[2013] Note to Self- Change the Locks

by Heather Balog

  I ripped the bill out of the waiter’s hand as he brought it over, and pulled another twenty out of my own wallet. I added it to Nora’s money and handed it to him. “Keep the change.”

  I reached for my jacket on the back of the chair as I rose to my feet. “I don't need a pal, Simon. I have a pal. And I was enjoying a nice dinner with her before you ruined it.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just like you ruin everything.”

  “Lizzie, I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner, but if you would just let me—”

  I held my hand up. “Save it for someone who doesn’t know your crap, Simon. I’m not buying your bullshit anymore.”

  After giving the chair a hard shove, I stormed off toward the exit, leaving him staring after me.

  Three

  I was dreaming. In my dream, Austin and I were engaged. And in my dream, my ex-husband was living with me. On our wedding day, Simon jumped up on the altar, demanded I run away with him, while the organist played the chicken dance and ruined my whole wedding. I woke up in a puddle of sweat. And with Simon hovering over my bed.

  I grabbed my satin comforter and pulled it close to my chin. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom? Where did you come from?” Then I remembered. He’s here because you let him stay here. Remember your brilliant move yesterday? The one that you instantly regretted?

  Simon took a step back and held his hands up. “Sorry, I just heard you screaming like there was an ax murderer in here. Pardon me for taking action.”

  I glared at him. “I’m screaming because you are in my bedroom. An ax murderer would be more welcome!” I pointed to the door. “Get out!”

  “Sorry for my concern,” Simon muttered as he left. “Silly me, didn’t want the wife to be butchered by a murderer.”

  “EX-WIFE!” I shouted at the closed door. This is going to be a daily nightmare, isn’t it? He is going to make every waking second of my life a living hell.

  My heart was thundering in my chest, a result of being frightened nearly to death upon arousal from a dream state. Glancing at the clock, I realized it was early, only eight o’clock.

  Stupid Simon always was a morning person. It was so annoying when we were married. His alarm would go off at some ungodly hour, like five am and he would spring out of bed like a jack in the box. He’d go to the gym and then try to playfully pull me out of bed when he returned. At the absurd hour of seven am. He always played this crazy trumpet music for his alarm, too. It usually would scare the bejeezus out of me. One of the many advantages of our divorce was not being woken up each morning to my husband leaping out of bed like he was shot out of a cannon. Not even back in my life for a whole twenty-four hours and he is already waking you up at the butt crack of dawn. I instantly corrected myself. He’s not back in your life. Just passing through.

  Leaning against my pillow, I debated about whether to get up or not. It’s not like I had a job to get to or anything. Pulling the covers over my head, I lazily settled back down between the warm sheets.

  I used to have a job. I had a really decent copy editor job at The Tribute that was supposed to be the stepping stone to a really great job. Then, “the incident” occurred and Simon and I got divorced and everything went pear shaped. I couldn’t sleep at night and ended up walking around like a zombie all day. Tossing and turning for hours, I would usually fall asleep an hour before my alarm went off. After I went to work with leftover chicken soup in my coffee mug one day, I realized I was in desperate need of some sleep and finally caved in to the sleeping pills Nora had been offering me for months.

  Those tiny little white pills proved great for my sleep problem. It was the waking up that became the new problem. I slept through my alarm clock almost every morning. I tried different rings, the radio, vibrating, you name it. Nothing succeeded in arousing me from my slumber. Because the city is so crazy in the morning, even a ten minute delay can screw up the whole commute, thus rendering me tardy at least three times a week.

  Needless to say, my neurotic boss Tanya and I did not see eye to eye on my lack of punctuality. I assumed my genius was enough to overlook me running in the door at nine thirty each day. Apparently, Tanya disagreed. She also felt my “disheveled” appearance (her words, not mine) and my “lackadaisical approach” (once again, her words) to my job, were enough to warrant me getting the ax when we merged with our sister publication. Never mind that I was the most brilliant copy editor or writer that she had working under her. Ok, maybe I wasn’t brilliant, but I was a hell of a lot better than Cindy Richards, a writer who constantly interchanged “there, their, and they’re” inappropriately and she got to keep her job.

