Housekeeping

I got home in the late afternoon, setting my new keys on the kitchen counter and looking the place over. I'd been home alone only since Friday but somehow I'd let the place get quite a mess. Empty pot still sat on the stove, empty soup can on the counter. Documents, bags, and boxes scattered the kitchen table. I spent a while getting the kitchen cleaned up, then moved on to the living room.

This house had been built before wide open rooms were common. The kitchen was separated from the living room with a wall, the dining room in the corner had its own walls, and the stairway upstairs was down a hall with even more walls. It took far too many steps to get from one room to another, and you could rarely see any room except the one you're in. All the walls make for lots of echo, as well. I'd grown up in the house, so I was accustomed to it and a bit attached; but now I was beginning to notice its problems more and more often.

I arranged the pillows on the couch in the living room and tried to organize the remote controls on the coffee table and picked up some more clutter. Amy's lip gloss was still there, on the floor. I doubt she missed it, but sometimes this stuff can be expensive so I brought it over and set it by my keys so I'd remember to take it next time I saw her. Then I gathered all the trash I'd collected, added it to the kitchen trash can, then took the garbage bag from it and brought it out to the garage and dumped it in the big trash bin parked in the corner. The garage was empty, save for the few gas cans, rags, and garden tools that can be found in every garage on Earth. I could have parked my car inside, I realized, but I didn't have a clicker for the garage door. My mom had one in her car, and the other would be in my dad's car.

I then realized I hadn't gotten the mail yet, so I unlocked the side door in the garage and went outside, around the garage, and emptied the mailbox. If my mom had gotten the mail on Friday this would be Saturday's and today's, otherwise it'd be three days worth. Either way, it seemed like a lot, but nothing that looked interesting. A few bills and other automated correspondence were still coming addressed to Daniel Baker, which was more annoying than disheartening. No letters home from my school about my unexcused absences yet. My high school had some automatic computer system that would print up a notification letter when someone missed some classes, much to the bane of the idiot kids who decided to skip class without getting the absence excused somehow or pilfering the notice from the mail before his parents could find it. I planned on the latter, but either their system hadn't gotten down through the B-names yet, or they were just considering me excused because of the death. That made me feel invincible and depressed at the same time.

I brought the mail in the front door and set the items that obviously weren't junk on the counter by my keys and threw the junk away, then moved my housekeeping patrol upstairs.

At the top of the stairs you have to turn either left or right down a hall. To the left was my parents' room, to the right was mine. In the middle was a guest room, spare bathroom, and assorted closets. My room was bigger than some I'd seen, smaller than Amy's. I had just a small desk on one wall for my old computer, a twin bed parked against the far wall. I'd had twin beds since I was tiny and had been wanting to get something bigger for a while; if for nothing else but to feel like more of a grownup. Also I sometimes rolled out of this bed at night. I had to stop keeping a nightstand by the bed because I smashed my face into it one time.

Next to my bedroom door was a small walk-in closet that was perpetually messy. There were shelves on all three walls, lined with boxes of crap I could never catalog for you without looking through them. I gathered as much of the clothes strewn on the floor and around my room as my arms could hold and dumped them in a hamper, stuffing them down with a huff. I could either do some laundry, I decided, or throw all of this stuff away and go buy a whole new wardrobe from those expensive teen stores. Not the ones that use porn as advertising, but the ones you only find in upscale malls that charge $100 for a pair of jeans. I always hated people who got their clothes from there, but now that I could somewhat afford it I wouldn't mind checking it out. Laundry would come first, though.

I crossed my room and opened my curtains. My room had huge windows that would usually be a luxury were it not for the view. Like a few houses on my street, this one was practically built into the side of a hill, so at the back of the second floor you're basically at ground level.

Content that I'd done as much cleaning as I was willing to do, I sat down at my computer and started going to my real work.

Teachers and principals rarely have their addresses and phone numbers listed, hoping to make their personal lives invisible to any students who may want to look them up. I gave it a shot anyway, and found no listing anywhere online for NathanComstock anywhere in Virginia that'd be close enough to commute to my school. I mulled that over for a while, looking at some webcomics to pass the time. After I had completely zoned out and found myself staring at the wall, I had an idea.

I picked up the land line phone in my room, pressed *67 to block caller-id, then dialed the number for my school's main office. I glanced at the clock on my computer screen, it was just after 5pm and the school office officially closes at 5. I listened to the rings in my ear, hoping that someone was working late or was slow to gather their things to leave. After seven rings I gave up, and had the phone in mid-arc to hang up when I heard the handset click and heard "Fredericksburg High School."

I brought the phone back to my face, tried to compose myself and said, "Hello, this is Mark from Routing at the local FedEx distribution center. We have a package for an 'N.Comstock ' at that address and phone number that was meant to be delivered today, but unfortunately there was a routing error and the package was unexpectedly delayed. Because it was our fault and the package was sent Overnight Priority, we'd like to get it delivered today. Is that person there now to accept the package?"

The ease in which I'd put all that together on the fly amazed me. I hadn't stopped beforehand to script this or even come up with a fake name.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a woman said, "Mr. Comstock is not here right now, and our office hours have actually ended so we won't be able to accept anything since we won't be here very much longer." She sounded rather displeased, she probably wanted to get home and watch whatever big shows are on Mondays.

"I see," I said, "well is there another address, perhaps a home address, we could re-route this to so we can get it there tonight? As I said, someone paid for Overnight Priority on this parcel and we're obligated to have it delivered today."
A pause, then a sigh. "I can get the home address from the directory, just a second."

Time dragged on, the seconds pulsing in my ear. Some paper shuffling and drawer-opening noises filtered over the phone line.

"Ok," she said, "here's his home address. I don't know if he'll be home or not, so I'll give you his phone number so you can call and check."
"That'd be great," I said as passively as I could.