Текст книги "The Fuck-Up"

Автор книги: Arthur Nersesian

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

ELEVEN

By the timeI got back to Manhattan, I had calmed down. While looking for the key standing outside Ternevsky’s loft, I heard a high voice speaking against a musical beat. Looking toward the large bay window, I could see Janus exercising intensely before the TV, she was wearing a very scanty bathing suit. Her tanned body was glistening with sweat as she bent and stretched, unaware of my presence. Quietly I backed out the door into the hall and reentered making a deliberate ruckus. This time when I entered the living room, she was aware of my presence, but she didn’t break her pace. Bending in different directions, she exposed the most intimate parts of that wonderful body only made more seductive by the scanty bathing suit. Finally she paused and calmly said, “I had to finish my ‘Jane Fonda Workout.’”

“Oh,” I replied while staring at the Napoleon bust to avoid staring at hers. The general’s eyes were chiselled permanently forward.

“I’m a wreck if I don’t do it at least once a day,” she said as she turned off the VCR, and then she stretched out on the sofa. Sunlight flooded over her and she made no effort to save herself from it. I retreated to the bathroom where I drew a bath. While the tub filled up I hunted up a towel, and I tried to keep to myself, but, whenever permissible, I looked hungrily at her. Since the house had virtually no walls, I saw a lot of her. Finally, just when I found one of those monogrammed towels, she spoke: “You probably think I’m odd trying to get a tan in the winter and all, but I’m always back in Nice when I feel the rays on my body.” She then peeked open one eye and glanced at me.

“I empathize completely,” I replied, not trying to make her feel at all threatened by me. The magnet was slow but powerful. I could only get closer, not further away. When she squeezed a dab of Aloe Vera Sunscreen into her palm, my unblinking eyes helped her hands rub it in. I was so excited that I couldn’t even get a hard-on. I tried to remind myself that I was being tested, a Job to her “Jehovess.” Closing my eyes, I concentrated: move away from the kryptonite, Superman.

With eyes still fastened shut, I pointed to the bathroom and declared, “My bath is ready.” I sat in the deep tub. With the hose attachment I ran icy cold water over my head and felt myself shrink. Then, opening my eyes, I saw her through a series of remarkably angled mirrors. She stood before the hall mirror, apparently unaware that she was in my line of vision. I started growing again. She was doing some kind of aerobic stretch. I ran the water over my head again.

My hands were trembling as I watched her under that freezing rain water.

Temptation was a spreading malignancy; schemes and deceptions were blistering out from the inventive half of my brain. Pulling the plug out of the drain hole, I arose and dressed. I pulled my pants and stretched my shirt over wet skin. Towelling myself off required too much patience. Socklessly I yanked on my shoes and marched past her without a word and right out the door.

Even though it was a clear and sunny day, it was chilly outside. I still had seven hours to kill before work. I walked up to the Loeb Student Center on Fourth and there I rested on one of those long sofas in the student lounge. I squeezed my jacket into a pillow and felt warm and secure and watched the lowlife huddling together outside in Washington Square Park. No sooner did I shut my eyes than did I hear, “Hey buddy boy.”

I opened my eyes to a large guard’s uniform with a visor for a face. “Break out the ID,” the security guard bullied.

“It’s at the dorm.”

“Then sleep at the dorm, son.”

“Come on, I pay your salary. I don’t tell on you guys when you sleep on the job.”

“Out,” he pointed with his club. I went out and crossed the street to the big NYU library that looks like a prison block. There, I fixed the collar of my filthy shirt and pinched my cheeks for some color; I tried to acquire that guarded NYU look. Slapping some student newspaper under my arm, I filed in closely behind a bunch of coeds.

“Can I help you?” a guard individualized me.

“No,” I replied, trying to continue, but he blocked my way through the little turnstile with his damned club.

