When he showed up at my front door, it was hard to take him seriously. He was an older man, on the far side of sixty. He told me he had a claim on my house, despite possessing no paperwork, no proof. He certainly didn’t have the deed—that was up in my bedroom, behind a wall safe. But the man had something I did not: a weapon. A handgun, to be precise.
“I’ll call the police,” I threatened.
“I am the police,” said the man, who was wearing blue jeans and a Ralph Lauren polo.
Taking his bluster as bluff, I did, in fact, call the police. To my horror, the man’s pocket began to buzz. With a sly smile, he removed a phone from his jeans, placed it against his ear. I spoke an unsteady, “Hello?” into my own device, only to hear my voice echo from the man’s phone. Feeling sick, I ended the call.
At gunpoint, I took the stranger on a tour of his new property. Except for the weapon at my back, he was quite pleasant. And why shouldn’t he have been, given his sudden inheritance? Following the tour, he lowered his gun. “I am a fair man,” he said. “You may live in the basement, for a small monthly fee.”
And so it came to pass that I became a renter within my own home.
* * *
The next morning, I woke on the couch in the basement, wondering if I had dreamed it all. But there was a pleasant odor coming from upstairs. No dream I’d ever known included the smell of eggs and bacon.
“There are going to be some rules here,” said the man, as soon as I passed through the basement door. He was seated at the kitchen table, wearing a burgundy nightgown over striped flannel pajamas. The nightgown was cinched at the waist. Using my own china, he had prepared me a plate, on which sat a child-sized portion of eggs and bacon.
“You will never use the upstairs bathroom,” said the man, forking his eggs. “Not even if I’m gone. You should buy a mini fridge for the basement, as you will not be storing any food in the kitchen. Your car is now mine, and I may need you to give me a tutorial on it later today, so please don’t leave the house. And there will be absolutely zero music after nine p.m. Sound good?”
It was at the end of this list that his nightgown happened to flap open, revealing the handgun in the waist of his pajama bottoms.
“Uh… yes,” I stammered.
“Great. So tell me about this place,” said the man, between chews.
“My great-grandfather built it,” I said.
“Very nice. The craftsmanship is superb. Not that cardboard shit they build today.”
“I feel fortunate to have inherited it,” I said.
The man nodded. “I feel the same way.”
“So where are you from?” I asked.
The man gave a small smile. “Never you mind. Let’s just say there was some trouble brewing, and I had to get out.”
“And how did you end up here? Why my house?”
“Well, just look at it!” he exclaimed.
“Right,” I said.
I took a bite.
“What should I call you?” I asked the man.
“Kevin,” he said. “The name’s Kevin.”
* * *
Would you believe that I got used to it? To living with this complete stranger? To sleeping in my own basement? To Kevin’s noise curfew? Even to the walking?
It took time, certainly. For the first week, I was rabid with anger, though I suppressed it in Kevin’s presence. Who was this criminal, who had walked off the street and taken from me a lifetime—several lifetimes—of hard work? But the basement was cool in the summer, and I slept well on the couch. And Kevin continued to feed me, albeit smaller portions than I was used to. (Combined with the walking, I subsequently lost weight.) I had less of everything, but my life did not feel smaller, per say. It was actually kind of nice to be free of responsibility, for a change.
At first, and despite his denial, I still figured Kevin’s arrival at my house had something to do with me, personally. But that proved not to be the case. Indeed, weeks passed, and he showed no interest in me, whatsoever. Of course I had my chores—mowing the lawn; cleaning the gutters—but for the most part, he let me be. It was not a terrible existence. True, it was not the life I had earned, and it was not the life I wanted. But it remained a life worth living, and I feel I would have become content with it, had things continued on in the same way.
But life is not static. Change is inevitable. And once again, it began with a knock.
* * *
“What do you want?” said Kevin, standing at the open doorway, eyes narrowed.
Out beyond the porch, raindrops exploded against the street.
“This house, of course,” said the stranger—a middle aged man in a yellow slicker.
“Well, it’s not for sale,” said Kevin.
The stranger opened his raincoat to reveal a shotgun.
“Oh,” said Kevin. “In that case, let me give you a tour.”
“Yes, that would be nice,” said the stranger.
While I remained in the kitchen, Kevin led the man around the first floor, and then up the stairs. For several minutes, I heard their footfalls above my head. Then I heard a gunshot. I sprinted up the stairs and into my old bedroom. Kevin was there, his handgun still pointed at the stranger, who lay unmoving on the ground.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Kevin. He prodded the bleeding corpse with a toe, then looked to me. “The nerve of some people, huh?”
