Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Read online

  Wait, is this like the time one of our cats barfed in the cleaning lady’s shoe, only a million times more gross?

  Did Loki deposit another “I got nervous” bomb?

  Or did something go horribly awry in the bathroom due to my cavalier attitude about using an antique banana in Fletch’s smoothie yesterday?

  I get to the master bedroom expecting chaos… carnage… destruction, or, at the very least, a diminutive pile of something steaming.

  Instead, I find that I’ve laid out the wrong bedding, accidentally setting out a Queen set instead of King and for the better part of five minutes, they’ve been attempting to wrestle them onto the bed.

  Oh… I get it.

  The sheet is small.

  I start to laugh; then I apologize profusely, swapping out Queens for Kings. I head back to my office where I spend the next two hours and forty-five minutes watching TV and giggling over the shit being small.

  And then it occurs to me… this is probably why our old cleaning ladies stole from us.

  Sheet.

  Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

  Angie’s List exists for a reason. Use it.

  C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·I·X

  Get Off My Lawn

  There’s one truth that I live by: Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged woman in a fuzzy pink robe, hopped up on a winning combination of allergy medicine, Alias reruns, and anger.

  Reside in the city long enough and you learn to steel yourself against shit going down because if you don’t, you’re going to be a victim. The second you let your guard down and are all, “My apartment’s only two blocks from this bar—taking a cab would be silly,” is the exact second when a gang of miscreants springs out of a darkened alley, steals your new iPhone and Coach bag, and punches you in your bourgeois mouth, ruining a significant investment in dental work.

  That’s what they take if you’re lucky.

  So you keep your guard up all the time. And you know what? Living like this is exhausting and it’s one of the million reasons we’re decamping for the suburbs in three weeks.

  But we just wouldn’t be us if the city of Chicago didn’t send us off with a parting gift. Thanks, Mayor Daley!

  I’m in my office around midnight, finishing up an e-mail before heading to bed. Because the room’s at the very front of the house on the top floor, I have a premiere vantage point for my self-appointed position as the Queen of Neighborhood Patrol. Trust me when I say I’m delighted to turn over my Constant Vigilance™ sash, crown, and scepter to anyone who wants ’em when we leave Logan Square forever.

  I’m just switching off my computer when I hear a few weirdly muffled thumps and a light clattering of metal, followed by a familiar clang.

  The familiar clang is that of my front gate closing.

  I roll my chair over to the window a couple of feet away and notice one person standing outside my gate while another ascends my front steps. In my head I’m all, “Hey, who’s come to visit?” until a split second later my city-brain takes over and I realize that no one should be there, what with this being midnight at a single-family property with a perpetually locked gate.

  I don’t recognize these people. My friends not only have day jobs, but also the courtesy to phone before dropping by, and I quickly deduce the two people looming around the front of my house aren’t here on a social call.

  Also? I’m pretty sure none of my friends take crystal meth.

  Politely as I can, I open my window in order to inform them that I shan’t be receiving any visitors today.

  “HEY, TWEAKERS! THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

  To which the dreadlocked white guy [Oh, honey, Counting Crows called. They want Adam Duritz’s look back.] replies, “Mind your own fucking business. We’re allowed to be here.”

  From my perch in the window, I assure them they are not, in fact, allowed to be here and go off on an entire tangent about the notion of private property. I explain how my concept of ownership is influenced by the capitalist school of thought and how I don’t subscribe to their clearly more Marxist views of said concept, although really, Marx was more about the people owning the means of production and not so much about that which is considered “social wealth,” such as Coach bags, iPhones, a mouthful of veneers, and any sort of high-end electronics that might be stuffed in the large, empty sacks they’re carrying.

  To which he responds, “Fuck you.”

  Seriously? A brilliant monologue like that and the snappiest of rejoinders he can muster is instructing me to sex my-self up?

  You, sir, are neither a gentleman nor a scholar.

