I haven’t been writing much, it’s true. Lots of unpleasant shiz has been going down. Remember when I mentioned how we returned to our island a few weeks ago, found the house broken into, the guitar stolen, and the car 50% hot-wired and 100% undrivable? Well, quite recently the dude that did all that damage showed up to finish the job. Yeah. It was awful. Was he dangerous? No. He was some junky, or lunatic, who knows. This island attracts crazies, and they are drawn to me like bees to honey. See exhibits A- crazy old hag, B- crazy older hag or C- crazy middle aged hag should you need further proof. Admittedly, this was a dude, and in his 30s- not an old hag, but let’s not split hairs.
The girls were napping (thank God). He pulled up and got out of his car and I went out on my porch thinking this was someone who had the wrong house. I didn’t realize he was the man who robbed me until he asked me about my guitar and car. We had a strange conversation as I backed up to my door. He confessed to everything. Said he traded my guitar for drugs and he’d try to get it back. Said he’d pay me back for all the damage to my car. Still holding my breath on both promises (yea right). Anyway, I didn’t want to exchange pleasantries. Hot tailed it inside and called the cops. Lots of drama ensued. Days later I waited for hours at a scary police station to pick him out of a lineup, thinking to myself- what is the point? He’s hardly going to do hard time for this. He’s a junky, and nuts, so I doubt this will teach him any form of lesson. Why am I wasting my time? But I went through with it. I’m a good girl (some of the time) and he’s a bad boy, and good girls should stand up to bad boys when guitars and family automobiles are involved.
Now don’t worry, I don’t live in a bad neighborhood, and this dude was hardly a kingpin or criminal mastermind. He wasn’t from my neighborhood or anywhere near. I would be shocked if he were from this island. I know he wasn’t, he was white as snow. Admittedly I am white, fair, freckley, but if you live in the tropics for any period of time, you do get color, and he had none. Positively ghostly. Given that he was not at all fastidious in his appearance and hygiene (as junkies rarely are) I highly doubt he’s fastidious with sunscreen. I also know he’s not from here by his voice. No accent. No local slang. All the locals have accents, all use slang. He’s not from here, new here, and now that the police have him, I doubt he’ll be staying long.
So how did he end up at/robbing my house? He showed up for a party. Not that kind of party, ladies, we’re not in college anymore A church party, complete with preacher giving a fire and brimstone sermon. Oh, the irony. Obviously, I didn’t plan this party- I wasn’t even on the island at the time. There is an old wooden church near my house, one of the first built on the island. It’s falling apart, but in a charming, romantic way, and the locals had gathered at the park in front of my house to celebrate its one hundred year anniversary. Unfortunately, the church BBQ seems to have attracted some ne’er-do-wells. A neighbor let slip that we were away when another neighbor asked why we weren’t attending, and obviously, someone overheard.
The fallout has been stressful. Police, insurance reps, tow trucks, never ending complications, and a whole lotta wine to soften the blow of enormous deductibles. And I miss my guitar. My father gave it to me when I turned 17. It’s the only thing I’ve owned that long, and I really wish he’d stolen my TV instead because we never use it; we used the guitar everyday. The girls danced to it. I know there are far sadder things going on in the world than the theft of my guitar, but I miss it- a lot.
I’ve been hesitant to blog about all this crap (and it is all crap) because it counteracts my new philosophy for the new decade. I am determined to make this decade better (and decidedly less sucky) than the last. By whatever means necessary. I mean to stick like glue to my new resolve and not be drawn into (sometimes) overwhelming suckiness (it’s STILL gonna be a great decade, goddammit!). I read once that the way to get through adversity (be it large or small) is to look at it from another angle, and find opportunity. Well, I suppose Jungledad has been bugging me forever to teach him how to play the saxophone…
Still, for all my strained optimism, I hope the drugs that dude traded my guitar for gave him coughing fits and a bloody nose, were cut with salt and oregano, and left him deeply, deeply unsatisfied.
And to conclude the pity party, a final farewell to my beautiful guitar: