Chapter 7
It’s so simple, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. All I need to do is tell the alderman—my elected official—my
side of the story. I’m an upstanding crossing guard! Hero of the corner! He’ll see that it wasn’t personal, I was just doing
my job, no poodles were harmed, and it was all a big misunderstanding.
I can already imagine the whole scene.
He’ll lean back in his oversize chair and nod slowly as he chews on a cigar. “Welp, that’s my bad,” he’ll growl. “I shouldn’t
have come to your apartment. You keep on keeping our streets safe and our kids alive. Just don’t let me see you in here again.”
It’s either that or nobody ever sees me again.
The heady perfume of fear and confidence is making my heart race, so I look up the office address from Hannah’s porch, get
a rideshare, and race over before I can change my mind.
The driver pulls up to a block with a liquor store with murals all over the windows, a sewing machine repair shop, an empty storefront covered in graffiti, and a “dinner club” with mirrored windows that doesn’t look entirely welcoming.
It’s not far from my apartment, and I definitely recognize the block because the Urgent Care I’ve been going to
for the last two weeks is right around the corner.
They don’t give out paper bags, but they’re nice enough.
Before I get out, I double-check the alderman’s office address on my phone. There are no high-rises in the neighborhood, but
I was at least picturing, I don’t know, an office building? Something with an elevator? Or at least a doorman.
What I wasn’t picturing was a janky storefront that looks like it used to be an off-brand Taco Bell. The door is absolutely
smothered with posters for art shows and improv shows and dog shows and car shows. There’s no buzzer. Anyone could walk right in. So I do.
Inside, there’s a vacant front desk with a bunch of pamphlets strewn all over it, and a plant that is barely holding on to
this earthly realm.
And then a giant black mop attacks me. Oh god, I didn’t even get a chance to explain myself to the alderman. No oversize chair,
no cigar. No grudging mutual respect.
How did they know I was coming? Touché, Poodle Dude, I think. Adios, world.
It all happens so fast.
“Help!” I manage to squeak from somewhere inside the mop, which also seems to have claws, but I’m thrown back against the
door, ripping posters down as I struggle to free myself. Why is everyone attacking me?
I’d really hoped to live long enough that flashing my tits on Zoom wasn’t going to be the most significant thing in my obituary,
but oh well.
“Charlie! Charlie, down!” says a voice from somewhere, and just like that, my life is saved.
The mop retreats and now that it’s at a reasonable distance, I can see it vaguely resembles a dog. I turn to thank my savior, and the words get stuck in my throat.
“I am so sorry,” says quite possibly the most gorgeous nerd I’ve ever seen in real life. She’s holding a clipboard and wearing a button
that says, “I’m Tasha, she/her, Ask Me Anything!”
And I do, suddenly, want to ask her . . . everything.
Holy crap, why am I blushing? And sweating? Is this an arrhythmia? I’m probably too young for hot flashes. Right?
She gives me a smile and the back of my neck is suddenly on fire.
Is this . . . a crush?
Well, shit. That changes things.
I haven’t crushed on a girl since I was in college, and then I was with Chris forever, so it wasn’t an issue. And look, I
am still with Chris in my heart—plus I am here to take some initiative and resolve an alarming misplaced revenge scheme—so
hey body, why the head-to-toe flop sweat event?
Thankfully, AMA Tasha doesn’t seem to notice. She points sternly at the floor, and the mop-shaped dog lies down obediently.
She gives him a little dog cracker.
I get it. I would beg for a little dog cracker from her.
Mo, down!
I distract myself by peeling a poster off my arm. Discount tickets to the Counter-Productive Lover Improv Show, it tells me.
Too soon, poster. Too soon.
Tasha scratches the dog’s ear. “He’s usually better behaved, but he’s on new meds, and I think they’re making him cranky,”
she says, shrugging.
“It’s fine,” I say, pushing my saliva-drenched hair out of my face casually, as if I didn’t think I was about to die just
a second earlier. “I needed a bath.”
Tasha laughs. She has an amazing smile, and a gorgeous mass of curly dark-brown hair with just the slightest hint of auburn, which she’s only semi-successfully pulled back.
Behind her oversize glasses, she’s got huge brown eyes, and she’s smiling at me in a way that makes me glad I already have a reason to be wobbly.
Get a grip, I tell myself. Alderman. Poodle Dude. Remember?
“So I have a question—” I say.
“Aha! The AMA button works!” She grins. “We just got these. Here, have a seat, we can talk at my desk.”
“I’m Mo,” I say, following her.
Her desk—a beige metal monstrosity from another era—is just plopped right there in the middle of the open room. It’s piled
with folders and books and papers and a plastic “inbox” that has an enormous stack of notes in it.
There are a couple fuzzy, gray-walled cubicles stuck together toward the back, and behind those, there appears to be an actual
office with a door on the far wall. The ceiling hums with those buzzing fluorescent lights we had in grade school.
“Is this your dog?” I ask, as the dog flops down and puts what I assume is its face on my shoe. I can’t see its eyeballs under
those mop-strings of hair. “Actually, is this even a dog? I’m honestly not sure.”
She laughs again.
Is there any chance I could forget about Poodle Dude and the alderman? Just stay here all day and try to make this hot nerd
laugh?
