Could she borrow my phone? She began babbling a mile a minute about how her last boyfriend, "whitey," was an FBI agent and he was conspiring with her son and mother to ruin her life. But would I call him? Because she still loved him. "Your car in the garage?" I asked her, choosing to overlook the paranoia for a moment. Turns out a black gentlemen (not her exact wording) had borrowed her car to go pick up carne asada from the store but would be back shortly to make tacos. Would I like to join them for dinner?
My next question would pertain to the whereabouts of her 12 year old son, but that was answered for me when he rolled up behind us on his bike. We locked eyes in a "this bitch is batshit crazy" moment before he began questioning her about her pill regimine. Now that her son had been located, I turned my attention back to her Volkswagon Jetta. "Who has your car?"
"KL's holding it for collateral but I'm getting a Mercedes. They're cleaning it first."
"KL? I asked, and then, "Who's cleaning it?"
"Kenny Loggins," she answered, "You know that place over by Walgreens?"
"No." I said, abandoning all hope when I heard that Kenny Danger Zone Loggins had her Jetta. "No I don't. Hold on a sec." I pulled her son aside and asked if we could talk.
"He's 12!" she yelled at me. I pushed my sunglasses up on my head and walked to the edge of the driveway with him.
"Is she okay?"
"No, she's sick. She was just released from the hospital. I'm staying with my grandparents down the street." I looked down the street in desperation.
"Can you call them?"
At that point she began shouting about what an N word her son is and how he was going to military school. Said son rode back down to his grandparents to get help and I stood staring at her from the sidewalk. I suggested we go inside her house, which is the point I noticed her recently purchased 50-inch smart TV was gone. I frowned.
"Kenny Loggins?" I asked, motioning toward the vast empty space, "does he have your TV too?"
"He's servicing my TV, my iPad, and my bike."
It was at that point I suggested the police be called, but she continued to trip balls, loudly, outside. Her father arrived looking terribly old and feeble and listened to her trip balls. I listened for a few minutes too before I quietly slipped into my own house. A some point, cops were called, because the next day when I arrived home from work again, she was in the same clothes, pushing her son through their bathroom window. I asked where she'd been and she replied, "jail."
Once he'd landed in the bathtub and made his way to the front door, I gave her son my number and told him to call if he needed anything.
It's been a quiet weekend thus far. Probably because Kenny Loggins is servicing anything she could possibly make noise with.