Louis Shalako
The other day, my neighbour asked me if I was going to
the smoke shack the next day. I said yes, and she gave me money for five packs
of smokes. She said she was going out, but might stop by later. I told her I go
to bed at ten-thirty or eleven, and don’t much like company showing up after
nine p.m. The fact was, she was out late, until one-thirty a.m. or so. I do appreciate
the fact that she didn’t come knocking at one-thirty in the morning.
No, she was at my door at 6:34 a.m. She was out of
cigarettes. She knocked four or five times—she must have hung around out there
for a good ten minutes or so. Yes, I was awake.
No, I didn’t get out of bed and
run to answer the door.
She came around later and got her smokes. She told me
that I must be angry, and I just laughed. Not really. Not yet.
So then she whips out a few twenties. She’s
volunteered my services to pick up three cartons for a friend or a neighbour. I
have no idea who the fuck that is.
“Are you going to the smoke shack tomorrow?”
“Ah, yeah, I suppose I am.” So now I’m running errands
for perfect strangers.
Supposedly, there’s five bucks in it for me—if only
they had remembered that the price of smokes went up and their order is $63.00
plus the five for me. She had three twenties.
She agreed that she needed to talk to her friend and
get some more money. I told her that I would call her the next morning, before
going out. I wrote ‘smokes’ on the back of my left hand so that I would
remember—and I did remember.
How in the fuck could I ever forget, eh?
Unfortunately, she was knocking at my door at about
8:30 a.m. It was a Sunday and I kind of had my heart set on sleeping in. My
neighbour-guys work construction or something. One of them is a roofer, and I
know that because I see him getting in the truck in the morning.
Generally
speaking, things are pretty quiet Sunday morning. Unless some rather persistent
person is at the door, tap-tap-tapping away.
The liquor store opens at eleven, and I see no need to
make multiple trips when I can do everything I need to do on one run.
I did not answer the door. By about ten-thirty, I had
showered. I was dressed. I’d had a cup of tea. I called down and told her I was
coming.
She gave me the money, I went and got the smokes.
I brought them back, knocked on her door, and handed
them in, along with the change, minus my five bucks.
“Can I come up?” she asked.
“No,” I said, and turned and walked away.
Let’s see if she can take a hint…the funny thing is, I
actually got some writing done that day.
Hurting her feelings is not my favourite
thing, but…but.
It was about three p.m. and I was having a nap.
Sure enough, someone’s knocking at the door. I stayed
in bed—because I know exactly who that is, right?
At five-thirty or so, I was cooking dinner. And
someone knocked at the door. I did not answer.
I don’t like being put in the position where I have to
be somewhat of a prick to make my point.
There is more to this story. At one time, I didn’t go
to the smoke-shack every day. I used to buy a carton of smokes at a time. Large
packs, there are eight in a carton, small packs, ten. It kind of sucked to buy
a carton of smokes and then have her show up, and ask to buy a couple of packs
of smokes—at cost. And she’d show up the next day and buy another two packs,
and at some point, I’m going back and forth every two days to get myself a fucking
God-damned carton of smokes—at that rate, I really should take some of her money, and pick up a carton or two for her,
too…right?
There was no winning.
It got to the point where I was driving her to the bank
on payday. I was taking her downtown to the clinic for her shot, and taking her
to the hospital for her monthly blood work…one day she called from work and I
ended up taking her and her cousin to their other store, with some massive cake
in the back, and then I got to drop her and the cousin off somewhere. I was
dropping her off at the grocery store and then going home to wait for her to
call so I could go back and pick her up again.
At some point, she was knocking on my door anything up
to five times a day, four or five, sometimes even six or seven days a week.
And at some point, I stopped answering the door. Not
enough to deter her. She came back multiple times a day, knowing I was at home,
because my car is parked right out back.
This went on for a week or ten days. Every fucking
day…she’s out there knocking, knocking, and knocking, and I’m in here feeling like a miserable
son of a bitch.
And I had to be a prick, didn’t I? Finally, she
stopped knocking. I didn’t talk to her for a year.
When I finally started talking to her again, the first
few times up in my apartment, she seemed to understand the problem.
“I know I’m not supposed to be up here every day.”
“No. That’s right—you’re not.” That’s because I have a
life too.
It’s funny—I don’t spend any time at all in her dark,
dank, smelly, grubby little woman-cave on the ground floor. I don’t have a
TV—one would think it might be nice to go sit at someone else’s place once in a
while, maybe watch a little TV sometimes, but, uh, there’s just no way.
At some point, I had all the disadvantages of a wife
or girlfriend with none of the advantages.
It’s a terrible thing.
I don’t want to go out with her.
Nothing personal—but basically, at my age, I don’t
want to go out with anyone.
Honestly, if I was eighty years old and looking for
companionship, that one might be all right—if only she had her own place and
went home once in a while.
Yeah, at some point I started drinking in the
afternoons—every afternoon. She came up one day and asked for a ride somewhere,
and I said sorry.
I’d already had a few beers and driving was a bad
idea. She seemed to understand. Then came the day she lost her keys, and I was
the only one around with a car. It was a pitch-black winter’s night. I ended up
driving to pick up the superintendent of another building, who used the master
key, and then taking the super home again. I’d had a few beers, too. Anything is better than having her sleep on my couch...
Being neighbours is one thing. Being friends is one
thing.
Trying to squeeze in my own life, among the incessant
requests, was quite frankly, beyond me.
And now, I’m not answering the door again.
Which is kind of sad, when you think about it.
Maybe I could use a friend too.
END
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