Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Okay, that’s annoying.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

And it needs to stop.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

No, really, what is that?

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Is someone at the door?

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

A very annoying someone?

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Why don’t they ring the bell?

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

I get up from my desk and pound down the stairs. God help them if they’re a Jehovah’s Witness. Although given my current mood, I might not even be nice to cookie-peddling Girl Scouts.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

“I’m coming, goddamn it!” I shout.

When I haul the front door open, I don’t see anyone on or near my porch or retreating up the winding driveway. Argh .

I head to the kitchen to grab a banana. Not long after I get back up the stairs, I hear it again.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

This time I peer out the window. I don’t spot anything at first, but then I hear the tock-tock-tock ing and I catch a flash of red coming from the tree across from me. I look closer and see the downy, light gray feathery belly of a woodpecker.

Well, this is just what I need.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

I whip open the window and try to shoo the bird. He pauses briefly to give me what I swear is a haughty look and then continues on his merry way.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

I spin around and grab the first item I can find — a half-full paper Starbucks cup. Without even thinking, I chuck it directly at the bird and then I instantly feel bad. I don’t want to hurt him — I just want him to go away.

The good news is, I don’t have Vienna’s prowess when it comes to pitching and I miss him by a mile.

The bad news is, I do not, however, miss the UPS man, who’s here to deliver a load of drawer pulls.

After I help towel all the Cinnamon Dolce latte off his uniform and write what seems like an unnaturally large check for dry cleaning, 148I return to my desk.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

I holler at the bird some more, hoping that I’ll scare him off. No such luck. Then I throw my banana peel at him — not to hit him, but to let him know that he’s treading on my turf and he needs to “tock” it the hell off.

Can birds be smug? Because this little asshole looks mighty smug as he continues to bore into my tree.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Clearly I need to alter my approach. I’m getting upset, and that’s not doing anything for my writer’s block. I need to find a way to unwind and just ignore the bird. I always find that a nice, hot bath soothes me, but that’s not really an option, now, is it?

Maybe I need a drink. Yes. That’s the ticket — a drink! A quick cocktail will calm me down and maybe open up my chi or something. I don’t really even know what my chi is, but it’s best to—

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

— err on the side of caution.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. I am not about to be bested by one pound of beak and feathers.

So I’m just going to have one quick drink and that should solve everything.

Fruuuuiiiittty deeelish vodka ’n’ Hawaiiiiiian Punch!

Om nom nom!

I wake up late afternoon and hear the tock-tock-tock again. I’m about to start shouting when I realize it’s just the pounding of my head. In retrospect, I should have realized that vodka has a higher alcohol content than, say, Baileys Irish Cream. Let’s file that under “lessons learned,” shall we?

I poke around the house but Mac’s not here. Looks like he might have stopped in for lunch, judging from the empty McDonald’s cup, but he’s not around now. Whatever. I’m still mad at him, especially as I could have used his help with the woodpecker today.

When I glance out the front door, I see a pile of objects ranging from books to CDs to notepads to blank-faced Amish dolls to Barbies. Pretty much everything I could have thrown in the woodpecker’s direction, I did. Somehow this must have all made a great deal of sense in my drunken stupor.

And this? Right here? Is why I never drink Stoli.

I go outside and begin to pick the objects up one by one, but I get dizzy every time I bend over. I come back inside and grab the shovel we’d used to scoop up piles of lath and plaster and decide I’m just going to dump everything in a bucket and deal with putting it away later.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Oh, goddamn it, he’s back.

“Stop it! I hate you! You’re making me crazy! Go away!” I bellow, shaking my shovel at the sky.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

With my shovel in one hand, I try to scale the tree with the other, thinking that maybe I can scare the bird away with a combination of yelling and shovel shaking. But I quickly learn that I do not, in fact, have the dexterity or upper-body strength of a monkey, and I slide down the tree and into the dirt, slamming the bejesus out of my tailbone. The string of profanity that escapes my lips surprises even me.

I’m just gathering up my shovel — loudly — when behind me I hear, “For the love of all that is holy, would you please shut up?”

I spin around and come face-to-bicycle-shorts with Lululemon. I guess we’re cross-training today.

She continues her tirade while I attempt to stand up. “Do you hate children? Is that your problem? Did you move here with the sole purpose of disturbing and traumatizing my babies? Is that your endgame? Do you realize they still ask me about the crazy old naked lady on the beach? They won’t even set foot on the sand anymore! I have to take them to the pool to swim!”

I say nothing, instead opting to simply stare at her through my haze of alcohol and throbbing butt pain.

She moves in closer to me. “Well, say something, you moron.”

I begin to inch back toward my house, and that’s when it happens and I prove that clichés do, in fact, have a basis in reality. My heel connects with the banana peel I’d tossed hours earlier and, in overcorrecting my balance, I lurch forward toward Lululemon with my shovel. The scoop connects with where the tops of her sneakers would have been if she hadn’t hopped right before I hit the dirt.

From my spot splayed on the ground I see her beating a hasty retreat down the drive. “You attacked me! You’re going to pay for this. I mean it!”

For the record?

The drunk tank in the Abington Cambs police headquarters is more luxurious than most Holiday Inns, with its fluffy duvet covers, soft sheets, cheerily painted walls, and nice, hot showers. Better yet, the officers allow me a pad of paper and a pen and I’m finally able to get some writing done in peace. 149

Mac was cleared to pick me up first thing this morning, but I asked him to wait until noon, because I want to take another shower and they’re serving fried chicken for lunch.

Because the officers couldn’t prove I’d committed any real crime, the charges were dropped and I’m back in my office typing up my notes from yesterday.

Mac is none too pleased with me, but I don’t care. If he’d actually been here yesterday instead of pouting at the movie theater, this whole incident could have been avoided. He’s at the gym right now and that’s fine. I didn’t join him because I already bathed today. In jail.