Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

I found the most beautiful mailbox on eBay. It’s a tall, red iron box with separate slots for mail and newspapers. According to the auction listing, it’s an antique from India. If you squint at it just right, you might think it’s an overgrown fire hydrant. I love it and it’s unique and I actually spent a good deal of money on it. I thought it would really personalize the front yard — I mean, who doesn’t like objets d’art from exotic locales? This is the first piece of art I ever bought, and I assumed it would be a nice gesture to share with the rest of the neighborhood.

I assumed wrong.

So very wrong.

First came the petition, which we chose to ignore, as it was signed by three families with enormous bass fish — shaped mailboxes, one with what looks like a birdhouse with a mail slot, and four with varying degrees of crumbled masonry posts. The only difference between my mailbox and theirs was that mine was beautiful. (Also, I didn’t plant the ornamental purple cabbage around mine because I thought it clashed with the red.)

After we ignored the petition, our neighbors took additional action and we started getting letters from the city telling us our mailbox didn’t “meet code.” There’s a mailbox code up here? Really? And who has the kind of time to go out and inspect mailboxes, anyway?

After receiving multiple fines for violating city ordinances, we’ve since taken down our beautiful Indian mailbox, which was no easy feat due to our having sunk it in cement. From the get-go, we’ve invested two thousand dollars in materials and fines, countless man-hours’ worth of labor, and now we have to go to the post office to collect our mail, since the letter carrier won’t deliver to our house, as we have no box. Argh.

Anyway, in terms of finances, there’s always credit and a second mortgage, but I don’t want to go that route.

“Does this indicate a possible bidding war between Persiflage and HBO?” Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.

“That’s my hope, anyway. But I want you to get back to work and I’ll worry about Hollywood. Deal?”

“Deal.” My voice belies a confidence I do not feel.

“Mia, one more thing? I don’t want to impede your creative process, and I understand that in sci-fi/fantasy there’s the obvious need to suspend disbelief, but I’m really having a hard time buying that teenage zombies in love have so much to say about wallpaper. Get it together; get it done. Talk soon!”

Natalie sounds harsh, but she’s my agent, not my bestie. Her job is to make sure I’m delivering contracted work, not only on time, but of a certain caliber. She’s actually being a good friend by being tough on me, and I’m always the one who says fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.

I need her to kick me in the ass.

I need to get my head on straight and write this book.

I need to finish on time.

I need to get paid.

But first, I need to address this drawer-pull situation.

And find a new mailbox.

“I bet she’d be more comfortable at a hotel. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

I keep my eyes on the piece of floor where I’m removing carpet tacks, saying nothing.

“Yes, yes,” Mac continues, gathering steam. “A hotel sounds great. Perfect, in fact. I read about a boutique hotel in Meridian Road magazine and it’s in downtown AC. Stag’s Leap Inn. Won the Brides’ Choice Award in 2010.”

“They must be really proud of themselves,” I note mildly.

“The inn’s part of the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Their dining room’s listed in the Distinguished Restaurants of North America guide.”

“Fancy,” I acquiesce, giving a particularly rusty spike a good, hard yank with my pliers. It finally releases and I stagger backward with the force of its removal.

Mac paces behind me as I work. “The amenities are top-notch: high-thread-count sheets, a flat-panel television in both rooms for suites and in the bathroom, plus L’Occitane products, a gourmet minibar, and your daily choice of three newspapers.”

“Neat.”

As soon as I’m finished removing all the carpet tacks/nails/ other protrusions, we can start smoothing out the hardwood. I’ve got a little belt sander for the edges and the detail work, while Mac’s responsible for running the rented orbital sander across the floors in the rest of this bedroom. We’ve already torn up the carpet 102and ripped out the padding. Judging from the stains on both, someone here had dogs, many, many large, incontinent dogs.

“Their fitness room is state-of-the-art, and they do five kinds of massage in the spa.”

“I was unaware five kinds of massage existed.” My bangs keep falling in my face and I keep brushing them aside. I’m overdue for a haircut, but I kind of don’t want to spend the money.

“They do and they have them. Full beauty salon, too, plus a twenty-four-hour concierge service.”

I swat at those annoying stray strands again. “Interesting. So, are they paying you a commission?”

Before we can begin to sand, I have to hang wet bedsheets over the doorways. According to eHow.com, floor sanding creates a massive amount of sawdust. Since this house is already reminiscent of the Dust Bowl, circa 1930, I’m anxious to keep additional emissions to a minimum. I’ve got the windows open and I’ve turned off the air-conditioning so the grit has no possible way of circulating through the house.

“Of course not,” he protests. “I’m just saying the place sounds very luxurious. Every night there’s a free wine-and-cheese reception from five to seven. Babcia loves free stuff.”

“True enough.”

Babcia does love free stuff, although “free” is somewhat subjective. Babcia interprets it to mean every sugar, Splenda, and Sweet’n Low packet she runs across, the sugar bowl, the entire contents of the breadbasket plus the butter and a means with which to spread it, salt and pepper shakers — particularly the crystal ones — candleholders, candles, bud vases including the buds, guest soap, shoehorns, bath mats, towels, wineglasses, ashtrays, ice buckets, throw rugs, throw pillows, trash cans, the thick terry slippers you find in better hotels, the thick terry robes you find in better hotels, and any piece of artwork not bolted to the wall.

If Babcia stayed somewhere with a wine-and-cheese reception, she’d line her enormous satchel with foil and walk away with an entire platter and as many bottles as she could shove in her waistband. 103

Admonishing Babcia about her sticky fingers is useless. I guess once you live through childhood poverty, no matter how much money you have, you never forget the old days.

“Well, what do you think?” Mac’s all forced smiles and anticipation.

“I think I’m going to need a tetanus shot after this.” I squeeze my index finger to drain my puncture wound before wiping it on the edge of my T-shirt. Mac was supposed to help me with this part, but he says his fingers “aren’t grippy enough.”

“No, what do you think about Babcia staying in a hotel instead of with us?”

When my hair’s fixed, I reply, “What I think is you need to not be terrified by an old lady. What do you expect to happen? Granted, she’s a bit of an acquired taste, but she can’t hurt you. You’re safe as kittens around her.”

Mac crosses his arms and levels his gaze. “Sal Domenico.”

Ooh, kind of forgot about him. Sal Domenico lives in Babcia’s building in Miami, and he’s got that mob-boss-type slicked-back hair and wears fat gold chains and, um. . may or may not walk with a limp now. “I suggest you don’t take her parking space.”

“Mrs. Irving Zielinski.”

“Made the critical error of trying to cheat at Makao. 104They were playing for quarters; what did you expect? Mrs. Z. is lucky Babcia didn’t go more biblical on her and actually remove her hand.”