Over the past few years I’ve noticed that I have acquired certain allergic reactions to various fruits, mostly within the melon family. Does this stop me from eating them? Of course not. I just cowboy up and indulge. How can one say no to a piece of cantaloupe, even if it makes the roof of my mouth itchy and my throat create some swelling? In recent encounters, I have come to the conclusion that more common fruits (apples, grapes, and bananas) are doing some other kind of reaction; the kind that requires you to sit on a toilet. I apologize for the gross factor. Like the melon, I do not stop because I know deep down that fruits are healthy for me.
Today at work there was a fruit platter in the kitchen and, of course, I take stab at some grapes, and within forty seconds, a shotgun went off in my stomach, and I suddenly had a new destination. When I came back to work reality, I had to pass through the kitchen again to get to my office and one of my coworkers was talking about her neighbors and the crazy parties they tend to have on a regular basis. I commented on how in my recent living situations I haven’t had a true bonding experience with any of my neighbors and then suddenly my days at the old Capitola apartment building I lived in with Christy came to me.
I know I have mentioned the Capitola days in the past; it was right after college graduation, I wasn’t making much money at the video store, my boss was a jerk, it was a challenging time for me. One of the other things that played a factor in my living situation was our next-door neighbor. When Christy and I first looked at the fourplex, we had the opportunity to look at the two apartments upstairs (both were vacant). There was suite number 3 and suite number 4. We chose number 4 because it had better natural lighting. About two weeks in, suite number 3 was being occupied. About a day or two later, I finally met the two occupants.
It was a true sense of the odd couple. There was an older man, maybe somewhere between 45 and 55, possible Filipino background, his name was Sam. Then there was the prizewinner. This individual was pretty unique; he was tall and slender, but very toned. He had long blonde hair, but bleached, but not that salon bleach, but Tom Hanks Cast Away bleached. He wore a leather vest, a sports bra, and some small short denim shorts. There were all kinds of tattoos on his arms that were that dark green color and they mixed in with his leathery tan skin. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes and he lacked a front row of teeth. He introduced himself as Miss Daryl Powell, a certified hermaphrodite.
I am not a connoisseur on the hermaphrodite world, but I don’t think that word is used anymore. I believe it has transitioned into transgender, but I can’t back that statement up. So when I reference Miss Daryl Powell, I was never sure what gender to identify Miss Daryl Powell with. Powell didn’t really have any feminine features besides the various articles of clothing he wore (all from the women’s side of the local thrift store). I do recall seeing his chest having lump features but then I saw him, one time, adjusting the little pads under his sports bra. Plus he wore spandex shorts sometimes and, sure enough, there was definitely something three dimensional down there. So maybe Miss Daryl Powell wanted to identify as a woman. I really do not know.
So once they moved in, it was late June, and little did I know that this was going to be a long summer. But not in that Endless Summer- I love surfing- kind of way. Miss Daryl Powell was a very up close and personal type of human, that literally would talk to you with a four inch distance between your face and his/her’s. I remember Miss Daryl Powell asking if Christy and I smoked cigarettes, and we said no. S/he was pleased with this answer because s/he indicated that s/he had asthma. However, s/he then responded with that we better not mind that s/he smokes marijuana because s/he has a license to do so. Miss Daryl Powell mentioned something about bad bones, and then it went into bad blood circulation, and then into other health issues. I just thought it was amusing how one with asthma would be such a proponent of marijuana usage. One thing though, was I didn’t realize that Miss Daryl Powell’s free ticket to partake in the ganja would result in s/he sitting outside of her/his doorway and lighting up. This was quite common. Another observation was the instrument involved; for someone that is medically certified to smoke weed, you would think a better tool would be used. What I saw when s/he smoked was a piece of wood used for the base, a lot of aluminum foil, a straw, and something that looked like a little light bulb. Like the realm of hermaphrodites, I am not a connoisseur on the instruments that allow one to smoke weed, but I would think something a bit more professional would be involved.
When Miss Daryl Powell was not taking in marijuana, s/he would usually sit outside in the little lawn chair placed outside of the door and take in the general surroundings. Every time Christy or myself would leave for work or come back from work, there was Miss Daryl Powell, taking in life. The worst part was when s/he would speak to either of us. Questions about what we were doing would come about. Christy was a runner so on her downtime, she would take advantage of the freedom, and, well, go for a run. Miss Daryl Powell asked about this and then go on about how for thirty years s/he used to train people for marathons. I had my share of conversations with Miss Daryl Powell, and the chronology of her/his life did not quite add up. There were the stories how Miss Daryl Powell was born and raised in Oklahoma, stayed there for thirty years, s/he lived in Hawaii for thirty years, lived in Santa Cruz for thirty years. Of course there was marathon training for thirty years, then there was being a cop for thirty years, worked in real estate for thirty years. While living there I drove a ’74 Plymouth Valiant, and Miss Daryl Powell mentioned that s/he used to work on engines for Valiants for thirty years (although the Plymouth Valiant went extinct by the end of the 1970s). So, basically, Miss Daryl Powell was full of shit, or slightly delusional.
