Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 2
I open the door and say a purposely uninviting; “Yes?”
The woman and the boy pick up their luggage and she says;
“We’re moving in today.”
She and the boy head for the open door and I close it behind me. I stand on the stoop and say; “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.”
She snorts, grimaces and says; “Don’t be difficult. I’ll have a cop here in five minutes.”
I’m speechless.
She looks at the boy and says; “Dammit, David. They told me that the ones with the shitty houses would be the most stubborn.”
David scrunches up his face disdainfully and says; “And what happened to your head?”
The day which started out with extraordinary potential has turned to garbage. I am starting to get angry and say; “Why don’t you just get out of here?” I go back inside and slam the door behind me, hoping they’ll go away.
“Taps” becomes repetitiously operatic. Sides of fists drum the wooden door louder than Krupa, but I feel no exhilaration. I consider calling the cops myself, but I’m beginning to feel nauseous and rather not face a cop in this condition. I decide
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to give one more shot at getting rid of them myself. Bluffs often work. I re-open the door in a fury and say; “If you don’t get the hell out of here right now, I’m going to get my gun.” I look directly at David and say; “And what happened to your friggin’ head?”
David goes into his suitcase and pulls out a huge handgun.
The day is getting worse by the moment. I decide to go back inside and call the cops. But, this time when I try to close the door behind me Mom inserts her luggage preventing it. I try to kick out the luggage and shut the door. They are leaning against it pushing it in. I wish I had a vicious dog. The jostling is too much for my stomach. I get on my knees and barf red liquid and a few chunks. They are inside. Mom says; “Drunken bum slob.”
I am in no condition to argue.
David sneers, puts his gun away and walks past me,
“accidentally” kicking my leg. I wish Martha was here. She’d know what to do.
Mom saunters into the living room, her eyes taking inventory from floor to ceiling. She mumbles; “I just knew they’d assign us to a dump. I just knew it. Look at this tired cemetery.”
I wondered if I should feel insulted; and if so; for which part of the critical review. But, who really gives a damn about these two B&E artists’ opinions. Sure, the house is over 200
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years old and reflects that much usage. It’s been lived in, but, it is far from a dump. I think she’s crazy and I get an idea. I decide to follow her thought and say; “If you call them, maybe you can get assigned elsewhere.”
Mom says; “No such luck. ........ Aren’t you going to clean up the mess you made?”
“When I feel like it. It’s my house.”
Mom says; “Sort of.”
I am dumbfounded and am sure that I look it.
David laughs and says; “The drunkard really doesn’t know.”
In desperation I facetiously say; “Please enlighten me.”
Mom says; “See the light,” and pushes a pile of papers into my gut, not currently my most stable area. I resist giving her the possible satisfaction that she has provoked an involuntary discharge and bite down hard. Most of the documents are on stationary with a “Department of Housing and Urban Development,“
(HUD) and a “Division of Youth and Family Services” (DYFS) letterhead. I immediately think that each would like to be in the position of blaming the other. Like any American, I blame both. I scan the texts seeing that she and her unnaturally colored son are certified as homeless, reside in Clinton Township, NJ, are mentally competent, and are recommended by Michelle Stottmeyer of DYFS. I consider the first two statements contradictory; the third extremely questionable; and the fourth
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of little consequence. The remainder of the papers is titled
“Housing the Homeless; an Initiative Whose Time Has Come.”
I say; “Okay. I’m not reading through all this. April fool.
Ha, ha. Got me. Where’s the camera?”
David said; “You don’t watch any news, do you?”
“I see the weird shit on MSN and AOL. Surprised I don’t remember your faces.”
Mom sniffed and replied; “I’m going to be straight with you. I’ll believe that you’re unaware. ........ Congress has just passed legislation, the crux of which you have in your hands. Homeless people are to be housed in the homes of those decadent folks with too much space.”
My house is about 2,500 square feet, far from decadent by anyone’s standards. My neighbors have said so.
She responds; “You have no kids. It’s just you and your co-obligor. Right?”
I consider saying that we were probably no longer obligors, depending. But, rather than get into all that, I merely say;
“So, if my co-obligor gets pregnant, you’ll have to leave?”
David said; “Drastic at your age.”
I’m 48 and right now feel 68. Though, possibly of more significance Martha has not yet reached menopause. At least she hasn’t told me about it. I recall that the last few times we
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...... Never mind that. There’s a problem; two problems right in front of me. And, one problem compounds the other; ALWAYS.
Mom says; “I don’t know. Ask the social worker. In the meantime we’re getting settled here. ............ After some clean up.”
I consider telling her that my co-obligor is a social worker; or now an anti-social worker, but decide it better to keep a secret. I felt dizzy and sat on the couch. I watched the red liquid disappear into the cracks in the wide pine flooring.
The stubborn chunks maintained their place. I wondered what I did to deserve this.
It didn’t take long to come up with a number of possibilities. Maybe it was the times I stole comics from the candy store. I’d stuff them inside the newspaper I bought for my mother and old Mr. Peabody never knew.
Maybe it was that girl who liked me that I really didn’t like. Donna Foster with the big swaying ass and a face that resembled her 300 pound father’s. Instead of playing around, I should have told her straight out. ....... But, on the other hand, maybe she was playing the same game and we both got what we wanted. Who knows?
I want to get on another train of thought before I hit the incidents I really feel bad about and don’t want to remember.
Besides, this is too confessionally Catholic and unproductive.
