Slightly Cursed

Despite my constant ragging on the state of New Jersey, I do miss my house sometimes. Large and well-maintained, it sat secluded on nearly two and a half acres of entomological nirvana. Aside from the eleventy-billion ticks, most of the insects were harmless. Which is more than I can say for the crazy people who lived across the street.

I never managed to make any friends during our four-year tenure there, but who needs people when you have the internet? The whole, miserable Jersey experience drew me closer to my imaginary playmates. Being socially awkward can really make you appreciate your internet friends. So much so that, upon occasion, I’ve been known to issue open invitations to friends visiting my area.

(Note to Self: Keep track of such open invitations.)

It was three o’clock in the morning, and there I was: climbing around in a maze of boxes, stacked almost six feet high and cluttering up our sun room. Like most people at that time of day, I was also in my underwear. Which was perfectly normal.

I was enjoying the peaceful quiet of my children sleeping when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. Figuring it was nothing more than sleep deprivation, I ignored it. The I saw movement in the yard.

The windows of our sunroom opened to a view of our little forest. All we ever saw back there was the occasional deer hanging around, looking desperate, so I expected to see a terrified steak on legs. Instead, there was a strange man in my yard, and he was waving at me with huge grin his face.

You haven’t lived in New Jersey if you don’t know that someone smiling and waving at you from a forest at three in the morning is crazy dangerous. He moved closer to the window, still waving. Naturally, the situation required that I panic.

Unfortunately for me, I was completely surrounded by boxes. Heavy boxes. My husband had packed them, which pretty much guaranteed that they were probably filled with flesh-melting poisons or sharp, heavy objects. This makes proper panicing more difficult, but I did my best.

Ping-ponging between the stacks of deadly containers and flailing uncontrollably, I vaguely recall seeing the stranger’s face at the window; he looked… concerned. Eventually, I tripped and fell away from the windows, into the hallway.

Naturally, I did not call 911. Instead, I ran upstairs to yell at my husband for being deaf in one ear and stuffing his good one in the pillow, rendering him unable to hear my panicked screams, and thereby putting me in imminent danger through his selfish desire to get some sleep. The bastard.

It took nearly three minutes for his Caveman Gene to kick in. Shoving me aside like any good manly-man would do, he stalked down the stairs to mercilessly confront the happy psycho in our back yard. I followed him so I could make sure he did it right.

With a gutteral scream sure to do any self-respecting alpha-male proud, my husband burst into the back yard with his Maglite. He grunted and made all sorts of primal, ape-like noises, but nobody was there.

“Did somebody just knock on the front door?” No way. It had to be a ruse. The happy psycho was trying to lull us into complacency so he could strike when we least expected it?

“It rubs the lotion on its skin….”

“He’s at the front door! Get it!” I whispered, ineffectively trying to shove my husband toward the front door. I had it all planned out for him. “Blind him with the MagLite and interrogate him; if he freaks out, smack him with it!” He raised an eyebrow at me. I’m not sure why. There was a dangerous criminal out there, and this meant war!

In horror I watched him set the flashlight on the stairs, then calmly walk straight to the door and open it. He didn’t even peek through thehole! What a MAN!

“Hi, Gabor.” My husband smiled and let Happy Psycho inside. Gabor’s from Hungary, and he was one of the Randomly Invited. He’d spent that summer teaching at a youth camp in New York and had several weeks to tour the country before going home. Since he knew we were relatively close-by, he’d decided to pay us a visit.

Using nothing more than a partial address and public transportation, Gabor had somehow managed to find our house in the middle of the night. We’re both still impressed by this.

Then my husband said appreciatively, “That was one amazing bit of navigation.” He liked Gabor; Gabor was an engineering grad student, which meant they spoke the same language.

After giving him a brief lecture on personal safety in places like New Jersey and Detroit, my husband teased him. “Say, did you hear about that Japanese kid who knocked on a door in Texas and got shot?”

“I did! But I was pretty sure you wouldn’t shoot me.” They did some man-bonding while I made coffee.

Then Gabor shot me an enormous grin, turned to my husband and said, “You should have seen her when I waved! I was afraid she was going to really hurt herself.” He went on to describe, in great detail, exactly how ridiculous I looked dangling upside down in a box, thrashing around with my ass in the air while trying to escape.

Gabor stayed with us for more than a week; I still have the towel he left behind (when traveling, always take your towel!). Even though he’d mortified me, Gabor was the best houseguest we’ve ever had. Besides, his fabulous cooking totally made up for scaring me half to death.

His open invitation will never expire.

written by vic