I left and with nowhere else to go I joined the lowlife across the street, at Washington Square Park. Taking an empty bench, I curled up like a cat against the cold and tried to sleep, but the chill was too much. When I got to my feet, fifteen minutes later, my body was numb. Walking down Fourth, I made a left up Lafayette and turned on Astor Place. Looking about as I crossed that empty parking lot, I saw that the peddlers were out with their shit trying to get what they could for it. A bunch of assholes from Jersey were trying to spin the black rotating cube, a revolving sculpture located in the middle of Astor Square. I quickly checked out the vendors. While inspecting some antique lighters spread out on a blanket, the vendor suddenly rolled the whole operation before my eyes. A police car had pulled up and cops were impounding the merchandise. I walked over to Cooper Union and tried to enter, but they were even more thorough than NYU. So I went back to Astor Place. It was only a couple minutes later, but apparently the cops had left because just like pigeons after a loud noise, all the vendors had returned and were selling.

Soon I tagged along Saint Mark’s Place. By the time I finally found shelter at the Saint Mark’s Bookstore, I was freezing. After a while of just lounging, I asked a bearded old guy named Dudley, who looked like an old oak, whether this month’s Harrington Reviewwas on sale yet. Not missing a puff of his deeply bellied pipe, he frowned and shook his head. The interval had warmed me, so I returned to the street.

Passing the Saint Mark’s Theater, I spotted Eunice. She didn’t spot me. I watched her for a moment. She was talking with one of the ushers, an NYU kid. Pepe appeared and ordered the guy back into the theater, but before he vanished I saw Eunice give him a kiss. When the guy was out of sight, I watched as Pepe gave her a kiss. What exactly had the Mormons taught her? Sparing myself further torment, I resumed my trek up to my new theater.

The evening there was regular, everything ran smoothly. At the end of the night after carefully skimming the proper amount, I was about to leave the theater for the night deposit drop when Ox arrived. When he pounded on the door, I bolted up.

“Who is it?”

“Open the fucking door.” I knew it was him. In a panic, I shoved the loot down the front of my pants and located the night deposit slip to the private fund. I started shredding and stuffing it into the garbage. Before I was entirely done, I heard keys in the lock. I shoved the remainder into the garbage just as he opened the door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why you no open the door?”

“I…I was about to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was dressing.”

“Huh?”

“I was hot so I took my clothes off.”

“Naked?” He looked at me and didn’t say a thing. When I was aware of him looking in my lap for a lengthy period, I glimpsed a look. The load of cash was shoved up in my pants like an erection. He seemed to sniff things. His eyes fixed for a moment on a soiled tissue I had blown my nose with earlier. After a long pause, he spoke again, “You’re the new guy, huh?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“What?!”

“Yes, I am he—the new guy.”

“So you the new guy,” he said, and just stood there awhile glaring. I felt compelled to reply, “The night ran by quickly.”

“Who ran by?”

“The night.”

“What the fuck does this mean?” he growled.

“It’s, you know…a pleasantry.” I was jittery.

“In the future don’t tell me things like that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How’d we do tonight?”

“Oh, it was real peachy.” I froze, something had gone screwy with my pitch of words tonight.

“What the hell does that mean? In the future, if I ask you how we did, you tell me how much money we made and that’s all!”

“Okay.”

Picking up the day-to-day calendar he looked at the final amounts, and then he gave me a hard stare. I hardened up like a board, and he let the silence concentrate. Suddenly, like a spring releasing the both of us, the phone rang, and I sprang to answer it, but he was quicker on the draw. He had it to his ear first, “Yeah.” He listened a minute and then silently handed it to me. Putting the phone to my ear all I could hear was sobbing.

“Hello Glenn,” I whispered.

“Please…right away…get over here….” It was the phrases-through-anguish method of communication.

“So who the fuck worked last night?” Ox asked, impervious to the fact that I was on the phone. He stared at last night’s tally sheet.

“Miguel,” I replied to him, covering the mouthpiece, and then murmured to her, “Look honey, I wanted to tell you last night, but I really think we ought to break up.”

“Hang up the phone,” Ox directed.

“Just get right over. We can talk about it,” Glenn pleaded.

“We’ve got to end this,” I said, pulling away the keystone that released an avalanche of sobs.

“Anything! I’ll give you anything you want but not that! I love you, I need you….” She was freaking out now, so I was about to concede and tell her that I was on my way, when Ox grabbed the phone from my hand and hung it up.

“What the fuck you think you’re pulling, huh? When I say hang up the phone, I mean hang up.” Instantly the phone started ringing.

