And wouldn’t the dogs be barking instead of snoring away on the couch?
And if someone were going to home invade me, why naked? That’s dumb simply because it would be so easy to identify them to the police afterward. “Can you tell me what he was wearing, ma’am?” the officer would ask. “Yes—a guilty smile and a pair of tube socks,” I’d reply. Besides, it’s forty-eight degrees outside and raining sideways. It’s curl-up-by-the-fire-with-cocoa weather, not run-around-naked-and-steal-my-stuff weather. Plus, with no pants, there are no pockets, so where would the intruder put my cash and jewelry?
Still, I’d better grab that big-ass machete Fletch bought when he went to Thailand so I can stab the intruder. Yes, sir, I shall stab them good because I am half Sicilian and stabbing is my birthright.
Oh, wait…
That’s not a naked person. That’s my tan tapestry jacket hanging on the coatrack.
And I almost stabbed it. Heh. Wow.
Fletch should never leave me alone again.
Fletch left today for an indeterminate amount of time. He works for a telecommunications company and their hourly employees are going on strike, so managers like him have to do union members’ jobs during contract negotiations. He could be gone anywhere from a day to a month, depending on which side is willing to make more concessions. Contract negotiations broke down over benefits; the union has balked because the new contract would give them a $5 pharmacy copay instead of paying nothing. Interesting, because management employees pay $30 per prescription, and that’s only after meeting a $2,100 deductible. But at this point, I’m thrilled to have any medical coverage so I can’t complain. I take comfort in knowing the next time I almost bite my finger off eating French fries, I can have someone other than the kid who works the drive-thru look at it.
Although I’ll miss Fletch while he’s away, that’s not really the issue. We’ll talk and e-mail whenever he has a free minute. I remember the great conversations we used to have on the phone when he’d graduated and I hadn’t yet joined him in Chicago; we connected on a whole different level.
The problem is I really should not be left to my own devices for any period of time. Fletch is the stabilizing force that keeps me “adorably eccentric,” instead of “that fucking weirdo with dirty hair who talks to her dogs while gardening in pajamas.” I don’t know what happened to me—I was fine living alone in college.1 But there’s something about an urban environment that brings out the propensity for insanity in all of us. Every week you hear about some bat-shit-crazy old lady who’s found harboring thirty pit bulls in her tiny apartment. The newscasts always start: “In downtown Baltimore today” or “Police raided a squalid Detroit home,” because it seems like this kind of stuff never happens out in the country. Or maybe it’s just if you live on a forty-acre farm, your neighbors would be fine if you kept your goat indoors. Smoke up! Enjoy! Be careful he doesn’t eat your pillows! But in a creaky old three-flat with a shared stairwell? Not so much.
I need Fletch around to remind me it’s not appropriate to eat Lucky Charms three times a day simply because I despise cooking. He’s the one who gently leads me away from the phone after a night of drinking.2 And without him to tell me no, I’m sure I’d be the bat-shit-crazy old lady with thirty pit bulls. Basically, Fletch keeps me off the evening news.
It’s already well past dinnertime and the only thing I’ve had to eat today is a couple of slices of Buffalo chicken pizza served with a side of mayo.3 I don’t know what to make that doesn’t involve the stove or a box of cereal, so I’m sitting here hungry.4 I wish I could remember what I used to do before Fletch came into my life and decided we’d have pork chops.
I lived alone for three years before him—surely I must have eaten, if only because I don’t remember Sally Struthers or a TV crew filming my dirty, fly-ridden face and distended belly. I know I didn’t cook back then because I had a gas stove and it terrified me. My parents had an electric range so my only experience with a gas stove prior to moving in was the fifty-year-old one at my Noni’s5 house. Long story short, I was in the kitchen when in our youthful attempt to bake a cake, it blew my cousin Stephanie’s eyebrows off and she had to run upstairs, shove the dog out of the way, and stick her flaming head in the toilet.6 And I’ve worked too long to attain the perfect eyebrow arch, so I disconnected the gas and used my college oven to store my shoes.
And yes, I know I live in the middle of a city and there are hundreds of places ready, willing, and able to deliver a global variety of meals, but without Fletch here to confer with on what sounds good, I’m mired in pizza-and-mayonnaise fiascos. Maybe I’ll call him to see what I should do.
I pick up the phone and dial. Damn. Voice mail. I guess I’ll try his e-mail.
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
It dawned on me that I might be witnessing firsthand a significant event, the eternal struggle between the Proletariat and Bourgeoisie. The exploitation of The Worker by The Man, the death of The American Dream done in by corporate greed and ruthless management. And given such a rare glimpse into actual politics and economics in action, I feel I have a duty to document it and shall be keeping a journal of my time here. Just as I have a sworn duty to provide the good people of Westerville, OH, with a reliable telecommunications infrastructure.
