Re: sunday night
———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Angela Tavares <angela_tavares@mac.com>
Date: Tue, Dec 9, 2008 at 3:12 AM
Subject: Re: sunday night
To: George A—— <GA——@gmail.com>
Dear George,
I’m sorry about the fence. I know I’ve seen you out in your yard a couple times this past week, your grass is so green already, with the leaves and brush left from endless winter storms already collected, barreled, and burned, but I haven’t had the courage to talk to you face to face. I’m someone who’s comfortable with hiding behind words.
And the music you’re hearing is mine. At this volume, it fills the house, from my basement up through my chimney, which is why I think I’ve caught you looking out your bathroom window at me. You did just 10 minutes ago. The yellow tiles you have there are nice. I’ve wondered if they’re authentic to the house. They look that way. I like the music loud because then I don’t feel so alone. I miss my dogs. They were good friends, and I know you liked them, too. They would get so excited when you’d call them by name from your deck, looking out over my fence when it was still standing. I can’t get another because the last one was the worst. She looked me right in the eye the whole time and I had to hold her still because she was resisting. Her muscles tensed against my body but she never turned her head away. She wanted me to watch her die, not miss a thing. She was such a little bitch and upset the whole balance of the house, the other two hated her. And I did watch the whole thing just like she wanted and didn’t leave until the doctor said she’d call me a cab or did I have a family member. I sat in my car for hours before I could drive.
I like being alone with this music, with the refrigerator and the big TV. It’s ugly music, but I identify. When I walk through my house, I feel like I’m in a horror film. I keep the lights off, except for in the den. I like the excitement of every turn I take possibly being my last.
I’m writing to tell you I’m sorry about the fence. There has been lots of women in and out of the house. I feel like all the neighbors notice, but I can’t apologize to everyone. How would I apologize to families so young? It wouldn’t come out right. I only realized the number of women was getting high when I started losing track of names. What happened was that I called Meghan Michaela, then I realized I didn’t even know a Michaela, don’t know how the name even came to me so it must have been something from the TV. By the time I processed all this she was already upset. I don’t even really know her, but I know at least that she’s using me. Everyone tells me this, all my friends. I don’t have a lot, but they tell me this. I like dogs way more. I am single and own a house and have a good job. These are my good traits. These are the ones that make my mother happy. Every time someone tells me my good traits, I think that sometimes there aren’t enough ways in this world to commit suicide. I would do it in the bathtub, though, which is how most women do. Wrists to the creases of my elbows and wait it out. She is using you, they say. They all are. But, okay, that’s fine because I’m using them, too. There is a Michaela, actually, now that I think about it. She’s the blonde one, if you remember. They use me for drugs and sex, a place to stay. I use them for more drugs and a second presence in the house. I try to use only a certain type of junkie, but it’s sort of gotten out of control lately. This is my fault.
I didn’t know your nephew was in the backyard. If I had, I would have stopped her. I’m sorry we scared your sister and that she was so upset.
I got your e-mail address from Facebook. You should probably change your security settings if this e-mail troubles or surprises you.
I will call someone to fix the fence and please send me an e-mail reply with all I owe you for what was damaged on your side.
Good night.
Angela Tavares
About angelatav
This is an amazing piece of writing, Angela. Truly.
Thanks, Kate! I guess I was having such a bad week that I wanted to become a loner junkie. Three cheers for loner junkies!
Hear, hear!
Wow. This is really intoxicated. Like "holy shit was she messed up when she wrote this?" intoxicated.
Oh good, yes! That was the point. And so scary, too, that I could be so intoxicated just on…whatever…not traditional intoxicating things. Happy, happy, though, that it came across.
Helluva way to start a month of intoxicated writings, Angela. Well done. I kinda think I'd enjoy being George for a day.
As for suicide recommendations…well…I suggest reading Wrecked-Um's long-winded, 3000+ word, political tirade from 3.31.2010. Three 'graphs in you'll wish you were dead rather than having to read another word.
Ouuuucchhhhh…You told me you loved it…You even said you loved the Palin line….YOU TOLD ME YOU TWITTED IT TO HER EVEN!!!……Never trust a Poop.
This was awesome. I had a longer post written, but it apparently got eaten by WordPress or something.
I was drunk. And when I'm drunk, I lie. I drunk right now. So take this for what you will…
(Angela, I really did enjoy YOUR story though. I swear by that!)
Thanks, Wrecked! Appreciate your kind words.
And to you as well, Poop. You can move in next door any day, but the other side, or across the street to the right, because George is a really, really good guy.
Dude, I'm actually drunk too! And here is my original comment…I found it in a sea of "go back one page" clicks on Firefox.
Ouuuucchhhhh…You told me you loved it…You even said you loved the Palin line….YOU TOLD ME YOU TWITTED IT TO HER EVEN!!!……Never trust a Poop.
By the way, I loved this. That psychotic, stream of well strung babble, a zillion thoughts trying to make it out all at once, and you think you're saying it all perfectly and reasonably and NO ONE thinks you're fucked up because you're expressing yourself fluently and sanely…I have so totally been there. And to put oneself in the shoes of the receiver reading with this "what the fuck?" look, is just fantastic, slow-burn, awkward comedy. Well done.
Poor George! Gets a heartfelt, confessional email from his junkie neighbor–now what? Response 1: No worries, the fence was old anyway
Response 2: Lemme in on the action, and we'll call it even
Oh, this makes me laugh. But only because I'm now picturing George's smiling face, those bright, white teeth, his arm in the air to wave as he says, almost always, "Hah-lloo, Ahn-gee-laah! How are dee dogs?"
I always warp such good things.
Angela – I loved this piece! Powerful and honest. Amazing!
Well…thank you very much!
Creepy and weird. So you know, I enjoyed it, as I enjoy all your writing.
Creepy and weird! Just like….?
Your perpetual return to the fence is terrifying and amazing. To reduce the major point of communication to something so basic and suburban is shocking. If good fences make good neighbors, we know what bad fences lead to. Splendid, important writing here.
Oh, we sure do. Bad fences lead to a $670 bill. Christ.
And thank you.
I'm not entirely sure what's going on here, but I think that's part of the point. There's so much not being said that it could be a million things. Kind of like in Pulp Fiction when you don't actually see what's in the case. I actually thought that was the most brilliant part of the film. That he resisted the temptation to show us the contents. And I'm getting the same reaction here. We read the email. We know a "fence" has been wrecked, and we're given some possible answers. Love it!
Hey thanks, Will!
P.S. I'll tell you the whole story the next time I see you in the kitchen.
Angela,
One of my favorite parts of this piece is: "When I walk through my house, I feel like I’m in a horror film. I keep the lights off, except for in the den. I like the excitement of every turn I take possibly being my last." It makes me think of a neurosis I used to have I referred to as "The Killer." I wasn't sure when or how, but I knew that The Killer was going to get me one day.
Love the stream of consciousness and lucidity of the thought processes in this piece. Indeed, a great way to kick off the month! :0)
~~acb
Thanks, acb!
Angela, you did a really god job with this, especially getting the reader into your mindset.
So happy to read this, because that's what I was most concerned about: writing like a fuck up convincingly.
Needless to say, I don't know if I should be so happy that I pulled it off or not.
Bah—who am I kidding? I'm happy with my fuck-up status!
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