by S. E. Law
My mom merely clucks again when taking a bite of a chocolate cupcake this time. As usual, she immediately gags with horror and spits it out into a napkin.
“What’s in this?” Dinah practically shrieks. “Spoiled milk? Partially hydrogenated corn oil? Meat?”
I roll my eyes. I swear, Dinah can be so over the top sometimes.
“Mom, I guarantee there is no meat in that cupcake. That was a chocolate cupcake with hazelnut frosting.”
My mom merely shakes her head.
“No, I think Linda snuck some meat product in there. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had some leftover Spam in her kitchen and threw it into the cupcakes rather than tossing that stuff out.”
I bite my tongue. There’s no sense in reminding my mom that Spam doesn’t really expire if all it does is sit in your cupboard. Heck, that stuff could be taken to outer space, and it would probably still be good after twenty years. But Dinah wants to act dramatic and the best thing to do is to let her get it out of her system. It’s easier than fighting her on it, that’s for sure.
“Okay, I’ve done my work here,” I say with a wan smile. “Anything else you need?” I ask. “Otherwise, I’m going to head home.”
It’s a Sunday night and I’m beat. It shouldn’t be this way because I’ve had all weekend to recover, but sometimes, life just takes every ounce of energy that I have. I’m a Millennial, and as a result sometimes it feels like everything’s stacked against me, and there’s no way out. Even my mom doesn’t understand why I’m tuckered out all the time, but it’s the wall of debt surrounding me that gets me down.
For example, I have tens of thousands in student loans. It’s crazy, and I swear I’ve paid more in interest payments than actual principal payments. Then there’s the fact that my student loans make it impossible to save, and as a result I feel like I’ll be stuck in my tiny little rathole of an apartment forever. I certainly won’t be achieving the dream of American homeownership anytime soon, that’s for sure. I can’t even afford Uber rides sometimes, much less a down payment for an abode.
But the ramifications of being a Millennial are more than just financial. It’s psychological too. I graduated into the Great Recession, and it was really tough finding a job. I know everyone tells the same story, but I literally sent out thousands of applications, hoping that employers would bite. Unfortunately, no one did, and for six months I sat around feeling hopeless. Finally, I landed a job as a home health aide, although it’s completely unrelated to my major of economics. Honestly, seeing how things have turned out, it would have made more sense not to go to college at all.
As a result, I’ve been depressed for a couple years now. Sure, I have friends, but my instability makes me feel worthless sometimes, and it makes me too anxious and shy to really date. Sure, I’ve had flings with guys and sometimes I browse profiles online just for fun, but I don’t usually get into real relationships. After all, who would be interested in a girl barely keeping her head up while mired in a pit of financial quicksand? I’d probably ruin their credit score, in addition to bringing loads of debt into any permanent union.
As a result, I’m pretty much a typical Millennial. I have nothing to my name, no immediate chance of landing a better job, and I still get financial assistance from my mom sometimes. Isn’t that embarrassing? I’m twenty-eight and should be well on my way to adulthood, but instead, sometimes I still feel like a little girl of five years old.
Well, at least with my mom, things are relatively okay. Maybe I borrow money from Dinah sometimes, but our relationship is more than that. She’s my mother, even if from an emotional standpoint, sometimes I feel like I’m the one who’s the maternal figure and not the other way around.
For example, my mom has been sampling each of the cupcakes like she’s the Queen of England. But instead of chewing and swallowing, she’s been chewing and then spitting out each bite in disgust.
“You know Mom, when you spit out food like that, you’re wasting food,” I intone. “Think of all the starving children in Africa.”
Dinah merely rolls her eyes.
“Seriously Katie, you’re so boring sometimes. I had to spit it out. It tasted bad, and I wouldn’t put it past Linda to put poison in some of those suckers.”
I squint at my mom.
“Mom, that would be against the law,” I point out. “Linda would go to jail if she were poisoning someone. Why would she do that?”
