Yellow D (Part 2)

Prepare to be scared

If you haven’t read part one, it’s here: Yellow Daffodils part 1

I’d had problems with my neighbors back in Laurel Canyon. Upstairs, they hated it when I smoked, even on my balcony it was an issue. Or when I fucked too loud, late at night. They’d bang a broom on the floor, which is very anxiety inducing, very distracting when you’re trying to get the job done.

Sound reverberates and bounces around in the canyon so I got mean looks from all the neighborhood folks, even ones on the other side of the mountain. I wondered if maybe I was just paranoid, but then one of them came pounding on my door, one Saturday afternoon.

“It’s the same song over and over again,” yelled the little white haired man, referring to the fact that I recorded a lot of music in the place.

“And your friend, who’s getting a divorce, I know all about it. I know who your dad is. I know the name of the director you dated and the name of the actor you’re hooking up with. I don’t want to know any of this but it’s all being broadcast directly into my living room!”

He threw his hands up, giving flabbergasted Albert Einstein. I sunk into myself with shame.

So, when I found the house in Tennessee, on two acres, I stood outside and surveyed the neighborhood from on top of the long, winding driveway. All the other ranch style homes were also on two or so acres, each plopped onto their own little mound of fluorescent green. Far enough apart that you couldn’t see into anyone’s windows, couldn’t hear any children playing, couldn’t get into anyone’s business.

This is perfect. I can blast my tunes, drink as much as I want, have anyone over at any time day or night, and chain-smoke to my little heart’s content. In fact… no one can even hear me scream, I thought, satisfied.

A few weeks after moving in, I went on a disastrously depressing, ten day trip to New Orleans, to visit a man I was seeing that I should not have been seeing. It was my habit during this time to attach myself to people that were in worse shape than I, drug and alcohol-wise, so I could feel superior while looking down upon them and their problems, from the step where I stood just one up.

Instead, I followed suit and matched him, drink for drink, drug for drug. This trip that I was meant to stay on for maybe three days, turned into ten, mostly because I was too hungover to get into my car and drive back home to Tennessee.

When I finally pulled up the long driveway which led to the back of the ranch style house I newly called home, I noticed something bright poking out from the door handle. I climbed out of my SUV and dragged myself and my suitcase to the door, where I discovered a small bouquet of yellow daffodils tucked behind the lever.

They were fresh.

I looked around at the empty neighborhood. Truly, not a soul was in sight. The only sound was my heart pounding, fast and loud in my ears.

Tentatively, I unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

“Hello?” I called out, unsure of the answer, and if there were to be one, what I might do. My thin voice rang through the halls of the empty house, empty in that I had yet to acquire any furniture. Or anything really. I had one floor lamp, a bed and a couple rugs.

That night, the bare-naked, shadeless windows became apparent to me as I undressed, feeling invisible eyes on me. I did several 360 turns hoping to catch the source of the stares, but saw nothing other than peripheral glimpses of my own hair, sending shock waves up my spine. To cope, I had my nightly bottle of vodka, along with my favorite Benzo of the moment… Lorazepam. Before you knew it, I’d sunk deep into my typical coma.

The next day, I resigned myself to put my domestic cap on and go out in search of curtains, furniture, and something for the shelves of my fridge, which at that point contained only pickles, hot sauce, a near empty bottle of vodka and Grapefruit La Croix. This was my diet, basically eating nothing at all during the day, but ordering a Dominos thin crust pepperoni and jalapeño pizza with extra sauce, at one am while in a blackout.

I returned from my errands, a few hours later, with a few bags of groceries, some cheap white curtains from target, a fresh new bottle of Titos, and even a few nice bottles of wine, feeling like a regular old Holly homemaker. Satisfied, I licked my lips in anticipation of my celebratory drink-y poo as I pulled up the winding driveway. When I reached the door, I nearly dropped my haul, the air in my body exhaled in a gasp like an untied balloon. Tucked behind the golden door handle was another sweet, little bouquet of the same… fresh, un-wilted yellow daffodils.

Now I knew for certain someone was watching me.

TO BE CONTINUED.