The Old Witch- And How I Loved Her
Releasing the Juggalo
Everybody thought we had a great plan. Juggalo would drive A back home, and A would be able to clear up his court troubles once he got there. It felt really nice to have things falling into place.
Work was still super shady, and I spent as little time there as possible. I felt like I was wrong all of the time, no matter how much I ran my butt off.
When A was released, he and Juggalo were out of town within the hour. I was excited for them, but sad to see A go. We had barely gotten to catch up, and then we were torn in different directions again.
Life has a way of doing that.
That night I got a frantic call at Twinkie’s trailer, from Juggalo’s mom.
The pair had made it back down to Arvada, and they got stopped at a light not two blocks away from A’s place for having that same headlight out. It was a busy month, and we had not fixed it.
A was taken into custody but they allowed him to park the truck, and tell his dad what was happening before they took him. Juggalo was on his own, and had never had to cross eight lanes of traffic just to get cigarettes before.
Juggalo’s mom came over and picked me up at Twinkie’s house. She drove an old beat up Bronco, and she was very direct.
She should have been scary. It was easy to see why others would have been scared of her. She loved that I wasn’t.
I was absolutely intoxicated by her. She’s one of the few people that I’ve ever been really comfortable holding eye contact with, which is interesting, because she always saw more in my eyes than I bargained for. I didn’t mind.
I wasn’t here to keep secrets. I was here to be set free.
She was an older Native woman, with weathered brown skin, and her hands always shook a little. She would start conversations in the middle, and she spoke in riddles, but somehow those words unlocked worlds within me. She recognized me.
She welcomed me, not through florid speech, but through access to her truths. She was afire with curiosity about me though. Seriously, same.
We talked about her vinyl record collection, and bonded over old music that I already loved. Except Neil Diamond, I could never reconcile the fact that she had a liking for Neil Diamond- gross. There was plenty Crystal Gayle, Don Williams, and Waylon Jennings in there to avoid Neil, and so I did.
We talked about not fitting the world that was designed for everyone else.
The Old Witch had spent a significant chunk of her life working as a madam in Nevada, and she certainly had some stories to tell, which I absorbed like a sponge remembering the sea.
She knew all about dark secrets without me having to tell her. She knew how brutal the “normal people” couldn’t help themselves from being at any chance to point out otherness. She lived unapologetically, wearing her truths like armor, and I wanted nothing more than to do the same.
She always said that if you don’t keep any secrets, nobody can ever use them against you. She said being ashamed is a choice, and that nobody has the power to put that on you. We take that on ourselves, and equally we can reject it. She was right.
She couldn’t wear a watch without it going wonky. She would frequently have clocks run backward, or just stop. She’d been changing them out for years.
She was allergic to all metals, even though she didn’t have any allergies, and she had to put medical tape over even the tiny rivets on her jeans, or she’d have a massive reaction.
She taught me never to accept the limits placed on me by others.
I ended up spending a lot of time with her, because two days after I had helped her rescue Juggalo, Twinkie told me that I couldn’t stay with him anymore because his ex was going to use me against him in court.
That was a guilt that I was not prepared to take on. I really liked his daughters and I couldn’t handle the idea of me being what screws them over.
I hadn’t really believed that the situationship with Twinkie would last very long, and I was right. The Old Witch offered me lodging on her couch, and I felt like that was exactly were I was supposed to be.
I picked up after myself, and I made sure the dishes were done. She was actually pretty awesome about sharing her kitchen. She lived in a two bedroom cabin on the edge of town, right at the end of main street, with her other son. Her place was only 4 blocks from the grocery store.
She found out where I was working and it turned out that her cousin owned the place. She issued a dark warning about not getting too involved with the goings-on around there, and the next day I was fired without cause.
Sus, right?
Wyoming is a right to work state. Just ask anyone there, and they’ll tell you in a resounding chorus that Wyoming is a right to work state. If you ever complain about any job in Wyoming, that’s the first thing anybody says.
My next job was dishwashing right across the street at the steakhouse in town. The owner had boarding rooms above the restaurant, and several members of her crew lived on site. Her husband was the main cook at night, and a man of few words.
He got pretty vexed with me at first, because there was just a lot that I did not know. I was happy to pay my dues, and tried harder to prove myself. Once I stopped messing up all the time, he softened up considerably.
The restaurant was attached to the bar with a pool room in between them with 2 tables, and some booths. She paid cash, and took no crap.
I think she probably only stood about 5 feet tall, and was just a skinny little thing in western wear with her white hair curled and pinned up. She was spunky, and kind, but she was definitely in charge and absolutely everybody knew it.
I really liked working for her.
Life had a free little rhythm to it, and I was so in love with being alive.
The Old Witch had really welcomed me into her life, and her home, and I got to meet her friends, and hear about her enemies.
The Old Witch had a boyfriend that lived about 5 blocks away, and she spent a lot of nights over there. Her son was 16, and had been in charge of getting himself fed and to school for years.
He and I got along really well. We lost so many nights sleep just staying up all night playing cards and talking. He said he couldn’t talk like that with his peers.
He had the bluest eyes, and he was really stinking cute. I knew that there was no way that anybody looking like him would have hung out with me in high school- just weeks before.
I was clearly one of his favorite people.
His brother had a really big personality, and a different dad, and there was just a lot of history that repeated patterns of him being overlooked, and undercared-for. I related heavily to that.
I think we were actually really trying to behave at first, which only made it worse. I really felt like he was forbidden fruit. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my lodging or my friendship with his mother.
So we talked, and we played cards, and we smiled and blushed a lot. There were tons of innuendos thrown about, and inside jokes began to build.
There was one night that he was experiencing neck pain, and I fancied myself as quite the amateur masseuse, so I offered a next rub, and couldn’t believe that he accepted.
He had a really nice neck. I could see just the right tendons highlighted in just the right places. I took my time, and savored every touch, every breath of release on his part. I loved the feeling of our energies combining, and his warm soft skin under my hands.
Naturally, I moved to his shoulders, alternating my gentle but firm working of the muscles with sensual strokes across his skin. I could see goosebumps raise the tiny peachy hairs on his neck, as I bathed in his pheromones.
Occasionally, my hot breath would graze his ears, or linger in the curve of his neck if the pheromones had drawn me in too closely, and I lived for the catch in his breath when I did.
It was such a dance of quiet consent, each movement welcomed, each advance greeted with returned desire. Both feeling the same tension, the same desire, the same restriction, and responding in kind.
We tried so hard to be good. We tried so hard to enjoy each other without crossing that line.
We explored every corner of each other, leaving nothing uncaressed, then we went back again and again.
We talked and laughed and touched, and we tried so hard to be good. We behaved for so many nights before we didn’t. I knew it was dangerous. I knew we should stop. I knew, but we had the whole house to ourselves, night after night.
It was not great sex.
He had some interesting dimensions that he didn’t yet know quite what to do with, and although he’d followed my lead about all of the foreplay, somehow that didn’t translate into equality during intercourse. That was not exactly what I’d expected given the build up and how open his mother was.
I didn’t care. It was amazing to feel wanted, and desired.
He didn’t treat me differently either. He still wanted to talk to me. He still wanted to touch and explore.
I wanted him, but I wanted to not go back to my mom’s more.
Survivor Literacy 
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