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Everything was annoying and fright producing. The incessant 24 almost 7 hour cramping and pain in her neck, the  triggering of the PTSD, the fact that she did everything alone–decisions/shoveling/should the heater be gas or oil? IPad? IPhone? What model? Changing sterling to dollars? And those daily/dark, sweaty nights of remembering.
Everything and everyone annoyed her. Was it caused by the glimpses of the grim reaper in the mirror of her mind? The fact that friends had become Facebook bound and no longer called? The suspicious mole on her back? The ticking clock of age and a face that showed indications  that were not unlike craters and crevices that intense weather and bitterness produced in over ripe apples? She was spawning a new persona: the crone with the raised cane.

But it was currently the neighbors who were  her cause celebre and JUSTICE GIRL rose to the occasion. It started when her OK male neighbor banged on the brakes of his car.  OK, I can handle that because he helped me with my lawnmower a few time. But the second time when he did his daughter’s brakes, the time when she had THE ONLY COMPANY SHE HAD FOR THE SUMMER and the brakes were being CLANGED, CLANGED, CLANGED….and  Justice persona remained silent , just the way she had when 7 and 14 and 21 and 28 and 33 and 45 and 57  and 62;  that time was not negotiable. Mr. number 1 neighbor fixed something else in his once baby’s car, all in view of her kitchen window and back porch and back yard.  That is translated as  12  feet away from her, in a middle class neighborhood where that was a police reportable no-no. Hey Buddy, this is not an area for a working garage or for a business or a place for you to disturb my peace or make me into a triggered, blathering detective on meth!

But detective she did become and the notes she took, she kept on the refrigerator door for quick retrieval. Almost all of these sins of fixing cars in a non upscale neighborhood, were committed by Mr. Number 2 Neighbor:

1. Oct 20-a cab
2. Brakes (I told you about this one)
3. Sept 2015, car
4. Oct 2015. car.
5. Nov 29, change tire, Maroon (with license plate number)
6. Dec (license plate number)
7. 2016: Brakes Jan 29 (with license plate number)
8. Car : Brakes date and (License plate number)
9. Car, 3 big, Harley types, fighting hard, I smell fire arms in the air, something about no plates, she wanted to call the police. Fear.
10. Feb 22  (License plate number)
11. Feb 24  (License plate number) He puts a tent over car because raining.  I take a photo.

She began to notice a pattern in her need for justice, her insistence that she had property rights and deep held belief that THEY WERE WRONG! OK, her dialogue went, the climate of this small village is changing and people without money are moving in and some cant afford a garage so be kind, keep your nose out of this! She began asking smart detective types what to do and got many different answers, wishing she had asked for and gotten help when she was  7, 14, 21, 28, 33, 45, 47 , 55, 67, 68 and 70. You are not alone in this, she said to herself and one very smart neighbor advised:  “Are you prepared for the consequences? Is it the guy on the second floor? He’s an asshole!”

She smelled guns in her sleep, ex-cons and thought of the 9 billion on/in MOTHER EARTH needing to eat everyday; needing food, clothing, shelter; and she thought about  children without anything or anyone and she thought about drone-killed families in war torn everywhere. She thought about typhoons and tornadoes and Sandy and nuclear power plants in Westchester spewing poison and she thought about multitudes of migrants landing on once sunny and idyllic Lesbos and she thought about everything.

And then she screamed:  Dad, I need help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!