There was so much on my mind that next week or so that I never really thought about those keys. That's the bad thing about problems that really aren't. Those small little but wait a minute issues that one can shove impatiently to the side when more imperative worries loom. What concern were misplaced keys compared to the desperate need to find a job? I had a second set of keys. Months back I had been dumb or frazzled enough to leave my set of keys out and my autistic son had made off with them, probably fascinated by the little water wheel toy my ex mother in law had given me when I casually admitted I didn't have a key chain and just usually kept my keys loose in a pocket. I'd had to get a new set from my apartment's caretaker. A month or two later, newly unemployed but not yet desperate, spring cleaning, admittedly a few months early, had seemed like a nifty idea, and I found my original keys half way under the radiator in my bedroom. I went back to carrying them, and tossed the second set, contained merely by a boring little ring, on the top of the fridge.
It wasn't a place even my often times fiendishly clever autistic baby could reach. Add to that the fact that he didn't see where I had put them. So they had remained there, safely, gathering dust ever since.
And I never thought about the obvious. I never asked myself, well how the hell did you get into the apartment without the keys? I guess my mind just said, you ditz, you must have dropped them some where stupid once you were in. Except I don't do that. When my boys are here they almost always go straight back into my purse or the pocket of whatever jacket I wear day to day. When the boys aren't here, I come in the door, walk those few feet down the short entry hallway, kick my shoes off and toss the keys on the table.
But still I didn't think anything of it, just grumbled a little and berated myself for being such a dumb ass. I made a mental note to do another "spring" cleaning soon and find the blasted things, and put the issue out of mind.
Maybe I just knew.
But even if I did? I don't like waves. To ask my caretaker to change both the entry door lock and my apartment door lock? That would be a world of hell no. To have to explain to him why? Even with a PG rating? That was not something I could bring myself to do. So my subconscious mind snarled at me to shut the fuck up and insisted I had just misplaced them. It was an easy story to buy. I am always desperately searching for phone numbers, stamps and I.D. or bank cards that I'd have sworn were last in yesterday's jeans.
I didn't see him that week. I would have told him to go to hell if I had. I might have felt some kind of...something. It was his money that had made it possible for me to get to both the first, and the follow up interview. I just wasn't allowing myself to think about much. There seemed to be a very good chance I was going to get this job. So "misplaced" keys never even entered my mind that week.
I was just waiting for that call, having been told that it was a company policy that the VP interviewed everyone who applied for a job at that smallish publishing company.
So I had been going to bed early. I didn't want to get a call while I was still asleep, asking if I could be there in an hour. I wanted this job!
But it was Friday night. I'd had a call earlier telling me that the VP wasn't back, that I would maybe have that all important interview Monday, or Tuesday for sure.
The person I interviewed with the second go really liked me. He had told me "confidentially" that I had made 96% on the little test that was part of the application process, and that the second highest score was only a 82%. Kind of startled me that, was just basic math. And memorizing a short string of numbers. Guess my strong retentive memory helped there.
So I celebrated a bit that Friday night.
And yeah, just pretend I have a life. For me a wild time is staying up until 2, 3 am on the computer. That night I really splurged. I pulled out the bottle of vodka I have hidden , shoved way under the bed so the kids won't find it by accident. I don't have any sort of drinking problem. Nor I do I think alcohol is some sort of evil. I just read this little news blurb once on some study that suggested that every time a kid saw an ad on TV or in a magazine featuring alcohol, the chances of their starting to drink while still underage went up. I had no idea if that included seeing mom's single bottle of booze up in a cupboard while searching for the cookies, and it was easy enough to sling the bottle back under the bed each time. Hard to find the damn thing sometimes. Usually entailed my hanging precariously off the edge of the bed, ass up in the air while I flailed about inelegantly until finally connecting with the prize.
