A Comedy of Errors

Adam and I had always had an unusual yet close connection. There was some sort of affection on a mutual basis: I was completely in love with him, and he was completely in love with subjecting me to his eternal drama with other women. I firmly believed that if he could yank his innocent head out of his rectal cavity for longer than two seconds he would realize how much lower maintenance I was, how honest I was, and how much I would truly enjoy discovering the freakier aspects of life with him. Unfortunately, he was more attracted to repeatedly having his heart figuratively stomped upon by designer stilettos. I think it would have been easier for me if his eyes didn't have that gorgeous twinkle. The rest of him was somewhat awkward, but I liked to imagine sometimes that the friendly affection he had for me was deeper somewhere else. As if I could transport myself to an alternate dimension where I was an option, and he had self esteem for once.

It's not like I was missing out on anything by passing time in the relative safety of his friendship; I made good money in my work and wrote more than a few sketches and jokes for the late night political lampoon shows. Adam and I routinely played the same clubs together and I just happened to catch on faster than he did. I was somewhat of a novelty for being a female comedian who had yet to base a routine around my menstrual cycle or my naughty bits. I was never bored and had more than enough real and fake friends for whom to buy ridiculously named drinks and whip in the privacy of my home when I felt so inclined.

If I was a more suspicious person, I would have assumed that Adam chose to continue his association with me due to his rampant interest in the comedic industries. However, I greatly doubt that when he was chasing me down the street and tossing rocks at my head that he was secretly planning on taking advantage of my career connections 25 years in the future. Due to this revelation, I kept him around to keep me honest, but also just in case he turned out to be clairvoyant. And there was that whole peculiar aspect of being madly in love with him. Anyway. . .

Louisa was not a nice lady. Miss Louisa-Darling-Sweetieface was a shrew. After all of Adam's other disgustingly usurious companions, I had hopes for this one. The first few times I interacted with her, she wasn't entirely repugnant. She was intelligent, witty, and actually very attractive. She giggled at the right moments and clutched his arm just so when it was charmingly appropriate. I was happy for him, although I was devastated for myself. Since my life was not a chick flick, which I so utterly despise, I put on a happy face and gave them my blessing.

No one was more surprised than me when they announced Louisa was pregnant. They were not married, which is not really a concern these days, but I had assumed she was the type who would be interested in that sort of association. Adam brought up the subject of marriage but she was beyond dismissive. She also seemed to feign interest about the pregnancy itself. Adam had more than enough enthusiasm for both of them, though. He had many reasons to be excited about life. Not only had he landed who he assumed to be a keeper, and was expecting a baby, he also landed a prime gig headlining at a Vegas casino. I was immensely happy for him, and his frequent embraces began to crack my ribs.

Adam and Louisa moved to Las Vegas, into the same building where I had owned a loft since my career took off. They didn't know many others in town, and I was more than anxious about keeping an eye on the both of them. Louisa didn't put much effort into organizing her new household, and seemed to be out and about a lot for someone who didn't know many people around these parts. I once tried to surreptitiously float the idea of counseling to Louisa, but she glared at me as if I had tried to shoot her. All I knew was, it couldn't hurt. If they could hand out punch cards for therapy sessions, I'd have a shoebox full by now.

Louisa went into labor on a Saturday afternoon. Adam cancelled his show for that evening and rushed to the hospital. At 7:07 p.m., Isabella Renee was born, wrinkly and red-faced, screaming her displeasure at being cold to the whole world. Her mother stared into her face, examining every pore, vein, and wispy hair. "She looks exactly like you," Louisa said, handing her over to Adam. Isabella's father grinned as if his face would split, cradling her with ferocious affection. I pulled out a camera and began to take quick shots of Adam and his little clone; Louisa rolled her eyes and slid out of bed. "I have to pee," Louisa remarked classily as she shuffled into the bathroom.

Adam opened his eyes wide and whispered, "Grandma and Grandpa don't know!" He approached me slowly and passed his precious sleeping cargo into my arms. Isabella would have been perfect if I believed such a status could be obtained. Her father ran into the hallway to make phone calls, and her mother emerged fully dressed from the bathroom.