“Let it ring,” Ox said, and then holding up yesterday’s tally sheet he asked, “Why is this?”

“What?”

“Why isn’t this signed?”

“I don’t know. I guess Miguel forgot to sign it.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you people? You take your clothes off like you’re at home. You speak to your friends all night! All you got to do is sign the fucking sheet and you can’t even do that right!”

“I’ll sign it,” I replied, hoping to end the grousing. He put the tally sheet on the desk in front of me, and I signed in the vacant space.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you fucking people,” he said as I signed.

“Sorry,” I said meaninglessly.

“Hey, what the fuck’s the matter with you? Don’t you ever say sorry to me.”

“Sorry,” I replied thoughtlessly.

“Hey,” he growled. Grabbing the tally sheet, he stormed out the door. During the entire duration, the phone had been ringing. Soon as he walked out, I picked it up. “Sorry, Glenn.”

“I know things were uncomfortable the other night,” she quickly jumped in, anticipating whatever my complaints might be.

“I just think we’re not really right for each other,” I quickly replied.

“You can’t leave me now! You can’t just abandon me!” She pushed things into extremes.

“I’m not abandoning anyone, just calm down. All I’m saying is that I think it would be better for both of us this way.”

“No, it would only be better for you. Just be here with me tonight. We don’t have to have sex or even talk. I just need someone here tonight.”

“Glenn, I just don’t think it’d end there. I think it’ll lead to an unhealthy dependency.”

“No, it won’t! I swear!”

“You’ve got to learn how to deal with depression.”

“No!”

“I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

“No, no, wait a second. I can handle depression! I just can’t handle him.” Now I understood. She was referring to the surprise son who had materialized from behind the front door.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“I need help. Usually Adolphe controls him.”

“I can’t control anything.”

“Just listen to me,” she started hyperventilating and again only phrases could escape, “a lot of savings…”

“Calm down.”

“Alimony…child support…a stock portfolio…”

“What are you talking about?”

“MONEY! You could use the money!”

“For what?”

“Controlling him.”

“What do you want me to do—adopt him?”

“No,” she sobbed, “I just want him to see that I’m not alone, that there’s a male presence.”

“If I come by tonight I’m not spending the night, just coming by. I’ll pound my chest a little, pee standing up, and then out the door. No more of this.”

“I swear it,” she started simmering down.

“You really should have told me you had a kid.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I swear.”

“Okay. I’ll be there soon as the theater closes.”

After the last film had ended and Ox had left, I made a new deposit slip for the purloined proceeds and dropped off the ziplocked bag. Afterwards, I went to a corner bar for a double bourbon. At twenty-three I never before had to play a surrogate father figure. In the course of the subway ride, the bourbon nullified all worries. But when I reached her corner all that changed. From there I could hear the thumping woofers of rock and roll; it was spilling out from the upper floor of the house. Other than that, it was all routine by now; up the stately steps, knock on the large oak door, and out comes the lady with the crocodile tears. Politely, she took my coat before submitting her complaints.

“I don’t blame you for hating me,” she said instead of hello, “but I’m in a real crisis.”

“Relax,” I replied and closed the door behind me.

“I must be a burden.”

“You seem to think I’m the norm and you’re ill. My life is no picnic. You know nothing about me.”

“You seem like a nice guy, but you are too young. Maybe we can try to work something out, some kind of relationship.”

“I think all our relationship does is cure symptoms, not problems.”

“What’s wrong with curing symptoms?”

“In just the short period of time that we’ve been together a dangerous routine has started,” I replied.

“What kind of routine?”

“Don’t you see it? First you feel lonely because your boyfriend dumped you. Then you call me. Then we make love. Then you begin to realize that you’re an attractive young career lady with prestige and wealth and I’m a kid ten years younger living from pillar to post. And you feel embarrassed and ashamed so you need to be alone until it all starts again.”

“So?” she replied. “Is it my fault that we live in a lonely, pathetic world? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

As I reached for my jacket, which she had seized from me, all I could think of saying was, “I’m sorry.”

“Just one final request,” she asked with a curious sobriety.

“What is it?”

“My son.”

