"Liberated Luggage" -- Fictionalized Memoir

I'd like to dedicate this first post to my new house-mate who suggested this play on words to me this morning over a cup of coffee that she so lovingly brewed for me. We were discussing my previous living arrangements and the corresponding landlord who was my self-appointed surrogate mother for the past 3 months. After graduating from College this past spring, I was ready to get out into the world, and like most college graduates, was looking for some shortcuts and simple solutions to various quandaries. For instance, "where is my income originating from?" and "where will I hang my proverbial hat?" A few weeks before my final term was over, I spoke with a woman who I had met at school who willingly offered me a room in her home until I could find another arrangement. Seeing this as a sign (although, possibly from Satan, in hindsight), I accepted her offer within the next few days and moved in immediately after graduation. The following months become a fantastic blur of unbelievable antics and stories that most will laugh at. However, as a participant, I spent most of my time on the other side of the emotional divide. I struggled trying to understand how this woman's mind functioned and I often found myself feeling helpless against her relentlessly unrealistic behavior. I also had to subject my poor, good-natured boyfriend to this woman and her horribly unkempt house (a travesty of justice that I may never forgive myself for). So one thing led to another, as most situations usually do, and I found myself alone in her house for three weeks with a 67-year-old woman named Joan, a very jealous feline named Sandy, and Alfie the black Labrador who looked like he needed lots of love and a bath... or four.

This all sounds very interesting to you, I'm sure. Otherwise you wouldn't still be reading along, I suppose. So where does the "Liberated Luggage" come into the picture? Well, we'll get there eventually.

So, here we all are: a house full of misfits all tied together by one particularly-insane woman who is off gallivanting around Europe with her mother and child in tow. We all felt the burn of her neglect. The dog and cat wore it on their fur, while Joan and I had to rely on more verbal methods to convey our slighted anger. With three weeks to cultivate relationships with my new housemates, I set to work, giving each one the love and attention that seemed impossible when the landlord had been home.

The first chance I had, Alfie got a bath; probably one more than he had ever gotten in his entire life. We took a walk into the backyard and I tied him to the dog run, expecting barking and jumping about after the first jets of water broke through the thick membrane of dirt that covered his mangy body. However, the entire affair seemed to remain mellow and calm. As the clear water ran through his fur, eventually dripping down to the grass in streams of brown, Alfie stood with a still air of grateful serenity. I shampooed once, then rinsed. I shampooed again, and rinsed. He even waited until I was out of splashing range before shaking all of the water from his fur. We were both quite pleased.

Back in the house, Joan gleamed down at the animal she had once detested for his uncontrollable shabbiness. She was generally pleased to be able to show the poor animal a little affection. She was on her way out for a night of dancing (something she did quite often) at a near by restaurant, but asked if I would like to have dinner with her the following night. I knew the perfect place.

It was Tuesday and after getting home from a long day at work, I freshened up before meeting Joan for our night out. Everything about the night put me at ease. I have always felt a terrific sense of loss because of the early deaths of all four of my grandparents. I have always valued the friendships I have created with older generations, but Joan was particularly reminiscent of my maternal grandmother. Something in her sensibility, perhaps. I brought her to a charming Italian restaurant in the neighboring town and although she wears an Irish facade, Joan's Italian roots dug deeply into a menu that called her back into her own grandmother's kitchen. We ordered a full meal, from drinks to dessert, leaving nothing but the tiniest scraps in our wake. We chose a carafe of house Chianti and loved how much more at home it made the table seem. A few minutes later and we were devouring the tastiest fried calamari I have ever had. She noticed after half the plate was gone that I had steered clear of the tentacles. I'm a visual eater and tentacles have never sat well with me. She was glad to hear it as the tentacles were her favorite part.

At this point, the conversation was in full swing. I told her about my boyfriend and my plans for the future. She told me about her daughters and raising them without a husband. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but in the three hours that we sat chatting like timeless souls who had known each other for lifetimes, I came to discover something within myself that had been out of reach for ages. There are no words for it, but I can feel it, and I am glad.

The weeks carried on and everyone in the house fell into a pleasant harmony with one another. Joan and I had many late night conversations as if we were two twelve-year-old girls having a sleepover. Alfie and Sandy got along much better once Alfie stopped scratching and shedding everywhere - Sandy was a little put off as well. Sandy would meander into my room from time to time, occasionally hopping onto my bed for extended back scratches. It seems that everything was as it should be.

But like all moments, ours was coming to an end. The owner of the house would be home in a few days and the weight of her impending return hung heavy over us all. We had been brought together and we had all done our fair share of kicking and screaming towards the beginning, but all of that lifted when the house was left to us for those few weeks. It was a time that brought lessons for Joan and I. Time to appreciate the simple friendships and moments that we are blessed with, even if only for a short while.

When our landlord came home, the rooms filled with all of the animosity and caution that she inspired with one glance. I noticed as she walked through the door that she had nothing in her arms but her four-year-old son. I offered my assistance with bringing in any baggage she might have in the car, but she informed me that the airline had lost their suitcases. They would most likely be returned within a week.

I moved into my new apartment the following day and sank with relief into my acquired queen-size bed that came with the room. There is something about the newness of a place that cleanses a worn body and mind. I took in the room, drank in the colors of the wall paper and loved them for their gentle simplicity. The octagonal room resided at the top of the house's tower, placed neatly to one side in the quaint sort of way that embodies the word "home."

Two weeks later I received an email from my old landlord. I had left some items at her house. I drove back up her street and pulled into the driveway. The house appeared to be empty but the door was usually unlocked. Alfie's body was being pulled back and forth by the wagging of his tail as I opened the front door. I collected my belongings and said my goodbyes to Alfie whose face broke my heart as I closed the door that last time.

As I was getting into my car, I saw the owner's car pull up next to mine. We exchanged a very brief, strained conversation and parted ways.

Her luggage is still missing.

Personally, I think the luggage is much better off.