"Wow, you must be feeling better than I thought," I chuckled, before noticing the bag she held.

"She looks exactly like him. I wasn't expecting that," Louisa said flatly. She walked out the door.



Adam took it as well as he could; his show had quite a few new routines about parenthood, life's surprises, and how fun revenge could be if he had the balls for it. He kept busy, and I was similarly busy with babysitting and trying to read his situation. I had assumed that a catastrophe like this would have brought us even closer together, but it actually did the reverse. The only time I could get a word out of Adam was when he got home and we discussed how much formula Isabella had swilled that day. I was more exhausted than I had ever been after hearing about his other female dramas, and he would shut down the conversation before it could even start. I made myself available but expected nothing. I never had.



Isabella was a most curious little thing and was on the verge of walking. I held her chubby hands and moved slowly across the carpet with her as her legs wobbled. I shrieked excitedly as I let go of her hands and she maintained balance without reaching for the coffee table. That was what I remember, anyway. After that, it all kind of blurred together as Adam had gone to the door to find Louisa standing there with a sheepish look on her face. It seemed that the fellow she had run off with, the one she had hoped to be Isabella's father, wasn't really what she wanted and she figured out that Adam was who she wanted after all. "Let's go to counseling, I want to be a mom, let's get married, etc," all rushed out of her gaping lie-hole with speed and superior acting skill. I say superior because I was forced to go back to my loft and sob on my futon for the rest of the evening. And week.



Las Vegas is so utterly populated with wedding venues that the lovely couple had no issue in finding a reasonably-attractive hall for their elopement. Louisa found a crisp white gown with simple beading, and Adam dusted off a tuxedo he had worn when I took him to the Primetime Emmys. I played with Isabella as they finalized their looks and fielded calls from curious relatives.

Adam clapped his hands together and and said, "Shall we?" Louisa grabbed a bouquet out of the refrigerator and handed me Isabella's bag from off of the kitchen counter. I held it for less than one second before it dropped to the floor. I tried to keep my mouth shut; I did my deep breathing exercises and everything, but they didn't work.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck. . ." I groaned, putting my hands over Isabella's ears.

"Is there something wrong?" Adam asked, sending his gaze back and forth between Louisa and me.

I swallowed. "Yeah. Louisa's a bitch, and you're a pussy."

They both stared back at me in disbelief. Isabella laughed and threw a stuffed cat toward her mother.

"Louisa, you lied, cheated, and abandoned your child. You strolled back in here like nothing was wrong. You are a sick piece of work," I hissed and gathered up my coat. "And you, Adam? You are a complete dumbass. I love you, but you're a moron." With that, I was out the door and on my way to half a million happy hours in the most perfectly suitable city for my alcoholic beverage needs.

I only made it to the elevator and back up to my apartment. All the intention in the world and no impulse for follow through. It was a good thing, though. If I had been out, I wouldn't have been home to answer the persistently obnoxious doorbell at 12:05 a.m. I wouldn't have found Adam at the door, Isabella in his arms, a disgustingly sad look on his face but the twinkle back in his eyes. If this had been like a chick flick, we would have both sobbed and held each other, confessing our deepest feelings and caressing each other with soft touches.

I had other ideas. Good thing Isabella sleeps really soundly through the night. I would imagine hearing your father moan and rattle in his restraints could be damaging at any age.

The Beginning of the End

Summer vacations with my family were often ordeals that resulted in resentment and overwhelming boredom. My mother would do all of the packing, including that of myself and my brothers until we were old enough, and my father would end up whinging about something in order to cut our trip short by a few days, e.g. "My back hurts on this bed," "I could be doing some work back home," "God hates me."

One particular trip proved to be a little more interesting when I found an escape, even for a short time.

I was about 19 or so, still living at home as I was attending college and working two jobs, and trying to keep to myself otherwise. I wasn't getting along very well with my father and a late summer vacation was approaching. This year, we were heading off to a condo at the beach, and for once, I was getting my own place to stay next door to the rest of the family. It was about time, as I was slightly annoyed by having to share my sleeping space with my younger brothers whom were undeniably disgusting. No sleep could ever occur until after some sort of "fart war" or discussion about vomit or snot. I did not cherish these discussions and how I tolerated them for so long I do not know.

