Next Door Hater (Love Under Lockdown)

The building had probably been nice once. Almost nowhere starts out a wreck. Then again, any building could become condemned after enough years of neglect.

To call the guy who owned the duplex a ‘slumlord’ would be an insult to slumlords everywhere. Peters was closer to a Robber Baron, and about as engaged with the maintenance of his properties. Nothing short of a court order convinced him to fix anything.

Dad was a rational sort, at least when sober, and knew he would end up in jail if he did what he actually wanted to with Peters. Nor was he particularly interested in spending infinity locked in the thrall of small-claims litigation. Instead, Dad chose a third, much less obvious option. He became the de facto manager, in addition to his day-job at Sunrise Contracting.

There were few things he didn’t already know how to fix, and if he didn’t, he would look it up and figure it out fast. He also helped to keep the area clean, in both senses. Any troublemakers in the other unit soon found another place to live. Dad never threatened anyone, he didn’t have to. One look at Dad’s ‘angry face’ and a hardened mob enforcer would suddenly remember an urgent appointment. I’d only ever seen it once, when I was about eleven, and had to spend nearly a year in therapy.

It looked more like a study than a bedroom, more by intention than design. The only concession to the purposed suggested in the name was a small futon on the floor in one of the corners. The rest of the space was more than taken up by bookshelves, and the desk my grandfather left me in his will. Build in the late-1950s, it took up most of the north wall.

The angels sang as my third-hand Dell sprang to life. It had been hours since the announcement of the shutdown, yet a nagging little voice compelled me to check if the online courses, already up and running elsewhere in the world, had found their way to my neck of the woods.

Nothing Found.

Pushing down disappointment, I tried a different tack. One option was gone but that still left the other. Dad was always clear; I was welcome to live at home if I was in school or working and paying rent. The circumstances were far from ordinary, neither school nor most kinds of work viable options during lockdown.

Still, it seemed best to air on the side of caution and at least try to do one of them. I didn’t think he would throw me out into the street, particularly when doing so would be illegal, he was far too pragmatic for that, but it was best not to tempt fate.

The cursor glided like a butterfly, clicking here and there, searching out something that might work out. Seeking only sectors the powers had identified as ‘essential services.’ More than I would have thought, with a good deal of diversity. There might be a chance after all. Chance a far better and reliable thing than ineffable hope.

Interviews set, online of course, my stomach rang the lunch bell, and I headed out in search of something to quell the rumbling beast.

It was like something died. The smell leapt out of the dark fridge as though to attack. It was only then I noticed how quiet it was being, and the odd smell, mixing with the spoiled food. I yanked the plug and opened the windows a bit, to let the smell out, as well as any potentially toxic fumes.

The slumlord had brought the ancient fridge in after Dad gave him an angry look. He had done as Dad had asked, so there was no basis for complaint about how incredibly old the resulting fridge was. Dad wouldn’t be happy to find out what had happened, but there was little he could do about it, short of buying a new fridge himself.

In the meantime, I cleared out the worst of the deceased, and moved anything that didn’t need to be kept in the fridge, a surprisingly long list, including apples, ketchup, and cheddar cheese, into the cupboards, which were also as full as could be expected. So, we were unlikely to starve to death. Always a good thing.

The digital bell rang happily, welcoming me to the store. I’d have gone to the corner shop, but the prices at the grocery store were better. Assuming they still carried ice at that time of year. The fates were merciful, and while the toilet paper stock had been thoroughly depleted, the freezer remained full of bagged ice blocks. Nothing like a crisis to expose people’s real priorities.

Selecting two of the largest blocks, I wheeled up to the checkout, still working out how I was going to be getting them back to the house before they melted, without the use of my car. A conundrum to be sure. So I snagged a spare, just to be safe, knowing walking would deplete all three.