Who’s Next, the Wet Bandits?

I was supposed to be home alone this winter. On December 20–the same day I flew to Toronto for my cruelly abortive Christmas holidays–my surrogate mother flew to Phoenix to stay with her daughter/my landlord (my sister?). When I helped her with her luggage I noticed an unusual amount of child’s toys in her living room; the amount was particularly unusual since…well, since my surrogate mother is seventy-seven years old. Sure enough, when I got back into Calgary, Charging Chub, his mother and (potentially) a random dude had all moved in upstairs.

Again, I shouldn’t be surprised…well, apart from the fact my landlord assured me it’d just be me and her “little old mom” in the house. She never mentioned her family; she certainly didn’t warn me about the possibility of finding a random dude smoking on my stoop on a Saturday night. (Our entire exchange: me, “Hi!”; him, *grunt*.) Tonight, meanwhile, Charging Chub is living up to his billing: from the sounds of it, he’s overdosed on Ritalin (while the living room floor continues to rumble like an unmuffled bass drum). Again, I’m not complaining; it’s kind of fun having them around. I just feel I should’ve been warned is all. Finding random dudes on your stoop might’ve been kosher in the Queen’s Ghetto; it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that’s supposed to happen in the real world.


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