This trip, I was overjoyed to have a view of the August sun low in the sky, wispy clouds reflected across the ocean, the bonfires beginning to glow down below, and the children splashing and wading. My mother was checking in on whether I was getting settled when my father came in and demanded that we all go down to the beach to have a fire. I was not interested in doing so as I felt more like taking a walk. He insisted, and claimed that yet again I was not interested in doing any family activities. Well, he was correct, but I still did not see why that in itself invalidated my rights to do whatever I wished. I coughed slightly and asked to be left alone, so I could go to sleep early. My father began to protest before my mother intervened and got my father to leave with her.

I dimmed the lights and fifteen minutes later saw the other four members of my family wandering down on the beach below. After waiting until they were far enough in the distance, I pulled on my jacket and darted out the door. I locked the latches and quietly moved past the vending machines, ice dispensers, and housekeeping closets; the biting saline smell increased in strength as I got farther from my room. The narrow back stairs led down to the side parking lot, hundreds of feet from the beach. I gazed up at the emerging twinkling stars and the coastal breeze attempted to tie my hair into knots. It was a truly beautiful evening, and I was about to begin walking toward the beach in the opposite direction from my family when I noticed the health center.

Across the side parking lot sat what appeared to be a vacated health building. A newer medical center had opened near the north end of town, but I hadn't known that the older, original one had been next to the resort. It was a stained white building, with many large uncovered windows. The seasonal storms probably caused frequent window replacements and the move inland had most likely been a good idea for that reason alone. I examined the abandoned building and felt a strange compulsion to venture closer. As I approached, I could see the entrance more clearly. Windows and glass double doors covered the front of the building, but immediately inside was a small waiting room, a reception area, and several wooden doors leading into the rest of the building. Light flickered under two of the wooden doors and at that moment I made an impulsive gesture. I pulled slightly on one of the glass doors and found it open. The beach, resort, and entire world behind me seemed to go quiet.

The first wooden door I found also opened without difficulty. On the other side, I found metal tables, bright lights, and a dozen or so people arguing in hushed voices. Well, they were until they noticed me. Which wasn't long.

They stared at me with wide eyes and two women whispered nervously to each other. I cleared my throat and considered my options: running away, running away faster, or tipping over the table Hungry Like the Wolf-style and then running away. Instead, I felt a peculiar thought enter my head and I blinked.

"I want to see him," I said quietly, without knowing why, but yet feeling the need to.

The women stopped whispering. One with dark, short cropped hair cocked her head. "What did you say?" she barked, with a look that could only be described as "perplexed bitchitude."

I exhaled slowly and croaked, "I said, I want to see him." I forced myself to meet her gaze, despite the fact she looked like she wanted to rap a ruler across my knuckles. "I know he's here."

One of the others, a tall Italian-looking gentleman, grinned and made a low whistle. "He's not going to be happy to see you, you know," he said in a voice that was surprisingly not Italian-tinged but instead proper English and clipped.

Focusing on him for a moment, a strange realization slowly twisted itself inside my brain. I bit my lip and swallowed. "I didn't recognize you at first without your clipboard."

The mysterious former notetaker chuckled and motioned for the others to let me through. "He's in there. He's watching a football replay from this morning. If you've already seen it, don't spoil the result. He'd kill any one of us for that."

I pushed through the group and wandered even further back into the building. A swinging door allowed me into a long, dim room, which housed a couple of tired couches, a set of scratched table and chairs, and a television and VCR on a stand on the opposite wall to the left of me. It appeared to be the old break room. I was suddenly aware that I was indeed not alone. Someone sat on a couch also to the left of me, facing the television on the far wall. It wasn't time to start getting smart yet, so I made my way to the couch and sat next to him. West Ham United and Manchester United were darting across the pitch on the screen.

"Is this intrusion truly worth risking your life?" the voice that had years before previously critiqued my singing asked in a bitter tone.

"I don't know. It's better than expecting more from a replayed draw," I replied, glancing over to see only the light in the match reflecting off shining eyes.

A loud hiss exploded from the dark next to me.

"Kill me later," I said, focusing in on the match. "I did want to see how it went."

