I’ve stopped talking to the cats. Well, maybe I should say that I’ve stopped expecting a reply from the cats when I talk to them. Overall, I would say that I’m adjusting to having Hallboy gone for the past three weeks, or so I thought.
Last Saturday, the heavy clouds were darkening the sky about the same time I noticed that the tomato plants in pots on the front porch were wilting from the heat, humidity and lack of water. Where they sit, the rain doesn’t touch their pots, and it’s up to me to make sure they’re watered, a job that I’d apparently been lax if their wilting leaves were any indication. Gathering the jug of water, scissors and twine (to tie their stems, another job I’d apparently been lax in following through) in hand, I stepped out the front door, pulling it closed behind me to keep the cooler air in the house.
I like living in my new suburban neighborhood, although the quiet took some getting used to. I suppose that ten years living in the City though has left some remaining habits with me, including making sure that every window in the house is locked tight, regardless if I’m home or not. So, when I pulled the door closed behind me—the door that locks automatically—I realized several things at once. One, of course, was that sinking thought that occurs as you do something that you can’t believe you did, but it’s too late to stop. The second, nearly simultaneous thought was that every single window, save the two basement windows, were locked tight, as were both the doors to the house. I stood on my front porch, barefoot, wearing old worn short-shorts and a flimsy tank top (my indoor only clothes), the next-door-spare-key-landlord-family having gone on vacation for a week, with the rain making preparations, trying to figure out if the supplies I held in my hand would allow me to MacGyver a way into the house without the neighbors calling the police. The only way into the house was through the open basement windows.
One of the aspects that I liked of the house when I first saw it was the 10 foot height of the basement ceilings. Someone before me had strung clothes line across the expanse of space, and even when hanging laundry, one can easily walk through the basement. The two windows set high on the walls, having been wedged open several weeks ago from their old, wooden frames were propped open with pieces of lumber so the air could circulate in the basement. Just a few weeks ago, I had stapled screen coverings on their frames to keep out any animals which might have scurried behind the bushes which cover the side of the house, nearly hiding the windows.
So, I crouched beside the bushes, scissors in hand to pry off the staples and roll back the screen, knowing that the windows are at least seven feet off the ground on the inside of the basement, and that I’m only five foot five on a good day. I fight the leaves, the weeds and the who-knows-what hidden along the side of the house as I mentally construct the math word problem.
If a woman weighing…well, too much…tries to fit her hips through a window that appears to be smaller than the width of her body, then how long will it take before the fire department can appear to cut her from the opening? If a five foot five woman drops seven feet from the opening into the basement, how long will the cast have to remain on her ankle?
I was never one who could figure out word problems with any sense of effectiveness, preferring the sink or swim method of life. Slowly, and as quietly as I can possibly be—which amazing enough is near silent as I’m cursing under my breath—I attempt to figure out the logistics of turning my body just right to go into the window feet first.
I’m not a coordinated person. I typically trip walking up the steps. I couldn’t wear high heels until I was in my 30’s, and even then, I don’t dare attempt any more than 2 inches high. My shins are usually bruised as a result of walking into tables, or drawers or anything else that happens to be within a 50 mile radius. So, I was a bit apprehensive at the thought of shoving my body—feet first—through the basement window and dropping seven feet to the floor.
It’s amazing how fast one can think, how creative one can be, when the threat of total humiliation appears. It’s like a flash of light, really, when the idea that my everyone-knows-everyone neighborhood has the potential to watch me lock myself out of the house and attempt to figure out how to get back in. Reality set in and I decided that I had no way into the house, except through the basement windows and by golly, I’d better buck up and move it before someone walking their dog called the police. In my mind, I could see the mug shot that would be taken before I’d had a chance to tell the whole story.
I squeezed through the window, across the sill and into the basement, my by now dirty feet hitting the back of the chair I’d placed under the window to aid in opening the window, but had never moved. Of course, I’d completely forgotten it was there until I came in contact with the wood. I dropped to the floor and went up the steps, completely freaking out the cats who had never in their lives expected a sweaty, dirt-smeared creature to arise from the basement, cursing and laughing at the ridiculous nature of it all.
I spent the evening, hidden away in my house, swallowing Tylenol and nursing the scrapes across my legs, stomach and arms and washing spider webs and who knows what else from my hair. The rains came and my tomato plants swelled with the water I’d given them and all was well.
My experience was not at home and it was a record 3 times in 24 hours though.