  I inform them of my plans to call the local constabulary and the woman, who is Stevie Nicks’s younger, druggier doppelganger, again suggests I go spend some quality time with myself in an intimate manner while her partner informs me of his plans to come inside to “fuck you up.”

  Oh.

  Really.

  As I’ve reached the limits of my own negotiating capabilities, I’m left with no choice but to call in the big guns.

  No, not those. [Until it’s legal to shoot someone for being an asshole, my weapon of choice is a shovel.] I mean Fletch.

  He’s on the other side of the second floor in the bedroom. He hears me squawking, “Perimeter breach! Perimeter breach!” as I thunder down the hallway. He assumes I’m on a bad Ambien trip, perhaps cut with a side of crazy, but I assure him that other than Claritin, I’m entirely sober. I brief him on the sitch and he takes off up the street after them while I call 911. His goal isn’t to confront them as much as maintain visual contact and direct the police to them.

  After dialing, I, too, take to the street, fancying myself a high-kicking, martial-arts-knowing, wig-flipping CIA operative like the divine Miss Jennifer Garner starring as Sydney Bristow. But she must practice more often because I’m able to jog all of fifteen feet before I get a stitch in my side.

  Fortunately, Fletch can run more than half a block before collapsing in a heap of pastel terry cloth, sock monkey slippers, and a mud mask, so he manages to catch up to the perps. Because I’m still spitting distance from my house sucking air and hugging my knees, Fletch has to fill me in on what happens next.

  Quick caveat? It’s possible he caught up to them not because he’s a paragon of physical fitness. The more likely explanation is that the miscreants are all weighed down in the kind of layered hippie clothing last seen praying for a miracle at a Grateful Dead show, so they aren’t exactly truckin’.

  As Fletch walks up behind them, he says, “My wife tells me you decided to pay us a visit.”

  The couple becomes visibly agitated and Stevie Nicks asks, “Um, who’s your wife?”

  To which he replies, “The woman I married.”

  That’s the extent of Sergeant Fletcher’s interrogation before the police arrive. [For as many complaints as I’ve had with the CPD’s response time, I must give them kudos for arriving in a flash in this instance.]

  I guess as soon as the police are on the scene, both the tweakers immediately begin to cry, with Stevie sobbing that she thought her friend lived there. Yet when questioned, neither one of them has any idea of what their friend’s name is. The woman begs for a warning because she really needs a miracle, man.

  Not to be all heartless, but let’s look at this story with a critical eye. These people decide to stop in and see their Friend With No Name. And they choose to pay a visit to said nameless friend at midnight. On a Tuesday. In a darkened house. And instead of say, ringing the doorbell like every other goddamned person who walks by my house, they force their skinny arms through the extremely tight metal bars of the security gate, reaching around to unlock it before heading to the stoop to peek in the windows. And then when questioned by authorities about said trespass, they request a miracle.

  Yes. Clearly this is the most logical explanation.

  When I initially popped out of the window, instead of offering a genuine reaction like, “Shit, this isn’t Holly’s p
lace? I’m so sorry!” (or even “Nice robe, fatty!”) their first response is to swear at me, threaten me, and jog away carrying a whole bunch of empty bags. Right. Seems innocent enough to me.

  The fact that Stevie Nicks is carrying no ID and is currently on probation after serving time for breaking and entering doesn’t lend a lot of credibility to her story.

  Fletch is up the street with one set of officers while another talks to me. I fill him in on all the ways that our house has been marked lately. “We’ve been tagged almost daily and we keep finding odd items, like pennies glued to our mailbox and soda bottles lined up on our fence posts in distinct patterns, like crop circles or some weird paranormal shit.” Plus our doorbell rings all day long and I can’t imagine that all of it relates to little kids heading to the park, especially when it happens after dark.

  The officer nods gravely. “Ever considered moving?”

  “We’re off to Lake County in three weeks.”