There was a slight rustling as he settled back against the couch. "Isaac can make tea," he said quietly. He paused before continuing in a frustrated tone. "I didn't think it was you. Neither did he."

Turning to face him, I noticed he had already directed his attention away from the match and onto me. "I still don't know what any of that or this means. I just was bored on the first night of my vacation and decided to investigate an abandoned building. Alone. I'm sure it's a common activity for a young lady," I explained, shrugging slightly.

He laughed, which startled me; I figured he wouldn't know how. Turning his attention back to the match, he elbowed my arm. "I'll see about that tea."

I opened my mouth to ask a significant question and he lifted my jaw shut with a chilled hand.

"Jack. They call me Jack. And so will you."

A skyward calling

I met Aussie Andy in the seminary. We had our first scripture course of the day in the library with Father Patrick. The old wooden tables amplified any sounds from pencil scratchings to finger tappings. These were not the sounds that caused Andy to swivel in his seat and give me the most dreadful look that day. For some reason, he didn't enjoy the rhythmic hand slappings I was bestowing upon the table in time to the CD I was listening to. Sorry, Paul's insane ramblings couldn't hold my attention and I thought he was a male chauvinist anyway. I had known for weeks that I wanted to drop out of the program, but the fearful part of my psyche didn't want me to leave on my own. I needed an accomplice in my escape.

Andy glanced over at Father Patrick before he redirected his attention back to my passive-aggressive disruption. "What are you doing?" he mouthed silently, gesturing to the unfinished work on my table.

"Getting ready to leave. You should come, too. This is not exactly the direction I imagined I would be aimed at this point in my life. Why am I even here?" I whispered, shaking my head. My braid came loose and tickled my neck.

"You needed some sort of direction. Same reason I'm here," he replied, again checking for the presence of the Father and hastily scribbling some notes in the margins of his book.

I chuckled and inquired softly, "Have you found it?"

Our eyes locked in an intense moment of introspection. I smiled as Andy stood and loudly gathered his belongings. Father Patrick rushed over with his little trinkets clinking against his robes. "What is the matter? What are you doing?" he hissed.

"We're leaving," Andy replied and tossed his books at him. "There's nothing for us here. There's nothing for you either, but you're not evolved enough yet to know it. Go with God, or whatever it is in the meanwhile, Pat." He swept his long blond fringe from his eyes and I could see they were twinkling for the first time since I'd seen him. He swept my books onto the floor and howled like a wolf, incurring the visual wrath of all the other students.

I made the sign of the cross and bowed solemnly to the rest of the class. "See ya," I coughed, and Andy and I left the world we'd known for the last two years behind.

I followed him down the road and we hailed a cab. We ended up in front of an imposing building on the Upper East Side. The doorman greeted us anxiously as Andy pulled me through the front entrance. I thought the elevator's decor was entirely not necessary, as how long does one truly spend in an elevator? Our ride was less than 60 seconds as we had no interruptions on the way to the top. The doors shifted open and revealed a large but cluttered loft.

"Welcome to my home, make it yours as well," he said offhandedly, waving his arms about. I moved carefully across the floor littered with books and manuscripts, and peered out the window. I was treated to a beautiful skyline including a pleasant view of the vastness of Central Park. I tried to see if I could spot a mugging, but we were too far up for something so specific. I instead imagined that all the animals had escaped the zoo and were enjoying the tasty flesh of many tourists underneath the cooling canopy of trees.

"How did you manage this place? This is impressive." I wandered after him into the kitchen and caught glimpses of a loft with patchwork-quilted bed, numerous bookshelves, and some half-finished pottery. "How could you afford to live here while attending the program?" I asked, pouring myself a glass of unfortunately warm pinot gris.

Andy rolled his eyes. "I used to be an actor. I got bored, but not until after I had made bank. I was looking for something to do, so I enrolled in those crazy courses. Mainly because I saw you through the window. You looked interesting." He paused and watched me drink. "What were you doing there?"

I choked and dribbled the wine back into my glass. "I'm waiting for something. I am not sure entirely what yet, but I needed to occupy my time. I decided to give the whole religion thing a chance. Thanks for the assist in escape, though." I set the glass in the sink and bit my lip. "I know something's going to happen soon. When it does, you'll be on your own again. I'm here because I still need to occupy my time. No offense."

