THE BOY NEXT DOOR: CHAPTER SIX OF UNDERCOVER

I’m sitting with my legs crossed, laptop and lap desk resting on my lap. It is dark outside, and my dogs are barking off and on, each bark bringing a startle response from my already nervous emotions. Would a normal person be this frightened? How would I know? Would a normal person be more frightened than this? Again, I don’t know. I have locked myself up inside my house tonight with the burglar alarm activated.

It happened in late September, in fact it was the day before my birthday. I was outside feeding Ginger, my Golden Retriever female, and bringing her water. She was greeting me with heavy breath, and both paws extended through the wire kennel, from where she stood. She was panting, and on her hind legs, begging for attention. As I patted her head, talking baby talk to my pet, I noticed someone coming through the bushes.

It all seemed innocent enough at the time. My neighbor’s son approached, asking me where my yard ended because he was weed whacking his mother’s lawn. I asked him if he’d be interested in doing mine as well, and offered to pay him to do so. After he suggested a fee that seemed much too low, I offered one that was still considerably lower than my last estimate had been, but higher than his own, and the amount was agreed upon. I hurried off to the gym for a workout, not sure the yard would ever be done.

I returned home several hours later to find my neighbor hard at work, and the front yard all but completed. He also appeared to be doing a much more thorough job than the professional lawn service I had used the month before, and at much less cost. It wasn’t what I would have expected based on my knowledge of my neighbor’s sons.

As a Certified Substance Abuse Professional, it is not uncommon for people to solicit advice and help from me concerning their friends and family members who suffer from addiction. In this case, a neighbor whom I actually did not know very well, shared with me her concern about her four sons. According to my recollection of the story, her sons were dealing and using drugs, addicted to heroin, and had recently been arrested for possession with intent to distribute. It wasn’t something I spent much time thinking about, however, I must admit my ADT security alarm system provided a great deal of comfort when I considered the possible consequences of having four practicing heroin addicts next door.

It was obvious the young man was not using heroin. Remembering I had advised my neighbor to have her sons ask for drug treatment and probation in lieu of time in prison, I assumed he had opted for a program of recovery. He was most likely busy trying to rebuild his life. His response to my question about what he usually did for a living was typical of drug users, or those in early recovery. He responded, “I work here and there, doing odd jobs.”

After a few minutes of light conversation, I returned to my work of completing a case narrative for a client I had assessed the day before. I returned to my back porch from time to time, however, to watch the progress being made on my yard. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was actually getting my front and back yard weed whacked for less than I had previously paid for only the front yard, and the job being done was far superior.

When I commented on what a good job he was doing, I also mentioned my bathroom was in very bad shape, and in need of repair. I suggested he might want to look at it, and provide me with an estimate of how much he might charge me to repair it. I told him he might need to wait until I could afford to have it done, because money was in short supply. I also complained, as I have done many times to my own family, that I was ashamed to entertain or have anyone visit due to the condition of my bathroom.

It wasn’t that I was unaware of the risks involved in allowing a recovering heroin addict into one’s home. I know all about people who observe your belongings in order to come back later when you are absent, and know in advance what is there for the taking. The fact is, I desperately wanted to have my bathroom repaired, was quoted a very low price by the young man on my yard work, and assumed he might also be willing to complete repairs to my bathroom for less. He did not appear to be using heroin, and I have an ADT Security Alarm System activated when I am not at home. So when this young man came knocking, I answered the door with no hesitation.

He might have asked for water. I can’t remember. I know he asked to use my telephone. He ended up sitting in my pink velvet rocker with a wooden frame, holding my cordless in one hand. I asked if he would like a Diet Coke, because it seemed the polite thing to do. We engage in light conversation, a rare pleasure for me, because I am an older woman living alone. I seldom have guests, and even my own family does not call on me often. I do not invite people into my home, because I am ashamed of the condition of the house, especially the bathroom. But a freshly recovering addict who does not have a job could not expect much, so there is no threat of shame in this encounter. A poor lady who has only two computers, and two very old TV sets that could be resold, also experiences little fear of being robbed, especially with the presence of an ADT Security Alarm System in the home when she is away.

