AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I look up from my cot and into the scrubbed pink face of my landlady, Peggy Meyers. She’s squeezed into a gray rubber suit that fits like sausage casing. The suit, combined with her shining round face, gives her an uncanny resemblance to the Michelin Man.
“Was that an outgoing call?”
“No,” I say, slightly offended. “They called me.”
Her sigh is a precise combination of annoyance and disappointment. “Didn’t we go over the rules?”
I nod, eyes wide, pantomiming fear.
“All phone calls are to take place in the living room. And no calls are to last more than five minutes. No one needs longer than five minutes to communicate. And all outgoing calls must be duly listed in the notebook.”
Duly, I think. That’s a good word.
“Do you have any questions?” she asks.
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“I’m going for a run. Then I have auditions. If you decide to go out, make sure you have your keys.”
“I will. I promise.”
She stops, takes in my cotton pajamas, and frowns. “I hope you’re not planning to go back to sleep.”
“I’m going to Saks.”
Peggy purses her lips in disapproval, as if only the indolent go to Saks. “By the way, your father called.”
“Thanks.”
“And remember, all long-distance calls are collect.” She lumbers out like a mummy. If she can barely walk in that rubber suit, how can she possibly run in it?
I’ve only known Peggy for twenty-four hours, but already, we don’t get along. You could call it hate at first sight.
When I arrived yesterday morning, disheveled and slightly disoriented, her first comment was: “Glad you decided to show up. I was about to give your room to someone else.”
I looked at Peggy, whom I suspected had once been attractive but was now like a flower gone to seed, and half wished she had given the room away.
“I’ve got a waiting list a mile long,” she continued. “You kids from out of town have no idea—no idea—how impossible it is to find a decent place in New York.”
Then she sat me down on the green love seat and apprised me of “the rules”:
No visitors, especially males.
No overnight guests, especially males, even if she is away for the weekend.
No consumption of her food.
No telephone calls over five minutes—she needs the phone line free in case she gets a call about an audition.
No coming home past midnight—we might wake her up and she needs every minute of sleep.
And most of all, no cooking. She doesn’t want to have to clean up our mess.
Jeez. Even a gerbil has more freedom than I do.
I wait until I hear the front door bang behind her, then knock hard on the plywood wall next to my bed. “Ding-dong, the witch is dead,” I call out.
