pruning of her postage-stamp
garden.
"Oh, for God's sake," April would mutter loudly on her side of the fence, knowing that I was on the other side, "I am so sick
of this."
I was left to presume that she meant my cats, who were probably pooing in her troweled rows of compost, but she wasn't the
sort to say it directly, just glared at me whenever we chanced to see each other over the ivy.
I never saw April and Doug at the neighborhood cafes and bars or the chic shops that lined our street. They shunned the funky
downtown core in which they were inescapably trapped by the convenient walk to their hospital jobs, and their unhappiness
was palpable, and toxic. The day that Mr. Hobbs saw fit to call Ambrose's workplace, Doug came over and twisted our old-fashioned
doorbell.
"Hi," he said, staring wildly over my head and using a tone that barked / am not interested in you or your phone calls, "I got a message for you to call someone named Mr. Hobbs." He handed me the phone number.
I gaped in astonishment. "That is bizarre!" I exclaimed. Then I asked, as an afterthought, "Did Mr. Hobbs phone you today?"
Maybe this was from before Hobbs had reached me, I thought, maybe he was not deliberately trying to portray me as a delinquent
slut unfit for the neighborhood, while shaming me at the same time in front of my husband's work colleagues. Maybe . . . ?
Doug nodded. Today He still wouldn't make eye contact. I understood that it was part of Doug's tangled and waterlogged fate
to share this neighborhood with writers and artists and Vietnamese people when he was, simply, Doug. He just wanted everyone
to go away. His wife, with her brittle snip-snapping about not stepping on the tulips, his bouncy children, the dead bodies,
the breast-feeding neighbors with collection agents on their case. As I perceived it, Doug wanted to relive the successful
part of his life that had taken place in a garage somewhere with Aerosmith and a car. Over and over, he wanted this, like
the movie Groundhog Day, but played out as a fantasy rather than a cautionary tale.
I took the number, thanked Doug, and retreated inside. I phoned Mr. Hobbs and flared with outrage that he had done what he'd
done. Was he insane? Had the rules of civilized conduct changed? Mr. Hobbs calmly passed me over to his manager, proforma.
You could tell he did it all the time. And as God, the sleeping Geoffrey, and Ambrose are my witnesses, this woman, his manager,
dressed me down with such fervor and vitriol that I felt like a suspect in serial homicide.
"Don't you ever, EVER, talk to one of my employees that way," she bellowed.
"Your employee called my neighbor!" I protested.
"My employees are professionals who do whatever is required to make people like you honor your outstanding debts." People
like me. I was a mother in a bathrobe and detachable bra flaps.
"You are to MARCH down to the nearest Money Mart," she commanded, "do you understand? And WIRE the entire amount that you
owe, RIGHT NOW."
I tried to argue with her, but she interrupted me with verbal thumps against my chest. "Do you want to go to JAIL? Is that
it? Do you want to go to JAIL?"
Berated and screamed at until I finally capitulated, I left the baby with Ambrose and obediently went off to wire the full
amount I owed to the collection agency from a nearby Money Mart, only later confirming that nothing like that— NOTHING— was
mandated under Ontario law. You do, in fact, get to send a check by snail mail. You do not, in fact, face the prospect of
imprisonment for doing so.
I have never hated anyone in my entire life as vehemently as I hated Mr. Hobbs and his army-issue boss. For weeks I plotted
my revenge, a la Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. But ultimately, there was very little that I could do, other than file a complaint with the relevant government ministry.
Instead, I signed up for a course, entitled "How to Hide Your Assets and Disappear."
It's not the government
garden.
"Oh, for God's sake," April would mutter loudly on her side of the fence, knowing that I was on the other side, "I am so sick
of this."
I was left to presume that she meant my cats, who were probably pooing in her troweled rows of compost, but she wasn't the
sort to say it directly, just glared at me whenever we chanced to see each other over the ivy.
I never saw April and Doug at the neighborhood cafes and bars or the chic shops that lined our street. They shunned the funky
downtown core in which they were inescapably trapped by the convenient walk to their hospital jobs, and their unhappiness
was palpable, and toxic. The day that Mr. Hobbs saw fit to call Ambrose's workplace, Doug came over and twisted our old-fashioned
doorbell.
"Hi," he said, staring wildly over my head and using a tone that barked / am not interested in you or your phone calls, "I got a message for you to call someone named Mr. Hobbs." He handed me the phone number.
I gaped in astonishment. "That is bizarre!" I exclaimed. Then I asked, as an afterthought, "Did Mr. Hobbs phone you today?"
Maybe this was from before Hobbs had reached me, I thought, maybe he was not deliberately trying to portray me as a delinquent
slut unfit for the neighborhood, while shaming me at the same time in front of my husband's work colleagues. Maybe . . . ?
Doug nodded. Today He still wouldn't make eye contact. I understood that it was part of Doug's tangled and waterlogged fate
to share this neighborhood with writers and artists and Vietnamese people when he was, simply, Doug. He just wanted everyone
to go away. His wife, with her brittle snip-snapping about not stepping on the tulips, his bouncy children, the dead bodies,
the breast-feeding neighbors with collection agents on their case. As I perceived it, Doug wanted to relive the successful
part of his life that had taken place in a garage somewhere with Aerosmith and a car. Over and over, he wanted this, like
the movie Groundhog Day, but played out as a fantasy rather than a cautionary tale.
I took the number, thanked Doug, and retreated inside. I phoned Mr. Hobbs and flared with outrage that he had done what he'd
done. Was he insane? Had the rules of civilized conduct changed? Mr. Hobbs calmly passed me over to his manager, proforma.
You could tell he did it all the time. And as God, the sleeping Geoffrey, and Ambrose are my witnesses, this woman, his manager,
dressed me down with such fervor and vitriol that I felt like a suspect in serial homicide.
"Don't you ever, EVER, talk to one of my employees that way," she bellowed.
"Your employee called my neighbor!" I protested.
"My employees are professionals who do whatever is required to make people like you honor your outstanding debts." People
like me. I was a mother in a bathrobe and detachable bra flaps.
"You are to MARCH down to the nearest Money Mart," she commanded, "do you understand? And WIRE the entire amount that you
owe, RIGHT NOW."
I tried to argue with her, but she interrupted me with verbal thumps against my chest. "Do you want to go to JAIL? Is that
it? Do you want to go to JAIL?"
Berated and screamed at until I finally capitulated, I left the baby with Ambrose and obediently went off to wire the full
amount I owed to the collection agency from a nearby Money Mart, only later confirming that nothing like that— NOTHING— was
mandated under Ontario law. You do, in fact, get to send a check by snail mail. You do not, in fact, face the prospect of
imprisonment for doing so.
I have never hated anyone in my entire life as vehemently as I hated Mr. Hobbs and his army-issue boss. For weeks I plotted
my revenge, a la Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. But ultimately, there was very little that I could do, other than file a complaint with the relevant government ministry.
Instead, I signed up for a course, entitled "How to Hide Your Assets and Disappear."
It's not the government
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