It became a problem with Miss Daryl Powell hanging outside of her/his door that we would fear leaving our apartment because we knew we would have to be caught in some conversation. When I pull in the driveway, I would try focusing on the stairwell to see if there was a body up there. I would sometimes wait in my car until I saw the body move inside.
Miss Daryl Powell then took the initiative to come to our door sometimes and ask for various favors. Both of us had vehicles, s/he did not. Therefore there was always the random errand that needed to be done. S/he would ask if one of us could drive her/him to the social security office to pick up a check, could we take her/him to the store to buy some “pop,” the favors never ended. Neither of us ever did any of those favors because we are liars. We created random excuses all the time in order to avoid taking part in any mentioned actions. S/he would also do random things like put a welcome mat in front of our door, or fix our sliding screen, or hang a plant.
“I fixed your door,” s/he mentioned, as I was about to unlock the door to go inside.
“Oh, I didn’t know it was broken.”
“Oh yeah, you see here…” Miss Daryl Powell then went into great detail about how one of the screws was- I don’t even know what was wrong with the screw. All I remember is hearing Miss Daryl Powell saying that s/he used to be a civil engineer for thirty years. Finally it ended with “it’ll cost you.”
Knowing that I didn’t ask for this deed to be done, I was slightly confused, but I was polite, “Um… what do you want?”
“A meal,” I went inside really quick and found a half empty bag of frozen peas and just threw them to her/him. That hit the spot apparently. But this became a theme later on.
About a month or so in, Miss Daryl Powell’s housemate, Sam, packed up and moved out in the middle of the night. I could tell this hurt Miss Daryl Powell’s feelings, but it didn’t keep me up at night. S/he would then make little visits and ask if I knew anyone that was moving. Miss Daryl Powell was trying to sell the idea, s/he would mention that the deposit was already taken care of, all the person would have to do is just move in. That was it. I remember some people I knew talk about moving but there was no way in hell I was going to alert them about a possible opening.
Finally after a two-week struggle, suddenly Miss Daryl Powell had an answer to her/his problems. S/he rang the doorbell of our place to say that s/he found somebody to move in. S/he met this person at the metro bus center at the Capitola Mall. S/he described him as quiet but aggressive. I wasn’t sure what to expect from those details. A day later I looked through the curtains of our front door and I saw the individual who moved in. He looked like a very hairy bear that was caught in a fish net. I think Miss Daryl Powell found a bum hanging around the bus center and had that person move in. I do not know how rent was paid (well, from either of the two, for that matter). I never met the individual but I called him Papa Bear.
The living situation between Miss Daryl Powell and Papa Bear was somewhat awkward. The two of them had a mutual appreciation for the medically certified marijuana that Miss Daryl Powell had, but once they were inside, all we could hear was yelling. We could never decipher what the yelling was exactly, but the occasional push and shove would take place. Our living room walls would vibrate every once in a while. However, ten minutes later the yelling and physical forces would die down and then the two were back outside taking hits from the aluminum foil instrument with the random light bulb.
By October, one morning I was going to work and I saw a piece of paper taped to the door of our glorious neighbor’s place. It was from the rental company, and it was an eviction notice. There it was, the thirty-day notice and that after the given time period, the two individuals were not allowed back in the premise. There were no details on why exactly, but I had a decent sized list in my head on why they were forced to leave.
Papa Bear suddenly vanished; there were no more signs of his existence after the sign went up. Miss Daryl Powell still hung around; I know he didn’t have much furniture, it was mostly plastic crates and office storage boxes with random pictures taped to the walls. By the end of the eviction due date, somehow Miss Daryl Powell managed to persuade some young guy, maybe my age or a little younger to help Miss Daryl Powell move out. The youngling had a van and Miss Daryl Powell took advantage of this. It was just one day, and Miss Daryl Powell was no longer in our complex. About three weeks after that, a young married couple moved in. They were incredibly sweet people.
I saw Miss Daryl Powell maybe two more times after that. Both were at the bus center at the Capitola Mall. The first time, s/he was just walking around, sort of hovering in front of the Carl’s Jr. The second time, s/he was leaning against the wall of the bus center, her/his head rocking out to some tunes. The funnier part of this site was seeing the headphones attached to her/his head but the cord that dangled from the headphones was not plugged into anything. Oh Miss Daryl Powell, how you amused me.
