A few weeks ago, we received an eviction notice in the mail. It’s not that we’re evading the landlord, choosing instead to lounge around in Steelers sweatpants while hitting the meth. We’re giving him checks, but we’re not getting caught up. Henry had been talking to him about some sort of an arrangement prior to this, so we were a little blindsided by the notice.
Henry left to go to the rental office, so he could have a conversation with the landlord face-to-face. He called me from the parking lot and goes, “Look, the state constable is on his way to the house. Don’t answer the door.”
A simple command. Probably simple enough even for me to obey.
I decided to make it into a game for Chooch, which was, hello, a Very Stupid Move. “Chooch, some dude’s going to knock on the door, but we’re going to pretend like we’re not home, ok?”
“Huh? Where?” and he scrambled up on the chair and peered over the windowsill, his gigantic dome bobbing around like a buoy in the Atlantic. I’m on the couch, hissing for him to get down, but it was too late. The constable, unable to miss Chooch’s beach ball head, rapped on the window.
“It’s Blake!” Chooch exclaimed.
Now, here is where a normal person of average intelligence would scoff and tell the kid to STFU and get the hell away from the window. Me? I believe him. The same way I believe all the letters I get in the mail inviting me to claim my lottery winnings.
“Really?” I asked him, slightly skeptical at first. But when Chooch, face all alit with brother-love, squealed and looked back out onto the porch, I shrugged and made my way to the door. Blake has been known to sometimes show up on our doorstep, why couldn’t this particular moment be one of those impromptu visits? was what I was thinking when I pulled open the door.
And that is how I came to scream and slam my front door in the face of a state constable, who bore no resemblance to Blake AT ALL Chooch, you little asshole.
It is interesting to note that state constables do not prefer to have heavy wooden doors slammed on them. Sometimes, as in this case, it might even make them pound furiously upon said door while barking “STATE CONSTABLE” for all your neighbors to know that you are a criminal. A criminal with no money who is only one mere paycheck ahead of drinking soup from a boot behind an abortion clinic. And then he updates his Facebook status so that all HIS neighbors will know, also.
And so, at this point, I wise up and do the rational thing: run. In circles. With my hands flapping in the air. I started to run all the way up the stairs, planning to hide in the bathtub, but then I was worried he’d pull out a bullhorn next. So this is what I do: I stand a few feet away from the door and I shout, “I’m the babysitter and I’m not to open the door for anyone!” I shout this, in all seriousness, at a closed wooden door. Because this is the best plan I have, aside from opening the door and groveling like a prostitute at Jesus’s feet. And my voice is fucking quaking, and my hands are fucking ice cold and sweaty all at once, because I know we’re really in some deep ass fucking corn-studded shit right about now.
But he buys it, doesn’t press me to open the door after that, and he calls out, all smoothly because now he thinks he’s talking to some young hussy babysitter, “Ok, well I’m just going to slip this paper in the door. You make sure that—” and here he pauses to read my name loud and clear off the notice, just in case there are some neighbors who haven’t heard “—gets this notice from the Magistrate.”
And then Henry comes home and is like, “What the fuck, how do you screw up ‘don’t open the door’? How was that so hard?”
This situation, this fucking little recession that maybe you heard of, this is why Henry is now coming home from his regular job and doing odd electrical jobs for the landlord’s rental properties. So that maybe we might still have a place to live because god knows my mother sure isn’t taking us in. And we thought that maybe things would work themselves out, but then, well….
It’s like this: I got laid off. Our terminal was deemed “over-staffed” by Corporate and, after dodging the first round of lay-offs in November, I was let go on Wednesday. As a courtesy, they had me finish out the week, which was awkward and a total drag. I mean, who would want to go back after that? It’s like being dumped and then being told, “But wait! Will you still be my date to that wedding this weekend?” and you want to say no, but fuck, you already bought that shitty dress.
And so, like so many other people who are dealing with this same shit right now, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. But I will tell you this: if this blog goes a few weeks without being updated, assume that Henry has shipped me off as a mail order bride.