I Bear A Charmed Life

When I was twenty-four, I was endowed with a house and a dog and instructions to have at it. It was a good arrangement.

At the time of this unmitigated windfall I was drifting aimlessly, not in the sense of being homeless (which, as things stood, didn’t appear to be far off), but in terms of life management. My existence consisted of vacillating between being in school and not, working a range of inauspicious nightshift jobs, and carefully cultivating my potential as a future alcoholic.

Around Christmas I received word that a millionaire uncle was moving to New Jersey with his fiancée and they were having a mansion built from the ground up. During the time it took to erect the manor they’d be residing in a nearby condo complex that didn’t allow dogs, and my uncle had one. He asked if I would live in his old house in Arlington, Massachusetts, and mind Willie. Tough charge.

From what would be a frozen winter of that year through the following summer, I had my own place, rent-free. Some rather interesting Koreans lived on the first floor, so I had to be cautious to avoid them at all costs, but other than that, setups don’t get much more ideal. I had five bedrooms, two baths, full kitchen, living room, dining room, and study, all fully furnished and all to myself. And Willie.

Being left to my own devices in such a setting was indeed a curious offer with regard to my uncle.
On my first day of autonomy I moved in two suitcases’ worth of clothes and a backpack filled with odds and ends; customary miscellaneous items that you need for day to day activities, like an alarm clock, iPod, vitamins, glass water pipe… that kind of stuff. I lit a cigarette inside, which felt extremely liberating since about the only place where you can legally smoke in Massachusetts is huddled in doorways like the pariah you’ve become, punished by a bitter, snow-laden wind while passersby shake their heads in pity. Willie eyed me speculatively from behind the couch, unsure what to make of this new man in his home.

My new place.

The first problem that presented itself was a complete absence of food. Unless of course you counted the box of pasta in the back of the cupboard that had little dead moths in it, which I was hesitant to do. The Purina Chow could pinch-hit if push came to shove. Possessing a sizeable appetite, this situation was a pressing one, and would press much harder when the munchies arrived. Would the moths add flavor?

At home, repasts always just sort of showed up around mealtimes. They came complete with an entrée, side dishes, and dessert. In between there was always plenty of food in the cabinets and refrigerator for you to nosh on at your leisure. In a pinch you could go down to the cellar where there was canned food. It was just taken for granted that nourishment would be available. Now, however, I was yoyo (an acronym favored by my family meaning you’re on your own). For the first time in my life I would have to procure my own food. How did one go about doing this? It struck me as a daunting task, this feeding yourself business, like trying to do your own taxes for the first time. Ask me how to alter your mind and I could nimbly offer a thousand or so methods, but fix myself dinner? May as well suggest I get a job and pay rent at my own apartment. It was absurd. Cigarettes and the case of beer I’d brought would only get me so far. Hunger pangs were already beginning to stir in the recesses of my stomach.

Fortunately, after closing the refrigerator door for the fourth or fifth time (as if on the third try I’d discover an Extra Value Meal that my uncle had left there for me this morning) I noticed a magnet with the phone number of a local pizza place on it. Salvation! I called and ordered two pizzas, a sub, a calzone, a lasagna, and some chicken wings. Not to be eaten all at once, but I had to plan ahead. I had not only dinner, but breakfast and lunch to consider.

By the end of the week the pizza place was over three hundred dollars richer. I was going to have to do something about this situation, as I couldn’t afford to have my next two thousand meals delivered.

I supposed as good a place to start as any would be the grocery store. I had accompanied my mother on countless shopping trips as a kid, and while my primary responsibility then was to pocket Snickers bars when she wasn’t looking, I felt I was familiar enough with the process to attempt it on my own. Willie seemed particularly excited when I grabbed my car keys, so I took this as a sign that I was on the right track. He waited in the car while I went in.

It was with an odd mix of intimidation and excitement as I entered the supermarket. My prior food shopping experiences before then had been confined to small, in-and-out trips to grab a carton of milk or a loaf of bread. Never had I undertaken a grocery shopping expedition of such magnitude.