My mom merely shrugs.
“Who knows? Why is Linda the way she is? Why are her cupcakes so bad even after ten years in the business? If you find answers to these questions, sweetheart, please let me know because I’d love to be clued in. In fact, I’d be happy to be the one to report her to the police, or at least to the FDA. She deserves to be investigated by the government.”
I roll my eyes.
“Are you really going to sic the bloodhounds on your competitor Mom? Is that what a good person does?”
Dinah merely shrugs and spits out another bite of cupcake.
“I just want this community to be safe, sweetheart. That’s all I’m saying.”
I roll my eyes again. My mom is so over-the-top sometimes, and it can be absolutely exhausting. With another sigh, I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Okay Dinah, I’ve got work tomorrow so enjoy the cupcakes and have a wonderful Sunday night okay? I’ll see you next week.”
My mom is turned towards the sink, but she swivels to smile and wave as I leave. But then a puzzled expression crosses her face.
“Oh, and by the way Kenneth stopped by the other day,” she mentions. “You remember Kenneth Carlton, don’t you?”
In fact, I do know Kenneth because we went to high school together. He was awful. He was puffy, red, overweight, and sweated like it was a hundred degrees outside even when the temperature was freezing. Not only that, but Kenneth was mean. His dad is some important real estate developer, so he felt he could lord it over us because of his money and so-called connections.
“Yes, I remember Kenneth. Why would he come by?” I ask in a confused tone. “You mean, he actually knocked on your door? Did something happen?”
Mom shrugs and then pulls open a kitchen drawer before rifling around the mess inside.
“Well, it turns out that Kenneth’s dad bought this apartment complex a while ago, and so they wanted to notify us of the change in management,” she says, her voice absent-minded as she digs around. “Ah ha! Here it is. He gave me this too.”
Dinah hands me a crumpled piece of paper that has some red lettering on it. My heart pounding, I unfold the letter to see what it is. My eyes grow wide as the air evaporates from my lungs.
“Mom, they want you gone,” I say in a low, trembling voice. “Did you even read this? This is a notice from Carlton Realty saying that you need to vacate this apartment in thirty days.”
My mom looks puzzled.
“But why? I always pay my rent on time. Why would they want me to leave?”
I stare at her.
“Are you sure you’ve been paying your rent on time? I know that when I lived here you were always late. And I mean always.”
Dinah scoffs.
“You’re such a worrywart sometimes, Katie. Of course I’ve been paying my rent on time. Back when you were younger, I was a little disorganized between divorcing your dad and starting my own business. But I swear, I haven’t been late even once in the past year.”
I put my hands on my hips.
“Show me your checkbook register then,” I demand.
My mom shakes her head, clucking.
“Sweetheart, that isn’t going to prove anything because I don’t record out-going checks nor do I ever balance my checkbook. You’re not going to see proof of rent payments there.”
I stare at her, my mind whirling.
“Then I’m going to have to check a different way,” I say. Moving as fast as lightning, I swipe her phone from her purse and begin scrolling through her apps.
“Oh my g
od, what are you doing?” my mom shrieks. “Haven’t you ever heard of something called privacy? You Millennials have no sense of basic decency!”
But I avoid my mom’s clawing arms and manage to find her bank’s payment app. I tap it open, and fortunately, the log in and passwords are pre-filled, so I’m able to get into her dashboard with no problem. Quickly, I select “Recent Transactions in the Past 90 Days” and hold my breath as the app whirs. Of course, when the results come back, disappointment sinks into my chest and my shoulders slump.
“Mom, you have nothing here except some payments to ShopRite and Taylor Drugs. Oh, and there’s this purchase you made at Nordstrom for two hundred dollars, and some random charges from Jamba Juice, Exxon and Lube-O-Matic.”
My mom nods with a smile.