  “The economy’s making it worse and worse around here.” The officer begins looking at me very pointedly. “So there’s no misunderstanding, you realize that wasn’t a social call, ma’am. I suggest you press charges. Can you tell me if they tried to open the door?”

  “I heard it and I didn’t understand what it was at first, but yes, I’d say they did. However, I didn’t see it happen.”

  “Are you sure? I need to know if they tried the door.” He keeps looking at me in what I interpret as a meaningful way, but maybe he’s just trying to guess how big my pores are under this mask?

  I shift in my slippers. “Again, I can’t say I saw it. The knob’s not visible from my desk. But I heard it.”

  “Ma’am, this is very important. I need to ask you one more time, did they try the door?”

  I scratch the side of my face and bits of clay crumble onto my robe. “I definitely heard what sounded like someone thumping against it. I’d bet my life on it, but in good conscience I can’t bet anyone else’s. I didn’t see them try the door with my own eyes. So in all fairness, I can’t say that they did.”

  The officer seems to deflate a little as he takes down this bit of information.

  I have to appear in court next month now. Because I didn’t see them try the door with my own eyes, they’re charged only with simple assault and trespassing. Yet there’s not a single doubt in my mind that they tried the knob. I know what I heard. I firmly believe they wanted to enter my house and fill all their empty bags with my stuff. Period.

  What really chaps my ass is how much volunteering I’ve done lately with organizations that help women on parole. As part of my efforts, I’ve been teaching computer skills to women in a halfway house. At first the ladies just wanted me to help navigate Facebook so they could find old boyfriends, but after they began to trust me, they let me see their résumés. I’ve done some creative writing in my time, but I’m stretched to an entirely new level when tasked with explaining an eight-year gap in employment history. [Ten were it not for good behavior.]

  The thing is, I really enjoyed working with the women. I coached them on job skills and we worked on interview questions. I tried to make them feel empowered and confident, helping them recognize the positive things they’ve done in their lives. As we spent more time together, I wondered exactly how much of their crimes stemmed from poor choices and how many were due to being in the wrong place or getting involved with the wrong man. As far as I was concerned, they paid their debt to society and helping them transition back into it felt like I was making a difference.

  Yet with this one instance, I suddenly question all the times I’ve been at the halfway house and I wonder if some of these women weren’t smiling politely while wondering how they’d look wearing my pearls or driving my car. I’m so angry that an ex-felon, likely one who’s gone through the exact kind of program where I’ve been coaching, let herself into my locked gate and thumped my front door that I’m not sure I want to continue working with the program. Suddenly, I feel a whole lot less charitable, like my efforts have been for nothing.

  Afterward, while Fletch gets ready for bed, I sit on the side of the tub and keep him company. As we conduct a postmortem of the event, we discuss how it feels like society has gone downhill since we were kids. Growing up, I couldn’t even fathom the idea of a potential home invasion. The greatest crime I could name back then was that Brooke Shields didn’t personally respond to my fan mail.

  Okay, technically I wrote to extend the hand of friendship… and also hit her up for some free Calvin Klein jeans, but still, I’m sure she had plenty to spare and my letters were charming. [People were just being polite about the unibrow, honey. If you’d have responded to me, as your real friend, I’d have told you the truth.]

  While we chat, it occurs to me what the catalyst has been for our societal slide.

  “You know who started this whole downward spiral?” I query.

  “Um… Liberals fighting with conservatives?” He’s just finished washing his face and I hand him a towel.

  “Nope.”

  “The Cold War?”

  “Guess again.”

  “The implosion of the subprime lending market?”

  “Bzzt. One more guess.”

  “Ted Turner’s introduction of the twenty-four-hour news cycle?”

  “You’re never going to guess because the answer is Starbucks. Our downward spiral can neatly be placed at the feet of Starbucks.”

