Bio - 13 in My Bio

In June 1987, I moved to Oswego Street, a far cry from Woodside Terrace, though it was just a few minutes away. This area was a rundown, predominantly Puerto Rican section of the city, with vacant, dilapidated, partially boarded-up buildings covered in graffiti and litter. Most of the neighborhood was like this. Funny too, as it was known as the “Hollywood” section.

You couldn’t leave anything outside because it would quickly be stolen. Nervous, who visited one snowy night, left his shoes outside my back door to avoid tracking snow and slush into my kitchen. When he went to leave, his shoes were gone. The poor guy had to run to his car in just his socks through the cold and snow! And his car wasn’t parked close, either.

Unlike the Woodside and Locust apartments, these apartments were more modern. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the neighborhood wasn’t plagued with honking horns, loud music, and clusters of people loitering about, even in the dead of winter. I knew they were up to no good, and the area was infested with drugs. Fortunately, the psych meds I was on helped me sleep through the neighborhood chaos. It was a good thing, too, because after leaving Woodside, I was desperate to find a place, and this was the only one I could afford. The agency that owned the building had its own subsidy, so I was now paying $132 in rent instead of $325.

My cousin Philip and my father helped move me in. My parents were horrified when they saw where I was moving to. They had bars installed on the windows accessible from the outside and changed the locks.

As we were moving in, a Hispanic couple, José and Nellie, greeted me as they left their apartment two doors down. José introduced himself and extended his hand to my father, who shook it while eyeing him suspiciously. Nellie quickly assured me she was Italian, but I knew she wasn’t. Many Hispanics who were insecure about their race claimed to be Italian.

José and Nellie turned out to be the worst neighbors I had at that place. Looking back, I’m embarrassed by how naïve I was in dealing with them. I wasn’t just naïve—I was downright stupid! While they were kind and generous to my face, they were robbing me behind my back and, being too trusting and too nice, I forgave them time and time again, falling into the same cycle of their deceptive bullshit.

One night, I was in the living room talking to Nervous who was visiting when we heard the screen door open and shut. We both rushed into the kitchen, but no one was there. That’s when I noticed my little boom box, which had been sitting on top of the refrigerator, was gone. A few days later, I realized they had also stolen a check from the middle of my checkbook. They used it to write out $50 to someone I had never heard of.

The day after I discovered the stolen check, I went to the bank to see if I could identify the thief on film. Sure enough, there was José, brazenly cashing the check while wearing an old baggy T-shirt I had given to Nellie.

The day before, naïve little me had cashed a personal check for Nellie. As it turned out, the check was stolen and the account was closed. I was stuck paying the $200 the bank had given me to hand over to Nellie.

I filed charges against Nellie, who promised to pay me back in installments if I dropped the charges. I dropped them, and she did pay me back, though it took several months.

They even tried to rip off Nervous by loosening some wire in his car so it wouldn’t start.

“If you give me twenty bucks, I can go get you a new one,” José told him.

But Nervous, who knew better, simply tightened the wire himself.

The only other neighbor I disliked there was Hank, an older man who lived below me and sometimes got drunk.

Most of the other residents were older and very nice.

When I moved from Woodside Terrace to Oswego Street, I changed my phone number. I felt a new apartment called for a new number. After a while, I grew curious to know if anyone had called my old number, so I dialed it and asked the guy who answered. At first, he was friendly, but he quickly turned rude, earning himself a spot on my prank call list.

“You’re talking to a cop, lady,” he said.

“Yeah, they all say that. And I’m the president’s daughter!”

Unfortunately, he was telling the truth. I found this out when a couple of cops, Peter and Shaun, came to arrest me.

I had seen them around the neighborhood before and exchanged hellos with them. Once, after one of my court appearances for prank calls, a mix-up occurred, and the court issued a bench warrant for my arrest, even though I had shown up. The warrant was out for three months without my knowledge, and I only found out about it the next time I was in court.

“You know there’s a warrant out for your arrest, don’t you?” Peter asked one afternoon as he passed by in his cruiser while I was returning from the convenience store with a few groceries.

“No, there isn’t. It was recalled,” I told him, explaining the mix-up.

“Okay, you’re a trustworthy woman. I believe you.”