Seizing on a lifelong dream, I made a beeline for the cereal aisle. How I’d yearned for this moment! Rows of neatly stacked boxes loomed in a vast array of brilliant colors and designs. The enticing choices were mine and mine alone to determine: did I covet the chocolaty deliciousness of Coco Puffs? Or was it the yummy succulence of Fruity Pebbles that I craved? Or perhaps the marshmallow-infused scrumptiousness of Lucky Charms? No plain ass Cheerios would be making their way into my cart, that much was certain.

I also picked up some Smartfood Popcorn, Cherry Coke, hot dogs (the full-fat kind), a one-pound bag of Twizzlers, canned soup, fruit snacks, Twinkies, and some frozen dinners. And a Snickers bar at the checkout.

Since I had no idea how to bake anything that wasn’t my brain, I had to rely to simple things like cereal and ramen noodles. The ramen noodles were priceless as a quick meal, annoyed as I was at what I felt amounted to false advertising. The package said it prepared in three minutes, but if you included the time it took to boil the water and the huge phase where you had to wait for the soup to cool down, the actual cooking time was actually more like fifteen to twenty minutes.

Conveniently, right next to the supermarket was a liquor store. I felt as though I should go in and introduce myself, the way you might make the acquaintance of a new neighbor.

Back at my new home, I put away all my groceries, feeling sovereign and domestic. I then had a nice dinner of Lucky Charms (with the brown things weeded out so that it was just marshmallows), a couple of microwaved hotdogs, and some beer. While I ate, Willie sat by my feet and gazed longingly at my face, either because he was hoping for a bite or because he sought to make my dining experience as unnerving as possible.

Over time my food plan branched out and became more sophisticated. I graduated to buying cold cuts and making sandwiches on rolls, and even tried my hand at cooking some of those Betty Crocker meals in a box. The main idea was to eat as much as possible for as little as possible.

Once, in a flash of inspiration, I decided I was going to make a nice, delicious stew for dinner. I went to the store and bought all the components I figured a good stew might demand: carrots, potatoes, onions, green beans, cucumbers, lettuce, some orange thing I had no idea about but seemed like something that might enjoy being part off a stew, rhubarb, a weird looking vegetable that resembled a pear with warts on it, cigarettes (not for the stew, I just needed them), and, of course, some beef. Emptying everything onto the countertop back at home, I surveyed my ingredients. They sat there quietly, waiting for me to do something with them. But what? The vegetables anticipated a metamorphosis through which they’d be transformed into luscious cuisine; I couldn’t disappoint.
So I phoned someone who knew a thing or two about how to prepare a stew.

“Well, yes, honey, the stew’s just not going to cook itself,” my mother said. “Start by…”

She continued to outline how you make the stew, but I – being a little high – was snagged on the notion of the stew cooking itself. I imagined the vegetables rinsing themselves and each other off with the sink hose and then climbing into the pot.

The beef would probably be in charge of the operation, directing the veggies throughout the various stages. The veggies would be more than cooperative. Vegetables are serious and orderly. They’re not like fruits, which would probably be more on the silly, rambunctious side.

So, having missed my instructions, I was back to square one. I reasoned that this couldn’t be all that difficult a project. All you had to do was to cut – or slice or dice or mince or chop – up all the ingredients, then you peeled everything, or maybe you peeled everything first, then you threw everything into a pot and added water, or maybe you added broth, and then- actually, maybe you were supposed to add the ingredients at various intervals, depending on their required cooking time. And then you cooked it. Or baked it. Or broiled it. Or boiled it. Or sautéed it. Or grilled it. Or steamed it. Or… on second thought, I decided, Campbell’s Homestyle it is.

Some other aspects of my situation took a little getting used to. For instance, Willie was not fond of being left alone. So much so that he learned how to open doors to track me wherever I went. He would do this by balancing himself in an upright position and using one paw to bat at the doorknob until it unlatched. It was sometimes startling to be taking my morning shower (still half asleep) and, wiping shampoo from my eyes, notice a black animal face poking through the curtain. Or to be sleeping in the middle of the night and awakened by hot breath on my face and find that animal mug inquisitively peering at me from inches away.

