Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (29 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After a forty-five-minute Purell shower, I found myself sitting unresponsive on Mr. Molever’s faux-leather couch as he calculated the damage I had caused. I was wondering if there was a way to somehow pin this whole thing on Ferdinand. Although I knew that would be a tough sell; he has very trusting eyes.

Mr. Molever wore his thick prescription glasses as he number-crunched on his annoyingly loud calculator: “Two hundred for the plumbing … Seventy-five—make that a hundred and seventy-five for the cleanup. Twenty-two dollars for the replacement fire alarm … Six dollars and ninety-nine cents for a new battery … Okeydokey, I’ll need you to sign your John Hancock here … and here … and here … and here.…”

“But this entire ordeal was the result of a malfunctioning fire alarm that I had absolutely nothing to do with. Shouldn’t that be considered in your calculations?” I pleaded.

“Here are the words I just heard come out of your mouth, Charles: ‘The traffic light wasn’t working properly, so I took a chain saw and
sawed it in half, causing it to crash down on multiple cars and one unfortunately located small business.’ Then, as a result of the mass confusion and hysteria due to the missing traffic light, it turned into a free-for-all of cars going in all directions and slamming into one another, culminating in a fifty-four-car pileup. And after a massive search-and-rescue mission comes to a grueling, time-consuming end, the police, and most likely National Guard, finally approach you to ask why on earth you caused all of this. And you say, ‘The traffic light wasn’t blinking correctly.’ I imagine that as you’re placed in handcuffs, on your way to prison to serve your life sentence, the judge will probably have a good chuckle at your ‘malfunctioning traffic light’ defense.”

By the time Mr. Molever finished his rant I was willing to pay whatever he asked in exchange for him to simply stop talking. Finally, he carefully folded the savings-draining documentation in half, then into thirds, and placed it neatly into a manila envelope. He then removed the documentation, smoothed it flat, then folded it in half, and again into thirds, and again put it back into the envelope.

Next, he searched around his immaculate desk for something but was unable to locate the item. When he asked whether he could have a minute to find whatever it was he was looking for, for some reason I nodded. The way he asked for a minute made me kind of, sort of, feel bad for the guy. Was it possible I actually felt the tiniest bit of compassion for this lunatic? Thirty seconds ago I had wanted to kill him, but now I strangely thought about embracing him and letting him know that it was all going to be okay. Then I started wondering what “it” could be.

His apartment felt as if no one but he, and maybe an occasional unsatisfactory tenant like me, had set foot in there in years. He had no pictures of family or friends on the walls, only a couple of perfectly
centered pieces of art that you would find in the discount section at Target. The main bit of decoration, besides the “Welcome Home” mats in every entryway, were the neatly organized folders that lay stacked on top of one another. There must have been twenty piles, each arranged in different colors. Tacked above each mound was an apartment number and a picture of each tenant. Putting aside the general creepiness of the layout, something suddenly dawned on me. In some messed-up—really messed-up—way, his tenants were the only family he had. He viewed himself as our parent. As I came to this realization, I glanced over at the section for 2C and found a photograph lifted from my Facebook page of me surrounded by beekeepers. Yes, I had been on a scavenger hunt in an apiary, but that’s another story. Seeing my picture only further confirmed my theory. Just like most parents, Mr. Molever somehow got past the privacy settings on his “children’s” Facebook pages and sifted through personal pictures, most likely jumping to silent yet judgmental conclusions. Or maybe I’m reading way too much into this and I just have severe untreated mother-privacy issues that I need to deal with on my own time.

Eventually, Mr. Molever found what he was looking for. He was holding a red ink pad and a stamp attached to a gavel-like handle. He politely took back the envelope, dipped the stamp into the ink, and hammered it onto the cover of my folder. After a few awkward seconds of his grunting and pressing down with all of his might, he lifted the imprint, which read,
CONFIDENTIAL
. Are you kidding me? That’s what I had been waiting for?

“You can never be too sure who’s going to want to take a look at your documents. Don’t worry, this stamp will scare them off,” he said.

If only such a stamp existed for my Facebook scavenger-hunt
photo album. “Thanks, Mr. Molever.” I was almost out the door when, just as he does so well, Mr. Molever had more parting words.

“You’re gonna want to go ahead and inform the girls who live above you that they shouldn’t flush their toilet for the next twenty-four hours, unless you would like more of their waste pouring into your apartment,” he said with a wildly entertained laugh.

In the barbarity of the moment, it had not occurred to me that the sewage, which had so profusely showered down on us, had been that of the girls above me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this made the unpleasant experience all right, because that would be psychotic bordering on fetishistic, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel slightly better about the whole thing.

No doubt knowing where the shit came from caused momentary relief, sort of like how eating a hot dog at a baseball game is somehow more mentally acceptable than eating one at a movie theater. Regardless, though, I never again wanted to put myself in a position where I’m finding comfort in the fact that the people who defecated on my face were sanitary enough.

SOMETIMES THEY FIGHT

Dear Girls Above Me,

“We need to talk.” Uh oh, are you guys okay? “Did you switch over to iced coffee without telling me?” That bitch!

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Cathy, talk to me! I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t pee, knowing you’re mad at me.” Don’t let Cathy mess with urinary system.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“You can’t go on birth control, your tits will get bigger than mine! We had a plan!” Does this plan involve small boobs and a baby?