In October 1987, after I started writing journals, my buzzer rang while I was at the kitchen table. “Who is it?” I asked through the intercom.

“Police.”

I let them up, recognizing Peter and his partner right away.

“This is the neatest apartment I’ve ever seen,” Peter said as he walked in. Then he told me that Corcoran (fake name), the guy I had been prank calling, was indeed a cop.

Oops.

“Do you have $15?” he asked.

I checked my purse. “Yes.”

“You’ll need it to bail yourself out, but for now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us.”

Without handcuffs, they took me to the police station where Peter and I waited by a solid metal door with a couple of scraggly-looking guys.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Just a couple of our local druggies.”

“Oh.”

“I hate to do this, but I have to put the cuffs on you now, at least loosely, so my boss won’t give me a hard time.”

He put them on loosely enough that I could have easily slipped them off. In fact, I had to bend my wrists slightly to keep them from falling off.

After we passed through the door, the sergeant asked me some general questions, and I was led to a small holding cell where I waited alone. About an hour later, an unfamiliar man approached the barred door.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked angrily.

“You must be Corcoran.”

I was right. He then threatened me, saying how lucky I was that he didn’t know where I lived at the time, which, of course, was perfectly fine for him to do since he was a cop and I was just a low-income nobody.

I paid the $15 and got out of there. I regret not reporting his threats to his superiors, even if it wouldn’t have made a difference—at least it would have been on record.

Not long after, the phone calls began, many of which were of a sexual nature. If Corcoran himself wasn’t behind them, I’m not short. Still, he was a cop and I wasn’t, so I was the one who had to go to court. As usual, though, and much to my relief, nothing came of it. On my way out, I confronted him, telling him I knew he was behind the calls. He denied it, of course, but the calls coincidentally stopped that day.

Before meeting this psycho—whose name I can’t even remember—I had met a guy named Mike. I can’t recall where we met, but even though he was upfront about having a girlfriend, we spent a night together, and then I never saw him again.

The lonely days and nights dragged on. I found myself spending more time on the phone, desperate for any form of attention despite being a loner who preferred solitude. I liked my space but craved companionship.

One night, I dialed a very unlucky random number. The guy on the other end sounded nice enough, but I didn’t know he was a rapey cocaine-fueled lunatic.

I took a cab to his place, which he paid for. It was a tiny guesthouse behind his parents’ larger home. The guy was short, stocky, and ugly. His place was cluttered and filthy, but he seemed polite and respectful of my boundaries as we sat chatting at his kitchen table. After a while, I was ready to leave, but as I stood up, he lunged at me, knocking me down and hiking up my skirt.

“I have AIDS!” I screamed, trying to stall for time. “Trust me, you don’t want to do this.”

He hesitated, giving me time to think.

“I’ll get you off by hand,” I offered, desperate for more time to assess my surroundings and find a weapon. At ninety pounds, I was easy to pin down.

To my relief, he suddenly came and then appeared to pass out. I grabbed the phone, called a cab, and ran outside to wait. I was still in shock, wondering how I had managed to survive.

Then, out of the shadows, he emerged, apologizing profusely. “I’m so, so sorry. God, what’s wrong with me? Every time I meet a girl, I screw up.”

He rambled on while I kept calm, determined not to fall apart until I was safely home. Each minute felt like an eternity until the cab finally arrived.

When I got home, I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. I was furious at myself for being so naive, enraged at the near-rapist for what he had done, but also grateful to have escaped unharmed. This guy could easily have been a serial rapist or killer for all I knew. The fact that he admitted to “screwing up” every time he met a girl sure suggested so.

I called the West Springfield police, but the psycho had already beat me to it, trying to cover his ass.

“But he says you’re the one harassing him,” said the cop.

“Fine. Don’t believe me,” I replied and hung up. I was alive, I’d made my report, and that was the end of it—at least, I thought it was. However, he managed to track me down by calling everyone with my last name which he found in the phonebook, as I later learned from my cousin Phil.

Around this time, I began seeing a therapist named Trisha. She was nice, but I didn’t appreciate how she bribed me into seeing the center’s shrink and threatened to stop our sessions if I didn’t comply. I was both physically and psychologically dependent on the meds, so I agreed.