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What I have to do is find a way to get David and Mom out of my house. ......... But, maybe they’ll send replacements. At least these don’t reek of urban public garbage cans. Today. I decide to read the papers Mom handed me and hope to find some loophole.
David and Mom are evaluating the house as if they are prospective buyers. Mom’s most minimal standards are apparently being tested as I hear her make disparaging remarks about the water marks on the ceiling of an upstairs bedroom. I have tried to find the source of this leak for years. I have begged the few remaining people with knowledge of slate roofing to look at it.
They can’t find a thing. But, when the storm comes in from the west with a wind, water finds its way inside. This did bother me initially, but in practicality, there’s nothing that can be done about it and it’s no big deal. It’ll probably take a hundred years of storms countering the prevailing flow to cause any real damage. I’ll be long gone and care less than I do now. A little discoloration and a paper towel clean up job. Big frigging deal.
The papers do me little good. On a personal level, they merely establish the duo’s credentials as being homeless and residing in Clinton Township. Hmmmmmn. Homeless with a residence. I guess they reside under the interstate highway exit that no Clintonian wanted built, but had it put there anyway.
One problem compounds the other; Always. Then a truck stop was established at the convenient location. Two freaking miles away
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from me. In the still of the night rather than hearing the stream cascade over the rocks, I hear the honk, honk, honk and shriek of horns and air brakes. Home rule, my ass. The distant federal lawmakers rule. No two ways about it. And now they’ve laid claim to my house.
The rest of the papers extoll the virtues of the compassionate legislators. Homelessness has been a problem for a century and that’s forgetting about the hoboes who pre-dated that. The kind hearted government has found a solution. We, decadent hedonists will be compelled to share our largesse. The federal government is schizophrenic and bi-polar. It tells us to maximize our financial well-being, and then if we do well it tells us we are greedy little devils. I suppose this would be a commentary on the electorate if they had any real choice. There is no copy of the actual law, so I cannot find the devil hiding in the details. As a law abiding American citizen, I was under the impression that I am at least entitled to a loophole or alibi.
Despite my nausea, I decide to check for further information on the internet. Just as I am welcomed I hear Mom and David creak down the main staircase, her eyes solemnly on the ground and his darting around in an edgy, stressed way.
She says; “Mr. Michaels; I’m afraid that we are going to have to take over the main bedroom.”
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I stand up with difficulty and say; “Mrs. ..............”
She says nothing.
I say; “I’d like to know your last name. I don’t intend to call you Mom.”
She says; “The name is on the papers I gave you.”
I frown and retrieve the papers. I read out loud. “Reba Van Dalliant and David Van Dalliant.”
They nod.
I say; “I’m afraid the main bedroom is out of the question.”
She retorts; “I’m afraid it’s the only one satisfactory for us. It’s the only one with its own bath. Besides, the one you have lined with book cases is too small. And the other one has a leak.”
I almost speak my mind and say; “You’re fortunate to have a roof ...........” I stop myself before I get insulting and irrelevant.
Reba looks as if she is holding back tears when she says;
“Fortunate. Tell me about how fortunate I am. I was not an unpopular girl in school. And I married this bum who loved coke more than anything and took off to who knows where when I was pregnant with him.” She puts her arm on David’s shoulder and they make a heart-warming snuggle.
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I am almost moved. I’ve heard plenty of stories previously, the majority not true. I say; “When confronted with a sad story, my father used to say; ‘Things are tough all over.’”
Her countenance changes to one of defiance and says; “Was he ever homeless?”
“He was in friggin’ Iraq, surrounded by potential bombers, and sweatin’ like a pig in his re-enforced fatigues.”
David says; “He volunteered for it.”
Martha comes in the front door. She eyes the chunks on the floor and the diminished red residue. She then looks at Reba and David and says; “I suppose someone is going to tell me what is going on here.”
I am relieved to see my co-obligor; depending. The sides are more even now. I say; “These nice people are moving in with us. Careful with Two-Tone. He’s got a gun.”
Martha is quiet a few moments. She then looks at me and sarcastically says; “I’d of thought you’d first consult with me about such things.” She then turns to David and asks; “Does your parole officer know that you have a gun?”
David giggles and says; “It’s a water pistol. The drunkard can’t tell the difference.”
Martha stone faced stared at him.
David added; “He said that he was going to get his!”
I said; “I was bluffing, trying to get rid of them.”
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Martha looked at me and said; “And what happened to your head?”
I said; “I hit it on the floor or fireplace. A real good shot.”
Martha said; “See a doctor?”
“No, the bleeding has stopped.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“There’s nothing to do for a concussion except rest.”
Reba said; “I see you’ve had a long day. I’m Reba Van Dalliant and this is David. We’ve been assigned to move in here under the Housing the Homeless program.”
Martha looked at me and I shrugged.
Reba said; “I take it that you don’t watch the news either.”
Martha said; “I heard that such a program was under consideration. But, they said it was only going to affect rich people with large houses.”
David said; “You fell for that old game? It’s just like when they say they’re going to tax the rich. Pretty soon everyone with a slightly above average income is hit. Christ, I’m fifteen and even I know that one.”
Martha sat on the couch and said; “Somebody please tell me this is April fool. ........ And somebody please clean up the vomit before someone falls on it and sues.”
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I handed my co-obligor the papers and cleaned it.
Martha said; “Which reminds me. How much personal liability coverage do we have?”
While I searched for house related documents, Reba said;
“The main bedroom is now ours.”
Martha made a horrible sound which approximated; “Hloop, hloop, hloop.” She held her chest; characteristic of an anxiety attack.
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