“Who is your boyfriend?” he asked.

I am surprised, and a little uncomfortable with the question. It never occurred to me a young man in his twenties or thirties would be interested in knowing whom I might be seeing. I tell myself that certainly, he is not thinking of me as a potential sexual partner! I am squirming, and feeling very awkward at the moment. I no longer know how to handle sexual advances. The truth is I haven’t had to deal with sexual advances in years, because I have succeeded in isolating myself from anybody from whom they might come. The presence of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome brings about many changes in one’s life.

I don’t know how to answer the question, and it is a simple one. I am suddenly ashamed of my aloneness, the fact that I have avoided all things sexual for years. To say I don’t have a boyfriend is to tell him I am available, that I am vulnerable, neither of which I want to be. I answer his question with a question of my own.

“Which one?” I ask, knowing I am avoiding the question, and that my response is not a good one. I am middle aged, live alone, and every neighbor I have, probably knows there have been no visitors.

“That’s what I always say,” he retorts, and adds, “Don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining.”

I’m feeling like a caged animal, all over a simple question. I don’t want to tell this near stranger I haven’t been alone with a heterosexual man in years. I don’t want to admit I am fearful of seduction, shame and humiliation at the hands of a man who is probably only half my age. He doesn’t need to know any of this. How do I get him out of my house without being rude? I change the subject, but the tension is now so great it could be cut with a knife.

The conversation continues, and I begin flicking the remote control of my television set like a man would do. We’re watching CNN, MSNBC, Headline News, Fox News; we’re really not watching any of these news stations. I feel awkward, so I make a comment about the remote control.

“See,” I explain, “since he’s not here, I have to do the remote control.” I know we probably both know there is no he to be here, that it is a weak statement betraying my level of vulnerability, and discomfort. How do I get him out of my house, and restore my previous level of security and comfort?

He asks for the remote, and I turn it over, hoping this does not in any way indicate I am giving him control of the situation. I haven’t felt this awkward in years. He flicks the TV remote to some music station, and asks me what my favorite type of music is, a sure sign the visit is going somewhere I don’t want it to go. How do I stop it? I’ve got to do something different from what I did years ago, or end up in bed with a guy young enough to be my son. And it is not as if I can just not go back to this club, because his mother owns the home next door to mine.

The conversation gets more relaxed, flowing into a narrative about a gay male friend who is a mutual acquaintance of ours, and I am sharing that I knew he was gay a long time before he revealed it to me verbally. I am saying I often saw his mate at the house, and never saw a woman there. I share that the man visited me often, and provided me with computer assistance at no charge. Then bam. Here it comes again.

“Of course, you knew he was gay,” he says with a sly smile. “Any man who comes over here, and never asks you if you have a boyfriend, or makes a move on you, has to be gay. You have pretty blue eyes and a nice smile, so how could a man who wasn’t gay keep coming over here, and not make a move on you?”

My body reacted immediately. My emotions ran cold. I was somewhere between wanting him to stay, and fearing he might. I honestly wanted to believe I was every bit as attractive as he was insisting was the case, but suspected I was being seduced for some other reason, and couldn’t possibly look as attractive to this young guy as he would have me believe. What was he after? Would I be found dead in a ditch next week with my computers missing from my home? One thing was for sure. I had to get him out of my house, and return to my previous level of physical and emotional stability.

He asks to see my laptop for a minute, and I allow him to do so. That’s it. My laptop. I’ve got work to do. The younger me would have been honest about my fear of seduction. Bad mistake. I can tell the truth, and lie at the same time.

“I’m going to have to kick you out of my house,” I say, hoping I am not being offensive, and hoping he will also leave promptly. “I’ve promised a caseworker to have a case narrative completed by tomorrow, and will need to get up early to do it.”

It was much easier than anticipated. He agreed to leave, but asked me if I had twenty dollars of his money so he could purchase gasoline. I explained that I never keep cash on hand, but could write him a check. I asked myself, just what I was doing in my home with a man, to whom I wanted it made quite clear I never carried cash. He agreed to accept a check as payment for his work.