Today at work there was a fruit platter in the kitchen and, of course, I take stab at some grapes, and within forty seconds, a shotgun went off in my stomach, and I suddenly had a new destination. When I came back to work reality, I had to pass through the kitchen again to get to my office and one of my coworkers was talking about her neighbors and the crazy parties they tend to have on a regular basis. I commented on how in my recent living situations I haven’t had a true bonding experience with any of my neighbors and then suddenly my days at the old Capitola apartment building I lived in with Christy came to me.
I know I have mentioned the Capitola days in the past; it was right after college graduation, I wasn’t making much money at the video store, my boss was a jerk, it was a challenging time for me. One of the other things that played a factor in my living situation was our next-door neighbor. When Christy and I first looked at the fourplex, we had the opportunity to look at the two apartments upstairs (both were vacant). There was suite number 3 and suite number 4. We chose number 4 because it had better natural lighting. About two weeks in, suite number 3 was being occupied. About a day or two later, I finally met the two occupants.
It was a true sense of the odd couple. There was an older man, maybe somewhere between 45 and 55, possible Filipino background, his name was Sam. Then there was the prizewinner. This individual was pretty unique; he was tall and slender, but very toned. He had long blonde hair, but bleached, but not that salon bleach, but Tom Hanks Cast Away bleached. He wore a leather vest, a sports bra, and some small short denim shorts. There were all kinds of tattoos on his arms that were that dark green color and they mixed in with his leathery tan skin. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes and he lacked a front row of teeth. He introduced himself as Miss Daryl Powell, a certified hermaphrodite.
I am not a connoisseur on the hermaphrodite world, but I don’t think that word is used anymore. I believe it has transitioned into transgender, but I can’t back that statement up. So when I reference Miss Daryl Powell, I was never sure what gender to identify Miss Daryl Powell with. Powell didn’t really have any feminine features besides the various articles of clothing he wore (all from the women’s side of the local thrift store). I do recall seeing his chest having lump features but then I saw him, one time, adjusting the little pads under his sports bra. Plus he wore spandex shorts sometimes and, sure enough, there was definitely something three dimensional down there. So maybe Miss Daryl Powell wanted to identify as a woman. I really do not know.
So once they moved in, it was late June, and little did I know that this was going to be a long summer. But not in that Endless Summer- I love surfing- kind of way. Miss Daryl Powell was a very up close and personal type of human, that literally would talk to you with a four inch distance between your face and his/her’s. I remember Miss Daryl Powell asking if Christy and I smoked cigarettes, and we said no. S/he was pleased with this answer because s/he indicated that s/he had asthma. However, s/he then responded with that we better not mind that s/he smokes marijuana because s/he has a license to do so. Miss Daryl Powell mentioned something about bad bones, and then it went into bad blood circulation, and then into other health issues. I just thought it was amusing how one with asthma would be such a proponent of marijuana usage. One thing though, was I didn’t realize that Miss Daryl Powell’s free ticket to partake in the ganja would result in s/he sitting outside of her/his doorway and lighting up. This was quite common. Another observation was the instrument involved; for someone that is medically certified to smoke weed, you would think a better tool would be used. What I saw when s/he smoked was a piece of wood used for the base, a lot of aluminum foil, a straw, and something that looked like a little light bulb. Like the realm of hermaphrodites, I am not a connoisseur on the instruments that allow one to smoke weed, but I would think something a bit more professional would be involved.
When Miss Daryl Powell was not taking in marijuana, s/he would usually sit outside in the little lawn chair placed outside of the door and take in the general surroundings. Every time Christy or myself would leave for work or come back from work, there was Miss Daryl Powell, taking in life. The worst part was when s/he would speak to either of us. Questions about what we were doing would come about. Christy was a runner so on her downtime, she would take advantage of the freedom, and, well, go for a run. Miss Daryl Powell asked about this and then go on about how for thirty years s/he used to train people for marathons. I had my share of conversations with Miss Daryl Powell, and the chronology of her/his life did not quite add up. There were the stories how Miss Daryl Powell was born and raised in Oklahoma, stayed there for thirty years, s/he lived in Hawaii for thirty years, lived in Santa Cruz for thirty years. Of course there was marathon training for thirty years, then there was being a cop for thirty years, worked in real estate for thirty years. While living there I drove a ’74 Plymouth Valiant, and Miss Daryl Powell mentioned that s/he used to work on engines for Valiants for thirty years (although the Plymouth Valiant went extinct by the end of the 1970s). So, basically, Miss Daryl Powell was full of shit, or slightly delusional.