So I guess I had a really wild night that Friday. It was halfway to 4am before I shut my lap top off and aimed myself towards bed. Well, technically I was already in bed. I use my computer usually on the bed. A bit funny that since my small apartment holds a total of three desks. None of which I ever seem to sit at. I'm not a very official kind of person.
I like to sprawl out, to sling myself down, to get comfy.
I rarely if ever sit in chairs either, come to think of it. Not even the rocking chair I love so much that my daddy bought for me when I was carrying his first grandson. If I'm watching a movie or playing video games with the boys, I'm usually right there next to them on the floor.
I think it's the simple rigid, stiffness of chairs that bother me so much. The human body was meant to be fluid. I would be a nightmare to some Emily Post of manners. I like to slump and be comfortable.
I trained in ballet for ten years as a child. And I was into sports like track and soccer. I've never stopped being athletic and active, always trying something new. I took up roller blading a few years ago. I had a slight advantage in the fine tuning of that skill. I taught myself how to do it with the aid of having stroller handles to hold onto. I'm not sure the neighbors ever got used to the sight of me flying around the neighborhood with a whooping three year old screaming happily "faster mommy, faster!"
Bought a snow board that my son and I were both excited about learning to do together. Unfortunately spring came early this year. "Next winter." We promise each other with identical impish grins.
No, I'm not a typical thirties something. "They" say we all have to grow up eventually. My answer to that is always "just try and make me!"
So I don't sit all officious and straight backed at a desk, in a rigid hard wood chair to write my stories or chat with my friends. No, I sit on my bed, long legs crossed Indian style, bent over the keyboard typing away feverishly. Or I wrap those legs around the keyboard in a fluid V. It's fun to innocently mention how I am poised when I'm on my laptop. I guess it's that wickedly teasing, button pushing brat in me. I have been a bit more judicious in the "casual" mentioning of that information tidbit since the time I was talking to someone who had his web cam on. I didn't have one yet at that time. But I loved talking with people who did. Always innocently, but I loved to see them smile when I "scored" with a witty, amusing comment. That particular time I scored a point in a rather alarming, startling way.
I mentioned that I was typing on the bed, all curled up with my laptop snuggled between my thighs. And watched the reaction. Unfortunately my friend was sitting with his chair tilted back, keyboard in his lap. He jerked, straightened his legs, and sent his chair crashing over backwards. I watched in awed, horrified fascination as his head bounced off the hardwood floor, keyboard flying off to the side.
He didn't move for long minutes while I stared at the screen thinking oh my God I killed him!
He'd just knocked himself out, luckily. Amazingly he wasn't even mad at me. Just begged me rather fervently to get a damn web cam!
So when I finally tore myself away from the computer that night it was a simple matter of just slapping down the cover and leaning over the side of the bed to put the laptop somewhere I wouldn't step on it if I got up in the middle of the night for the bathroom.
I pulled my tank up and off-I sleep nude unless it's a my boy's weekend. Was trying to decide if I wanted to have one last cigarette when I heard a small noise. I'm careful and cautious. I have made it this far with nothing bad ever happening to me because I listen to things. I'm always aware of where I am and who's around me. Nothing will ever take me by surprise. And I can still run like hell should the need arise.
So I froze to listen.
I live in a hundred year old apartment. It has the typical grumbling, settling, creaking and complaining sounds of an old building. I have been here about six months now. Most of those noises I have casually, subconsciously filed away as, ignore this, everything is ok. I don't react when the heating kicks in or the water pipes do something. I know the sounds of my world, the sweet safe nest that this apartment has become.
This sound was different. Not one that I had in my mind's neat, tidy categories. It wasn't an alarming sound really. Too small and almost gentle. But it wasn't one I had gotten used to. So it set off that radar that has kept me safe all my life.
I felt very exposed and vulnerable, naked under the blanket I clutched beneath my chin. I wanted to grab for my shirt. But I didn't want to make any sounds until I knew what was going on. So I sat there still as death, and strained to listen. Simple white silence filled my ears. Even the apartment was quiet. Waiting, for something.