He frowned and leaned back against the kitchen island. "Whatever. I feel like I'm not even supposed to be here myself. Like I'm on borrowed time. Maybe we'll both move on at the same time." Picking up some loose papers from the floor, he sighed as he began to read. "I was offered this role once. Gay role, which is fine, but I didn't want it to define me. But look at me now. . . no definition, direction, or peace. What now?"

I wished I knew what to tell him, but I didn't even know myself. I had no idea at the time I was to spend two years in a holding pattern with dear Outback Andy. I know now that it saved his life, but what it did to mine was an entirely different story.

What if they don't have a van full of puppies?

I have been a bit reminiscent of late, as my life's current endeavors are not proving to be as exciting as those in my past. I am in great hopes that this will soon pass, as my career and associated pastimes usually leave me without much time for relaxation or clarity. I suppose that some would think I was trying to avoid self-reflection by having the constant need to occupy myself, and they would be right.

Last night I enjoyed a walk through the neighborhood and recalled my first encounter with Jack. Our association has always been complicated, yet it could never be otherwise and be as meaningful.

It was a bit of a muggy evening, sometime in late August. The sky was as pitch black as it could be, yet no stars peered through the damp gloom. It was confusing as no clouds or moon were visible, as well. I turned off the lights in my room and gazed out into the world. My parents had been asleep for some time, and the low rumble of snoring could just be heard through the door. This was back when my parents were still engaged in the legally-binding relationship of daily torture. If anything, their example educated me on "what not to look for."

I often tried on costumes in the evenings, or more accurately, searched for my second skin. The clothing given to me for normal wear or school never felt quite right. This particular evening, I wore a black gown that was slightly too long for me and not the right fabric, but it was a little closer to what was correct. The style was outdated but that didn't really matter. Everything has its resurgence at some point.

The lights in my room were off so I could spy on the neighbors and not be seen. I leaned on the window ledge and wondered why there were no cars on the street that ran on the west side of my house. We lived on a corner and although the west street was not nearly as busy at night, it was never unoccupied. I looked back at the street in front of my house and was startled to see three men looking up at me. Well, two of them were; the third had a clipboard or notebook of some kind and was making some notations.

The gentleman in the middle did not have any sort of discernibly emotional facial expression. It was a strange phenomenon as I prided myself on determining what people were thinking about me. I was not frightened of his appearance, merely challenged. The fellow on his right smiled and gestured for me to come outside. The note-taking one was examining the neighbors' hedges. I glanced back at the central fellow and his eyes gave no indication if my coming downstairs was a good idea or not. Now, I realize most parents at this point would be terrified to know that their 14 year old daughter would even contemplate going outside at night with three male strangers who seemed about two decades older. They would be even more terrified at the prospect their child actually DID leave the house.

I opened my door carefully and made sure to avoid all of the creaky spots on the landing. The stairs could also raise an alarm of noise, but they did not betray me, either. I carefully unlocked the front door and crept barefoot down the driveway. The three gentlemen met me near the mailbox. They said nothing. The one in the center looked at the other two and they backed away slightly. The smiling one just gestured at me to approach the one in the forefront, and the one with the clipboard kept scribbling.

At this point, I could tell that the center one was of some sort of superior status to the other two. Perhaps they worked for him. I peered into his face and was surprised to see his features soften into a slight grin. "Do you like to sing?" he asked quietly, in a voice I can only describe as hopeful. I beamed and nodded. "Let me hear you," he said and pointed down the street. He began to walk and I skipped in front of him, belting any and every song that brought me joy. I only hoped he would feel the same elation. His counterparts walked behind him, and I led the unusual procession down the street. Any time I turned around to gauge his reaction, his face continued to brighten. I was also amazed that none of the neighbors had awoken to scold me for disturbing their sleep.

I stopped when we approached the end of the street and he extended his arm. We walked silently back to my house and he shook his head at the note-taker. He smirked and patted my head like I was some sort of helpless puppy. I raised an eyebrow (I had been practicing how to do that), and he returned the look. "It's not you," he said, quite rudely, actually.