Clumsily I grabbed my checkbook, and wrote a check for the total amount of the fee with a somewhat trembling hand I hoped only I noticed. At his request, I jotted down my Blackberry phone number so he could reach me via phone about the work he planned to do in my bathroom. He coded the number into his cell phone. Then it occurred to me if he had a cell phone, why was he asking to use my landline? The front door scraped against the floor as he was leaving, and he offered to fix that too, but finally left with continued prompting, wearing a sheepish grin. I was alone and safe, but feeling restless, and more affected by the ordeal than I thought appropriate. Also associations related to my past were causing me to desire him, and not to feel safe at the same time. Damn those associations, all one million and one of them.

I am having uncomfortable thoughts about whether or not I could still perform sexually, and wishing I was younger, or that the feelings would go away. I am imagining what it would feel like to be touched by this young man, to experience a young man’s desire for the first time in years, something I had believed was no longer possible. But no, I tell myself my level of desire is not that strong, and is inappropriate. It will dissolve in time. I would feel embarrassed about fantasizing over a former heroin addict, and drug dealer, who is young enough to be my son, even if no one else knew about it. The truth is I don’t want to give in to this particular thought, not even in the privacy of my own fantasy.

The next day his car is not in his driveway, but it bothers me that I notice. Is that all it takes to send me into a tailspin? Its obvious to me the only reason my behavior has changed for the better is because I have become too old to be attractive to men, and have hidden away and avoided all temptation. If I were young enough to be attractive, I would be up to my same old behavior, and with dire consequences. No relationship ever lasted. All were unhealthy, usually drug induced, and some were downright dangerous. And if I think seduction was deadly for a young woman, how much worse could it be now? I shouldn’t even allow myself to think such thoughts, I tell myself. How can I transform this chance encounter into a comfortable rewarding friendship, the details of which I can share with his mother?

It is Saturday morning. Two days and a night have passed since I kicked the young man out of my home. I am at Ginger’s kennel again, and he yells out at me from the window of his mother’s house, and approaches the shelter of my porch. The discomfort of the previous night is no longer with me. It is entertaining to converse with him during the day, and I enjoy doing so. I enjoy the flattery of actually being pursued by such a youthful testosterone embodied individual, and tell myself the flirtation is harmless.

He tells me I smell nice, and I inform him he is indeed imagining things because I am not even wearing any cologne, but he comes back with another thinly veiled sexually loaded comment. “I’m imagining a lot of things,” he says, and jumps up on the wooden rail surrounding my porch. He has abandoned his weed whacking of the yard to be closer to me. I’m feeling bashful. The sexual tension is intense, and I’m at a loss for words. I no longer like the feeling. As the older woman, I should be in control of the situation.

“Hey, why’d you give me a fake phone number the other night?” he said, standing on the rail, beginning to knock leaves from the drain of my back porch.

“I didn’t give you a fake phone number,” I insisted. “That’s the kind of thing you do to someone you meet in a club, and won’t see again. Your mother has a home next door to mine. It’s not like you don’t know where I live. “

“I called that number twice, and got some black man.”

I decided to make a joke of it. I knew I had not intentionally given him the wrong number.

“Well, you were asking who my boyfriend was,” I laughed. “Now you know.”

He was insistent.

“No, this sounded like an old black man, and he let me have it for waking him up.”

“Well, variety is the spice of life,” I teased, but he was having none of it. He stood there expecting a real explanation.

“I must have wanted you out of my house really badly,” I joked, but at the same time I knew I was also telling the truth. The situation had been awkward, and my resulting feelings were still causing me some embarrassment.

“Why?” He prodded, and it felt as if he could read my mind.

“Because I had work to do,” I lied, but not without blushing. “Look here,” I insisted, “I did not knowingly give you the wrong phone number. If I did so, it was by accident.”

