White Trash Drama
9.21.7
Autumn once told me, "The true measure of a white trash family is how much of their drama occurs in the front yard." In recent weeks, I've found myself enthralled by this exact scenario unfolding outside my window.
The show started a couple of weeks ago when I heard a motorcycle tearing through our parking lot. I looked outside to see some guy on a bike passing a minivan at dangerous speeds. He then cut the van off in an obvious display of pissed-off road-rage. After watching them disappear around a distant corner, I went back to whatever it was I had been doing.
Minutes later, the minivan returned and pulled up to the fire lane. The motorcycle wasn't far behind. I could see the driver of the minivan angrily tugging at his seatbelt, trying to undo it. Once he had freed himself, a blonde girl in the passenger seat grabbed his arm, and said, "Not in front of the kids. Please?"
At this point I started to piece together my own version of what had happened. I guessed that there had been some kind of near-accident in the parking lot. Instead of just going their separate ways, the men's egos had allowed it to escalate into some kind of fight. Perhaps the biker was instigating things...the guy in the van was probably her husband who wanted to protect his family's honor. I wanted a better view, so I went outside and pretended to look through my storage closet.
In some kind of weird Mexican standoff, everyone just stayed inside their vehicles for a while. Eventually, the guy on the motorcycle screamed at the top of his lungs, "You fucking WHOOOOOORE!" He then drove off, and the family started to walk to the building to go inside.
Now, I generally like to know if the area I live in is crawling with violent maniacs who will kill me for driving the wrong way, so I began to wonder exactly what had happened. As she walked beneath my balcony I decided to ask, "What was that guy's problem?"
"Oh, that's just my ex. He's a psycho."
A few days passed before the next scene in this white trash drama unfolded. I was hanging up clothes in the bedroom when her voice started drifting through the open window. "How long have you been in town? Oh yeah? Have you been to Shotgun Willie's? Or is that not your type of place?"
Shotgun Willie's is one of the local topless bars. It's the kind of place where I'd imagine you can still hear Kid Rock being played on a regular basis. Apparently, this chick was a stripper. Or at least a cocktail waitress.
She then went on to list all of her scheduled shifts for the week, mentioning that she could get some VIP cards for him. "Which apartment are you at? I'll just put 'em under your mat, and you can bring some guys from your work." The whole conversation took place in that cute flirty tone of voice that girls use when they're trying to pick up a man (or sell something to one).
The next day as I was walking to my apartment after work, I heard the amazingly loud sound of her voice echoing down the halls. As I was walking up the stairs, she was walking down. She was practically screaming the details of her job into a cell phone the whole time.
She was definitely not a cocktail waitress...
More time passed before I was treated to another front yard display.
I was just getting home after another hard day's work, when I saw her standing next to the minivan. Not wanting to miss a moment of the show, I hurried upstairs and immediately lifted my windows. She stood at the van for a few minutes before finally walking away, crying underneath her sunglasses.
Her young daughter, who had been standing on their balcony the whole time, asked, "Are you alright?"
To this, the stripper replied, "No, I'm not alright! Do I look alright?" In a display of award-winning parenting, she then lifted her sunglasses to expose her tear-smudged mascara and pointed to her eyes, repeating, "Do I look alright?!?"
Perhaps the white-trashiest thing I've witnessed over the past few weeks, however, was the recent finale. I was in my living room, when the biker suddenly returned. He pulled up, and parked his bike in the fire lane. As he stepped off of it, he unzipped his leather jacket exposing a faded Jack Daniels t-shirt. He then walked towards the apartments, reaching for a bulge in his jeans pocket. Eventually he fished out a 16-ounce can of Coors Light.
An hour or so later, I saw him and stripper-whore leaving together. She was wearing a black leather outfit, and a bandanna, which seemed completely contrary to the clothes I had previously seen her in. They mounted the motorcycle together, and he began to rev the engine, effectively drowning out her children's chants of, "I love you, Mommy!"
The last time I saw her, she was clutching onto her psycho ex-boyfriend as they rode into the sunset, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