“Yeah, he really has that stereo too loud. I could hear it all the way down the block.”

“I know. His father sent him here for the week, and I can’t deal with him.”

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

“Believe me I tried, I tried to interest him, but when I asked him what was new, he said, ‘your boyfriend.’”

“He’s probably just a little jealous. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“I can’t even speak to him. When I asked him to lower that damned thing he slammed the door in my face. And the entire upper floor reeks of marijuana.”

“Well, there is a limit. Perhaps you should consider some stern disciplining.”

She looked at me fearfully for a moment and then out of the silence she asked, “Would you do it?”

“Without a second thought.”

“He’s up there now.”

“You go right up there and show him who’s boss,” I pepped.

“You just said you would.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you would do it for me.”

“Me! Are you kidding?”

“You just said you would.”

“I meant I would discipline my child if it came to it.”

She looked at me maternally for a minute, “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

“Surely you jest,” I replied sincerely.

“It has got to be done; you said so.”

“You’re the mother,” I replied. “If you do it he’ll respect you. If anybody else does it, he’ll hate you for a lifetime.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Well, I’m not going to do it. It’s out of the question.”

“The boy’s out of control, and I can’t do it.”

“I ain’t doing it, period.”

Suddenly she put on the poker face and upped the ante from fifty to a hundred, and then a hundred and fifty and then three hundred and then six hundred dollars. Just as quickly as she offered, I refused each sum.

“Look, I’m not just a pacifist, I’m also a coward. I freeze up in violent situations, it’s a psychological thing. Some people can get instantly mad. I get quiet and terrified.” Before the farce could continue, I grabbed for the doorknob.

“Leave here and I’ll call the police,” she screamed.

“Good, have them do it.”

“I’ll call them on you! There is a law against stealing a car.”

“What?”

“Where’s my Mercedes?” She pulled her final trump. I shut the front door.

“The car’s old. I don’t need it. I don’t need the money. If you do this little deed, I’ll sign over the title to you. Do you understand? You’ll own it.”

To own a Mercedes Benz: it sounded wonderfully unreal. For the first time I realized how Glenn was capable of being a merciless businesswoman. A Mercedes Benz, one of the classic status symbols of wealth—a working Mercedes that could legally be my own. Where I came from, you were what you drove. Typically, for the wrong reason, I meekly accepted her offer. Before any reprieves of thought could occur, she raced over to her file cabinet, located the car’s title, opened a fountain pen, and dramatically signed on the dotted line, explaining, “I’ll mail this in just as soon as the job is done.”

As I climbed the steps, I came to realize the new low to which I was sinking—quid pro quo: thrashing a kid for a Mercedes. I envisioned Helmsley’s eyes glancing down on me sadly. I couldn’t believe it. I paused on the landing, but as I listened to that heavy metal music, I decided that he wasn’t exactly a kid and I wasn’t exactly an assassin.

I knocked on his door authoritatively and waited. I decided that I would give reason a chance before brutality. I knocked again and heard a giggle, and then a splashy sound and finally, “Oh, fuck.”

“Open this minute,” I yelled, and trying the knob, I opened the door.

Junior was on his knees, carefully searching the carpeted floor. Apparently he had dropped his bong and was looking for the small wire screen filled with grass.

“Man, you made me drop my shit.”

“That’s illegal you know.”

He laughed and kept searching for the screen, which was probably the same thing I would’ve done in his position. Locating the grass-packed mesh, he restored it to the bong and after lighting up and holding it in, he extended it toward me.

“Want a hit?” he creaked, not employing his smoke filled lungs.

“I’d like to talk,” I replied as I walked across the room and lowered the volume of the stereo. I then squatted on the floor next to him.

“Shoot,” he said, exhaling and then took another hit from the bong.

“Well, this is difficult to say, but I was informed that you were rather disrespectful to your mother.”

I waited for him to reply, but he only exhaled and inhaled another hit.

“Ideally, I’d like you to apologize to your mother.” He exhaled his lungful of smoke into my face and shook his head no with a big grin. I would’ve done the same thing.

“Get this through your head,” I replied sternly “You are going to apologize to her.”

