I Can’t Find My House, Can I Have Yours? by Veronica Toone
Hey, Phil, you remember me? It’s Ted, from college. Boy, your phone must be on the blink—it hung up three times on the first ring before I got the voicemail. I’m gonna cut to the chase: I’m really successful now, and I can buy a lot of things. Managers make more money than whatever it is you do, so I decided to treat myself and I bought a house. It’s a really, really nice place (I’ll send you a picture so you can see just how much nicer my new house is than the one you currently live in). It’s got big windows, big doors, big ceilings, big floors. It’s got a basement. It’s got a garage for my big fancy car.And to be honest, it’s a damn nice place to raise that family I was telling you about. That is, if any of those ads I put out get any replies. But here’s my problem, Phil--I can’t find it. I know, weird right? Let me first clarify: this, like all the other bad things that seem to just happen to me, is not my fault. At first I thought, “oh, maybe Big Ted has gone too long without sleep.” Then I thought at first there was some mistake with the address the realtor gave me, but no, Barbara assured me that it is indeed correct. And I never get lost, so it can’t be that either. But when I got to the address that Barbara assured me was indeed correct, the spot where my big, beautiful,
American house should have been was a house that looked like, well, your house: small windows, small doors. That’s no good for a man like me! I need big. I need six foot doorways. I need windows I can easily climb out of at my leisure. I need a garage for my big fancy car. Your house, and houses like it, they don’t have any of that shit. When’s the last time you tried to climb out your window? You can’t do it. You can stand around with your elbows on the counter like a schlub, watching News12 until your teeth rot out of your face, but you can’t know what it’s like to be me, Phil. So maybe, until this little problem sorts itself out without me having to do anything, maybe you can help me. Maybe, with your sad little life, you can lend me a hand. A house. I need to borrow your house, is what I’m saying. I know it’s small and generally smells like a body that’s been floating on the Hudson for a few days, but it would only be until I can finally find my new, nice house on the map, or ideally, on a street somewhere. And hey, we’re pals, right? Don’t you remember the good old days? Those Fourth of July barbecues at my parents’ house, you paying for that trip to Miami but me buying the drinks three days out of the
week? Me taking your mom’s dishware and using it as target practice? What do you mean, you don’t remember that? You were my number one guy. I miss that. I know I’ve asked a lot of you in the past. I know I asked you to steal all those bags of chips at that 7-11 a few years back, but it wasn’t because I couldn’t pay for them. I totally could. Just like I could pay for my big fancy car, and my nice big house. I just wanted to pump a little fun into your otherwise meaningless life. You told me you wanted to socialize more. So let me come stay in your crappy house. I’m practically doing you a favor. The police won’t find me if I shack up there, right? I’ll keep the music down and, until I find my nice new house, I won’t make a mess. I won’t kill again. Unless you ask me to. If you really want, I might even let you stay in the basement of my beautiful home, once I find it. But I just need to stay with you, for just a little while. In fact, if you like, I could move into your bedroom—you know, for protection! Everyone needs a little protection. Can you let me in? It’s pouring out here, and my Lacoste polos are getting wet.
Recipe for Sandy’s Arugala Salad By Ashley Vernola ~15 mins Recipe by: Sandy, with the help of some friends. “This is an ancient recipe, passed down by my great-gran-ma all the way from Cold Spring Harbor. Absolutely ancient. Tasty, though.” • • • • • • • • •
4 sprigs arugula leaves from Barb’s garden 1 cup cherry plucked from Steve’s windowsill 1 chopped tomatoe (Organically sourced) ¼ cup nut of choice Spoonful of Sal’s Olive Oil Splash Rice Juice salt to taste freshly ground black pepper to taste 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
The time has come for springtime potting, my rat friend, and you know what that means. I won’t make last year’s mistake and accidentally fit a pressurized lid on a small pot with my pet lizard, Laertes, inside. The pressure turned Laertes into a snake, and he ate all 14 backup copies of my dissertation on how Modern Family is the bridge between intersectional feminism and Teen Titans porn spinoffs. I will do it right this time. I need a big pot, old rat! Bring one to me swiftly!
A Big Bowl
Okay, bye. 18
Walk down Peabody Road to Barb’s house. This step is crucial. Jimmy the lock on the back gate to get into her garden. Pull four sprigs of arugula leaves. She won’t miss them. Toss in large plastic bowl with a lid. 2. I know you missed your local fahmer’s mahket, but that’s okay, you can grab Steve’s produce from the comfort of his own home. Come bearing gifts, let yourself in, and beeline to his kitchen windowsill, you only need one cherry but grab a few. 3. You also missed your locally sourced tomatoe. Julie grows those. Julie likes Slim Jims, so you’ll have to stop at the local Sev Elev to pick some up. In return she will give you one tomato. Use it wisely. Oh, and wear a wig. You wouldn’t want her to recognize you this time. Mix in bowl with chopped nut. 4. Call your next door neighbor Sal. If he doesn’t answer, it’s because he thinks it’s the aliens. Walk to him with a teaspoon in hand and break down the door. Ask for oil. He owes you. 5. Pour two cups water in a sauce pot, one cup rice, and bring to a boil. 6. Simmer for 45 minutes. Say half a prayer before and half a prayer during for luck. 7. When cooked, pour newly cooked rice into a plastic ziplock bag. Cut the end. Pour the Rice Liquid into bowl. Stir vigorously. 8. Shake that salt in. Dash that pepper in. Pepper in some cheese. Really go to town on that bad boy. 9. Close lid. Pretend it’s your shakeweight you take on power walks, shake away. 10. Put on plates, leave uncovered in the fridge, throw a massive bitch fit when your family throws it out.
I Need a Big Pot
I’m not so easily tricked, big sick rat of my nightmares. This pot is too rounded at the bottom like the shaved coconut I keep my coconut shavings in. Oh ho ho! This will not do rat! Think with your bleeding brain. I need a big pot!
Can I have your house?
1.
A Small Cup
Old ugly rat! You are cunning, but stupid. This is a cup you see! I cannot pot in this tiny cup. And it’s filled with Poison That Makes Everything Look Like A Tree. Don’t test me. I’ll command Laertes to eat you again. Drink up, and get me a big pot!
My Own Foot
This smells like hands and fiberglass insulation. Hmmm. It is smooth and longer than my snake. This is my own foot, you demon rat! This foot can only hold Modern Family DVDs and Teen Titans DVDs between my toesies, not dirt. Bring me a big pot!
A Big Snake
Laertes! What are you doing with my old rat? You cannot hold enough dirt to be a big pot. I don’t want you hanging out with this rat again. He licks bees and used to live inside the stomach of a Foot Locker manager. He’s dying and ableist. Get me the big pot!
A Big Pot
This is just what I need, dying rat. Thank you for raising me like a son, and thank you for this pot. Now you will die from my snake Laertes. I will pot you, cover you with dirt and a dead snake, and grow my Petunias. Amen.
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