Romesick

I haven't posted in a while, and for that I'm sorry. Though I highly doubt that any of my friends are actually reading this. Anyways, here's my update:

I am back in the cold, cold Pennsylvania, fending for myself once again while my grandmother puts me up for free... I guess that doesn't constitute "fending for myself", but fuck off. I work at Charlie Brown's Steakhouse as a waiter. Most of my coworkers are either just out of high school or 30+ years old and act like they're just out of high school. Either way I don't fit in. I keep entirely to myself, and have only managed to memorize a total of 3 people's names. Thank God for nametags! I was told before starting that it wasn't unusual to make 100 bucks a day, but so far the most I've managed to make in one day is 65, bringing my week's total up to 200 bucks. Still not half bad, but not as good as I'd like it to be.

My grandmother, for those of you who don't know, is an insufferable old wench who spends her days drinking vodka tonics and watching the news. She is certifiably insane, suffering alternately from agoraphobia, schizophrenia, vertigo, paranoia, etc. If no one is around to cook for her the most she will eat on a good day is a banana sandwich. Maybe she'll put peanut butter on it. Maybe.

Last week her alcoholism caught up with her. At 7am she called me on my cell phone. This wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for a) it was 7am, and b) I live downstairs. I answered it all groggy and confused and she told me she couldn't get out of bed. She falls sometimes, a culmination of all of the above listed symptoms, and so I got out of bed and went upstairs. She asked me to hand her some pants and I grabbed what were on the floor. They were wet, and not wanting to know why, I threw them aside and grabbed another pair. Then I helped her into the bathroom before going back downstairs to fall back asleep. At 10am (3 hours later) she called me again on my cell phone and told me she couldn't get out of the bathroom. I went back upstairs and helped her back to her bed. She asked me to bring her
a glass of water. I handed it to her, but her hands were shaking too bad and she shook all the water over herself. I grabbed another one and set it on her night stand before getting dressed for work.

On my way out I stuck my head back into her room. If you need anything, I said, you know where I'll be. Ok, she said.

A few hours later a police officer showed up at my work. It was my second day, and having a cop show up asking for you on your second day doesn't bode well. Luckily my manager stood there while the cop explained that Carolyn (what I've always called my grandmother) was in the ER. My boss let me off work early and I went to see her. Carolyn is a feisty woman and when I showed up she was swatting at the nurses and pulling out all the IV's they'd stuck in her, screaming the whole time about how she was going to "sue everyone". The nurse asked me about Carolyn's drinking and I obligingly explained. Then the nurse asked where Carolyn gets the alcohol if she never leaves the house. Well, I buy it for her.

How stupid I felt having to explain that I'm the one who makes her daily liquor store runs. But what am I supposed to do? I live in her house for free, and I drive her car every day. If I refused she'd most likely kick me out of her house and disown me. So I do what I can.

The next week she was going through detox. If you want to know suffering, go watch a 20 year strong alcoholic go through detox. She hallucinated for 3 days and, as the nurse told me, didn't sleep at all. During my daily visits she never even realized I was in the room. She kept calling me "Brother Renfro." I don't know who "Brother Renfro" is or even if he "exists", but I imagine he is someone from her childhood on a Blackbelt cotton farm in South Alabama.

For the week it was me alone in her house. I was at a new job where I didn't fit in, and in a town where there is nothing to do and I know nobody. My only companion was my grandmother's pet dog, a small toy poodle, black, and named after an Uncle Remus, "Song of the South" character, Briar Patch. Briar Patch was never house trained. She is a yippy, neurotic dog who pees on the floor every time I walk in the room. Then she runs away. I get the impression that she doesn't like me. She spent all of the week hiding somewhere in the house and peeing all over everything tangible.

Needless to say, I was going a little insane.

Carolyn got back from the hospital yesterday, however, and is now back to her usual antics, drinking and accusing me of doing made up things. My week was strange and led to some interesting self-reflection, but it was the destructive type of self-reflection, not the constructive type that Rome was always giving me. My life is waxing and waning right now. I don't know what else to say. The album I am listening to is about to end, and when it does I am going to stop typing, even though my blogs never really have an ending. Just a bunch of build-up and then no release, or an anti-climactic release. Maybe I should put more thought into these things, eh? What's your opinion, reader (reader other than Jim, that is)?