Chapter 12
I bought a house! There were some issues with the closing date getting moved back and a bunch of drama I didn’t understand. Having said that, it is now official. I am a homeowner!
Cora helped me move my meager possessions from my apartment to the new house.
I took one look around and decided all of my stuff was way too ugly for my pretty, new house.
I did some serious, serious shopping. I forced myself to hold off on decorating the guest bedroom, but I completely furnished the living room, dining room, and master bedroom.
I tried to go for a minimal, elegant, woman-thriving-in-her-thirties aesthetic.
I may have bought some cow tchotchkes and wall art to match my backyard view.
It looks so beautiful and mature. I can’t believe it is all mine.
My next big goal is to make a great work-from-home space for myself.
During the period of buying my first house, I decided to go totally rogue and go independent from the agency I had been working for.
This was largely a financial decision. Although it was terrifying, it was the right choice—especially now that I live quite a distance from the office.
I know what I am doing, and more than enough of my clients followed me, so I don’t have any concerns about not being able to maintain my business and grow it further.
There is an all-season porch off to the right of the front door that I haven’t done anything with yet.
I’m thinking that would be the perfect place to work and feel like I’m not completely trapped indoors all day.
The only downfall is that it isn’t cow-adjacent.
I’ll have to wake up a few minutes early in the morning to take in those views.
Linda, the Realtor, was right that most of the houses would be occupied by the time I moved in.
It seems most of them have cars in their driveways, with people going in and out.
There is a two-story house diagonal from me that they are still building.
My neighbors seem to be all old people. I’m guessing this is because there are a lot of single-story homes, and with the HOA, they don’t have to worry about outside work.
I don’t think I have seen a single child on my street yet.
I’ve never been the best at introducing myself and making acquaintances with people.
I tend to wait for an extrovert to identify me as a person they need in their life and adopt me.
So, I think my new best friend is in her seventies.
Emilia Jenkins lives across the street from me.
She spends her time watching the neighbors with a side of flower watering.
Sometimes, I think she just walks around with an empty watering can as a prop so she can casually keep an eye on everything.
Every time I go outside, she pounces. Usually, it’s to inquire about my lack of exterior decorating or to surprise me with the amount of passive-aggressive insults she can fit into one breath.
She also brings me a little treat each time she sees me, which ranges from a baked good to a bottle of liquor, and I am running out of storage space.
She’s a crabby old bird, but she is starting to grow on me. We can be single old biddies together!
Today, I went outside to get the mail, fully expecting to get a new bottle of Schnapps thrust into my hand by the time I got to the mailbox.
I looked over and saw her sitting on her porch swing, staring off into the distance.
No watering can, no cocktail, no gifts. My warning bells went off because this was not typical behavior for her.
I took a deep breath and decided to make my way over there.
I crossed the street, made it up her sidewalk, and up the four stairs on her porch before she noticed me.
“Hey, Emilia. What are you up to today?”
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t see you coming up,” she said as she continued to stare off into the distance.
I went and sat down on the chair near her swing. “Is everything okay?”
“Well, why the hell would you ask that? Can’t an old lady sit on her porch without getting interrogated by the neighborhood watch?”
I sigh internally because the same could be said right back to her, every day. “Oh, I was just asking because you usually come over for a chat. I thought I would take a turn at stopping over. What are your plans for the day?”
“I haven’t got shit for plans! Like usual! I just need to drop off a cigar at Daniel’s for his birthday. That became his birthday tradition when he got too old to do anything else fun,” Emilia answered, still not looking at me.
“Oh, is Daniel a friend of yours?” I asked.
“Daniel is my husband. Jesus, catch up, Cassie. It’s shocking how little you know about your neighbors,” she snapped back at me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were married!” I replied.
“Well, I'm widowed now. That old bastard died in his easy chair last winter. I told him that most people die lying down, so maybe he should get up and do something. But, wouldn’t you know, he croaked in his chair, watching football.”
Since I am epically horrible in times of grief, I stared back at her, thinking of something poignant to say and failing.
She looked over at me, “Well, you might as well drive me over to the cemetery since you don’t have anything better to do. Let’s get going.”
I literally do have something I need to be doing, but I’m not about to argue with her during her time of grief, so I head home to get my car keys.
On the way to the cemetery, she told me that she moved into the new house when her husband passed away because she needed to get away from the stench he left there when he died.
I think it’s code for it was too painful for her to be there without him.
I can relate to the need for a new start, though on a slightly less tragic level.
She didn’t want me to come with her when she got to the cemetery, so I waited in the car.
I took a deep breath as I saw her walking back, unsure of what the ride home was going to be like.
She got in the car and said, “Well, shit, we better stop for a drink on the way home. You wouldn’t deny an old widow a cocktail on her dead husband’s birthday, would you?”
Jenkins and I wound up in a little dive bar not that far from the cemetery.
It’s a Thursday afternoon, so I’m anticipating that we’re going to be the only patrons.
Once again, I’m wrong about everything. Every man hunched over a drink turns to stare at us as we walk in.
And then, to my surprise, a hearty round of “Hey, Mrs. Jenkins” from nearly every man sitting in that bar.
“You come here often?”
Emilia shrugs. “Not really, but this was Daniel’s watering hole, and I picked him up more than a few times when he overindulged. They just know me based on all of the time he spent here bragging about his beautiful and talented wife, I presume.”
Emilia walked over to the bar and, with only a little difficulty, hoisted herself up on a barstool. Still contemplating my life decisions, I stood there waiting until she patted the seat next to her in a gesture of “giddy up, cowgirl.”
“What will you have?” said a scraggly old man, working the bar.