Dear Girls Above Me,

I don’t normally weigh in on your fights, but “whose hypothetical older brother would be hotter” is serious stuff. Sorry Claire.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I can fully admit you’re better at yoga, but it’s totally offensive you’re claiming to be a faster texter.” Umm, should I leave?

THEY LOVE THEIR PSYCHIC

Dear Girls Above Me,

“The psychic said I have a serious stalker in my life!” I much prefer “a friend who always listens,” thank you very much.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“The psychic said that in a past life I hung out with Jesus! Does that mean I’ve, like, walked on water?” No, he made you swim.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“My tarot card lady told me that babies bring people money. Maybe I should have one?” I see no harm in testing it out.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“The psychic said I’ll marry a redhead! I can’t have fire crotch kids!” I think their pubes will be the least of their problems.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I knocked on Cathy and Claire’s door without hesitation. My intense motivation didn’t come from a place of confidence, but from the fear that I wouldn’t make it to them before they used their toilet again. Thankfully I could faintly hear them analyzing a text message from somewhere in their apartment. As usual, their voices were too overbearing for them to hear me, so I tried knocking again, this time much louder. Their conversation ceased, followed by the monotonous sound of high heels walking on fake wood floors.

“Who is it?” Cathy called out.

Completely forgetting that they did not know my voice the same way that I knew theirs, I stupidly responded with “It’s me.” For the record, I’m not an “It’s me” type of guy. I didn’t even “It’s me” my ex-girlfriend and I was with her for years. I don’t “It’s me” my parents, and I don’t “It’s me” my friends. I’m against all “It’s me”–ing not because I think I’m above it, but because quite often when you hear “It’s me” you immediately know who it is and wish that “me” was “anybody else.”

I was able to hear consulting whispers between the two girls: “Should we open it?” “What if it’s a kidnapper who’s going to force us to become sex slaves like in that movie
Taken
?” The girls have a bizarre habit of watching a movie and becoming so immersed in it that they think the lives of the characters are comparable to their own. This was especially worrisome after Claire watched
Dangerous Minds
and thought it would be fun to become a substitute teacher in South Central.

The door creaked open. Two sets of eyes under mascara-coated eyelashes gaped at me. They did not have a favorable track record of remembering who I was; plus my beard always seemed to freak them out, so I knew I had only a few seconds before the door closed in my face.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

Cathy and Claire inspected me further. Once, I thought, just once, could I not be so forgettable to them? I know I’m not exactly Michelle Pfeiffer when it comes to first impressions, but I would like to think I have enough “geeky charisma” to make an impact by the third or fourth viewing.

“We totes know who you are, silly,” Cathy said to me. Finally. The sixteenth time was totes the charm. They swung their door open hospitably.

“Yeah, you’re Stephanie’s lawyer boyfriend. How’s all the law stuff going?” Claire asked.

I’d gained confidence too soon. I really needed to track down Stephanie’s boyfriend and kill him. I didn’t like knowing that there was a better and smarter version of me out there somewhere.

“Cathy and Claire, I’m Charlie, your downstairs neighbor.”

Their faces lit up, just as they do every time I remind them
who I am. “Charlie!” And with that they whisked me inside their apartment.

Before I could form my next thought, let alone construct it into a coherent sentence, I had a glass of mimosa placed in my hand by Cathy. The three of us cheers-ed one another and just like that I was a part of their Sunday Funday tradition I’d heard so much about.

Not sure if it was the “bubbly bit of heaven in a glass,” as Claire called it, or the fact that a mimosa is quite refreshing after you get shat on, but I actually let my guard down. For the first time since these girls had come into my life, I finally stopped analyzing every little detail and got out of their heads (and my own) for a little bit. We were actually conversing, which led to smiling, which evolved into actual relatable human laughter. This was something new; I was laughing with them. This made me laugh even harder.

Since laughter is indeed contagious, it was only a matter of time before they let their guards down and joined my madness wholeheartedly. The three of us belly-laughed for quite some time, all with unique styles. I went with the “silent laugh,” which every so often included sudden unattractive gasps for air. Cathy chose the “horse laugh,” which was one long impressive guffaw, accompanied by the head movements a horse makes when it neighs. Claire joined us with the “model laugh,” which meant she was more concerned with her appearance during this group chortle than the actual chortle itself.

I had heard Cathy and Claire suddenly erupt into hysterics before, but this was my first time being “one of the girls.” Dare I say, I was actually happy to be there. Until out of nowhere Cathy shifted from hysterically laughing to hysterically crying. It took me a moment to figure out this new direction, since laughing and crying share quite a similar face, but once I did, my chuckling mellowed.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She was sobbing so hard she couldn’t even get a word out. Claire consoled her by wiping away the streams of mascara running down her cheeks. I prayed that her crying would not last as long as our laughter had. What were the rest of us supposed to do, cry with her?

After a few hiccups, Cathy spoke. “We know why you’re here.”

She did? “You do?”

“Yes,” Cathy responded.

How was she aware of the burst pipe in my ceiling that was giving me a chance to experience their bodily waste? And more important, why was she crying about it? If anything, I should’ve been the one emotionally affected by this. As well as Pat and Ferdinand.

“Look, girls, I’m only here to tell you—”

“How much you hate us. We know!” Cathy belted out as her weeping resumed.

“Hate you? What are you talking about?” Oh, no, was this the code red? Could this have been the moment I had been so fearfully awaiting? The day Cathy and Claire discovered my letters to them blasted all over the Internet for others to enjoy? Was it time to finally face the music?

“Didn’t you come here to complain about us like the other neighbors did?” Claire asked.