She's baaaaaaaaaack
New Page 1
I'm hoping this may be the end of it, but I wouldn't give it good odds.
It was about ten minutes ago (10:35 PM local time). I'm lying down listening to my radio. The lights are all out except for a single lamp in my upstairs bedroom. All of my shades are drawn.
Doorbell rings.
I wait. We have thin walls in this complex and the neighbors' doorbell aligns directly with mine on the adjacent side of our separating wall. I can't count the times I've answered my door for her guests.
About a minute passes by. Doorbell rings again. There's no denying it this time. It's mine.
I clamor downstairs, flip on the outside light, and peek through my shades.
It's her. The one I gave the $20 to last Saturday night. I was sure then it was a bad idea. I'm twice as sure now.
I open the door abruptly, stick my face out, and leer at her. "Hello Mr. Wesley (That's not my name. Wesley is the street I live on)," she says in a pathetically soft, high-pitched, girlish voice.
She looks me up and down, taking in my sleep attire. "I guess you're not going back out tonight," she says in a sort of pleading tone.
"No," I say sharply in the best why-the-fuck-would-you-even-ask tone I could muster.
A little more pleading works into her voice, "I need to go to Ludington (a town about 45 miles away) to get my grandbaby and we don't got no way to get there."
There's a couple of seconds worth of pause. I say, "I'm sorry. I can't help you," in the coldest tone I can muster.
"Maybe could you take me tomorrow . . . ?"
This was past my limit. I say, "No," sternly enough to let her know I was pissed.
She chokes out, "OK," looks as if she's going to cry, turns around, and walks away.
The bitch of it all is that, justified or not, part of me feels genuinely guilty. Any advice out there?
I'm hoping this may be the end of it, but I wouldn't give it good odds.
It was about ten minutes ago (10:35 PM local time). I'm lying down listening to my radio. The lights are all out except for a single lamp in my upstairs bedroom. All of my shades are drawn.
Doorbell rings.
I wait. We have thin walls in this complex and the neighbors' doorbell aligns directly with mine on the adjacent side of our separating wall. I can't count the times I've answered my door for her guests.
About a minute passes by. Doorbell rings again. There's no denying it this time. It's mine.
I clamor downstairs, flip on the outside light, and peek through my shades.
It's her. The one I gave the $20 to last Saturday night. I was sure then it was a bad idea. I'm twice as sure now.
I open the door abruptly, stick my face out, and leer at her. "Hello Mr. Wesley (That's not my name. Wesley is the street I live on)," she says in a pathetically soft, high-pitched, girlish voice.
She looks me up and down, taking in my sleep attire. "I guess you're not going back out tonight," she says in a sort of pleading tone.
"No," I say sharply in the best why-the-fuck-would-you-even-ask tone I could muster.
A little more pleading works into her voice, "I need to go to Ludington (a town about 45 miles away) to get my grandbaby and we don't got no way to get there."
There's a couple of seconds worth of pause. I say, "I'm sorry. I can't help you," in the coldest tone I can muster.
"Maybe could you take me tomorrow . . . ?"
This was past my limit. I say, "No," sternly enough to let her know I was pissed.
She chokes out, "OK," looks as if she's going to cry, turns around, and walks away.
The bitch of it all is that, justified or not, part of me feels genuinely guilty. Any advice out there?