freewrite, yeah!

prompt was: the smell of a dumpster (that's me at the time of this story)

The smell of a dumpster at night reminds me of living at the back of a sketchy alley, 15 years ago. Drunks staggering out from the bar up the block would stop to pee in the alley, or vomit. I was 23, it was my first apartment. The building was old and shabby and on a noisy street. The chainlink fence around the pathetic yard was broken in a few spots. I had three cats when I moved in and adopted a neighborhood stray, Professor Fang. The 3 originals didn't like the Professor at all. I stayed in that shitty apartment for at least 2 years, always keeping one eye open walking from my car to my door. I got robbed in the alley once for $60, could have been worse. I got a ticket for parking a few inches into a driveway in front of the next building. The cop was standing there writing it out as I walked up, and I asked him to please tear it up—he laughed cruelly and stuck the ticket under my windshield.

Once I bought a little stool for $5 at a thrift store and brought it back to this apartment. I sat outside and sanded it down, then stained it a dark walnut. I left it outside to dry on newspapers and half an hour later it was gone, someone had stolen it and left a mess behind too, all the newspapers scattered. That did it. I got rid of most of my stuff and moved into my car until I found a better apartment in a better town. The cats stayed with different friends for a while. I felt safer in my car than in that dumpster of a rental.