“Do you have a drink menu?” I asked, like a total dipshit.
“No. We have bottles of liquor that you can look at with your eyes to make a decision. If that’s not your cup of tea, we have beer taps next to them to guide your selection. If you want something other than that, you’re in the wrong establishment.”
“I’ll just have a light beer.”
“Emilia, your usual?” asked the bartender.
“Of course, extra dirty,” she replied, giving me a shoulder nudge and raising her eyebrows at her dirty joke.
“One light beer and one gin martini, extra dirty, coming right up.”
“Dang, Emilia. A martini? Am I going to have to carry you to bed after this?”
Emilia chuckled and said, “Oh no, honey. I’m going to get one of the men in here to carry me to their bed. I suggest you do the same.”
Needless to say, Emilia did not need a ride home from the bar that night. I drove home by myself and went to my own bed—alone.
When I was growing up, my parents subscribed to a Christian movie mailing service.
We would get new VHS tapes every month that taught lessons on Christian values and morals with some pretty intense plotlines.
One of my favorites had an old lady who kept falling down.
They called her The Widow Jenkins. ”Oh, no!
The Widow Jenkins! She fell down again!” Kind of excited to have my own Widow Jenkins.
I have also met my next-door neighbors, Rod and Holly Thompson.
They are both retired and are always out on their porch swing, sipping unknown beverages from double-walled insulated cups.
They are out there, basically all day, every day, just rockin’ and sippin’.
My first run-in with Holly was an epic disaster, in which I basically acted like a drug dealer.
I was walking out to get the mail when Holly hollered at me.
“Hey, sweetie!” she shouted in a gravelly smoker’s voice. “Come over here and introduce yourself. If I walk over there, you’ll be back in the house by the time I get my old ass moving in that direction!”
I groaned inwardly because you saw what happened when I tried to be neighborly and check on someone recently. I ended up at the cemetery and a dive bar, where I learned of the mating rituals of the old and drunk.
I plastered a smile on my face and shouted back, “Be right there!”
I ran into my house because I was going to need a beverage to sit on the porch. I grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses and headed over.
As I made my way up the sidewalk and onto the porch, I noted that her husband had reappeared on the porch swing. Must have taken a potty break.
“Hi there, I’m Cassie.”
“Oh, we know who you are. Emilia Jenkins came over and told us about you guys getting drunk and picking up men together. I’m Holly, and this is my husband, Rod.”
This brought my walk up the steps to a dead stop.
“I would like to clarify that only one of us got drunk, and only one of us picked up a man.”
“Mmhmm. She said you were kind of a prude. But that woman talks a lot, and sometimes I have to tune her out, so I may have missed some important facts. Have a seat. Take a load off.”
After I took a seat, I got to the business of opening my screw-off-top wine because I didn’t want to go to the effort of bringing a bottle opener with me, as well.
“I’m sorry, I only grabbed two glasses since you weren’t out here before, Rod.” I started to pour a glass and said, “I can go grab another one if you would both like a glass.”
“Oh no, honey. We’re good.” Holly replied.
“Are you sure? I mean, I can drink a whole bottle of wine by myself easily, but I’d love to share.”
She raised her tumbler and said, “I’m good with this, thanks, dear.”
“Rod?”
“No thanks, I’m good as well.”
“Well, I hope you have something boozy in those cups so I’m not drinking alone here!”
Holly gave me a look that looked like disappointment and sympathy rolled all into one, and as I was trying to decipher what that was supposed to mean, Rod interjected.
“Just lemonade for us. We don’t drink.”
“Oh, geez! Why not?” I, a girl who grew up in the Midwest, hadn’t ever encountered someone who didn’t drink.
Holly looked at me with a half-evil grin.
“Well, Cassie. If you must know, I’m an alcoholic. Rod isn’t, but he can take it or leave it, so he chooses to leave it.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you.”
“Believe me, I can handle it. I’ve been turning down drinks for thirty-three years now.
You don’t want to know what happens if I have one drink.
” She pauses, and it seems like I’m about to find out, despite her saying I don’t want to know.
She is wrong, too. I do want to know. “Basically, one glass of wine, and I’ll be downtown giving out blow jobs for cash and crack.
And I don’t stop until I’m in jail. It was all fun and games in the 90s, but a girl’s gotta grow up eventually. ”
Holy shit. If there were a way to disappear into the bushes, I would. Instead, I gently set the wine bottle and glass down and casually slide them behind me.
Rod whaps her on the shoulder. “Holly, there has got to be a better way to approach this with new people. Thirty-three years, and you still have to add all of that additional information? Do I need to write you a script?”
“I can be sober and honest or a drunken liar. I choose sober and honest. And if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best,” she responded.
“I read that on the internet, and it really resonated with me. Anyways, I’m a friend of Bill’s.
That means I’m in A.A., Alcoholics Anonymous.
So if you see any bedraggled-looking weirdos walking up to the house, don’t panic; it’s usually people that I'm sponsoring. And I don’t care if you drink your wine, just don’t leave me the leftovers. ”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Again, so sorry. I didn’t really mean what I said about drinking the whole bottle, either. I don’t have a drinking problem, although I’m afraid I made it sound like I probably do.”
“Also, saying you don’t have a drinking problem definitely makes it sound like you do. I’m not going to be shocked by anyone drinking a whole bottle of wine by themselves. If you can do it and stay off the 10 o’clock news, you’re doing just fine in my book. And I would know; I’m an expert.”
“I think I'll go with Rod’s method and just stick to water during our visits.”
“Whatever you want, honey. So, tell me about the men you and Emilia picked up. Don’t leave out any details. Gossip is the only vice I have left.”