Evermore (7)

I had my lawyer on the phone and I was screaming.  She was trying to counsel me but I wouldn’t stop screaming.

“How did she get my goddamn address?  Who knows where I am?  Who did you tell?  Then how did she know where to send the goddamn package?”

And I have no fucking clue what her answers were to any of my questions.  It doesn’t matter what she had to say really, I wasn’t being very rational and I needed to vent or I was going to do something drastic. All of my therapy has taught me to get it out, don’t keep it in.  So there I was, following doctor’s orders.  Venting.  Loudly down the telephone line.  While the meter was running.  $495 a hour.

“I will make sure that never happens again.” my lawyer said in a reassuring tone.

“I just don’t think it’s very good for the healing process to be blindsided like that!” I shared “I should feel safe to open my mail. And now my neighbor … he’s getting the mail instead of me.  I feel very vulnerable.”

“What does your therapist suggest?”

“I haven’t told him.”

She was quiet for a moment, then let out an audible sigh before continuing in a monotone. “Well. I suggest you talk to him about it.”

“This is a distraction from what I’m supposed to be focusing on.  I’m really disappointed that I’ve been exposed like this…”

“As I said before, I don’t know how Miss Samantha got your address but I will make sure she does not attempt to contact you again.”

I said nothing.

“Ok?”

“Yes.  Ok.  Fine.” I acquiesced.

The day was heating up and my body was sore from stress and guilt and the complete sense of panic that seized me when I looked at the contents of the package.  I needed to regroup.  Get out of my head and in to a better mental space.  The best way to do that, I’ve found, is by neatly packing a joint and enjoying it out by the pool.  The higher I get, the more my mind relaxes and I’m able to keep my emotions in check.  When I’m high, I’m mellow, no surprise there, and I need to be mellow.  I need to maintain balance.  And the weed is medicinal grade so I get just high enough, not stoned.

So I was smoking in peace, rocking back and forth in a hammock the owners of this house left behind when I heard someone tinkering on a guitar nearby. Barely. I was a tiny bit faded at this point so I sat up to try and hear more clearly.  Definitely guitar. Acoustic.  And then I heard singing.  No actual words – just jibberish.  But it sounded pretty good. And I’m pretty sure it was coming from Jared’s residence.

Emboldened by the confidence weed bestows upon me for whatever reason, I slunk through the trees separating my property from Jared’s and walked up the drive between our two houses so I could hear better.  Part of his house sits high above the drive, built against the hill, but up against the road, looking down on my house. I think he was in the room just above where I stood.

I’m not the biggest Thirty Seconds to Mars fan, I know the band exists but that’s about it.  That’s not an insult to him or his fans, I just haven’t heard much about them (I’ve been busy) but I was liking what I was hearing from my spot in the yard.

I can appreciate a unique voice and his attempt at controlling it.  He has a nice sound.  Nothing flashy.  But definitely catchy.  I listened to him play on. It sounded like he was writing a new piece.  Trying out a tempo.  A story. Making a melody.  It was enjoyable, listening to his process for a little while. Undetected.

I finished my joint while leaning up against a concrete wall below an open window but I didn’t leave.  I kept listening to him play.  I sat down for awhile.  Almost begging to be caught.  But I was mellow and unafraid.  Relaxed and distracted.  I think I might be able to write a song someday. Or maybe just lyrics. I was writing them in my head as I listened to Jared play.  But I doubt I’d remember how to play guitar, though I did it every Sunday for the church well in to my twenties. I should pick that back up.  Maybe. It’s good to have plans.  Someday.

Eventually Jared stopped playing and I slunk back to my house feeling a lot better about everything.  The music felt like a gift.  My own private concert.  And I needed that … badly.

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