You'd think the first thing I would have done would have been to crawl into that bad boy of a huge bed and sleep for days, undisturbed, straightinto the happily ever after. Nope. I'd been on the streets for months. Before that I had lived on a bedbug infested couch in my SRO for I don't know how long. I wasn't sure what to do with a real bed.I felt like I wasn't clean enough to for it, even after I scrubbed myself with all the goodies in the bathroom. The first six months or so I slept on the Persian rug, at the foot of the bed. When I finally did get in, I had to work at it, and often would wake up and go back to the rug, especially when I was having shit-hole dreams, whichhappened more frequently the longer I stayed in the bunker.
More than anything what I felt, after the honeymoon of the first week orso had ended, was acute panic. It was an odd state of affairs. I was convinced I would be found out at any second, that I would be dragged out of this place, and beaten, and then killed or thrown in jail.There were supposedly (according to one of the manuals) surveillance cameras installed in the trees and so forth in the immediate vicinity, but as I already mentioned, I could never get the gear to work and as a result I always felt the presence of someone standing outside the bunker, patiently waiting for me to come out.
Before I understood what had happened I found I was back under the little clock, even more wedged than before. Tasks were essentially eating as little I could to stay full, drinking just enough to keep a buzz going, shitting, and changing videos and DVDs.
And then I had to deal with the garbage. You don't want too much garbage in a place like that, because even with filters and whatever else the Nurse family installed for the vents, you're still going to get bugs if there's yummy waste lying around. I'm a dummy, but even I knew that once the place got infested that was it, forget about trying to get them out. Calling an exterminator is not an option.
Even with the obvious necessity of getting rid of garbage, there didn't seem to be a particularly effective system for removing it. I ended up loading this heavy plastic contractor bag I found, that I could reuse, hoisting it up the ladders with a rope. Outside the bunker presented the challenge of where to dump it without calling attention to myself. I ended up hauling it down the main road, partway down the hill to a construction site. I did this at night, and then I'd scurry back up the hill into the bunker. I'd have to do this at least once a week. Garbage was really the most interesting part of my life in the bunker – it was the only thing I did beyond shitting,eating, drinking booze, and changing movies. I grew smarter about how to pack it, taking both tops and and bottoms off the cans (everything I ate was canned, or in bottles) and then smashing the middle. I actually looked forward to taking care of the trash. Nothing else had any sense of accomplishment to it.
Nine months in, and I'd watched all the movies and shows. I'm not really into entertainment, but there wasn't anything else to do, other than create garbage and haul garbage, and fret about getting caught. I couldn't even tell you titles, though there were times when I got excited, seeing a familiar actor, like I was getting caught up with an old friend, who I only had to hang out with for a few hours. Once I'd seen everything I started all over again. There was nothing else to do.
And that was that. And then the water started running out.
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THE DOG HUNTERS (completed)
General FictionA suicidal homeless weirdo has adventures. He runs into a duo of dog lovers, who spend their days traveling around the city observing and honoring dogs. Wisdom cannot be run away from. He escapes paradise and falls in love with a strange lady who m...
