A Stranger and a Strange Man

Those who read my status updates on Facebook know I've been whining about my landlord and his attempts at plumbing work. It started when he decided that the filters for the existing reverse osmosis system cost too much. By the time it was over, I think he could've purchased several year's worth of them with how much he ended up spending. Not only did he buy a new system, but when it didn't fit (after supposedly measuring for that), he bought part after part after part, then a new faucet, then more parts, and each one involved a separate trip to the store (with gas at $4.44 a gallon).

The project started a couple weeks ago and culminated on Saturday, when the thing I've vaguely feared ever since reading Sue Grafton's B is for Burglar (I think, it's been a long time), happened. I was in the shower, with my hair full of conditioner, and the water was shut off. In that, or one of Grafton's books, Kinsey is responsible for having the water turned off to an apartment complex and a woman comes outside in her robe, all soapy, her hair full of shampoo, screaming. Very true to life. I got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door, and screamed loudly enough to make the neighbors curious, I'm sure. John said something about "not knowing" but I yelled back (through the quickly closed door, as he actually walked in my direction and I hadn't stopped to put a robe on) something about did he think I was in there brushing my teeth for half an hour, or something equally eloquent.

It's been stressful.

As the whole plumbing project from Hell lingered on, I've been sad, confused and upset, (over something else far more important than drinking water) but determined not to give in to those negative emotions or the black hole of depression might claim me. Acting happy is hard work.

I'm tired.

Today, as I padded through the house toward the bathroom, my landlord, John, said good morning. I asked what was good about it and he said he had someone coming over later to see about renting the spare room. As I let hot water course over the sore spot on my back (no idea how I upset my muscles, but they're spasming in anger over certain moves I make), I told myself not to worry, that this person probably wouldn't want to move in here. The other two didn't. Once you meet John and see the house, you tend to want to go look at whatever else Craigslist has to offer.

I was sitting at my desk, crying over an email I was writing, when I saw a woman walk toward the front door. She had a horse with her. Okay, it was a dog. But when the dog is part Dalmation and part Great Dane, you can see the confusion. I didn't get up to go meet her and the dog. I just sat and composed myself, until the dog, Birky, found me.

Some of you know that, way back when (1985), I was bitten by a dog. On the face. Specifically my lower lip. For the most part I'm over it, but big dogs still make me nervous. So when this one walked over to me I pushed my chair back against the wall and put my hands up like Birky was holding a gun on me. His owner, Coral, quickly showed up in the hall and called him away. Feeling like a ninny, I said I wasn't good with dogs at first, and gave my perfectly good excuse. She said she'd also been bitten in the face and she understood. Birky, however, did not understand. I know some won't believe me, but that dog looked at me and clearly communicated, "I did nothing. I'm an innocent dog. I'll thank you not to accuse me like that again." It was so effective he had me asking him if it was okay for me to pet him. A little later I got him water, and when he investigated the fireplace and got a snout full of cobwebs, he walked over and wiped them off -- on my knee. Alpha was established, and it's not me.

So far I've shared the normal part of the day. Upon talking with Coral I learned that she's a psychic, an astrologer, a former massage therapist, and a writer. She has now decided she doesn't want to massage anymore, and would like to earn her living by writing alone. So she's manifesting that. In fact, she was here because John wants to enter into an arrangement with her whereby she edits/ghostwrites for him and he provides a room. Edits what, you ask? Why, his 65,000 word novel that he's been writing, unbeknownst to me. Granted, I try not to talk to him much, but...but...I'm not sure how to explain the weirdness of finding out he's writing a book. It's sort of like finding out that your OCD accountant will be showing his abstract paintings at the downtown gallery.

And it's a science fiction novel. And it has elements in it that he's stated in the past aren't real or possible, when we used to talk. This information would've been enough to digest, but Coral was just full of interesting stories and enthusiastic possibilities. She's happy and personable and fun and says things that make you feel good about yourself. And if I wasn't born and bred in New Jersey, there'd be no little voice saying, "Danger, Will Robinson!" Grifters are charming or they wouldn't be successful. I'm not saying that's what she is. She could be entirely legit. I hope she is. I hope she's a free spirit, who just happens to be a nomad, and she'll help John with his story and mutual beneficence will abound.

But, without any thought on either of their sides, and without any checking of references (however futile that may be, realistically), she's moving in here tomorrow. With her horse-sized dog and a cat, too. And John will get approximately 16 hours of her editing/ghostwriting work a month, because her rate is $30 - $35 an hour and that equals about $600. a month, and after that, if he wants more, he will PAY HER.

Okay, it's true that I can't read crap and pretend to like it. And, while I haven't read John's story, I do know that a character named Jim Dandy who does, indeed, come to the rescue, is not my cuppa. So I can't see myself providing this service to John in exchange for rent. Also, he didn't ask me for a very good reason. He needs the money I pay him. This woman is a bonus for him. He's got my money, and he gets to ogle a 38 year old blonde and have her show interest in his masterpiece. It's a win-win for him.

For me, I'm looking forward to having to lock my door any time I'm away from my room, because you can take the girl out of New Jersey but you can't take New Jersey out of the girl, and my Spidey sense says that trusting is not the way to go for now. She doesn't own a bed. The room is unfurnished. She's going to manifest a bed, or sleep on the couch. I'm not being uncharitable, just cautious.

Perhaps this experience is meant to teach me to be more open, to appreciate a wholly different sort of person, and her energy will rub off and motivate me to do more, sooner. Or perhaps we'll come home one day to find all those expensive tools in the garage gone, along with our new roomie and her pets. My door will remain locked, while I try to keep my mind open.

I keep looking Heavenward and saying, "Gwennie, do you know about this? Are you paying attention? Keep an eye out, okay?"