There was a frantic knock on the door. I opened one eye and looked at the clock.
"Who the hell would need me at 4 o'clock in the morning?" I asked.
I sat up in bed. Actually, it was not a bed. It was more of a cot with a thin mattress on top.
I looked around at my apartment as the knocking on the door continued. Actually, it was not a real apartment. It was a room with a bed for the maintenance man. No one ever came to my door unless there was a problem, so I was never happy to answer the door.
I quickly put on my maintenance man uniform. The front of my blue shirt read "Mike Skinner, Jr." My dad, Michael Skinner, senior, insisted on adding the "junior" to my uniform shirts because he was the one who owned most of the apartment complexes in the city and not me. I owned nothing. I was just the hired help.
Graciously, my father allowed me to live here rent-free, but as with most things in life, there was a catch. I had to do all of the maintenance for all of his properties. Thus, I would receive calls late into the night about broken toilets and unresponsive air conditioning units.
My father was not someone you wanted to cross. Even though I was his son, my father demanded as much respect and loyalty from me as any of his many employees. In fact, I resigned myself to being just another one of his employees. In the back of my mind, I wanted to save up enough money and drive as far as possible from here. Until that day came, I was just Mike Skinner, the lonesome young maintenance guy.
When I opened the door, I came face to face with my beautiful stepmother. Greta was the latest of my father's many wives. Thin and wispy, her long blonde hair fell down around her delicate face. Whereas I was the rough and tumble ex-football player, Greta was the fragile young ex-waitress. I had a nagging suspicion that I was actually older than Greta, but for the time being, Greta was considered to be my stepmother. I had to be really careful what I said to her. I didn't want to risk the ire of my father.
My biological mother had died when I was still an infant, or so I was told. As long as I could remember, there was a parade of gorgeous would-be mothers. They were all pretty, but I was never really given a chance to get to know any of them. In fact, my father made sure I did not spend too much time with any of them. It was probably for the best because each stepmother was replaced rather quickly. Since I never spent any time with any of them, I would ask my father where my mother was buried. Unfortunately, each inquiry was met with anger. After I while, I stopped asking. My mother became nothing but a nagging mystery.
However, Greta was different. This mysterious and lovely creature was the only one that really showed any interest in me. I could recognize that Greta's face anywhere, even at this late hour.
Oddly enough, my stepmother was wearing a thin kimono that barely covered her thighs. I was happy to see those beautiful legs, but I was not happy to see the snake that had wrapped itself around her neck.
"Mike, you have to let me in," said my stepmom.
I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes. It did not help that I had already worked well into the evening. A tenant had a plumbing problem that required my undivided attention until midnight. Afterwards, I feasted on tasteless noodles after midnight. Despite my growing distaste for the noodles, there was not much left in the monthly budget for anything else.
"Mom, what are doing here?" I asked in a whisper, "It is almost four in the morning."
"I didn't know where else to go," said my stepmom.
Her mascara had been smeared as if she was crying. The snake slithered around her waist and up one of her arms. I glared at the snake. I was sure the slithery reptile had something to do with all of this trouble.
"Is that a snake?" I asked.
"Yes," said my stepmom.
"Why do you have a snake?" I asked.
"This is my new job," my stepmom said.
"What new job?" I asked.
My stepmom sighed. Obviously, this was not something she wanted to explain to anyone, much less her inquisitive stepson. I looked around outside.
"What are you doing?" asked my stepmom.
I opened my door wider and motioned for my stepmom to enter my tiny apartment. Without asking, my stepmom slid past me and sat down on my bed. I was not sure if I should have let my stepmother come inside, but I was not about to leave her outside nearly naked. The neighborhood was known for gang activity. Promptly, I closed and locked the door.
"I am not supposed to have visitors," I said.
"Is that one of your dad's rules?" asked my stepmom.
I nodded. My stepmom rolled her eyes. Like me, Greta was not fond of my father's arbitrary rules and regulations. Mr. Skinner, senior ran his house like his business and everyone else felt like they were in a prison.
"This is not the best neighborhood," I whispered, "You can't be walking around here late at night."
"I didn't have much of a choice," said my stepmom.
"You can drop the snake over there," I said.
I pointed to an empty laundry bushel behind the door. I really didn't want the snake anywhere near my bed. My stepmom quickly slipped the snake off of her arms and dropped the snake into the bushel. I took a quick look at the snake. It was an ordinary black garden snake with no unusual markings. Snarling and hissing, it was long and frightening.
My stepmother looked around my tiny apartment. There were no dirty dishes in the sink and there was no evidence of the cheap noodles I had consumed hours ago. There were no dirty laundry on the floor and vinyl tile floor was free of dirty and debris.
"Do you always keep your apartment this clean?" asked my stepmother.
"My dad used to beat me senseless if my room was a mess," I said sadly.
"Why does that not surprise me?" asked my stepmother.
"I have the feeling you are not here at four o'clock in the morning to check if my room is clean," I said.
My stepmother smiled. She knew it was my weak attempt at lighten the mood. Obviously, my stepmother was in distress.
"I am working as a model," announced my stepmom.
"That's great," I said.
"Not really," said my stepmother, "They only want women who pose nude."
I pictured my beautiful stepmother undressing in front of a group of sweaty, overweight guys with cameras and video recorders. I frowned. I loved my stepmother and I was not thrilled with her new career choice.
"That's creepy," I said.
My stepmother nodded. Her gaze did not meet mine. I started to wonder if she was posing nude. Judging from the paper-thin kimono she was wearing, her new job probably did involve some nudity. I was torn. I was not sure if I was disgusted at her male coworkers or envious.
"How did you find me?" I asked.
"I knew your father sent you here to take care of his apartments," said my stepmom, "This apartment complex is the only one with a place to sleep for the maintenance guy."
"That is right," I annouced sarcastically, "I am now the maintenance guy."
"At least he gave you a place to stay," said my stepmom.
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," said my stepmom.
My stepmother did not want to answer any more questions. In my mind, I pictured her crashing on a friend's couch with strange men wandering into the apartment at all hours of the night.
"Can I get your help?" asked my stepmom.