“Not my dog, just the resident demon,” she says, ruffling the huge mop’s head. “A very fancy demon who does competitions and everything, doesn’t he? Yes he does!” The mop pants and drools and limps around in a circle,
trying to catch his own tail. “He’s our official mascot.”
“That’s a thing? Alderman mascots? Do you also have like a human-size suit of him that runs around at basketball games and block parties?”
“Ha, I wish! That would be incredible!” The dog nuzzles her, and heck yeah, good choice, dog, I want to do that too. I have
to force myself to concentrate as she keeps explaining, “He belongs to Alderman Carey’s wife, and they both work here so Charlie
keeps me company most days. Except for the days he’s winning awards for being such a good boy.”
He wags enthusiastically at the praise.
“I didn’t know dogs could look like that,” I admit. “Like sentient mops.”
“He’s a Puli. Not a super common breed.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially, like she doesn’t want Charlie to hear us.
“He can be a little high maintenance. Total diva.”
“Same,” I confess.
She smiles again and adjusts the clipboard in her hands. “So, now that you’ve recovered from being attacked by the slobber
monster, what can I help you with?”
“Right. Yes.” I suck in a fortifying breath. Here I go. Taking initiative. Protecting myself. “I have reason to believe that
Alderman Carey came to my apartment earlier looking for me under the false impression that I was guilty of a crime, and I
would like to clear everything up.”
Nailed it.
Tasha frowns. There is a very long silence in which I have ample time to regret everything I just said. “So . . . huh. Can
you say that—”
“He was at my apartment. The alderman.”
She hesitates and then smiles. “Aldermen don’t really make house calls.”
“Not even for suspected crime stuff?”
“Especially not for that.” She smiles again and yeah, I’m still scared and confused, but maybe a little less. “Why don’t you
give me some more context about your problem?”
I clear my throat. “Well, you see, I’m a crossing guard, and—”
“That’s so cool!” she interrupts.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. About crossing guarding. Being cool. “Is it?”
But it’s like she’s been waiting for someone to ask her this question her whole life. She beams at me. “Public service is
incredibly cool. I mean, people like us, we’re the blood and guts of the city. We are Chicago. We’re the nuts and bolts, the joints and the joists. It’s like the city is a matrix of interlocking public service
effort and artistry—just this week, for Manhole Cover Monday, I found a totally gorgeous historic manhole cover that no one
knew about, and my Instagram notifications are off the charts.”
She takes a breath and waits for me to react.
“I . . . I can’t say I’ve heard of Manhole Cover Monday.”
Her warm brown eyes widen, and I want to sink into them forever. Is that weird? Yes. But also, I don’t care.
“Mo,” she says, and I blush harder, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she pulls out a brochure with a giant manhole on
the front. “You’ve got to join us. Hashtag Manhole Cover Monday. So much great stuff.”
Oh, okay. She’s not just a normal nerd, she’s a huge nerd.
And it is doing some seriously butterfly-shaped things to my stomach.
Oh my god, Mo, focus, I think. No way out but through. If I want to get this nightmare over with, I’ll have to do something other than flirt.
I put the brochure in my pocket, thank her, and get back to business.
“So I was at work earlier today,” I say, “and a guy in a Kia full of poodles got really angry at me because he thought I made him drive into a pothole on purpose, but I was just trying to keep him from running over a kid.
And he said the alderman was going to come after me.
He told me the alderman knew where I lived, and then right after that, someone . . .
accessed . . . my apartment.”
She frowns. “Wait. Someone broke into your apartment?”
“Well, that part’s a bit hazy,” I say. “He didn’t come inside, he was more like, creeping around? Outside the door? Stalker-style?”
Am I babbling? I’m babbling. And suddenly I’m doubting everything. Including whether Roy was telling the truth. He does love
drama.
“Okay,” she says, nodding gently. “It sounds like the guy with the poodles this morning definitely spooked you. But also,
he was talking out of his ass. Merle’s been here all day with some folks from the Chamber of Commerce, but more importantly,
he doesn’t go after citizens. He’s a good dude.”
I guess I’m glad the alderman isn’t after me. But that doesn’t explain who came to my apartment, or, if there wasn’t anyone
there, why Roy would lie about it. My confusion must show on my face, because Tasha puts a hand on my shoulder.
“If you’re really worried, I can help you file a police report,” she offers.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s okay. If you’re right about the alderman—”
“I am.”
“—then Poodle Dude is just being a bully.” Projecting his shit on me, like Reuben said. Okay, fine, maybe that was good advice.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him, steer clear, that sort of thing.”
“You’re sure?” she asks, and . . . I actually am.
It’s a good feeling. The first in a while. This is what it feels like to handle something.
“Now that that’s settled,” she says, leaning so close I can see the freckles dotting her nose, “I can totally help you with the pothole situation. Potholes are, in fact, extremely my jam.”
I’ve fully described the pothole and clarified it’s actually now more of a sinkhole (it’s a hole where the street used to
be, that’s about all I got), and Tasha’s just written down all my info when her desk phone rings. She whispers, “Sorry,” as
she reaches for the phone and answers it. “Alderman Carey’s office, Tasha speaking.”
She listens for a moment and then makes a gesture like this is going to take a while. I’d love to stay, but I don’t want to
make it weird, so I wave and head out. Hopefully there’ll be more to discuss about the sinkhole.
Or manhole covers.
Either way, I’d really like to see her again.
Just as friends, obviously.
Obviously.