It became a problem with Miss Daryl Powell hanging outside of her/his door that we would fear leaving our apartment because we knew we would have to be caught in some conversation. When I pull in the driveway, I would try focusing on the stairwell to see if there was a body up there. I would sometimes wait in my car until I saw the body move inside.
Miss Daryl Powell then took the initiative to come to our door sometimes and ask for various favors. Both of us had vehicles, s/he did not. Therefore there was always the random errand that needed to be done. S/he would ask if one of us could drive her/him to the social security office to pick up a check, could we take her/him to the store to buy some “pop,” the favors never ended. Neither of us ever did any of those favors because we are liars. We created random excuses all the time in order to avoid taking part in any mentioned actions. S/he would also do random things like put a welcome mat in front of our door, or fix our sliding screen, or hang a plant.
“I fixed your door,” s/he mentioned, as I was about to unlock the door to go inside.
“Oh, I didn’t know it was broken.”
“Oh yeah, you see here…” Miss Daryl Powell then went into great detail about how one of the screws was- I don’t even know what was wrong with the screw. All I remember is hearing Miss Daryl Powell saying that s/he used to be a civil engineer for thirty years. Finally it ended with “it’ll cost you.”
Knowing that I didn’t ask for this deed to be done, I was slightly confused, but I was polite, “Um… what do you want?”
“A meal,” I went inside really quick and found a half empty bag of frozen peas and just threw them to her/him. That hit the spot apparently. But this became a theme later on.
About a month or so in, Miss Daryl Powell’s housemate, Sam, packed up and moved out in the middle of the night. I could tell this hurt Miss Daryl Powell’s feelings, but it didn’t keep me up at night. S/he would then make little visits and ask if I knew anyone that was moving. Miss Daryl Powell was trying to sell the idea, s/he would mention that the deposit was already taken care of, all the person would have to do is just move in. That was it. I remember some people I knew talk about moving but there was no way in hell I was going to alert them about a possible opening.
Finally after a two-week struggle, suddenly Miss Daryl Powell had an answer to her/his problems. S/he rang the doorbell of our place to say that s/he found somebody to move in. S/he met this person at the metro bus center at the Capitola Mall. S/he described him as quiet but aggressive. I wasn’t sure what to expect from those details. A day later I looked through the curtains of our front door and I saw the individual who moved in. He looked like a very hairy bear that was caught in a fish net. I think Miss Daryl Powell found a bum hanging around the bus center and had that person move in. I do not know how rent was paid (well, from either of the two, for that matter). I never met the individual but I called him Papa Bear.
The living situation between Miss Daryl Powell and Papa Bear was somewhat awkward. The two of them had a mutual appreciation for the medically certified marijuana that Miss Daryl Powell had, but once they were inside, all we could hear was yelling. We could never decipher what the yelling was exactly, but the occasional push and shove would take place. Our living room walls would vibrate every once in a while. However, ten minutes later the yelling and physical forces would die down and then the two were back outside taking hits from the aluminum foil instrument with the random light bulb.
By October, one morning I was going to work and I saw a piece of paper taped to the door of our glorious neighbor’s place. It was from the rental company, and it was an eviction notice. There it was, the thirty-day notice and that after the given time period, the two individuals were not allowed back in the premise. There were no details on why exactly, but I had a decent sized list in my head on why they were forced to leave.
Papa Bear suddenly vanished; there were no more signs of his existence after the sign went up. Miss Daryl Powell still hung around; I know he didn’t have much furniture, it was mostly plastic crates and office storage boxes with random pictures taped to the walls. By the end of the eviction due date, somehow Miss Daryl Powell managed to persuade some young guy, maybe my age or a little younger to help Miss Daryl Powell move out. The youngling had a van and Miss Daryl Powell took advantage of this. It was just one day, and Miss Daryl Powell was no longer in our complex. About three weeks after that, a young married couple moved in. They were incredibly sweet people.
I saw Miss Daryl Powell maybe two more times after that. Both were at the bus center at the Capitola Mall. The first time, s/he was just walking around, sort of hovering in front of the Carl’s Jr. The second time, s/he was leaning against the wall of the bus center, her/his head rocking out to some tunes. The funnier part of this site was seeing the headphones attached to her/his head but the cord that dangled from the headphones was not plugged into anything. Oh Miss Daryl Powell, how you amused me.
2 comments:
Peter,
I had almost forgotten just HOW crazy Ms. Powell was. Thank you for reminding me. That post was great. :)
I'm glad you read it; I figured this was one of those exclusive Peter/Christy stories. No one could truly understand what we had experienced.
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