“Look coach, why don’t you let her give you a blow job and calm down.” Then peacefully he started on another hit. When I heard the bubbles gurgling in his bong, I decided that there were no short cuts, I slapped the bong out of his hands.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!” he hollered at the top of his lungs and jumped to his feet looking at the dead bong.

“I want you to apologize to your mother.”

“Get the hell out of my house!” he yelled back. “My father bought this house! Get out and fuck off!” He started walking across the room to pick up his bong when I grabbed him by his thin neck and threw him on his bed. “Now listen to me. You are going to apologize, understand?”

“What the hell do you care?” he asked quickly, quelling his anger, which he might’ve realized was pointless.

“I love her,” I lied angrily. “I want you to apologize to her.”

“Well, that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard, ‘cause she can’t love. You better get that straight, right off.”

“Just apologize to her. We’ll let it go at that.”

“No, I can’t,” he replied. “I’m not as much of a liar as you or her. So the both of you can just go fuck each other.”

The kid no longer reminded me of me. He was far more principled. I stood there a moment wondering whether he would apologize to her if I gave him a hundred dollars. But I didn’t think he’d accept it. Besides, I didn’t have a hundred dollars. After a silent moment, I decided that I still wanted the car and this kid’s pride, which stood in the way, was just too weak a thing. “Are you going to apologize?”

Mimicking me, he stood up, crossed his arms, inhaled, and replied with an assumed lisp, “For the last time, coach, no!” I couldn’t just hit him. I partly admired him. So I walked right up to him and shoved him onto the bed. He bounced off it and lunged at me. I had about fifty pounds on him, so I shoved him to the floor, pinned his arms around his back and held him there. “Are you going to apologize?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” he seethed with the little air he could muster. I didn’t want to hurt him but I had to break him.

“HELP!” he started screaming. I clenched his arms behind his back with one hand and with my other hand I gently covered his mouth so that he wouldn’t yell.

“I want you to nod yes when you’re ready to apologize,” I explained carefully as he squirmed.

He twisted and kicked and tried biting my hand. With the hand that I had used to gag him, I clamped tightly over his mouth. Desperately he tried breathing through his nose. Leisurely I got around to pinching his nostrils. Then I wheeled my body around so that I was fully on top of his collapsing and ethical lungs. I could see a drowning look in his eyes as his body writhed and twisted. As his smothered face turned redder and redder, I felt my conscience shrivelling tightly until it was just a dry little pit inside of me. Time slowly passed, and I realized that there was no worse sound than gagged pain. Finally his head whipped up and down; he was ready to apologize. I helped him up to the edge of the bed where he caught his breath and stared despondently at the floor like someone who had just been violated. After a moment, I watched him calmly rise and tug off his shirt, then he opened the top drawer of his cabinet. I thought he was replacing his sweaty T-shirt, but then he suddenly turned around. His arm was over his head and a long knife was plunging down.

“You’re dead,” he said and dove dizzily at me. Snatching a pillow off his bed, I shoved it out and felt a stabbing deep in the cushion, which I think he did deliberately for effect. Before he could recoil, I grabbed his elbow and twisted it behind his back. The impaled pillow fell to the floor, and I kicked it across the room next to the bong. He looked up at me calmly, probably expecting me to be civilized about the whole thing. But in a single rehearsed football motion, I bowed low, grabbed him around the knees, hoisted him in the air then threw him headlong onto the floor. After the big bang, he curled up in the corner and started crying painfully. Yanking him out to the middle of the floor, I shoved him on his back, uncurled his arms and sat on his chest.

“Get the fuck off me!” he screamed. I hit him and hit him again and again and again, and soon I was frenzied and couldn’t stop. The screams and cries for pity, the begging and blood, all that background crap didn’t obstruct that lustful lava of cruelty that spewed out. I lost control and didn’t stop until my hands were moist and my arms trembled.

In complete exhaustion, he was cowering, trying to shove his head under the bed frame, holding his hands over his face. I pulled him out and saw his nose bleeding; both his eyes were swelling and I thought I broke his nose.

“Apologize, yes?”

“No. Fuck no!”