I’m signing off now so I can begin the diary. Before I do, I’ll remind you that you worked in a restaurant when you lived alone. You ate there every day and that’s why you didn’t starve. I was kidding when I offered to leave you the number to Adult Protective Services. Now I’m not so sure.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: RE: RE: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
Okay, Jen, jelly beans are not an acceptable dinner. I can’t believe I just had to write that sentence. And, no, the Garbage Fairy is not “on strike,” too. I’m sorry to hear that in less than twenty-four hours the trash is stacked to the ceiling by the front door, but did it ever occur to you that maybe I do more around the house than that for which I get credit? I get the feeling you’re a can of shaving cream shy of running around slapping yourself in the face à la Macaulay Culkin.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Day Two
We had two picketers today at 6:00 a.m., parked in lawn chairs on the sidewalk. Reports from the early shift are that more arrived later in the morning, bringing with them a small tent and barbecue grill. They were gone when I arrived at 6:30, but who could blame them after a day of scarfing down weenies?
Oh, and yes, to answer your question, 9:30 a.m. is far too early for a margarita.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: RE: RE: Day Two
No, I was unaware we had twenty-eight pillows in our house. They aren’t something I would ever think to count.
And no, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think our e-mails to each other are just like the ones Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning used to send, for a variety of reasons, the first being he never worked for the phone company and to my knowledge, she never got her fist stuck in a peanut butter jar.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Day Three
The picketers are back. Today they brought lawn chairs and a picnic blanket. I believe protesters should walk, or at least stand. But I’m a traditionalist. Who would take the “Million Man Picnic” seriously? Anyone, that is, besides the Kingsford Charcoal Company?
Also, you’ll take the pink polish off the dogs’ toenails if you ever want me to walk them again.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: RE: RE: Day Three
Remember what I told you about moderation? Blacking out after drinking a whole pot of coffee today is entirely preventable. Perhaps next time you’ll choose to go to the store to buy more half-and-half, rather than cutting your coffee with whipped cream.
* * *
* * *
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Day Four
Did you know Westerville is in a dry county? In fact, it was the home of the Anti-Saloon League from 1893 to 1933. Please note for future reference: we are never moving to Westerville.
See you tomorrow night—and for the record, yes, I will be aggravated if you don’t disassemble your couch-cushion fort before I get there.
* * *
Fletch returns home today to an orderly, non-couch-cushion-forted home and we celebrate with a lovely pork-chop-and-green-bean dinner, followed by a pie à la mode chaser. I’m so glad he’s back because that means everything can return to normal.7
After an uneventful evening of dog-walking and reality TV, I’m preparing for bed by brushing my teeth when I hear something that sounds like “Yeaarrggghhhh!”
“You say something, sweetie?” I spit, rinse, and return my toothbrush to its holder before entering the bedroom to find the source of all the yelling.
Fletch, holding his pillow in one hand, points at the bed and shouts, “What is that?”
I look. “Oh. That’s a machete. It’s yours. Don’t you remember buying it? Did Westerville make you all forget-y?” I ask. I guess now would be an excellent time to mention the paranoia I developed when I used to live alone.
To backtrack, like any other kid, I used to keep my hands and feet far away from the monsters who lived under my bed. One night I felt a bit daring and let my hand dangle over the side. Instead of nothing, I actually touched another hand! I didn’t realize my brother had come into my room (I had a window unit and it was a hot night) and climbed into the twin bed right next to mine. He sprawled in such a way that his hand hung off the side of his bed, and that’s what I felt when I reached out. I screamed bloody murder, causing my brother to wake up and bolt out of bed, thus knocking over the box fan, which then led my parents to believe one of us had fallen out a window. And then my dad yelled at me, which was kind of unfair. Like I was responsible for the monster?
Fast-forward to the house I lived in before I met Fletch—it was at least a hundred years old and had not been well maintained. Plus, it was directly between the bars and all the fraternity houses on Littleton Street.8 So, drunken fraternity guys were always wandering by and messing with the place, as drunken fraternity guys were wont to do. The West Lafayette Police got a bit tired of me having them on speed-dial, so I decided I’d take matters into my own hands. To make another long story short, I’ve slept with a weapon close by for years.
But at some point, I probably should have related this explanation to Fletch. It’s just that when we first started dating, I wanted him to believe I was normal, so it never came up.9
“I know what it is, thank you.” He holds up the knife and turns it over in his hands. The handle is wrapped in green cord Fletch calls Hundred Mile an Hour Tape. (I’ve never asked for an explanation because if Fletch starts in on his army stories, I’ll pretty much end up stabbing myself in the ear.) The blade is over a foot long and almost four inches across at its widest point, and it tapers down to a deadly little point. It’s possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever seen and is so much cooler than the variety of steak knives I used to sleep with in college. “My question is, why is it under my pillow?”
“I kept it there for protection while you were gone.”
“So if someone broke in, you were going to stab them?”
