Magical Thinking (12 page)

“So are you going to fire her?” I asked him.

“Oh, no. I’m enjoying her too much. She’s become my hobby.”

As the weeks passed, I became consumed with work. They handed me an additional account, on top of the three I already had. Now, I truly had no time for myself. I couldn’t even pick up my dry cleaning because they were always closed when I came home at ten. And I was working every weekend, too.

I became more and more dependent on Debby. An extra day here. A new errand there. Gradually, cunningly, she had wormed her way from “housecleaner” to “personal assistant” all the way to “psychological crutch.”

It started with the closet. One Sunday when I came home from work expecting her to be gone, she was still there. “If you gave me some money, I could really transform this closet. I could super-organize it, and you’d have so much more room. I could install a storage system where you could keep your shoes, your socks, your bills, and paperwork.” She outlined a dazzling wire shelving plan that was sure to simplify my life.

“How much?” I asked. I was quite familiar with her ways by now. We’d worked out a very specific cleaning routine, and if it deviated by so much as one extra glass, I would pay. With Debby, everything came at a price. Tighten up those annoying doorknobs? Thirty dollars. Have that slip-covered sofa repaired? Two hundred twenty. You know, freezers need to be defrosted: fifty dollars, please. And I was buying enough
salt
each month (“Works wonders on mold!”) to seize the heart of every retired snowbird in Florida.

Debby looked at the closet, then back at me. “I checked. The system I have in mind is four hundred and change. I figure it’ll take me two days to install it and then get all your belongings put away. Let’s call it an even six hundred.”

“Fine.”

“Done.”

And she was gone.

A week later, I was out six hundred dollars, but I knew where my shoes were.

By this time, I was using Debby to take care of all the day-today tasks that a person normally takes care of himself, with the exception of wiping my ass. But how long before I was paying her for that, too? And what would she charge?

All the extra money from my raise was going to her and then some. And what did I have to show for it? A very small, half-clean apartment, minus one chair, which Debby said broke when she tried to stand on it. And which I suspect she smashed intentionally.

“I could help you find a larger apartment,” Debby told me one Sunday. “You’ve outgrown this space. Face it: you’re gonna need more suits, and with all the travel you do, you’re gonna need more luggage.”

My apartment
was
too small, and in the back of my mind, I’d been toying with the idea of looking for something larger. The trouble was, I didn’t even have time to check the paper for listings, so there’s no way I could actually look for an apartment. Where would I find the time?

If nothing else, Debby had time. And for a little extra money, Debby’s time could be mine, split with Brad of course.

So in two weeks, she was twelve hundred dollars richer, and I had the lease for a one-bedroom apartment on a tree-lined street in the West Village.

“But Debby, I really don’t want to live in the West Village,” I told her.

“Of course you do,” she said. “It’s a beautiful area, and it’s on your subway line. No, you should absolutely be in the West Village. Besides, it’s a done deal. There’s no backing out now. Sign the lease, Augusten.”

I wanted to tell her to find me a place in the East Village or uptown somewhere. But I was afraid of her. I felt kidnapped. I signed the lease.

Then there was the problem of moving and packing and unpacking. “The moving company packs everything,” I told Debby. She’d offered to pack my apartment herself for a thousand dollars to make sure nothing got broken. “Moving companies are notorious,” she warned. “They break everything, especially the Jews, who are really sloppy. You should really have me do it.” But
I couldn’t afford to have her do it. As it was, I was living paycheck to paycheck.

But she did talk me into letting her
unpack
the new apartment. I was going to fly to L.A. in a week to shoot a contact lens commercial, and we decided she would use this week to put my life back together. Although I wondered, how will she know how to arrange the furniture? Where to put everything?

Ours had become a complicated relationship. I was dependent on her, and she knew it. She was a swindler, and knew that I knew.

“How much?”

“Nine hundred, and I’ll have everything unpacked and put away.”

We decided that I would simply leave nine hundred dollars in cash on top of a box in the living room. When I got home, I’d be able to relax in my new apartment on a tree-lined street in the West Village, where I never wanted to live.

By now, Debby had her own set of keys to my old apartment, so before I left for L.A., she needed a set to the new place. I was tempted to deny her and take my first step toward freedom. Only I didn’t have the chance. When I handed her the set of keys I had made she said, “Oh, I already got mine. Actually, I kept the originals and gave you the copies I had made. See? I think of everything.”

“Yes, Debby. You do.”

“That reminds me, actually,” she said. “I need twelve dollars for the keys.”

Actually, it turned out to be a good thing that Debby had keys. I was running late on the morning I was supposed to leave for L.A. Because all my stuff was still in boxes, I had to tear everything open to find what I needed for the trip. Checking my watch, I saw that if I didn’t leave, I was going to miss my flight. So I carefully fanned nine hundred dollars in cash on top of the largest box in the living room. I slung my bag over my shoulder and grabbed the
doorknob. It came off in my hand. The knob on the other side of the door fell to the hallway floor outside my apartment.

Surprised, I poked my finger through the hole that remained in the door and tried to pull the door toward me. It didn’t budge. I was trapped in my apartment.

This seemed so impossible that I laughed. Surely, I could not be locked inside my apartment.

But the door wouldn’t budge.

And I was going to be late.

But there was a fire escape. I’d never used one before, but it had to be easy because even drunk squatters were supposed to be able to save themselves.

So I opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape, wondering if this was really going to work or if I was going to fall to my death.