Unlike Willie, I am not one of those people who require near constant human interaction in order to stay happy; the presence of company for these folks functions as lifeblood for their states of mind, and I am decidedly not among them. This is not to imply that I’m a hermit of some sort, or that I hate other people, I’ve just never been averse to a little solitude. I actually require it.

A daily, expressly reserved dose of Me Time is essential in order for me to decompress and gather my thoughts. I need a spell of not having to see or hear anyone else, if only for an hour or two. Too much of people – even if they’re people I like – can be suffocating. It doesn’t have to be a particular activity that I engage in – it could be writing or Internet surfing or going for a run – but if I am unable to have some time to myself I become prickly. I am not an enjoyable person when I prickle. Until Arlington, however, I had never considered the possibility of there being too much Me Time.

In my new house, I discovered I could easily go long periods of time – sometimes days – without human contact. Dog contact was fine and well, but there was only so much that Willie could bring to the table, conversation-wise. When it came to discussing pertinent issues, it was his preference to exhume a pair of my dirty underwear from the laundry and then retreat to his sleeping quarters to chomp on it.

This is not to say Willie was my only friend. While some people find the animated Office Assistant in Microsoft Word annoying and hide him, I began to enjoy his company. The little paperclip with eyes and eyebrows would sit patiently in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, waiting for me to prompt him with a query. Becoming bored, he would amuse himself by forming into different shapes, which amused me, too. Occasionally I’d ask him a random question about the program to which I already knew the answer, just to initiate a discourse. Unfortunately our dialogue was limited to Word, as he responded to even fairly simple questions like, "How are you?" with the rather off-putting, "I don’t know what you mean."

It can be a little troubling when you come to realize that you’re two chief friends are a dog and an animated computer character.

There were also the Koreans, with whom I’d cross paths every so often. The parents, despite to my knowledge having lived in the United States for over a decade, spoke broken English that consisted of a couple dozen words with an occasional phrase mixed in. Most of our conversations were thus composed of single-word sentences or noises, coupled with a gesture.

“Cold,” I’d say loudly, hugging myself when I passed the father outside. I had to remember that when a person struggles with a language alien to his own, speaking an unfamiliar word at a greatly increased volume will not aid his comprehension. I was pretty certain that most gesticulations, however, were universal.

“Brr!” he’d agree, mimicking the gesture, but adding a head nod.

I pointed to the front door. “Get warm.”

He’d nod, adding, “Whiskey!” This would be combined with him lifting an imaginary cup of booze to his mouth, and we’d both have a good laugh.

Any attempt to engage in conversation that extended further than this, however, was a mistake. And sometimes a costly one.

Once, as I came across the father Korean while he was shoveling the driveway, we went through our normal routine and I – apparently feeling both friendly and ambitious – asked, “Do you have plans for the weekend?”

He thought about the question for a minute and then answered, “Plans… yes, we have party. You brangish ental en woo?”

I paused. “What?”

“To woo. Brangish ental. So sum?”

Yikes… our banter wasn’t going so well; I should have known better than to initiate this conversation. Now I was getting what I deserved. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I said, pointing to my ear and shrugging.

He repeated, in a loud and clear voice, “Brangish, ental en woo and sum?”

I listened as hard as I possibly could to his repeating of the sentence, but couldn’t grasp one iota of it. Now I was faced with a pressing decision. One “what?” is understandable; two is pushing it. Three is way too awkward and makes you look like an asshole. However, I understood his unintelligible sentence to be a question, and by answering a query that I did not grasp, risked offering an answer that didn’t fit.

I decided to roll the dice with something nonspecific. “Heh, heh. Yeah, I guess so.”
He stopped, eying me quizzically. Oh no. It didn’t match. An unnerving silence hung in the air. He said, “Yes? You do?”

My mind spun. “Uh… I… I don’t… know.”

The Korean looked at me as though I had just stripped off all my clothes and dove naked into the snow. “Woo brangish en sum?”

