There's a woman that lives down stairs from us who has a small obsession with my dad, or so I think. She resembles an Eastern European prostitute (or what I've seen on tv and movies) -- always too pale skin, and really severe black hair cut unto an earlobe-length bob with bangs, all of which get curled under.
Last winter I came home one night to find her in my apartment, on my dad's phone. Granted my dad was in the apartment and had allowed her (not even invited) in so that she could call her son since her phone wasn't turning on (or, her service was turned off because she didn't pay her bill, but those are minor details).
A few months ago she stopped me in the stairwell and asked where my dad was, since she hadn't seen him in a while. Whaaa?? Was she looking for him? I told her he works crazy hours in the summer, and assured her he was doing well.
Last weekend my dad told me that if I came home and there was $40 under the door, it was for him. I asked him why there would be $40 under the door for him, and he told me that he had loaned it to the lady who lived downstairs. Oh dear. I can't remember the reason, and there was one, that she needed the money, but she was to return it to him this week.
A few days ago I was sitting on the couch, reading a book and there was the tiniest of knocks on the door. I don't answer the door if someone knocks because nobody ever comes to see us. A few minutes later there was some scuffling under the door and a note was slipped through the crack. On a Yaz birth control post-it, swiped from a doctor's office, to be sure, was written:
"I knocked on your door. 7B"
To date, my dad hasn't received his $40. And I don't think he expects to. All I know is, he's quite gullible. And won't lend me even $10.
[Ed. Note: Sorry for the craptasticness of this post. I really just needed to get something, anything down on this here blog, to move that picture of Jake just a little further back into my memory. Regularly scheduled ramblings will resume in the near future]
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