the start of things with the people at the door

Through the gaps in my blinds, I could see them, the man and woman who came knocking on my door on Christmas Eve eve. He looked mid-fifties, white hair, wore jeans and a Chargers’ jersey. No. 17, to be exact, quarterback Philip Rivers. I rolled my eyes. I hate that look — grown-up men in football jerseys. You are not Philip Rivers. You are not LaDainian Tomlinson. You are not any NFL player or coach or even water boy. Please try to dress yourself in the morning with that fact in mind. I took a reasonable and instant dislike to him based solely on his attire.

The woman stood behind the football jersey, all in black, the late afternoon sun bouncing off her bright blonde hair. She looked like some kind of stripper, frankly. Belted black leather jacket with faux fur trim, black leather lace-up boots, stiletto heels. Faux face. Faux hair. The works. I had no idea what was under that jacket but I was kind of afraid I was going to find out. They knocked and waited while I secretly narrowed my eyes at both of them. Who were they? What did they want? A woman in slutty boots and a man in a football jersey on my doorstep on Christmas Eve eve. Was this a joke? Had someone sent me some horrifying NFL strippergram? I hovered near the door where I could see them but they couldn’t see me. I don’t know why I was hesitating because unless it’s someone I know or UPS at the door bringing me goodies, I never answer it. Really. Never. If I’m home alone, I just want to be left to shuffle around in my Kleenex box shoes and paint my curly fry fingernails. Is that so much to ask? But now I debated. I considered it, I guess, because the curiosity was killing me. I figured this: If it’s a strippergram, I’ll slam the door before anything happens and my face gets too red. If it’s Greenpeace or something, I’ll slam the door before they get too long-winded and I have to tell them no. Whatever awaited me on the other side of the door, I predicted a door-slamming in my imminent future.

So I opened the door.

Sunlight slammed into my face, blinding me for a moment.

Jersey Boy spoke.

“Are you Tracey So-and-So?”

“Uhm, yes.”

There was a weird pause. Yup. Here we go. Strippergram.

“Okay. Well, my name is Joe. This is Slutty Boots. We’re here to take back the house.”

And my entire world froze over.

“What?”

“We represent the bank. We’re here to take back the house.”

“What??”

It didn’t make sense. Their words. The sun shoved heat down on my head but I began to shiver. They looked past me into my home.

“Can we come in?”

What??

I glanced over my shoulder into the living room. Or, more accurately, the rubble of our leftover lives. We’d been sifting through our belongings for weeks, packing and tossing, packing and tossing. Stacks of boxes leaned lopsided here and there. Half-filled trash bags dotted the floor like some deflated obstacle course. Some of them actually contained trash. Others contained our stuff because I’m a lazy packer. Every chair in the room had something on it. Books, more books, even more books, the cash register from Boheme, a Sundance Film Festival poster, old VHS tapes, a fan. I noticed, as if for the first time, the two square splotches of test paint on the far wall — one russet, one butter-colored — and remembered smiling while I smoothed them out, buzzing with pride and possibilities, a long time ago it seemed now. Looking at them through the glaze of this moment, they seemed like odd spots of flush on a wall sick and ashamed. A few feet away, my trampoline loomed like a torture device, propped up against a chair, its legs menacing outward. Large irregular chunks of Pergo floor were missing, ruined from the water leak a couple of weeks ago, giving a sense that we owned a pack of very large and very bad and very hungry dogs. Warped floor panels poofed up randomly waiting to trip people because I was too lazy to pull them up. In the breeze of the open door, I saw the dust bunnies I’d ignored skitter around the edges of the room because, these days, a numb apathy had closed my eyes. I closed them again and held my breath …. held my breath …. held my breath ….

Jersey Boy interrupted. His voice was more forceful now.

“Can we come in?”

Can you come in? …. what? … why? … uhmm …..

And suddenly, something long-forgotten flooded through me and my eyes flashed open. I cared. I cared more than ever. My entire body was shaking with how much I cared. I wanted to run upstairs and grab my husband’s rifle and make a last feeble stand, like some geezer cowpoke yelling, “Get offa my land!” I cared. I cared about nothing else but my home, my lost home, and keeping these strangers out of it forever. Protecting my debris field. My private debris field. All those stacks of shame.

No. No. You can’t come in. You can’t ever come in. Go away. Please go away. You need to go away.

Silence for a moment. They were just waiting, I guess. Waiting for me to cooperate. I shielded my eyes to look at them, saw the blank expression on his face, saw Slutty Boots scuff her toe along the ground.

Then I tried to answer the man, say something other than “what?” I could only manage a quaver, it seems.

“You’re here to take the house back right now?”

I imagined Slutty Boots staggering around in her heels, schlepping boxes, moving our entire life out onto the sidewalk for the neighbors to paw over, like I’d seen sheriffs in Florida doing on 20/20 several nights before. I hadn’t slept well at all since then and demanded MB call our lawyer for reassurance that wouldn’t happen to us. He’d soothed my fears and yet, it was a lie, I guess, because … here they were. Those people. The house takers. The stuff dumpers. Sure, they didn’t look like those guys on 20/20, but this was Southern California after all. Maybe Slutty Boots and Jersey Boy were more official than they seemed. Well, I hope she breaks a heel. I hope she twists an ankle. I hope he throws his stupid jersey back out. I couldn’t think anything but petty grade school thoughts. Really, I couldn’t think much at all. I stood in the doorway, freezing in the heavy sunlight, shaking from knowing that the year-long theme of my night terrors was now really here.

I clung to the doorknob in my palm as if it would somehow save me.

(more to follow)