Blood drained from my face. Stop asking that! I didn’t know what to do; I just wanted to get the hell out of there. If I fled, I’d have to structure a new schedule that would enable me to never see the Korean father again. Or any of his family, for that matter. He’d assuredly tell them all about the crazy American who stated he was in favor of brangish ental en woo and then bolted into the house.

“Hey!” I suddenly announced, as though a great idea had popped into my mind, one that warranted supplanting the current dialogue. Now I had to rapidly fill in the idea. “You know what I just thought of?”

He was still looking at me funny. “What?”

“I have… I think I still do…” I paused in thought, giving an impression that I was contemplating whether I still had the something in question, but in fact was desperately scouring my mind for a word to plug in there. “I have… an old bottle of whiskey. Do you want it?”

He perked up. “Whiskey?”

“Yeah, whiskey!”

“Whiskey, okay!”

“Great, I’ll go get it, okay?”

“Yeah! Get whiskey!”

So, in my panicked attempt to escape an awkward situation, I had assumed a debt of one bottle of whiskey. What was my problem? Of course I didn’t have one just lying around, so now I had to go out and buy this man a bottle of whiskey… all because I couldn’t understand what the hell he was talking about.

Fortunately I was parked in the front of the house, so I figured that if I went inside through the back, I could then sneak out through the front without him seeing me. Hell, I reasoned, I need to take a liquor run anyway. I cautiously exited the front door and got into my car. No sign of the Korean. As I pulled out into the road and took a glimpse into the rearview mirror, I saw him standing there in the yard, holding his shovel while looking after my car as I motored off.

At the present juncture, in the eyes of this man, I had just: 1. Uncharacteristically started a conversation. 2. Answered a question of his in an incorrect and possibly bizarre manner. 3. Suddenly promised him a bottle of whiskey for no apparent reason. 4. Immediately ran inside to get it. 5. Seconds later sped off in my car.

Hopefully he attributed my behavior to weird Americanism. I wished I had an excuse as to what I could attribute it to.

During this time period I was also taking another crack at school, with the hopes that I might have my bachelor’s degree some time before I… well, died. It’s not that I hated school, per se. Once you got past the learning format, the tests, the homework, the teachers and their teaching styles, the other students, being forced to talk in class, and having to go there, it really wasn’t so bad.
That winter was particularly inhospitable, even by New England standards. To wake up while it was still dark and subject myself to biting, subzero temperatures with the intention of going to a place I despised was about as appetizing as sipping a cupful of warm bile.

The area was hammered with nor’easters on what seemed a weekly basis, and on these days I’d have to slink quietly around the house while the Koreans shoveled out the drive- and walkways. Then I’d emerge with a shovel just as they were finishing and get to work.

One frigid morning I awoke to discover that the heat in the house was AWOL. The radiators were turned up, but only emitting a little heat. I vaguely recalled my uncle saying something about having to turn a valve on the boiler in the basement periodically; otherwise I’d regret it. Actually, my chief regret was being high when he’d given me those instructions, as I couldn’t remember exactly what it was he’d said. Maybe I shouldn’t smoke weed when people were giving me instructions. Damn it. Well, as I did with everything else, I’d just have to figure it out as I went along.

With a shiver, I descended the rickety staircase and into the dark, foreboding cellar. It was not a very nice place down there; I wouldn’t have been surprised to come across a few decaying corpses lying around. Would the Koreans have left them? And would I be next?

I carefully made my way over to the boiler, which looked quite dusty and ominous. First things first: with a shudder, I cleared a maze of thick spider webs from my face and mouth, and then, spitting, anxiously inspected my person for the creator of the web.

Satisfied that no black widows were crawling around in my hair but still a little freaked out by my face having just plunged through a large spider web, I turned my attention to the boiler. There were two valves. Which one? I tried the first. It didn’t budge. I tried the second. It didn’t budge. Well, maybe I could just move in with the Koreans.

