I got all shook up by that Tribune series about people Moving Out of Chicago–all those boldfaced quotes from people who say things like “The Schools Stink” or “You Can’t Live in a Nice House” or “Garbage and Rats! Crime and Noise!” Gee, I thought, will I be the last one here? Will I be responsible for turning off the light?
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I’m celebrating the loss of Charlie, a thin white balding man headed toward 40 and California. He showed up at our door one evening over Labor Day weekend. Usually we’re in Canada, swimming and fishing and sailing and drinking too much. But we didn’t go this year: we had a new baby and we were too tired to go on vacation. This is a dangerous state of affairs for any household and really, for a while, there should have been a Mere Lunatique warning posted on the front door. But back to Charlie. The doorbell rang, the dog barked, and like any Pavlovian creature, I answered it.
I do. (Usually the next question is: Do you have any space to rent? I don’t, and you’ll soon see why.)
I left it here ten years ago, with the former owner of your building.
Why didn’t you try to find me, he asks. (Note to Charlie: see President Clinton’s speech on individual responsibility.) Luckily one of my kids starts to howl so I excuse myself and tell Charlie to call. We’re listed in the book, always have been.
I say it’s abandoned, he says it’s stolen. (From where?) Officer Inmyface brandishes the title and commands me to open up the garage and release the vehicle. But somewhere in the back of my overtired brain I recall seventh-grade social studies, home is your castle, unreasonable searches, and whatnot. This is not a police state, so I say no. I start to head back into my castle and Officer Misinformed tells me I can’t: that he’ll arrest me for something or other if I go inside.