“Uh-huh. Or cut something off. Guess it would depend on what was more expedient. Ooh, also, I sat in the front window every night and sharpened it, just in case any bad guys were casing the joint. Be careful when you pick it up—it’s quite sharp now.” I begin to arrange the pillows on my side of the bed into a proper sleeping nest. I like the flat acrylic-filled one as a bottom layer, then I have my feather pillow from childhood stacked on top of it at an angle. I also snuggle with a big body pillow that I call President George Squashington, but it’s not on the bed. I cross the room to retrieve it. “Honey, did you forget? You moved President Squashington! I need him so I can sleep.”
“Sorry, didn’t recognize him without his powdered wig. But back to what we were saying—you’ve been sleeping with this mammoth knife because you’re concerned about your safety.”
“Deeply.” I fluff the president and place him perpendicular to the others.
“Despite the fact we live behind two security gates?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And have an alarm system.”
“Yep.”
“And 165 pounds of shepherd and pit bull.”
“Duh. Who’s going to protect the dogs? Me and my knife, that’s who.”
Suddenly Fletch looks very tired. “Tell me, how do you counter the fact our area has one of the lowest crime rates in the city?”
I toss a cat off the bed so I can shake out my quilt. “Well, it’s not as low as I’d like. You realize I go to the Chicago Sex Offender database all the time and look up the local addresses, don’t you? There are eight registered child molesters in our police beat! Eight! That’s eight too many.” I walk over to my dresser, open a drawer, and pull out a laminated folder. “Would you like to see their dossiers?”
“You did not print out their information.”
“Of course I did! I’m constantly vigilant, and since I wasn’t busy cooking, I needed a project while you were gone.” I hand him my stack of mug shots. “I figure if these guys are prowling around—and have suddenly lost their taste for children—I need to know. Besides, if I didn’t print them out, I’d have to look up their addresses whenever I take the dogs around to pee on their lawns.”
Fletch shakes his head and opens his mouth but no words come out.
“What? The dogs have to relieve themselves somewhere, right? Plus, I like the whole retribution aspect of it—no green lawn for you, you pervert! Kind of like a Scarlet Letter, only in dead grass. I swear, Loki seems to whiz battery acid. Anyway, I’ve decided it’s my civic duty to keep an eye on their homes to make sure I never see a Big Wheel parked in their yard. I’m telling you, if you’re not constantly vigilant, you aren’t safe.”10
He hands the papers back to me and I file them away in my underwear drawer. “If safety is such a concern, tell me again why we can’t have a shotgun.”
“Pfft. A home invader would assume you’d have a gun, but a machete? That’s completely out of left field. Really, that’s some Monty Python, Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition shit. Plus, if you hack off a bad guy’s hand, his days of B and E are over. Stabbing is nice because it allows for deep hurting and an object lesson.” I return to the bathroom, swish tooth-whitening mouthwash around, and then rinse again before we both get into bed. “Shooting just doesn’t afford the same nuance.”
Fletch finishes fluffing his solitary pillow. “Sometimes I forget you’re half Sicilian. Too bad you weren’t in Westerville. It would have been hard for the strikers to walk the picket line with broken ankles.”
I kiss him good night and settle into my side of the bed. “Mm-hmm. We’re a stabby, vengeful people. No bedbugs and such, Fletch.”
We’re silent for a few minutes and I’m just about asleep when Fletch shakes me. “Hey, Jen?”
“What is it, sweetie?”
“I’m never leaving you alone again.”
I hide my smile in the pillow. “Good.”
* * *
from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster
Dear Google Management,
I love your services and access them so often that I’ve come to use terms like “Googleicious” and “Googleholic” to describe said affection. That being
said, we have a problem.
The dilemma is that old-school, semi-repressed grandfather types like my dad have also discovered the utility of your service. Now, the search engine is just dandy when older gentlemen need to find pastel plaid golf pants, local Lincoln-Mercury dealerships, and discount plane tickets to Florida.
However, a crisis occurs when they employ amorphous search criteria. For example, when my father decided to do some reading on Stephen Hawking’s theories of the nature of space and time, he Googled a variation of the term “black holes” and ended up on an entirely different type of Web site.
I could hear his shrieks one state away.
To compound this quandary, this retired executive class spent a professional lifetime with the aid of a competent secretary. Thus, they never developed an eye for the small details—that’s what “their girl” was for—because they were so busy running the world. Point is, if my dad’s right-hand Barbara had been around to assist him, he would have never accidentally clicked through to join the Log Cabin Republicans while looking for information on building a rough-hewn timber home.
I beg you to please add an “Old Businessman” parameter to your search engine. These fellows, although tigers in their prime, have been weakened by a lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes, double Manhattans, triple cheeseburgers, and quadruple bypasses. Their cardiovascular systems simply cannot handle the sustained and perpetual shock that can result from a bad Google.
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 6