"It's not me? What's not me?" I asked, angrily folding my arms.

"Don't bother worrying yourself, my dear. It will never be you," he said lightly, and touched his hand to my cheek before he walked off with his entourage.

I stood shaking in the driveway, watching the strangers leave around the corner. Little did he know that at that very moment, I decided it most definitely would be me, whatever IT was. Even now I don't think he truly realizes what he started.

A bit rusty

So, the last few weeks have less than eventful. If I had known how long I was going to be down there I would have brought some Bombay Sapphire and a nice cabernet. Alas, it was not to be. Six weeks in an ancient cold war lab seemed like such a great idea at the time. . .
Looking out the window that night (I'm sure you all remember it so fondly, too) and seeing all the damn pink fog sweeping in was not a pleasant surprise. I was on my cell within less than a second and I was being called on it at exactly the same time. Something about great minds & thinking alike or whatever.
Anyway, I was on a plane within the hour, peering out the window at the thickening fog below and all the crazies still trying to drive around in it. #1, you can't see a freaking thing, and #2, you really don't want to be breathing that stuff if you don't have to.
We touched down what seemed like a week later and headed out to the rendezvous point. The bunker hatch was somewhat rusted and sandblasted at the same time. I hadn't been out there in years and my last visit wasn't entirely pleasant. The desert landscape was far more interesting than what lay inside the lab, but this was a necessary venture. I glanced at the dunes and saw the first drops of them from the sky. The little poky spheres that seemed so innocuous and so appealing even to a small child served no purpose other than the cruel fate one endured if they decided to be curious enough to reach for them. Many have learned their lessons by now all across the world, I'm sure. A few of them rolled toward my feet and I kicked them away with my boots. A slight hiss was the only response I received.
The consortium was exactly as I remembered them; socially inept and foul-smelling. What I really should have remembered to bring was soap. And bleach. And maybe some breath mints. As usual, they were more concerned with theoretical outcomes rather than what was currently occurring, and who was Dungeon Master this week, and sputtering "Hey, you look good. What happened to you?" when they realized I was still indeed female.
How touching that this was permitted to continue for weeks rather than days as when I tried to exit, the hatch had been resealed and my two-way crackled to life with apologies and justifications. Apparently, I was much too valuable to risk. Or so they said. I would consider myself valuable, but I think they see me as more of a liability. I'm not used to the truth no matter what they would say.
I returned home just last night to a yard filled with debris, a pile of newpapers and election junk mail, and a very filthy and pungent home. Luckily, my neighbors stepped in to feed my guests while I was gone. The outcome could have been pretty unfortunate. If I think this odor is bad, what would it have been otherwise?

It's always the last place you look

I stifled a laugh and adjusted the fur coat around my shoulders. It was a few sizes larger than what it should be, but the unique reddish hue of the fur was too irresistible to pass up. Besides, it was a gift from Jack and he enjoys being generous only on rare occasions.
"You said we would have them," Agent What's-His-Face said between clenched teeth. "What a waste of time, resources. . . maybe we'll find something around here at least."
Agent Whatsahoopy leaned in from the other room and shook his head. "It's cleaned out."
I shook and pulled my coat tightly around me. The brick hearth was not the most comfortable place to sit, but the embers of the dying fire provided a little warmth. It's not like I had a choice of where they'd sit me, anyway.
Agent What's-His-Face glared down at me." At least tell me that you know where Jack is. Grant me this small favor. For the love of all that is holy, please."
I shrugged and replied softly, "Can't help you, sorry."
I absentmindedly rubbed at the bite mark on my shoulder and felt goosebumps raise all over my bare legs. That Jack certainly knows how to treat a lady. I held back a further laugh and tried to plaster a concerned expression on my face. The handcuffs were beginning to chafe at my wrists and I rotated them to a better position.
The Agent must have heard the clinking noises because he looked back over and me with a quizzical expression. "You're not in custody. Who cuffed you?"
"Jack," I said coyly. It wouldn't be the last time he would, either. I glanced at the wall clock and smiled as I heard the agents in the other room inspecting every little nook and cranny. Any moment now. . .

When it rains. . .