  Don’t get your lattes in a bunch—please understand that I have nothing but admiration for how the Starbucks Corporation runs their business. I respect their use of Fair Trade products, their concerns for the environment, and their groundbreaking efforts to provide benefits for part-time employees. That shit changes lives, you know? And I adore Starbucks’ consistently high-quality products so much that at any given time my blood type is Iced Caramel Macchiato with Two Splendas. [Unless it’s Gingerbread or Pumpkin Spice Latte season, of course.]

  Fletch loads up his Sonicare with toothpaste. “This should be good. Continue.”

  “Starbucks has high operating costs because they’re paying out a lot of money for health insurance. Just imagine how many of their employees need MRIs after helmetless bike accidents and how much they must shell out on antibiotics for piercings gone awry. Not cheap, right? That’s why they’re charging four dollars for a cup of coffee. Overhead, baby, overhead.”

  Through a mouthful of foam he asks, “How does this relate to a couple of tweakers scaling our fence?”

  “Ah, I’m glad you asked. See, the consumer is willing to shell out four bucks for delicious coffee because it is delicious.”

  He gives me an odd look in the mirror. “Did you already take your Ambien?”

  “Shut up, and no, I’m doing that right now.” I wash down my Ambien with a quick sip from his water glass. “I’m high on Vitamin A—adrenaline. Tell you what, those tweakers are lucky my shovel wasn’t handy. ANYWAY, when people drop four dollars on a cup o’ joe, they’re way less likely to throw it away when they head into previously beverage-free bastions like stores, churches, classrooms, what have you.”

  Fletch blinks in a manner that I interpret as encouragement. I continue. “My theory is that our compulsive Starbucks consumption prompted us to stop following the ‘No Food or Drinks’ rule. Now here’s where it gets tricky—”

  He spits and rinses, blotting his mouth with a towel. “I’m all ears.”

  “The issue is that the no food or drinks tenet has been just as much of a societal pillar as other biggies like ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ and ‘Respect the Sabbath’ and ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.’ So my point is that being allowed to circumvent one of the very basic rules of society has opened the gateway to our growing more lax in all things moral, ethical, and legal.”

  “Is this the kind of thing you do after I go to bed? I always suspected you were up late looking at LOLCats or Real Housewife gossip, but clearly you’ve been hitting conspiracy theory Web sites.”

  He exits the
bathroom and heads into his closet, returning with a pair of SpongeBob-print pajama bottoms. If our tweakers arrived five minutes later, I wonder if he’d have seemed quite so imposing clad in those.

  I follow along behind him into the bedroom where we find Maisy and Loki fast asleep on the bed. Nice watchdogs, eh? But if a squirrel had tried to break in, we’d be telling a different story right about now.

  I climb into my side of the bed. “I’m not claiming that the Java Chip Blended Beverage is responsible for two idiots attempting to gain entry to our home.”

  He yawns and stretches and resets our house alarm before getting into bed. “That’s for a judge to decide.”

  I puff my pillow and pull up the covers, attempting to eke out the portion of the bed not covered in dog. “All I’m saying is that I worry that our culturally cavalier attitude towards the basic rules could lead us down the slippery slope to complete and total anarchy.”

  Fletch gives me a kiss and turns out his light. “That’s a lot to ponder… especially without your good aluminum-foil thinkin’ cap. But nice work tonight. You were very brave.”

  “Thank you.”

  We lie there in the dark and I can hear his breathing slow as he begins to drift off.

  “Hey, Fletch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think I can bring coffee to the trial?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  But we don’t find out because I write down the wrong date and I miss my day in court.

  I guess the tweakers got their miracle after all.

  Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

  If you don’t want to be a victim, employ Constant Vigilance™… and buy a datebook.

  C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·E·V·E·N

  Generation Y Don’t You Do It for Me?

  My professional career began when I graduated from college and landed a position at an HMO. Unlike most of my Gen X peers, I was actually able to nab a job that didn’t require wearing an apron and black Reeboks, so I was thrilled. [Kids, this recession ain’t our first rodeo.]