Tales of the Storage Space, Part 108

Martin was six.

Was he dreaming?

His mum’s garden.  Kent.  All was as prim and proper as the primroses.  Even Martin.  It was years before he fell in with what his Daa called “that bad lot.”  Years before he was so desperate to fit in and impress the girls that he’d do anything “that bad lot” told him to.  Including all those hallucinogenic drugs…

His mum’s garden.  His Daa started watering with the garden hose.  For some reason the water coming out of that hose terrified Martin.  But his mum picked him up and swung him around in the sunlight, laughing.  Then she stopped, hugged him tight, and nuzzled his neck.  Martin could smell the scent of her soap, which she would also use when she scrubbed him clean.  It reminded him of fluffy clean towels, bed linens, and cozy bedtime stories.  Then they were on the ground, with his folks stealing a kiss over his head before they all three got busy weeding and patting the ground down around the flowers “just so.”  The earth was warm and wonderfully alive with the scents of the plants growing in it.  Martin was happy, surrounded by his parents, watching their six hands working in that warm, rich dirt together.  Making everything in their world all neat and tidy.

This was so much better than all those hallucinogenic drugs…

But with that he knew he wasn’t really in his mum’s garden, hadn’t been there for…decades.

Where was he?

He was on the ground, and there was dirt on his hands.  But this dirt didn’t smell good.  There were two bigger people surrounding him, but they were both men.  For a moment he caught a flash of his dirt and blood-covered hands buried in a foul littering of dirt and garbage scattered over a hard, concrete floor.  But then he spotted a pink and pudgy-cute T-rex winking furiously at him.  There.  That was much better!

Tales of the Storage Space, Part 107

Imogene had like two effin’ choices, stare at the still-wet, water-leak stain on the acoustical tile right over her head or stare at her ugly sleeping roommate with, like, gray skin and no effin’ hair.

Finally the door slammed open again.

Imogene prayed it was the super-sexy-cute guy again.  Or even that nurse that was always Draking…if she brought a TV.

It wasn’t either of them.

It was a cop.  Almost as old as her roommate.  He pulled a chair over next to Imogene, took out a tablet, and like blabbed a bunch of dumb preliminaries before getting down to it.  “I understand, little lady, that you came in with another patient?”

“Cray cray bitch from the storage space building?”  Imogene was wondering if she could get to Snapchat on that tablet…

“Excuse me?”

“That blonde bitch.  Cray cray.  Def not woke.”

“Actually the young lady in question is no longer asleep.”

“Like I didn’t mean like literally asleep…”

“And quite upset.  Won’t stop screaming.”  He rolled his eyes and looked disgusted.  “Thinks she saw a ghost.”

“Like I say, totally, like completely, cray cray.”

“‘Cray cray’?”

“Crazy!  Don’t you know anything?” Imogene snapped, then caught herself.  “Like, sorry, officer, but I like get carried away because like that cray cray…sorry…really truly totally crazy bitch is always at that storage space building, like works there, and is so def not woke…that means so definitely completely out of it…that she thinks all kinds of cray…crazy things and was probably so out of it that she thought she was helping when she like stabbed that guy with that scalpel!”

The officer didn’t respond, too busy struggling to take notes on a tablet he was obviously def not woke about using.

So there, thought Imogene, that should get that cray cray bitch locked up for, like, forever.  She turned away to look back up at the still-wet, water-stain on the acoustical tile right over her head.

“That poor, beautiful blonde…”

Compassion?  Understanding?  Those were like not at all the effin’ responses Imogene was expecting.  Or wanted.  She was about to look back towards the cop, and maybe think of something else she could say to make the cop hate that cray cray bitch as much as she did, when a drop of water splashed right into her eye.

“And in the worst hospital in the city,” said the cop sympathetically.

Imogene looked back at the cop.  He looked up from the tablet and clapped a hand to his mouth, like he hadn’t realized he’d been talking aloud.  She was pretty sure his sympathy over the effin’ hospital hadn’t been about leaky ceilings but about that effin’ cray cray bitch Karen.

Imogene could have screamed.  She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say, so she turned back to the ceiling.

A water drop splashed into her other eye.

Tales of the Storage Space, Part 106

The Storage Space would have screamed with pain when its front door was slammed open against the wall, if only a building could…

Why was it deigning to think in human terms again?  Why could it not free itself forever from even the last vestige of association with those wretched, vulgar creatures?  Why couldn’t it concentrate solely on objects with dignity, id est inanimate?

The Storage Space thought of art, that upstart Claude Monet’s multiple paintings during different seasons of that bridge in Giverny.  It thought of architecture, that oddly sensuous new movement also coming out of France:  Art Nouveau.

It thought about how it could be argued that all these inanimate objects might in some vague way be associated with humans.  Such an insidious consideration was firmly swept aside.

“May I help you?”

That beautiful voice.  Human!  Well, yes, but some humans were…at least tolerable.

“Hey, sup?”

Unlike others.

“I beg your pardon?”

Amelia of the beautiful voice.  But did the Storage Space detect a hint in her voice of the revulsion it shared?

“I beg pardon,” the intolerable other mimicked.  “How are you this fine day?”

“Fine, thank you, young man.  That’s an awful lot of suitcases, even for a storage space.  You…believe in quick getaways?”


Another voice, forced high and dreadful, along with all the speaker’s pink hair.

“Fifi…you know this guy?”

The pregnant teenager’s father, with his arm around this…Fifi creature.

“I’m so innocent.  Really!” Fifi protested, squirming within his embrace.  “Rainbow Shoes, here, with all the suitcases?  I was just talking to him on the street when I was waiting in your car while you took care of…  What’s your daughter’s name?  Really!  I just can’t remember these things.”

“Imogene.  I can’t help it if it took a while.  My wife beat her up again.”

“But isn’t Emily, Imelda, Whoever in the hospital now?  Really!  I remember that!  So what are we doing back here?”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty pink head about, so you wait here.”

Tales of the Storage Space, Part 105

Sebastian couldn’t stop thinking “god-awful” when he contemplated his discovery about Fifi in Unit 3.  Bad enough getting head from a middle-aged woman with two-tons of makeup and pink hair…he’d only agreed to it as a goof because with her tacky clothes she managed to match every color in his rainbow platform sneakers…but to discover that she wasn’t even a woman!  What an idiot!

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her, him, them, whatever.

And he needed to concentrate on what he was doing.

It hadn’t been easy to weasel his idiot girlfriend Carmen into letting him “borrow” all her big, wheeled suitcases…which of course he had no intention of returning.  Idiot didn’t even admit to being his girlfriend, or to liking the sex he kept having to force on her.  Or the little, fun, slapping around he had to give her to get the suitcases.  But here he was, on his way back to that storage space building he’d stolen all those keys from with enough suitcases to do a whole shitload of shopping.

Lights, cameras, action…he was about to swing through the door where he’d have to pass reception with a ton of giant suitcases, a fistful of stolen storage unit keys crammed into a pocket in his skinny, reveal-all jeans and what…a big, shit-eating smile?

He froze for moment outside the door, thinking yet again about all the shit he had to go through to make a living in such a god-awful world and the idiots who kept jacking up the prices for the substance abuse necessary to make it tolerable.  Then he remembered “he who hesitates is lost” and “carpe diem” and crashed through the door.