Prologue

1

Throughout my life there have been many Days of Infamy.

The day I asked my teacher to leave her husband and marry me (I was in the second grade).

The day I had my first chest x-ray and thought I had to leave off the gown handed to me when the image was created (how would the x-ray machine be able to see through fabric?), thus embarrassing a male x-ray tech so badly that a female tech returned once I had donned my gown.

The day I was electrocuted (after overindulging in some cannabis laced with something else, I decided I wanted to “taste” electricity, and tried to extract some from a outlet with a fork).

None of those days, though, will ever top the Day They Demolished the Cottage.

2

The Cottage was—for good or ill—my home (with “home” being used in the loosest of terms) for three strange months.

I found myself in need of a new place to hang my hat when I was fired from my job at a worm farm. I took the job at the worm farm after quitting my job at a toupee and false facial hair factory. I took the job at the factory after being dismissed from my position at an incoming call center.

Now, you may be wondering about that bit in the middle, quitting a perfectly good job before falling into employment as a worm farmer.

You would be even more confused if I told you I quit after my first day, despite learning that I had been promoted and would start in a better position the next day. Believe me, the others on the picking line stared daggers through me when they overheard the supervisor telling me this, especially since it meant I would be closer to a water cooler and a bathroom when I returned.

But I never did return. It was the hottest, most grueling and most boring work I’ve ever had to do. While farming for worms I didn’t pine a single moment for my job at the toupee factory.

If you’re waiting for me to explain why I got fired from the worm farm, you’ll be staring at your screen for a long time.

(And if I end up having to go to court because the owner of the worm farm swears that one way or another he’ll “get back” what I supposedly “owe” him, a judge and jury will be waiting just as long as you before I admit that I stole five ten-gallon buckets of special, nutrient-rich soil and about 300 worms to start my own worm farm.)

3

Once I got fired, I knew I was going to have to give up my apartment. So I went to my friend Henry Banjax.

Henry manages properties for an asshole slumlord in town. Henry's boss even has a asshole name: Remington Striker.

Remington Striker has no real clue how many properties he owns, so Henry set me up in one of the most forgettable places, a little cottage on the right side of where Fennel Street dead-ends. It had been tagged by inspectors for so many things that it'd been condemned.

Through some fluke overlooked by the Kilter utilities board, electricity came to life in long spurts that were not timed on a schedule for regular living. There was running water but no water heater. There wasn’t any a/c but I had a space heater if it got cold. I had a mini fridge that easily held any perishable food I could afford to buy, and I cooked with a hot plate and a microwave.

Henry said I could stay here for twenty-five bucks a week (cash only, no trades; he's been clean and sober for almost a year, now) until I got back on my feet or until the city forced his boss to demolish the cottage, whichever came first.

And, even though I had a place to stay for very little money, I was really trying to get back on my feet. I was so infected with an entrepreneurial fever—more of which below—that I forgot the cottage might one day be demolished.

4

It happened one morning while I was down at the pier selling “free-range, organic, no antibiotics added” worms to tourists who thought they’d be able to catch edible fish with the crappy rods and reels my friend Skeevy rented out by the hour.

When I made my goal for the day—$45—I sold what worms were left to Skeevy, wished the idiots luck, and started walking back toward town.

Liquid Lunch at the Gallant Flounder lasted from 11 until noon. I figured I might get a seat at the far end of the bar before all the out-of-town shoppers descended to take selfies with the pygmy goat that wanders around the place in a pair of child’s pajamas.

I was about halfway up the hill and about four blocks from the bar when Henry Banjax pulled up beside me and shouted at me over the sound of “Monkey Man” by the Rolling Stones: “Get in! I’ve been all over town looking for you!”

He snapped off the radio and started peeling away before I could get my door closed.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“Bad news,” he said. “They finally did it.”

“Who? Did what?”

“Striker got a crew over there to the cottage about two hours ago—wiped it out,” he said.

“The cottage? My cottage?”

“Yep.”

“With all my stuff in it?”

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t find you, you wouldn’t answer your phone. I hate it, Marti,” he said.

I was too shocked to speak.

“I mean, I couldn’t say, ‘Can you wait until the squatter gets her belongings out before you start the demolition,’ now, could I?”

I closed my eyes. “Right. But.”

I rolled down my window and stuck my head out of it.

Henry grabbed my arm. “Don’t barf on my car, man!”

“I’m not barfing, I just need air,” I said.

“Do you want me to take you someplace? Your sister’s?”

Ha!

“No, just let me out when we get to the stop light at Pepper Street.”

“Are you sure?”

I was sure.

“Maybe Matisse could put you up for a few nights? He’d probably loan you a few bucks, too, you know,” Henry said.

The light was red where Pepper Street crossed Chard Avenue. I got out, waved. “Thanks, Henry,” I said.

“No problem, Marti—hey man, nothing lasts forever,” he said and shrugged.

Henry could be definitely be classified as one of those men with “a strong back and a weak mind,” but he was right about that.

Chapter One >>