Taking several deep hard breaths, I jumped on him and swung him to the floor. He obeyed all force without resistance. I held his arms in a full nelson and rested my mouth just above his ear. Calmly, in a throaty whisper, I said, “When I’m done and out of here, you’re going to spend the rest of your life trying to forgive yourself for what you let me do now…”

“ALL RIGHT! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He started screaming and flaying his arms and legs so convulsively that I thought he was having a convulsion. I jumped off him, terrified that I had done something irreversible. But when he rolled under the bed, I realized that he was even more petrified than I.

Grabbing the kid by his collar, I pulled him out, led him into the bathroom, and said, “Wash.” Now that the problem had been repaired, I was returning the goods nice and clean. All that remained were the red marks that by tomorrow would be swollen into blue and black bruises and then they would fade. I took some nice clothes out of his closet and put them on the bed. When he came out of the bathroom cleaned, I pointed at the attire and said, “Dress.” He moved clumsily and drunkenly. Holding his collar, as if I were walking a big dog, I took him downstairs to his inspector.

“Glenn,” I casually called out when we hit the bottom landing. “Your son would like to have a word with you.” I plopped him down on the sofa next to me.

“One second,” she called back from out of the kitchen, completely unaware of the pain and violence that had occurred.

While waiting for her, I took a cigarette from a crystal bowl sitting on an end table. Clipping it with my lips, I realized that the cigarettes in the jar were only part of the decor, like a bowl of wax fruit, offering only the illusion of generosity I smoked the stale tobacco nonetheless and exhaled the smoke over the kid. He sat painfully straight, a pride to his trainer. Soon the mom entered and looked at her boy, “Yes?”

“Go ahead,” I prompted him.

“I’m sorry.”

“All right,” she replied curtly.

He rose to go but I quickly caught him. I wanted Glenn to get her money’s worth. “Sit down,” I told him. “What are you sorry for?”

“For being mean to my mother.”

“And now are things going to change around here?”

“I’m going to do as she says from now on.”

“Good boy. Now say good night to your mother and run along.”

“Good night, Mom.”

Glenn arose and gave her son a proper peck on the cheek. “I don’t like having to go through this. We’re going through tough times, both in our own way, and both have certain rules to obey. All I ask is to be treated with the same respect that I give you. Is that unreasonable?”

“No,” he shook his head expressionlessly Nothing she could ask would be too unreasonable after our reality session upstairs. I watched him return to his room and I couldn’t imagine what he would do once he got up there. When the Romans destroyed Carthage, leveled its buildings and enthralled its people, they founded a final form of peace. However, when Napoleon dictated terms at Tilsit, peace only lasted until one side was strong enough to overpower the other. I wasn’t sure which kind of peace this would be, but that wasn’t my job. The real bruises wouldn’t be fully visible until tomorrow, and by then I’d be long gone. I had earned a nice automobile, Glenn would have to worry about the rest. As soon as all was still and I was sitting across from Glenn, I stubbed the decayed cigarette and announced, “Now if you’ll just give me the title, I’ll be on my way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m getting the hell out of here. I did what I agreed to do and now I’m leaving.”

“Look, I insist that you at least have a drink.” While speaking, she arose and went behind the bar and poured some wine. Soft music was audible and the lighting was indirect. She had a drink and handed me one.

“It’s a Chardonnay from Sonoma Valley,” she said, and I watched her take a tiny sip. I downed the drink, went over to her rolltop desk and started searching for the signed title.

“What are you doing?” she asked, but I think she knew.

When I found it, I realized that she hadn’t signed my name to it, she had only gone through the motion.

“What the fuck is going on, Glenn?”

She snatched the title out of my hand, shoved it down into her bra, and childishly hid behind the sofa. I jumped over the sofa and pushed her up against the wall. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I just want you to stay.”

“I didn’t tell you this, but a friend of mine, his name was Helmsley, he committed suicide the other day by jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

She didn’t say a word, then she pulled the title out of her bra. Going to the desk, she signed it and handed it over to me. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to spend the night. You can sleep in your own room.”

“You know that guy, Adolphe, who was cheating on you? I’m no better than him,” I replied. “I cheated on my girlfriend. Her name was Sarah and she threw me out of the house.” Silence, and then resignation. When she finally gave me the title, I grabbed my jacket and left the house.