My landlord has disappeared. I haven’t seen him in days… The truth is, it’s going on weeks.
I wondered at first if he’d merely holed up to escape the deluge of rains we’ve been assaulted by lately. Then other scenarios presented themselves. Was he sick with H1N1? Engaged in an illicit affair with a former Hollywood starlet now down on her luck and just out of rehab looking for a ‘real man’, whom he met on eHarmony.com? Perhaps he was hard at work on some top secret government, high-tech assignment. Of course, he could just be on a vacation, the spontaneous, drop-everything kind.
Then finally the truth emerged, coming to me as I slept. I woke up knowing with certainty that my beloved landlord was dead. Poor Frank, I thought. He was such a likeable guy! And when it came to being a landlord, you really couldn’t ask for better. And yet…
Now that he’s dead, I couldn’t help but surmise, that rent check I put in his mailbox last week will never get cashed. For that matter, my rent won’t come due next month or the month after that. Furthermore, his now empty house, so much bigger and newer than my itty-bitty little cottage, is just begging to be occupied. I could simply take over his lease, I figured, and pay for it with the rent I’ll collect from the tenant behind me, and the new tenant who’ll take over the lease on my place.
It all seemed so simple, so obvious… I mean, times are lean. You’ve got to grab hold of opportunities when they present themselves, right? It was what Frank would have wanted, I was sure. I smiled through my tears of grief.
I wasted no time moving into Frank’s house. “You take that room,” I told my son. “And Mugsy can sleep there.” I pointed to a large empty corner near a window. “And if you want to play video games or listen to music, you can go into that room there and shut the door, so I won’t have to hear you.” In our itty-bitty cottage, there was no real privacy or solitude to be had. “Let’s have a party!” he suggested, and for once I agreed with him. Why not? I thought.
We each invited a few friends, but somehow the word got out that a party was going on and became exaggerated in the process; rumors spread fast that wild sex and an unlimited supply of booze and drugs were to be had. Before long the place was packed, and I was scrambling to keep snack bowls and drink glasses filled – thank goodness Frank had a liberally stocked liquor cabinet – when I looked up to see Charlie Sheen walk through the door. I watched in amazement as he made himself at home, chatting casually with people I’d never met before. Within the hour he had two beautiful women on each arm and the mirror in the guest bathroom had mysteriously disappeared. Music blasted from the stereo and my son was standing on top of the dining room table in his underwear singing Karaoke to a ‘Disturbed’ song. The alcohol had almost run out and I was just thinking that was probably a good thing when the sound of blaring sirens invaded the street and parked in front of our door.
An officer charged in. “Whose house is this?” he demanded. None of the strangers seemed to know, and thankfully no one who actually knew me spoke up either. The officer herded us all out though the front door with warnings to go home immediately or be charged with disrupting the peace, and locked the door behind us. My son and I skulked back to our itty-bitty little cottage and collapsed into our itty-bitty little beds, where I tossed and turned till dawn, then finally got up and made myself a cup of coffee and turned on my computer. Checking my email, I was aghast to see a message from my landlord. “Something came up and I had to leave town suddenly,” it said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, hope all is well there!”
Groaning, I quickly tossed a few cleaning supplies into a bucket, threw a bathrobe over my skimpy nightgown and headed into Frank’s back yard, where I propped a ladder against his bathroom window. Carefully, I pried off the screen, pushing open the window he’d left slightly ajar. As I descended head first toward the tile floor, I heard a rustling sound, followed by soft, rhythmical snores. I froze in my handstand, my feet still jutting out the window. Who could it be? I gently dropped onto my hands and knees and crawled slowly out of the bathroom in the direction of the sounds. As I rounded the corner to the back bedroom, I caught sight of a blanketed figure curled up on the floor in a fetal position. I moved closer until I could see a face. It was Charlie Sheen!
As I got to my feet he stirred, then stretched his arms over his head and yawned. His eyes opened and he met my gaze. He yawned again, accustomed it would seem to waking up in strange places in the presence of strange women. “Where am I?” he whispered.
I swallowed hard. “There was a party last night,” I began. “I guess you must have passed out.”
He nodded and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he seemed to take in my scantily clad appearance for the first time. He sat up. “Did we, you know, do it?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Twice,” I replied. “You said I was the best you ever had.”
He frowned slightly and scratched his head. Before he could say anything else, I plowed forward. “You also read my screenplay. You said it’s fantastic. Actually, I believe ‘stupendous’ was the word you used. You said you can’t wait to produce it.”
“I did?” he asked. I nodded in reply.
He studied me for a moment, then threw the blanket aside and got to his feet. Stark naked, he walked over to me. His bewildered expression softened as he pushed the thin fabric of my robe over my shoulders.
As it fell to the floor, I considered my options. Time was running out.
Charlie pulled me close, his mouth hovering over mine. I closed my eyes, quivering in anticipation of the moment. What the hell? I thought, throwing caution to the wind.
My voice sultry with desire, I whispered in his ear. “What a shame you’ve got that important meeting to go to this morning.”
His eyebrows knit together as he struggled to make sense of my words. “I do?” he said. “What kind of meeting?”
“You didn’t say,” I replied. “But I seem to recall the name Steven Spielberg.”
He nodded his head and sighed, as if it were all coming back to him. Was it possible he actually did have a meeting with Spielberg today? I scampered over to the pile of clothes on the floor, scooped them up and pressed them into his arms. “While you’re getting dressed,” I said, “I’ll just run and get that screenplay.”
I started for the door then turned back around. “Can I get you a cup of coffee for the road?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I never touch the stuff.”