I had been nervous and distracted. No doubt I had written down the wrong phone number, and my night had gone downhill from there. I had been unable to stop thinking of this person about whom I knew little. He had actually been in my life for a very short time, and had made little effort to place himself there. I was obsessing about a stranger who was much too young, totally inappropriate, and possibly even dangerous. This was all too familiar. It was the same emotional behavior I had experienced years ago, but I had thought all that had changed.

“You can’t get any work done,” I apologized, “because I am distracting you. You don’t need to start a new job before you even finish the first one.” It was a hint for him to return to his weed whacking task. It was also an attempt to take on the role of boss lady.

I walked away like I believed a “normal” woman of my age would do, but I did not feel at all like a normal woman of my age. I wondered how old I looked in the sunlight, and reminded myself this whole thing was inappropriate. What I needed to do was stay inside, and cease behaving like an old fool. I didn’t know what he wanted from me, but it most assuredly was not my good looks or charm. I needed to get with reality.

When he knocked on my door later that evening, I met him outside, shutting the door behind me, but he showed me a toilet seat he had purchased as a replacement for my broken one, so that not allowing him to enter the house would have felt ungrateful. I knew his motives were questionable, but nothing short of screaming it aloud would have resolved the problem, so he entered the house again, and walked directly to the bathroom. I was aware I was doing just the opposite of what the cop in my last self-defense class had instructed me to do in such situations. According to the cop, I should not have worried about being rude or causing a scene.

I decided that I was overreacting. The man had clearly not raped me yet so there was no reason to believe he was going to do so, and I had the ability to avoid inappropriate behavior by simply not going along with it. He fidgeted in the bathroom, and went to his mother’s house to find a screw. When he returned, he also brought a bottle of wine.

“I’m not drinking that,” I said with certainty. He appeared to ignore my comment, and returned to the bathroom to install the toilet cover. Something about this scenario had a familiar ring. Something about his level of confidence was as if I had experienced it before. After a few moments he responded to my refusal to drink with him.

“Yeah, like I’m really trying hard to get you drunk,” he sneered, suggesting I was being too guarded, and overreacting to a friendly gesture on his part. I blushed, feeling that I was involuntarily going back in time. How many years had it been since I had even heard these types of comments?

Feeling I was desired was seductive and had a magnetic pull; however, in spite of how I might feel, I was aware I was no longer a young woman, nor free to behave as one with a young man. I longed for days past, but it was only a longing, not my reality.

“All I want to know,” he insisted, “is that you are at least thinking the same thing I am thinking, and wanting the same thing I am wanting.” I knew better than to ask him to what he was referring. These were words I had heard before.

“No, not at all,” I lied convincingly, though it was only half true and his persistence was having a profound effect on me. Could I even hope anyone could still find me sexually provocative? Even if that were possible, I knew I would never consent to sexual behavior in such a situation as this one. Nothing good could come from such a union, and there were many negative possibilities.

Should I have found it so amazing that time had stood still for me emotionally? Only my body had grown old. Time, the armed bandit, had robbed me of sensuality and power, and would eventually return for my life. It was the way of our short existence on planet earth. Nevertheless, the young man’s persistence was a cruel reminder. He didn’t have a clue what it felt like to be a woman of my age, and it was best kept that way.

On some level, surely I knew he was a stimulant drug user. I am, after all, a Certified Substance Abuse Counselor. The behavior was all too familiar. I had seen it many times before, only it had been a while, a long while. Most women would not have been attracted to such a person, but this was what I had been accustomed to at a younger age. I had, in fact, ceased being sexual years ago. I had nothing with which to compare his behavior; I had learned nothing new since placing sex on the back burner. In spite of my education and years of sexual abstinence, my sexual associations were still the same. I was still attracted to stimulant using drug dealers around twenty or thirty years of age who behaved inappropriately, and this experience had confirmed it. It was the price paid for becoming involved with them in the first place.

THE BOY NEXT DOOR IS CHAPTER SIX OF UNDERCOVER.  TO READ PREVIOUS CHAPTERS OF THIS NOVEL, PLEASE CLICK THE LINK BELOW:

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