Rita on the Ropes

Transcript (Download)

I like the rain, the wet streets, the cars passing by, the funny noise tires make rolling over a bridge.

I like the people in my old neighborhood, the old brick houses, the twisted old trees, bent over old Polish women who scrubbed their front stairs.

Don't know English, I don't think, but they still smiled when I passed and said hello.

I live there with Randy.

A cute little second floor walk up with a few problems.

I worked hard to fix it up, my apartment, fix the space heater out of my own pocket, would have fixed the stove if I had the money, the fridge.

Call the landlord every month, October, November, December, telling him, asking him would he please fix it.

Said he would, never did.

About halfway through the lease, Randy lost his job.

He hated it anyway.

They were assholes, he said.

He started drinking again.

We parted friends.

We hugged before I moved out.

He said we were still friends.

Randy begged me to stay, or at least to keep my name on the gas bill until the lease was up.

And the phone, and the electric.

He promised to pay.

I didn't know he was planning to move to Oregon.

He wanted a new life.

He told me this on the phone, he started to cry.

Just before he moved, I came over to clean up.

The lease was up, so I didn't care.

I found a pile of gas bills under the cushion on the couch.

Phone bills, electric bills.

I'm like, what's this? Oh, it goes.

I was wondering where those went to.

I was kind of mad, but then it dawned on me I could use a security deposit to pay them off.

I know about utilities.

You can't fight them.

Once a friend of Randy's from college was visiting.

He said he was going to stay a week.

He stayed like five weeks.

He made all these calls to like friends when I wasn't home.

I got the bill for like $200.

I told the phone company I didn't make those calls.

I didn't owe them the money, but they said no.

So I refused to pay.

So they cut off the phone.

Chalk it up to experience.

My sister Mare says experience is lessons you don't want to learn.

Anyway, I asked my landlord for my security deposit back.

Someone had to clean the apartment.

I said I cleaned it, every room, even the hallway.

Plus for a year, I told him I asked him and asked him and asked him to fix the stove, the fridge, and he didn't do a thing for a year.

Then he got real mad.

He was a young guy, only a little older than me, but his face got all red like my Uncle Pete who had the stroke.

And he told me to leave, that we were finished here.

I left and called that office in the city that's supposed to help tenants get their deposits back.

But they said they were backlogged and they couldn't take my case for three years.

And even then they couldn't guarantee anything would happen.

If you don't believe me, give them a call yourself.

They'll tell you the same.

So there I was.

They kept my money.

I like these abandoned places.

Overgrown fields, the open sky, the wind.

Look at those tall weeds.

They look so wild.

Not like the city parks.

The parks are too tame, too manicured.

I hate grass when it's cut too short like on a golf course.

I like places no one else goes, so I can be alone, so I can think, so I can dream.

I kind of miss Randy and the funny things he used to do.

He used to do the scam with the old paper bus transfers.

This was before they put the machines in.

He knew how to take expired ones and cut and paste them together so they looked like they were still good.

He was always begging people for their used transfers, even complete strangers.

And when we went to the movies he would call the theater and pretend he was a manager from some other chain and ask for two complimentary tickets.

And he would get them, most of the time.

So he would take them to the movies, ride the buses on his transfers, and then after we'd go out to a restaurant and eat and he'd make me pay since he paid for the bus and the movie.

For a little time we had a joint checking account.

I felt sorry for him.

He was broke, always borrowing money.

I don't know, I feel kind of stupid talking about this.

Once he gave me some very expensive perfume for my birthday.

Until I got my canceled checks.

Turned out he bought it with my money.

Can't say I've done any better lately.

Last guy I went out with, things were nice.

We were having a nice time listening to a band at Doubledore.

And suddenly he goes, we have to go to a quiet bar, someplace somewhere so we could be alone.

I'm going, hey, this is nice.

So I take him to that little place on North Avenue with the jukebox around there I used to go to.

What's that place called? I don't remember.

So what's the first thing he does when we get there? Takes out this palm pilot and checks his stock options.

It's kind of hard these days.

Rents are high.

They want an extra $300 for my cat.

Health insurance, forget it.

They want over a hundred bucks a month.

Car insurance too.

Can't afford a car on minimum wage.

I used to have a car once.

Randy parked it in front of these new, she -she townhouses around the corner.

It was only there two nights and they towed it.

By the time I got the $200 together, there were storage fees.

I now owe $400.

The fees like doubled every few days.

So I gave up and let them keep it.

Last year was not a good one, shop -wise.

I didn't even make enough to get Bush's tax refund.

I waitressed for a while at this restaurant on State Street near the police station.

They only gave me 30 hours a week so I didn't get any benefits.

No health insurance, no paid vacation, nothing.

I was a part -time student then at Columbia College.

The week before New Year's, my boss told me he was throwing a private party in the back and I was going to be the waitress.

I go, I'm going out that night.

He's like, if you don't work that night, forget it.

You don't have a job.

So I worked until 4 a .m.

serving his party.

I close up and he gives me no tip, nothing.

I quit the next week.

Look at the little dog.

I wonder if he's a stray.

He's got a collar.

But his owner abandoned him.

He needs someone to take care of him.

But he's a runaway.

He won't be any trouble.

Come here, boy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Come here, Randy.

Identifier

F.2013-08-0049

Date Of Production

2001

Description

Rita recounts her bad luck with boyfriends, jobs, apartments.

"'Experience is lessons you don't want to learn,' Rita muses as she reflects on her brief, troubled life in Tom Palazzolo's Rita on the Ropes. Rita's narration (played over stark black-and-white footage of Palazzolo's daughter Amy) reveals a sensitive soul who, despite having fallen victim to unscrupulous landlords, dishonest employers and a narcissistic hustler named Randy (whom she still misses a little bit), can still revel in the beauty of abandoned buildings and overgrown lots." —Tom Fritsche
(Canyon Cinema)

Run Time

0:09:00

Format

16mm

Extent

400 feet

Color

B&W

Sound

Optical

Reel/Tape Number

1/1

Has Been Digitized?

Yes

Language Of Materials

English

Element

Reversal Positive Print

Genre

Drama
Experimental

Form

Short

Subject

Economic and social conditions
Women
Youth
Loneliness

Related Collections

SERIES I: Finished Films by Tom Palazzolo

Related Places

North America ➜ United States ➜ Illinois ➜ Chicago

North America ➜ United States ➜ Illinois ➜ Chicago ➜ Humboldt Park

Main Credits

Palazzolo, Tom (is filmmaker)

Additional Credits

Lorenz, Ricardo (music)

Helbig, Jack (is writer)

Palazzolo, Tom (is writer)

Participants And Performers

Palazzolo, Amy (is actor)

King, Deborah (is narrator)

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