“Yes, I had to take my Camry in for its one hundred thousand mile check-up,” she says cheerily. “Aren’t you proud of me? I actually remembered this time. I remember how angry you were when I missed my seventy-five thousand mile checkup and my car broke down on the freeway.”
I stare at her.
“Dinah, you’re missing the point. I’m not seeing any debits in your account for rent. Do you have another bank account? How did you make your rent payments each month? Did you pay cash?”
My mom looks confused.
“Of course I didn’t pay cash. I swear I wrote Carlton Realty a check each month and mailed it, so I’m not sure why you’re not seeing those transactions in my log. It must be a problem with the bank,” she says airily. Then she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know I heard Abacus Savings Bank is being investigated by regulators,” she confides. “Word is that there’s some real mismanagement going on there.”
I shake my head wearily.
“Mom, whatever problems the bank has been having, I know that they didn’t ‘forget’ to record your rent payments. You haven’t made any payments for the last three months, and my guess is that if I look through the last year of activity on your account, you’re missing more than just the last three months.”
Dinah shakes her head.
“No, I swear that’s not true! I always pay my rent.”
I merely sigh wearily again.
“Mom, I believe you. I believe that you intended to pay your rent each and every time, but there’s a big difference between intention and execution, and unfortunately, the proof is right here. You haven’t been making your rent payments for a while now, and the Carltons probably have a legal right to begin eviction proceedings.”
Finally, my words seem to have some impact on Dinah. Sometimes, I swear she’s impossible to deal with because nothing ever gets through her skull. It’s always rainbows, flowers, and tomorrow will be another day. But not this time. The Pied Piper’s knocking at her door, and he wants her out. Literally.
Dinah takes a deep breath.
“So what do I do?” she asks with tears in her eyes. “Should I call Mr. Carlton? Should I beg them to reinstate me? Could you reach out to Kenneth? You were friends from high school, right?”
I look at my mom, and how all over the place she is. It’s clear that Dinah can’t handle a confrontation with any type of authority. She would probably break down and agree to move out, without even trying to negotiate a deal for herself.
“No, it’s okay,” I say in a wooden voice. “I’ll go down to Carlton Realty tomorrow and see what I can do. Maybe Kenneth will be there, and you’re right – we did sort-of know each other, even if we weren’t exactly friends. Maybe I can set up some kind of plan.”
“Oh would you?” my mom asks. “I’d so appreciate it, sweetheart. You’ve always been so good with numbers, and I was so proud when you graduated with highest honors in Economics. You’re a super-star, Katie. And I’m sure Kenneth will be amenable. His dad is a really big real estate developer, isn’t that right? I heard Mr. Carlton won some big industry award both last year for most square footage rented or something like that. We’re just small peas to them, so I know they’ll give us some slack. It’s called being neighborly,” she says in a hopeful voice.
I merely smile wanly at my mom and give her a gentle hug.
“We’ll see,” I say. “I’ll give it shot. What else do we have to lose?” I ask.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” my mom says again while stroking my soft blonde hair. “You’re a life-saver, Katie.”
With that, I turn to go even as my heart pounds. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to Carlton Realty to beg my mother’s case. I only hope that Mr. Carlton, whoever this big shot is, will grant us mercy in our time of need.
33
Katie
This is it. I smooth down my one nice skirt, and take a deep breath. Hopefully all my flyaways are smoothed down, and my lipstick’s not smeared or ghoulish-looking. Because before the imposing glass tower of Carlton Realty, I feel like a sacrifice being offered up to a mighty king.
It’s easy to see why. Carlton Realty is a big deal in our small town. They don’t just own residential properties here in Sunnydale. They also own shopping malls, strip malls, and entertainment centers all across the country. For some reason, they’re based right here in Sunnydale although their reach is worldwide.
I gulp again, staring up at the massive tower. To be honest, it’s a little of an eyesore, seeing that the building has to be at least ten stories tall while everything surrounding it is three stories at most. Plus, the architecture doesn’t really fit with Sunnydale’s downtown. The glass tower has a shiny, black surface that reflects all light, while the humble pre-war buildings beside it are made of red brick and faded stone.
