The Pest.

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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The Legendary Blood Fiddle.

Louis Shalako photo.

Louis Shalako

This is the legendary Blood Fiddle, which belonged to my friend's grandfather. The story is, he went to the Sarnia rez, bought himself a deaf and dumb girl for about sixteen dollars and made her his wife. They had five daughters and sometime during WW II, he started a band. Years later, she died of cancer, somehow bleeding all over the place and one of the children used the blood to paint the front of the fiddle...

I forget the grandfather's name, but she still has the band going, and she's working on some new songs. She sang a bit of one to me and she definitely has a good voice.

They're not real big, are they.

On this particular instrument, the outer strings are not rigged, as it appears the bridge is broken. The lady says she spent some money, as the thing 'was in pieces' and I guess she knew some guy.

Yeah, we talk once in a while.

At some point, she brought out a real violin. This was in fine condition. For the first time in my life, I held a violin in my hands. The strings were pretty loose, and I put my finger on a line painted on there and began stroking the bow, across, back and forth, just listening to the tone of the thing.

It sounded a lot like a violin.

When I was five or six years old, I asked my parents for a violin, and of course they just laughed.

End

On Cell-Phones. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

My brother was telling me that I got to sign up for some $35.00/month cell-phone deal.

It's a two-year contract and then you got yourself a free phone. It costs another $50.00 to get it unlocked and then you can get any service you want. I have a free phone here. The sound is very low and I haven't bothered to hack around in there to try and fix it, not without a manual. So far, I haven't even bothered to put a $10.00 pre-paid card on it.

Whatever money was on there, automatically ran out at the end of last month…which is, admittedly, a pain in the ass. Somebody lost ten bucks there, that is for sure.

...sure glad it wasn't me.

Here's the thing: I can get a $90.00 touchscreen, (dual sim), unlocked. Order it online and it's here in a few days. I can put ten bucks on it, or twenty, which is good for a month, or even get a $250.00 card which is good for a year. Then I can ditch the old landline phone, which is costing me roughly $35.00/month, or $420.00/year and I can't even take it anywhere.

I'm not disputing that a phone is a good thing to have when your car is old and you work some ways out of town. Sooner or later, that car must break down. They always do, don’t they?

It’s a long walk otherwise.

I'm big and ugly and hitchhiking can be a problem for guys like me...oh, and when I'm hitchhiking, it's always an emergency, isn't it?

There are a couple of things I hate about cell-phones. The only time anyone ever called me, I was driving down the road at a hundred kilometres an hour with some big truck on my ass and distracted driving is illegal—and dangerous. Unless it’s hands-free, it’s a bad idea to try and answer it. And by the time I pulled over, of course, the phone wasn’t ringing anymore.

You had to try and figure out who that was and call them back. As often as not, it was my mother.

“So, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, Honey. I was just wondering how you were…”

Argh.

How am I doing? I’m sitting by the side of the road, having another useless conversation.

I’ve only got a ten-buck card on here for emergencies, and this is costing me money—

You know what I hate even worse? It’s the way people keep changing the plan at the last minute. They do that to me now, when I’m sitting here for hours beside my landline phone. At least I’m home, where I can take a shit or make a pot of soup if I need it. If we agreed to meet at ten-thirty for a coffee, or for any kind of business or personal thing, for fuck’s sakes, don’t call me up at the last minute and tell me you’re running late and would I mind if we put this off for another hour or so. I've sat here all fucking day, sometimes, waiting for a care package from my Mother.

Not that I'm not grateful.

I'm grateful for the food, no question about that.

But.

***

The thing to do is to make the appointment, and then turn off the phone. If they don't show up within ten minutes, fire up the car and go home...

Screw that.

Fact is, I resent it like hell. That’s because I’m sitting out in front of the place now.

I’ve got to shit, I haven’t had anything to eat all fucking day, and somehow, now I’m at your beck and call. I can always come back, right? You want me to cruise around town for an hour, burning up my precious gas and maybe, just maybe, you'll be done dropping off the dog at the parlour and checking out the latest in vinyl wallcoverings at the big-box builder's supply by then.

Fuck.

Ten minutes is a long time.

I’ve had a few cell-phones, trust me on that one.

Nice as they are, I am absolutely not in a hurry to run out and get one.

And yet the fact is, I probably do need one.

End

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