Camp Granada by Caroline Hunt

Camp Granada

By Carlonie Hunt

Mudda Fadda kindly disregard this letter”

 

This place is dreadful.  I don’t want to be here.  It’s dull, there’s nothing cultural going on, the

movies are all out of date by the time they get out here (they probably get stuck in the traffic

on the 495) and what about all those venal women, the man-manipulators with

their white talons and dried up bleached hair?  Well apart from the rich ones of course, they

have well tended highlights.  But I bet both species always make their husbands take the trash

out.

 

A long, thin, eroding and vulnerable sandbar that is nothing but expressways and motorways,

home to that curious genetic mutation – ‘Greater Spotted Long Island Man’; weaving in

and out of traffic, eating, drinking, on the phone making futile journey’s in their big, fat

SUV’s, clogging up the roads, complaining about the price of gas and giving us all respiratory

disease.  Perhaps if they drive about long enough, they’ll be removed from the gene pool one

way or another.

 

So I keep myself to myself and I don’t talk to anyone, other than out of absolute necessity.

There’s no friend material here.  They’re all back in the city.  In fact, you can almost see the

curtains twitching in our plastic coated condo complex, busy body neighbors waiting to tell

tales for any minor misdemeanor, or ‘infractions’ as they like to call them.  Management boards

giddy with the petty power of their self created fiefdom.  No this! No that! No the other!  No!

No! No!  They couldn’t wait to rip out the mellow cedar shingle sidings and replace them with

plastic ones, committing mass genocide by destroying the homes of millions of insects.  No

wonder half the birds have vanished around here.  Well, that’s if all that pesticide they put

down every spring hasn’t killed them off first.  Creatures take potluck round here, starve to

Death, or Death by slow poisoning.  Oh – the choices of modern wildlife today.  Talking of which,

what about rest of the great unwashed yelling coarsely at each other in bars – the beer making

them talk more rubbish than usual and then jumping red lights – morons.

 

You get it already, clever old you.  I didn’t want to come here.  Unfortunately, it was just about

the last option in the world left to me.  I suffered misfortune on a monumental scale.  A not-

so-young woman, not-so-special woman, who’d never much stuck her head above the

Parapet of Life.  I worked out that the odds of what happened to me were 1 in 8 million.  Maybe

more.  But who cared?  I can tell you that no-one did.  I could only deduce that I must be a very

special person on the karmic level.  The day mySoHoapartment building collapsed, just 3

weeks after I bought it, spending every penny I ever earned on it; just as the workmen were

finishing the rewiring, the new kitchen, the smart new slate tiled bathrooms, well, that was the

end of my Life.  I Died that day.  But as if to stick the boot in one more time, just to make sure,

Life made sure that a few months later I got fired from my job running a prestigious events

company in the city.  I was Stone Cold Dead, like a pheasant taking a bullet to the head.

 

I was really good at that job too, but I was no longer the person they hired.  I was a glorious

success one day, a failure in an unfathomable situation the next.  I’d been pivotal in saving the

some 40 jobs from certain death after the uncertainties of 9/11.  And this was my

karmic ROI.  Thank you very much Universe.  Now there was really nothing left.  I had come

fromLondontoNew Yorka successful, affluent woman and within a few months, I’d lost the

bloody lot.

 

Well, except for a fairly new relationship.  He’d just left his wife.  It was too soon to live

together, but he suggested it anyway. If only to allow me to re-group he said.  As cheaply as

possible.  The legal fees following my catastrophe were gargantuan as you can probably

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