Well, you can’t stay out here forever Katie, the voice in my head chides. Come on, do your thing.
I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders before heading inside. The woman at reception smiles blandly in greeting.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m looking for Mr. Carlton.”
She nods, giving nothing away.
“Certainly. I’ll buzz him and see if he’s free. Your name?”
“Katie McCall.”
She nods and puts the phone to her ear before dialing an extension. Someone picks up on the other end and she says, “Ms. McCall here to see you.”
To my surprise, the receptionist puts the phone down and smiles.
“Mr. Carlton will be with you shortly,” she says. “Please take a seat.”
I hesitantly walk over to a bank of sofas arranged in the lobby. They’re made of black leather, with harsh ninety-degree angles to the cushions. Are these even made to be used as seating? I decide not. Instead, I help myself to some water from the water cooler, and stand there drinking it while pretending to look at the covers of some magazines.
Suddenly, a smarmy voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Well, Katie McCall,” the voice says. “My oh my oh my. What have we here?”
My nerves shudder and suddenly I realize my mistake. The receptionist must have put me through to Kenneth Carlton and not his dad. Oh god, how did this happen? How could I have forgotten to specify that I wanted to see the father, and not the son?
Plus, Kenneth is every bit as awful as I remember. If anything, he’s put on another one hundred pounds on his already tubby frame, making him absolutely enormous. His eyes are a beady blue, and his blonde hair is so pale as to almost look white. All in all, he looks like an albino murderer from some horror movie, although he’s dressed like any corporate schmuck in pressed chinos and a blue button-down.
I manage a friendly smile, managing to choke down my revulsion.
“Hi Ken, how are you?” I say. “Long time no see.”
Kenneth leers at me, his glistening red lips parting in a diabolical smile.
“I’m good. How are you, Katie? I see you’re looking mighty fine as always.”
I look around quickly. Does Kenneth know what he’s saying? This is Corporate America, after all, and in the aftermath of the #MeToo movement, I thought men no lo
nger commented on women’s looks. Especially not while they’re grinning fiendishly at me the way Kenneth is.
“Thanks,” I say with a somewhat-normal smile. You look good too.”
I’m lying through my teeth because he looks much worse than from when we were in high school, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Kenneth holds my mom’s future in his hands, and I’ll spout lots of praise if it helps Dinah keep her place.
“Let’s just go to my office,” he says sibilantly. “This way please.”
With that, we pass through a set of double doors and then step into a large room filled with cubicles. The florescent light is ghastly, and both the cubicles and the carpet are gray. In fact, the few people I see walking by also have a grayish pallor, as if they haven’t seen the sun in ages.
“These folks work in cubes, but I have my own office,” Kenneth boasts, leading me down a walkway at the edge of Cubeland. “Right here. Corner office with glass walls,” he says, as if it weren’t completely obvious.
But it’s true. Ken does have a corner office with floor to ceiling glass walls which make it easy to see what his employees are doing. I wouldn’t be proud to sit there, but it seems that he is.
“Come right in,” he adds.
I nod and shuffle in, but not before catching sight of another glass office across the way. This glass office is bigger, and situated so that it’s filled with sunlight. The furniture inside is a gleaming mahogany, and I can see the large figure of a man lounging in front of a huge desk while talking on the phone. I wonder who that is? He certainly looks commanding even from a hundred feet away, as the light glints off burnished dark locks. Is that the boss?
But Kenneth puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me inside and I repress a shudder at his clammy touch.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a seat in the chair before his desk.
“No problem,” he says magnanimously while shutting the door and lumbering over to his desk. I cringe a little as he sits. Will that standard office chair hold his massive bulk? Evidently so, because he lowers himself carelessly and looks at me with his pale blue gaze.