  The first day after I lost my job I swore up and down that I wasn’t going to get upset about my dismissal. I was going to use this as an opportunity to do some writing. My eventual goal was to be a writer, but I needed to pay the bills, so when I was offered the job at The Tribute right out of college, I seized the opportunity. I was thrilled I had snagged a job in my field while most of my peers were waiting on tables. After receiving the good news via telephone, my first thought was to go shopping for “business attire”, when my mother happened into my bedroom.

  “Hey, Mom!” I had beamed at her, certain that she was going to congratulate me on my success. Instead, she sank down onto my bed and burst into tears.

  Concerned, I dashed to her side and threw my arms around her. My mother was a nervous sort of woman who tended to not handle any sort of stress well. I was sure that one of my brothers had gotten a speeding ticket or drove up on the lawn and she was completely overreacting as usual.

  Imagine my surprise when I asked, “What’s wrong?” to have her reply be, “Why did you take this job, Elizabeth?”

  Obviously, she was confused. “But, Mom, this is a good job,” I said, hoping to set her straight.

  She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her red gingham apron. Mom walked around in an apron pretty much twenty-four/seven. She had at least a dozen different ones. The stove and oven were going constantly. No wonder we were all fat.

  “Oh, Elizabeth. I thought you wanted to be a writer! Not someone who corrects the work of writers!”

  “Mom, it’s a starter job! I can’t expect to waltz straight out of college and get the journalist job of the year.”

  “But why not?” My mother sniffled and dabbed her moist eyes again. “You’re so gifted.”

  Well of course you think I’m talented, you’re my mother. I didn’t say that, though. I simply hugged her. “Awww thanks, Mom. I need to put in my time first, though. Trust me. This is going to open a lot of doors for me.”

  That was six years ago and so far the only door that it’s opened for me has been for the unemployment office. Still, I thankfully collected my unemployment while sending out my résumé to every upper echelon newspaper and magazine in the New York area. And every day my email inbox would be jammed with the “Thank you for your interest in our publication, Ms. Parisi, but we regret to inform you...” letters. That was, if I got any answer at all.

  Then, a few months later, Cindy Richards also got canned, much to my delight. One day, she showed up at my door telling me she had written a memoir of her life in journalism. The publisher she contacted had apparently laughed at her and told her she needed to clean it up before they’d even consider it. Cindy sat in my living room daintily sipping tea as she kissed my butt, telling me I was the best editor she knew. She offered me a thousand bucks under the table to edit the manuscript for her.

  Caught completely off guard, I considered the pros and cons of this endeavor. I wasn’t thrilled about helping out my nemesis, nor did I really want to do editing work when I wanted to focus solely on my own writing. Yet, I needed the money and I definitely knew I would revel in slashing a red pen through her grammatical errors. Besides, how long could it actually take to edit her manuscript? She was lucky she could string two sentences together. I would have plenty of time for writing.

  Cindy dumped her manuscript on my table and o
h my Lord, that thing was hefty! I couldn’t even begin to imagine what little ole Cindy had to say that would take up so many pages, but wow, I soon found out. Turned out our Girl Scout was quite the promiscuous little tramp. She either slept her way to her job or she was a damn good storyteller. I was leaning toward the former as being true, not that I wasn’t riveted by the tale. In the process of reading Cindy’s steamy saga of The Tribute Undressed, my writing got swept to the back burner. To overwhelm me even more, Cindy (that whore), told her fellow out-of-work writers about me and all of a sudden people were coming out of the woodwork, begging me to edit their work.

  Apparently, everyone and their grandmother had a memoir or a YA fantasy novel in the works. Most of it was poorly written and a grammatical nightmare, but money was money and my bills didn’t stop coming just because I was unemployed. There were shoes to be bought, after all. The good part was it was all under the table, so I was able to continue to collect unemployment and work on my futile job search. And make my own hours.