So, yesterday I receive a pretty late call about a death downtown. I had already been on call for a week straight and was not looking forward to it.
I knew the building: a typical rat trap but if you were lucky you had some nice views of the city. The Clean & Safe crews were sweeping outside the front door when I arrived, tipping their hats to me as I passed. The elderly woman had lived on the top floor, which is the prerequisite for one of those marvelous views, but not so good for me as the elevator was stuck somewhere between the third and fourth floors. Supposedly the coroner's gurney had stuck in the ancient metal-caged lift. Swell.
The climb wasn't too much of a hassle. I could use the exercise. The last time I had gotten any was last weekend at the coast, when I was running from the crew of that fishing boat that had run aground on the sandbar. I enjoy the chase so much more when I'm not on the receiving end, but I did find a whole load of sanddollars. I love those things.
Anyway, I found the apartment and this place was something else. The living room was pretty typical, with a few dilapidated recliners, a rocking chair with an afghan on it, and a lot of dust. I discovered the fascinating parts when I entered the two bedrooms: it was like I had walked into an antique shop. Endless shelves crammed with glassware, ceramic vases and figurines, and many lovely glasses and beer steins. Everything was flawless, clean and sparkling. Anything with gold trim showed no signs of wear, and nothing was chipped or cracked. It was too soon to tell if it was anything more than what you'd find at a thrift store, but in this quantity you'd think there'd be at least one or two valuable pieces amongst the lot.
I started examining the pieces more closely and thought I'd find a souvenir for my troubles. I have this cabinet thing at home with a lot of teacups in it and it had been a while since I added anything to my collection. As the others cleaned up in the living room, I looked on every shelf in that damn apartment and guess what? No freaking teacups. Just my luck, but also a bit strange. She collected everything but teacups. It's like she knew I'd be here, knew what I wanted, and didn't have any just to spite me. What a piece of work, this old bird.
I was leaving emptyhanded and in a bit of a sore mood about it when my stepmother called me on my mobile. What a perfect way to continue the evening! Seems like something important was going on over at Pop's place so with nothing better to do, I headed over.
I stomped up the ramp and pushed through the door. There was my stepmother, my Pop, and my brother, Ben. Ben sat in a wooden chair in the corner, laughing hysterically. Pop didn't look too happy about it.
"There's something wrong with him," Pop said, uncomfortably backing away from my brother.
"That's nothing new," I said. "We've always known that."
"Hello," Ben said coolly. "I'm right here. Usually you have to be somewhere else to talk about someone behind their back. What gives?"
I walked casually over to my bro and crouched down. He stared at me with a new kind of hatred, not the kind I'm used to. Great.
"Yeah, there's something wrong with him. More wrong, I mean," I said.
"So what is it?" Pop started. "What the--"
"Shut up," I snapped, and rose back up. "What the hell did I tell you last time?"
Pop sighed. "It's that again? Crap."
"Yeah, it's that," I huffed and pulled him back. "You really know how to listen, you know that? What the hell, Dad? Seriously." I whipped my phone out of my pocket and called for an extraction team. Stepmother wasn't so happy to hear about that, but you know what? She's an enabler. She lets Pop go out in his shop and do that crazy shit, talking to who knows who from who knows where. Then I have to clean up the mess. Fantastic.
"Ben, or whoever you are, it's going to be fine, we're taking care of this," I reassured tiredly.
"That's what you said last time," Pop retorted.
I shrieked. "Stop going out in the freaking shop! You are a class A idiot, I swear. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into and you put us all at risk. And YOU. . ." I turned to my stepmother. "You're not helping. You have to create consequences! I can't be here 24-7. I have other things to do. I'm hungry. I'm exhausted. I haven't bathed in 4 days and I really wanted a teacup! Dear God, I wish I could divorce my family." I heard the vans pull up outside and I breathed deeply. "Do everything they ask. Give them everything they ask for. Do not fight them. I'll hear about it otherwise and I really will find a way to divorce you. I promise."
I stepped out the door as the van doors slid open. A slight breeze hit me and I was suddenly aware of how much I had really began to reek. Ugh. I don't care who calls, I'm going to go pass out in the bathtub with a sandwich.