Strays

So, Squeaky is back.

She has been back, in fact, for more than a week now. Apparently her AA-evangelist friend refused to accept her assertion that she hadn't been drinking for the two days she spent here last weekend. (Which she hadn't, and I know that for a fact. I'm the beer-purchaser around here; I'm the one with money; and I COUNT my beers. Squeaky was perfectly innocent, in this case. But tell that to 12-Stepper.) Because she didn't believe Squeaky, Squeaky was told she would not be staying at 12-Stepper's house; because all the other places she could stay were out of range of public transportation, Tim went and met her and brought her back here. She's been doing very well here--even though Tim and I have had beer in the house almost constantly, she hasn't drunk any, and since there's no other type of intoxicant available, she's been relentlessly sober. She's....not so bad, I guess. She sings a lot, and dances a lot, and has more energy than I would even WANT to have; she's loud and aggravating, but she's also sweet and very considerate and very grateful to be allowed to stay here. And she loves the hell out of Tim, unfortunately; he's still pining for Nicolette, and makes no bones about Squeaky's role in his life. He cares about her; he just doesn't plan to be her guy permanently, is all. It's a hard state of affairs for everyone concerned, really.

She's told me more of her history; if even five percent of it is true, she's had a life no one deserves. If all of it is true, or even the half of it, she's lucky to be alive, mostly sane, and mentally-functioning at all. As I said to her, after her recitation of the things her stepfather did to her: "There's a special circle of hell for some people, you know? I have to believe that, because if I didn't I'd jump off a bridge at the injustice of it all." She broke down crying at one point; I gave her a hug. It was the best I could do. "You're the only one who listens to me," she told me. "Tim doesn't want to hear it." I happen to know that Tim doesn't want to hear it because he's EXTREMELY sensitive about his friends being hurt; if he hears about it, man-like, he feels an obligation to act, and if he can't solve the problem....well, it just eats at him. I know there's nothing I can do; the past is the past, and sometimes it helps just to talk. And if I can listen, at least that's something. (But it doesn't mean she's not driving me completely bat-shit crazy...)

LJ, unexpectedly enough, showed up at the front door Thursday night. Apparently he's been in town for a couple of days; he's been staying at his mother's.
"So...was that your girl?" I asked him. "One of them, yeah," he replied coolly. "She's a headache, though...always tryin' to control my life, all 'where you goin' and 'when you comin back' and all that...And she HATES it that I still keep in touch with you," he added. "I told her ain't nothin' goin on...I told her that truck is like our kid. I let her know...'Gladys an' me are probly gonna be friends for life,' I told her," he said, which I thought was nice. He hung around for a while; he and I and Squeaky and Tim talked for a few minutes. We laughed, had a beer, talked about the situation. I told him we'd lost the house; he agreed to come back and get what little stuff was left here, which he did last night. Those twenty or thirty minutes were more comfortable than the relationship ever was.

That's not to say that everything's perfect. I'm still behind on a lot of bills, though I'm chipping away at it; we still don't have a place to go when we have to move. We haven't heard anything from Betty about her friend's amazing condo; if that doesn't work out, I'm thinking I might just get a one-bedroom or a studio closer to work. It's a little bit stressful, this not-knowing--but only a little. Really, things are good. I'm back in the groove of having a job; getting up in the morning, coming home at night, being exhausted--but in a good way. I really love my job.

In fact, I love my job so much that at the moment, I'd be happier THERE than I currently am at home. At least, it would be more peaceful. Who was that, who made the comparison between houseguests and fish? Yeah. DEFinitely. I'm weary unto death of hearing about whatever TV show or movie she just finished watching, or hearing her singing various pop songs and demanding that people watch her dance, or watching the same MadTV skit on YouTube eight times a day. Between that, and the constant married-couple bickering between her and Tim, I'll be very glad tomorrow when this little arrangement comes to an end...at least for a couple of days. I'm driving the two of them to the Cubs game, and then I guess she's going....somewhere. I'm concerned, but not terribly concerned.

I know, I know--I should be more compassionate, but seriously, I can only be so good for so long; I'm rapidly approaching the moment when I'll finally put my head through the wall in total irritation. There was a REASON I didn't have kids; and honestly, if I'd wanted a 19-year-old in my life when I was 37, I'd have had a baby at 18.