  All this meant I could feel free to sleep in right now. I didn’t need to worry that it was almost nine o’clock on a Thursday morning. It didn’t matter if it was midnight on a Sunday. I curled up into a content ball and drifted off to sleep.

  For exactly three minutes. That’s when the blaring smoke alarm jolted me from dreamland. Tangled in my sheets, I crashed to the floor, trying to get out of bed.

  “What was that?” Simon called, throwing open my bedroom door. He stared at me on the floor. “Are you okay? Did you fall?”

  Embarrassed, I shielded my body with my arms. I didn’t want Simon to see that I was wearing shortie pajama pants and a skimpy camisole. And I was apparently very cold.

  What are you worried about? This man has not only seen you in your pjs, he’s seen you naked.

  That reminder made me blush even more. I quickly tried to take the focus off of my half naked body on the bedroom floor. “Why is the smoke detector going off? Is the apartment on fire?”

  Simon shook his head. “No. I was making breakfast for you. And for me, too, of course.”

  “I don't want breakfast,” I told him with an exasperated sigh. “I want to sleep.”

  Simon held out his hand to help me up. I refused his assistance and tried pulling myself up using the bedpost before I heard a very scary creaking noise coming from under the bed.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yelped, rolling out of the way just before the one side of the bed crashed to the floor.

  “You still have that stupid bed with the broken leg?” Simon chuckled, offering me his hand again. “There are a lot of memories in that bed. Remember how many times we broke that thing? Like the time you handcuffed me to the bedpost and poured hot wax on my—”

  I cut him off from his sleazy trip down memory lane. “Yes, I still have it, Simon.” I struggled to my feet after pushing his hand away again. “And no, I didn’t keep it for sentimental reasons. I kept it because I can’t afford another one right now.”

  Simon looked confused. “Why can’t you afford a new one? You make good money at the magazine, don’t you? Surely a bed isn’t that expensive.”

  I rolled my eyes as I shifted through the pile of clothes scattered across my comforter. “Didn’t you hear me yesterday? I told you I had a job interview. One usually goes on a job interview when one does not have a job,” I explained sarcastically. “We actually talked about me not having a job…or was I having that conversation with myself? Glad to see you still don’t listen.” I pulled a threadbare sweatshirt over my head. Didn’t he call me a hypocrite for mocking his jobless state? Was the whole thing my imagination?

  “Glad to see you’re still a slob,” Simon remarked, ignoring my comment as he riffled through the pile on my bed. He held up a silver sequined bra. “How do you live like this?”

  I snatched the bra from his hand and shoved him toward the door. “The bar broke in the closet. I have no place else to put the clothes. Get out. And make the smoke detector stop screaming.”

  Simon stumbled out of my room backwards and I slammed the door in his face. After locking it, I slumped to the floor. Completely like Simon to remind me what a miserable failure I’ve become. And the crazy part is that it’s just as much his fault as it is mine. If he hadn’t... Slowly, I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying not to think about it and become enraged. Taking deep, relaxing breaths, I reminded myself, Calm down. You are over it, remember? Simon is out of your life and it’s over.

  But that was the problem. Simon wasn’t out of my life. Not by a long shot. He was actually in my kitchen, burning shit and invading my personal space. The man was infuriating. He never seemed to comprehend the idea of personal space, even when we were married. I’d find his shoes on my side of the bed and his clothes on my side of the closet. He’d use my shampoo and my razor. I’d be having a conversation with Nora or my mother on the phone and Simon would be hovering, wanting details as soon as I hung up. There was nothing that was just mine. Ever.

  Not like Austin. Austin was always very respectful of my turf and my privacy. There were no belongings of Austin’s at my apartment competing for territory with my stuff. He never slept over, nor did he ask for the key. He was very content to go on a date, come by for sex, and leave at a reasonable hour. Which was perfectly fine with me.

  Okay, that sounds a little slutty, but it isn’t like that at all. We’re in a relationship. Really, we are.

