In a turn of events that can be best described with adjectives such as “surreal” and “cosmically improbable”, I have recently found myself filling the position of a Home Owner. Believe me, I’m as surprised as anyone. In these times of economic ailment, I am doing what is agreed upon universally by the experts as the “smart thing”, and going into mountainous piles of debt. This so that I can claim from the bank what was once someone else’s dream. It’s like Monopoly with real money, except that I lack the dashing good looks of Rich Uncle Pennybags.
Having a house (actually, it’s one half of a condo duplex) has already brought about some subtle and unexpected changes in me. One of the very few ways in which an adult truly differs from a child is the desire to keep things nice. For instance, a kid will hop through a puddle because it is fun and satisfying; a grown-up will maneuver around the same puddle because No Way Am I Getting These Brand New Eighty Dollar Shoes Wet. In most cases I feel that this trait siphons some joy out of life. But home ownership seems to be an exception, because already I take more pride in having the place fixed up the way I like. I always loathed doing household chores and yard work while growing up. Now that I actually own a yard, I find myself with a wish to take care of it and to see it thrive, and to imbue it with my own personality, a wish that is strong enough even to (sometimes) master my considerable powers of laziness.
Of course, this process often involves scrubbing away some remnants of the previous occupant’s personality. Every house has its quirks and its stories to tell, and this one appears no different; however, this particular story appears to be something out of a pulp novel.
Most people are content to have a lock on the doors for security, particularly on a property lying along a country road. The past owners of this house were not “most people”, for they installed a plate deadbolt, an ADT security system, and — just in case both of these security measures were to prove inadequate — a three-point video surveillance system with a quad-panel monitor and time lapse video tape recorder. Combine this unnecessary fortress-like security with the condition of some of the panels in the house — a bunch of ceiling tiles in the basement and a handful of cupboard panels around the house had been removed or pushed aside as though things hidden behind them were removed in great haste — and a picture quickly forms in one’s mind of a drug operation being run out of this house. This is of course followed by a picture of some strung-out former client banging on my door at two in the morning, not caring who lives here now and demanding to be served.
My next door neighbor asserts that this is not the case, and apparently means to reassure me by revealing that the cameras were installed by the original owner, who was a professional stripper and wished to protect herself due to “ties to the Mafia”. I can’t decide whether my imaginary story or the real story is more ridiculous.
Speaking of the next door neighbors who occupy the other half of the house, they seem nice enough — relieved, in particular, to be rid of the previous owners — though there is an apparition in the form of a little girl who appears at one of the upstairs windows and stares through the curtains at me if I am outside. I have glimpsed her out of doors when pulling into the driveway, but as soon as she notices my approach she vanishes. I don’t know if she is a ghost or not, but either way I feel somewhat haunted.
In any case, I am attempting to care for the place as best as I can. I’ve raked the neglected yard, installed a nice new mailbox, and knocked down a wasp nest approximately the size of a beach ball. As has been established, I am not a lover of insects, particularly the invasive breeds. I don’t want them in the house; they stir a primal flight response in me, and after all, they’re not helping out with the mortgage.
Though the bank-mandated home inspection turned up no sign of pest problems, said inspection was performed before Spring. So at the moment my greatest fear is that this house sits upon one of the lesser gates of Hell, and that come warm weather, this aperture will burst open and spill up its armies: ants, wasps and termites wiggling silently inside every wall and tromping unafraid through the kitchen and up my bedposts. Outright supernatural possession of the house and its occupants is of course a worst case scenario, but if I start to log in announcing myself as Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer or some such person, please place the appropriate calls.
Barring that event, I will go on molding this house around myself and making it, perhaps more than any place since my dad’s house has been, Home. All it will take is some more raking, the planting of herbs and flowers, some drywall repairs, a lot of painting inside and out, a bit of rewiring, a new light fixture here and there, some new appliances, an annual and unsavory process of pest control, a lot of grass seeding, fertilizing and mowing, a ton of weed pulling and killing…
…Holy fuck. What was I thinking?
