I was on a work call Tuesday morning and OK so maybe I am partially to blame here for having the audacity to leave my front door open to let some fresh in, but some broad came stomping up to my porch and rather than knock on the screen door or RING THE DOORBELL, she shouted, “RUTH???” into my house.

Wendy, who I was on the call with, was like, “What is that…” and I had to whip around from my desk and gesticulate toward my computer in the universal, “HELLO RUDE ASS, I’M WORKING” sign. I angrily called back “WRONG HOUSE!” refusing to provide any further helpful information to this bitch who thought it was OK to SCREAM INTO MY FUCKING HOUSE. Hoo boy, this really had me BENT.

Then came Thursday morning. I had the door CLOSED on this day even though it pains me to do so because it makes my house so dark. Suddenly, THE DOORBELL.

Remember when I was so excited about the doorbell and thrilled every time it was rung? Well, those days are over. Back to WHO IS AT THE FUCKING DOOR anxiety.

I felt real indignant at the mo’, I’m not even going to pretend otherwise. I stood up, hands akimbo, and said to myself, “No. I’m working. I don’t have time for this shit and it’s probably just a canvasser trying to confuse me questions like, ‘Who’s your pick for something-something Judge?'”

That’s not to say I’m going to still neb-out and try to see who it is. YO. IT WAS THAT SAME LADY FROM TUESDAY! I saw her walking away, jabbing her rude fingers at her phone. I was PISSSSSED. What could she possibly need to come back for?

I went back to work and forgot about it. I mean, I do have a life, after all. And part of that life entails me feeding squirrels so I got up to take a “leg stretch” and walked over to the door to see if my furry kids needed a walnoot refill. That’s when I saw a COP CAR PARKED IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE AND A COP WALKING UP THE STREET WITH THAT LADY!!

WHAT THE HELLLLLL WAS GOING ON.

(Also, when you see me breaking out the CAPSLOCK I hope you know I’m over here yelling these parts out loud in an array of accents.)

I stayed at the front door like the concerned citizen that I am known for around these parts and noticed that the cop and broad had stopped near the driveway for the behavioral health in-patient house thing next to the house where Chooch’s friend Marky used to live. (His grandparents still lived there and for the record, I don’t like the grandfather, “PAP” if you will.) So, I knee-jerked hypothesized that A PATIENT ESCAPED FROM THE HOUSE and that lady is one of the staff members and she was going door to door to see if anyone was HARBORING THE ESCAPEE and my supporting evidence was that:

1. I have a naturally guilty complex and automatically think everyone suspects me of foul play;
2. the broad was making sweeping gestures toward my direction and the cop kept LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER at my house.

The cop eventually retreated to his car, where he sat for a good 45 minutes probably lamenting that he hadn’t yet been able to abuse his power while looking under his seat for a Dunkin’ coupon. I was giving Henry a play-by-play via the tellyphone and urged him to go listen to his dorky wanna-be copper scanner to see what intel he could glean.

In the meantime, I did some work because this was, after all, during work hours and as much as I would love to say I’m getting paid to be the Neighborhood Crime Sleuth, I had engagement letters to review. :/

I checked about 10 minutes later and this time, I saw that the mom and stepdad of the aforementioned Marky were talking to the cop through his driver’s side window! I would have demanded that he get out of the car, but I guess that’s just me. Marky’s mom was casually eating a popsicle.

This is something I needed you to know.

I was standing inside the door still, and as much as I hate interacting with people on this street, I couldn’t stop myself from bursting out onto the porch after they began to walk away from the cop.

“WHAT’S GOING ON???” I panted.

“My dad’s piece of shit landlady WHO DOESN’T DO SHIT FOR THAT HOUSE is looking for Ruth because she wants that van moved from behind the house,” Marky’s mom scoffed.

“Oh, THAT is who that is?” Well, at least I won’t be busted for stowing that patient behind all of my shoes and string cheese in my closet. “She came to my house TWICE this week, asking for Ruth!”

“Because she doesn’t know what the FUCK she’s doing!” Marky’s mom shouted around the popsicle, catching sticky drips with her tongue. “My dad’s at work so I came here to move his car out of the driveway because she’s going to get the van towed.”

“They’re….on vacation,” I gulped, because Marky’s mom said that they assumed Ruth & HNC were just at work. Now Marky’s step-dad was frantically looking through his phone to see if he had HNC’s phone number.

Which I have. But didn’t feel like saying anything LOL.

To give a quick explanation of the van’s lore, HNC has THREE OF THEM. Two of them are rotting in our shared driveway. Every once in a while, he tinkers with one of them, lets it run, sometimes drives it around the block. The other one legit is a rat hostel at this point. Its tires are fused to the earth.

The third one used to be parked in the church parking lot across the street but a few years ago, the church threatened to tow it or something, not my van, not my problem, so PAP told HNC that he could park it behind “his” house. And by “his” house, I mean that house that has three units in it, one of which he RENTS. But, semantics, I guess.

Back to now – I was kind of like, “Oh” to find out that this was the cause of some fucking bitch coming to my house uninvited twice this week and then CALLING THE POLICE? Excuse me, ma’am but was this an EMERGENCY? That van has been for 3 or so years but NOW you want it towed? Maybe put that energy into protesting Trump or making Katy Perry space memes. Just seems like there must be something more constructive to do with your day than blowing a fuse over a van that is literally doing nothing and can be moved once HNC returns home from vacation? Unless she’s organizing a block party and has a small village of fancy bounce houses for adults being delivered for the backyard, I am officially not invested in this saga any further. Until it affects me and my livelihood and is relevant to my interests, stay the fuck off my porch.

(Although, now that I know how angry she is, I hope my doorbell pissed her off, lol.)

I came back in the house and called Henry to give him the lackluster update.

“Oh! I know that landlady,” Henry said after I described her as a bitchy troll with glasses, because he thinks he knows everyone like he’s Pittsburgh Santa or some shit. “Her dad actually used to live in that house too. Little guy with huge eyes.”

“I have literally no idea who you’re talking about,” I snapped, running out of patience. “The way you have this fucking random cast of characters seared into your memory…”

“It’s because I PAY ATTENTION TO PEOPLE, Erin,” Henry said, quite defensively too, if you ask me.

“Well anyway,” I quickly tacked on before hanging up, “I don’t feel like getting involved so you have to tell HNC. Byyyeeee.”

(The van hasn’t been towed yet, btw.)

(But for real though, why so many vans, HNC??? Never mind. Don’t answer that.)

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