purpose in telling a story.

So, the answer? Inger hitched her way around the country ticking off places on her bucket list. She chose not to use a car. So, Inger was living outside for a while. Oh, and for the SEO bots, Inger’s finger is in evidence with the RPD. Yes, I know that one also, that if there is a gun in the first act, well . . . B.A. in English, Literature, ok.

Ginger Hairy Blanket

Movement in the area of the couch. A hairy blanket just traversed from living room to bathroom. It’s only eight feet or so. Bathroom door closed and then reopens to toss my red towel and washcloth from homeless shelter days to the hallway. To get to the kitchen I’ll have to either step on it or pick it up, “Your shit stinks,” said the hairy blanket. So sue me. That towel and washcloth get laundered infrequently. The bathroom door closed again.

I know better than to be second behind an SHYT hairy blanket for the bathroom. I’m good. I hear personal hygiene noises. Remote repossessed. Lance Watson’s Positive Power is better.

I move my towel to the hamper. The laundromat run will happen later. Time for omelets and home fries, coffee and for the hairy blanket, hand squeezed blood orange juice. Also bagels with lox schmear.

Coffee Is Never “Just Coffee“

Freshly showered girl arms just embraced me from behind. No more hairy blanket. Instead, Inger/Kittie now in a camisole and fleece pajama pants, rummaging for coffee mugs and soy milk. Before setting the table Inger sees my FB post about the binary divide between parents and not parents. A flash of annoyance crosses her face before she moves the tablet to my ottoman in the living room and resumes setting the dining table with a tablecloth, utensils, plates and so on. I tend to eat and wash one bowel. I’ll drink out of a 32oz. cup from Wawa. This is way more effort into breakfast than my usual. Kittie, though, seems to enjoy this domestic moment.

Tangent 2: Guys and gals, if you menstruate and don’t have a partner there is a running annoyance you can’t avoid. Guys circle around you like dogs sniffing for a bitch in heat. They all want to know if they have a shot at you. All the “gender is a social construct, gender is fluid, you can identify as any gender you choose” doesn’t change any of this. Maybe this explains women who dress like guys to fend off the pack and guys who dress in a way that signals they are not wondering about every woman they encounter.

B) Nearly sixty years of socialist/feminist indoctrination has not changed the nature of men. Guys still stare, look for a ring, and maybe try to hit on her. Call it what you will, name it whatever evil root cause you choose, in spite of decades of indoctrination in proper etiquette, some men are still dogs.

Nurture isn’t Always Enough

This annoyance explains for me why “going for coffee” with a woman is never as simple as that. And why there is safety in a relationship for a woman. “Keep Away” rings are a thing, just saying.

Inger just hit me. On the shoulder. Don’t go getting all cops and abuse on me. It’s not like that. We are not a thing, first of all. Second, slow down. Not every touch, every punch on the shoulder is a reason to go down the road of “she put her hands on me, officer.” Inger is a bit feral. She’s proof that being kept in a bubble and prevented from experiencing suffering to the extent that her parents could accomplish ends up being exactly opposite what was intended. Inger has no resiliency. Duress sends her into orbit.

What Inger wants me to write is that I should not be so stiff. Gender is a social construct. Her Swarthmore professors said so. You can choose to identify yourself however you want. Wear whatever costume you choose. Yeah. So . . . girl, is pregnancy a social construct? Can you be a little pregnant? Tell me those words in hour ten of labor when you are 8cm for the last two hours.

Ok, the core truth to this story is that there was a Cadillac Escalade abandoned in front of my house last summer. It’s the first week of school as I type this. The weather in my zip code still thinks it is summer. I don’t have air-con in my house so I feel every drop of sweat, every degree of heat. Inger hasn’t said anything. Her Stewart Street house is an easy drive out of the heat. But both of us tuck into breakfast while box fans blow hot air around the house.

Loose Whips

What happened to the Escalade is simple: I called the cops, they came, red-tagged the whip, and a couple days later it was gone. That’s not enough for Inger. There was a suitcase in the back seat. Strewn across the passenger side were the remains of a few meals from Burger King. Inger said she found a finger. I didn’t look.

This is where it gets story worthy. The cops closed the street. A CSI van showed up. Unmarked Chevy Impalas and Crown Victorias filled the available parking in front of my house.

Inger shows me a bloody gauze. Crap. She says it’s from the finger and she knows somebody in the crime lab who owes her a favor. Just what I need. My house as the command center for a civilian investigation into a whip that I just want to go away.

Dirty Dishes

Inger finishes her lox bagel and orange juice. No coffee for her. She takes a Ziploc bag from the bottom drawer and puts the bloody gauze in it. A quick peck from her and a “we are not a thing” hug before she’s out the back door waving, “byeee!” Peace and quiet. Kinda. She cleaned my bathroom. My medicine cabinet got re-organized to make room for cosmetics. This kittie doesn’t seem to want to remain a stray. Woo.