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 heard what sounded like someone trying to bust the lock on my door.
I grabbed a 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 skull of whoever came in and wrap the cord around his neck.
But sounds stopped.
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, everything was quiet, which made sense based on everything else I'd heard.
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 squeegeed away.
Then I heard a hose, which was odd since that was usually my job at the Boxtan.
And, 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 with a hose before being squeegeed into what I have to assume was the world's nastiest 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.