But actually, it did work. I was able to climb down to the bottom of the fire escape, where I then had to unhook the ladder extension to make it all the way to the ground. The iron was rusty, and I worried that I might cut myself and then get tetanus. Then I was on the sidewalk. The trouble was, I couldn’t get the ladder extension back up in place. And my window was open. Anybody could now just hop up onto the ladder and climb into my apartment. There would be nine hundred dollars fanned out on a box waiting for them.

On the corner was a lesbian bar with a pay phone. I used the pay phone to call Debby and explain the situation.

“I’ll be right there. Ten minutes, tops,” she said, almost breathless with excitement, like an E.M.T. Then in a calmer, more lyrical voice she added, “What would you do without me?”

Have a beer blast.

When I returned from L.A. my apartment was unpacked, and everything had been arranged according to Debby. She’d even
hung my pictures on the wall at waist height. Then on the kitchen counter was a note: “Welcome home Augusten. As you can see, your new home is beautiful. Unfortunately, I greatly underestimated the amount of time it would take to assemble the apartment. In fact, I underestimated by exactly half. Therefore, I will require another nine hundred dollars (in cash) at your earliest convenience. See you Sunday!!!!! Debby.”

I was horrified. She’d arranged my furniture only to allow for the wide sweep of her mop and not with any aesthetic eye. The table, the sofa, and the coffee table were all lined up against one wall, creating a large expanse of bare floor in the center of the room. Against the opposite wall were the two other living-room chairs and an end table. It looked something like a reception area. And on top of this, she wanted twice the amount we agreed on.

I was about to sit on the sofa to think when I saw a hair. It was a long, brown Debby hair. And the sofa cushions themselves were dented in such a way that I could almost see the outline of her body. As though she’d been napping.

And suddenly, it seemed clearer to me than any window Debby ever polished: she was taking advantage of me. And I’d been allowing it. She was drinking a bottle of cheap white wine at my apartment every Sunday. She was taking naps on my sofa. She was cleaning only the lower portion of the apartment. And now she wanted more money?

“Brad, what should I do?”

Brad sighed into the phone. “Well, I think you’ve let her take over your life. And you need to create a boundary.”

“How?

“Fire her sorry ass.”

“Yeah, but—” I stopped. Could I fire her? Was it just that simple? Was I actually the one in control? “Can I just do that? Fire her?”

Brad chuckled into the phone. “Sure you can. Tell you what.
I’ll fire her, too. We’ll both fire her, and that’ll make the blow even harder.”

In many ways, Brad was such an excellent friend. If I ever needed somebody to drive the getaway car, I knew I could count on him.

“Okay, I’ll call her now. And then are you gonna call her?”

“No,” Brad said. “No, I think I’ll make more of a game of it. Maybe I’ll bake some laxative brownies and then fire her when she’s home on the toilet, calling in sick.”

I didn’t have the passion to play any more games with Debby. I just wanted her gone. After I hung up with Brad, I called her. “Listen Debby, we have a problem.” I was furious, so my voice was firm and authoritative.

“Yes we do,” she countered. “You owe me money and I’d like it.”

I was shocked by her own tone of voice, which was angry, demanding. “I just walked in the door five minutes ago, Debby.”

“I checked your flight information. You got home last night, plenty of time to call me up so I could get my money.”

“I had to take a later flight,” I said. And then thought, she checked my flight arrangements?

I said, “You’re fired, Debby. I won’t be needing you anymore. I’d like my keys back.”

“You cocksucking faggot,” she shouted. “You can’t fire me.”

“I sure as shit can, you ugly fucking midget. Send me back my keys, you granny-cunt.”

“Go to hell,” she screamed and hung up.

Debby had to die.

First, her grandchildren had to be killed in a fiery car crash, and then she must slip under the Eighth Avenue bus.

I called a twenty-four-hour locksmith and had them change my locks. It cost me three hundred dollars but this was three hundred dollars I was happy to spend. Debby was now locked out of my life.

But it didn’t take her long to discover what I had done, and she began calling me nonstop and leaving venomous messages on my machine. “You spoiled, lazy, gay cocksucker. You give me my fucking money.”

I changed my phone number and had it unlisted.

A week later, a summons appeared. Debby was suing me in small-claims court. I was to appear before a judge in two weeks.

Although I was editing my contact-lens commercial and would be working very late for the next month, there was no way I wouldn’t show up for that meeting. Luckily, I’d always paid Debby with checks. Debby always wanted cash, but I never gave it to her. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to go to the ATM,” I always said, which was true. “Next time,” I always promised. As a result, I had a record of all the money that I’d paid her, with the exception of the last nine hundred dollars I’d left in cash on top of the box. Hard evidence.

When the date arrived, I saw Debby waiting on a bench outside the judge’s chambers. She was dressed in a suit, her hair in a bun. She looked, for the first time, like a possible grandmother.

We didn’t speak, but I smiled at her. I smiled because I was carrying a briefcase filled with receipts and check stubs.

When we got in front of the judge, I was relieved to see that he was tall. Even though he was sitting behind his desk, I could tell. He was a handsome, tall grandfather, wise and calm. Surely, he would side with me against the evil troll.

Debby outlined her case against me. She claimed that we agreed on a fee of eighteen hundred dollars to unpack my apartment and that I only paid her half and she was due the other half.

I presented my evidence against her. Checks, signed receipts from Debby herself. The judge examined the receipts and he said, “You’ve paid this woman twelve thousand dollars? Over the past eight months? Just to clean your apartment?”

Then he looked at Debby. “I don’t see what your case is, Ma’am. This man has paid you to clean his apartment, and he’s paid you quite a lot of money. Do you have any proof that he owes you money?”

She was furious and defeated. “No,” she said.

The judge then said, “Well, you need to prepare yourself a little better. I’ll give you a month to pull your case together.”