The Koreans! It occurred to me that their heat could possibly originate from the same boiler. If that were the case, I could just wait them out until they did something about this situation. Looking around the cellar, I spotted a black, metal tank that resembled a boiler, and it was humming. That would be the Koreans’ separate boiler. Strike two.

I said to the boiler, “Work, boiler.” My verbal persuasion attempt having proved ineffective, I grabbed one of the valves and twisted it with all my strength. It gave a little, and then it gave way completely. There was a long wheeze and then the sound of something wet slopping somewhere.
I hope that’s what was supposed to happen.
At this point I had to leave for work, so I couldn’t fiddle with the infernal furnace anymore. Back upstairs, I turned on the water to take a shower. I noticed that the radiators had become completely cold while the ambient air temperature had chilled as well. Then I noticed that the shower water was not getting any warmer. It was actually freezing. This was not a heartening development.

I had no choice; I had to take a shower. Just make it quick, I thought, in and out… a quick scrub down… it won’t be that bad. Stripping naked, I began to shiver in the cold, cold air. By this time I literally feared what was about to take place. I timidly placed one leg underneath the cascade and felt the water – a.k.a. ice lasers – rain frostily upon my shin. All at once, I prodded myself, like a Band-Aid. You’ll only be in for a minute, don’t be a wuss.

So, all at once, I threw myself underneath the glacial shower water. Three things occurred in rapid succession. The first was that I screamed in startled agony. Subsequent to the scream, I lost my capacity to breathe. And, lastly, I leapt from the tub like a spooked rabbit.

Chattering so hard I could barely function, I managed to dress myself, called in sick to work, and then called the heat company.

The other problem that developed was the squalor. At home we had a dishwasher, so that took care of the dirty dishes. And in the event you came across a piece of dishware that wasn’t fit for the dishwasher, you just left it on the counter. It would get taken care of. In Arlington there was no dishwasher, a lack I found startling. When I left a dish on the counter, it didn’t get taken care of. It just stayed there. I’ve never been a particularly neat person, and without standard cleaning appliances I was doomed.

When finished using a bowl, I did not clean it. Instead, I placed the dirty bowl in the sink so I could clean it later, when it was more convenient. I did not clean it later. Instead, I piled the next dirty bowl on top of it so that I could clean both of them later, when it was more convenient. I did not clean both of them later. After a few days the sink would be overflowing with all the dishes available to me, or had been, except for the ones that still crowded the tables, dried food caked to their insides. If I had to eat and there were no dishes available, I would search for the least disgusting bowl or plate, and, using a knife I would scrap away the dried food and then reuse that one.

The rapid accumulation of cans soon became another problem. After only the first month I was dealing with upwards of three hundred empties. Have you ever returned a mother load of empty beer cans? Nothing quite says boozehound like entering a liquor store with several hundred consumed cans of Coors in tow.

I also wasn’t particularly sure what to do with the daily newspaper when I finished with it so I just left it there. Empty pizza boxes sat on the dining room table, on the coffee table, and in the bedroom. Fast food wrappers were strewn about.
You’d think that, after a while, all this might start to get to me. That I’d get fed up with all the filth and garbage and undertake a massive cleaning effort. But I didn’t. In fact, the squalor never really bothered me all that much. I wasn’t around much during the day, except when I was skipping class and sleeping on the couch. That was most of the time, so this statement actually is not true at all. Whatever the case, I was unmoved by the squalor. I guess a dozen bottles of beer can elicit a blasé reaction rather effectively.

One night as I was primed to crack my first beer of the night, the phone rang. I’d let the machine get it, as I always did, and was mortified by the message: it was my uncle, saying that he was returning the next day for a visit.

Dread washed over me as I surveyed the pigsty. Reluctantly replacing the beer, I set to work cleaning like I’d never cleaned before. I Soft Scrubbed, 409ed, Windexed, and Lysoled my way through the better part of the house. I exported numerous gorged trash bags and underwent a deep freeze as I had to open all the windows to let several months worth of entrenched marijuana smoke air out.

The next day when my uncle arrived, he looked around approvingly and noted, “I see you’re fending nicely for yourself here.”