  My cell phone vibrated on my nightstand, jolting me from my reverie. Too lazy to get up, I crawled over to the nightstand and grabbed it. Ah, see! It was a text from Austin.

  I sighed audibly as I read the message. It made me want to cringe, but I forced myself to ignore the urge. So he wasn’t the most eloquent writer on the planet. We were only a year apart in age, me being the slightly older one, but it seemed like light years in regards to grammar. Kids these days had no appreciation for the English language. I had no idea why he couldn’t spell out the words. Austin’s text read: Hey 6Y! On bus. CUL8R 4 dinner.

  Dinner? Oh shit, I forgot about dinner! Austin was coming home today and I vaguely remembered him saying something about dinner together. And now that I think about it, I recalled telling him I would cook it. I believe I even alluded to a romantic candlelit meal.

  Oh damn it all to hell! How am I going to cook Austin a romantic dinner here with Simon banging around like he owns the place? And furthermore, how am I going to explain Simon’s presence to begin with?

  I covered my face with my hands as a sickening thought occurred to me. Oh my God. I never even told Austin about being married to Simon!

  Austin and I had agreed to keep the “ex talk” to a minimum after a little sex blunder. I happened to point out that he had a mole on his butt in the exact same place a college boyfriend had one. I may have even called it a cute little tushie. That revelation had apparently turned Austin off and he asked me to keep the exes to myself in the future. This was early on in our relationship, which was probably why I never mentioned Simon.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t think he would excuse my forgetting to mention this one particular ex. It’s not like Simon and I hooked up during a cruise and went “scuba diving” (that was Nora, not me). It would be one thing if Simon was just an ex-boyfriend. But this was my ex-husband that was now temporarily living on my couch.

  I jumped to my feet, yanked off my pajama bottoms, and tossed them in the pile on the bed. Examining the contents of the heap, I tried to determine how long those clothes had been sitting there and what was actually clean in my drawers. I really should wash my clothes today, I thought as I opened my pants drawer to grab a fresh pair of jeans. It was empty. Okay, I have to do the laundry today.

  After jotting down a memo on the purple pad of post-its by the bed, I pulled the jeans I wore yesterday off the top of the pile, held them to my face and sniffed.

  Unacceptable. They reek of Mexican food. Damn people at the next table had sizzling fajitas. Searching through the clothing, I unearthed
a pair of sweats that probably had been on the bed since the last time Nora dragged me to the gym with her. In February.

  Inspecting my mismatched outfit in the mirror before opening the bedroom door, I sighed. I looked like a depressed housewife strung out on valium and vodka. No bother. You only have editing to do today. Then I gazed back at my bed. And laundry. And you have to figure out what you’re cooking for your boyfriend tonight. As I opened the bedroom door, I could see Simon fanning the smoke from the stove. And get rid of your ex-husband. Note to self…get rid of Simon.

  Four

  Ding dong! The doorbell sounded just as I was pulling the casserole dish out of the oven, shattering my thoughts. Son of a bitch! Austin’s early! Shit! Simon’s still here!

  All afternoon I had been wracking my brain to come up with an explanation for Simon’s presence. And after five hours of nonstop thinking, I realized, there really was no way to explain Simon without creating discord between Austin and me.

  I slammed the oven door shut, dumping the casserole dish on top of the stove and throwing the oven mitts onto the table.

  “Simon!” I hissed under my breath as I dashed into the living room area.

  Simon had his feet propped up on my coffee table while he leaned back on the couch. He was snickering at something on his phone screen.

  “Huh, what?” Simon glanced up from his phone.

  I pushed his feet off the coffee table. “Austin is here.”

  “Oh, ok. Lovely,” he remarked in a disinterested tone. He waved his phone at me. “Look, it’s a talking German shepherd. It’s hilarious.”

  I pushed the phone away. “I don’t want to see it. I want you out of here.”

  Simon stared at me. "Why can’t I meet him?”

  “You just can’t,” I hissed. “I didn’t tell him you were staying here quite yet.” Or that you existed. “It’s important that I break this to him by myself. Just go hide.”