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There's a reason for clich�s like, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone." After my sister and
I split up, I couldn't find another place for four months. I had to sleep on the foldout sofa of a bloke I worked with. Peter Watling
was 48, wore two hearing-aids, and let me keep my clothes in a suitcase in the hall. He was actually a great guy, but we couldn't
go on living like that. Then somebody told me that Grant Pidgeon had a great place near the ocean at Redcliffe and wanted a roommate.
If I thought living with Watling was odd, Pidgeon beat it hands down. He was a bullshit artist deluxe. Every month Grant would say, "Just write a cheque to me for the rent and the utilities, and I'll pay for everything." Three months later I came home and found an eviction notice on the door. He hadn't paid the rent for nine months. That was Friday night. The notice said that we had until Monday morning to be gone, or the police would throw us and everything we owned out on the street. I sat on the living room couch and tried to figure out what to do next. That's when Pidgeon called. I made things worse when I lost my temper and threatened to kick his arse. Now he wouldn't even come home. Then all these other people started calling, saying, "Hey, he owes me 800 bucks, that bastard."
All weekend long I let people come in and take his stuff. It was my first and last rummage sale.
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