Left, right.
Squish, squish.
— The Gooed Shoes
I worked at The Boxtan Inn for six months.
I was already starting to look for a more suitable living arrangement when there was an incident that bothered me more than the others. And that's saying a lot.
It was early in the morning. I was asleep.
I woke, startled, when I noticed what sounded like someone trying to bust the lock on my door. I grabbed the lamp and yanked the cord out of the wall. And I waited. The moment the door opened, I was going to slam the base of the lamp into the head of whoever came in and wrap the cord around him, neck first.
But sounds stopped.
Then there were no sounds at all.
Then, a man who I presume was the would-be intruder, screamed, "No! NO!" followed by... I don't know... the sound of something like a log and a watermelon hitting concrete. And then, a brief period of no sounds returned, which made perfect sense based on the preceding sounds.
I looked through the peephole, hoping to see what happened, but all I saw was a giant eyeball, which had a surprisingly deep voice. It said, "STAY."
I did.
Then something, which I assume had previously been a person, was dragged, shoveled, and then squeegeed away.
Then I heard a hose, which was odd since that was usually my job at The Boxtan.
And then, finally, the eyeball appeared in the peephole again.
It said, "OK."
I was unconvinced.
I needed proof.
When I looked down, I got plenty of it.
I didn't see the floor. Instead, I saw fate, telling me it was time to find a new place to live. And a new job. And also new shoes, because a whole lot of goo, or should I say eww which had previously been part of a who, had seeped under the door.
I was in quite a hurry to find new shoes, as you can imagine, so I headed out to browse some of the vintage shops around Miller Beach as soon as they opened. Miller Beach is a nicer neighborhood in Gary.
Technically, any neighborhood was a nicer neighborhood, compared to The Boxtan Inn, but Miller Beach is actually nice. Ish. Look, it's all relative, but the funk in my squishy shoes was a reminder that somebody's family now had one less relative and squishers can't be choosers.
Again, to be clear, I didn't squish him. That's not the point.
I couldn't afford anything new, but my squishy shoes had to go.
I found some tolerable boots at The Shady Lady Exchange, which was sort of like a thrift store for vintage clothes, sundries, and "For Display Only" weapons. The store's logo was a girl holding an umbrella, but the handle was a tire iron. Legal stuff was sold out front. The rest was in the back. Yeah, it was that kind of place, but for chicks, which I assume is why it didn't get raided.
They had a help wanted sign next to the cash register, so I applied for a job. The manager at the Boxtan gave me a glowing reference, most likely to get rid of me. I think the fact that I wasn't afraid of the place made him more afraid of me than the criminals.
I can't imagine why, but I didn't care.
I was sick of buying new shoes, so I needed a new gig.
The Shady Lady turned out to be a great place to work. Sure, it was a dump, but the gals had sass and the customers seemed to like it. Plus, nobody got shot. Nobody got dragged, hauled or shoveled away, and nobody's entrails ever got removed from a wall with a hose before being squeegeed into what I have to assume was the world's most disgusting drain.
The Shady Lady was a huge non-squishy step up from The Boxtan Inn, and life became boring in the best kind of way. I had a job I liked, and it paid just enough for me to afford my own apartment, which I immediately found. OK, it was less of an apartment and more of a semi-furnished basement. Kind of like a pleasure dungeon, minus the pleasure.
It was shitty, sure, but it was mine, which meant it was more than I'd ever had before.