Staying in Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Carol Dorf

In two hours, the county sheriff will ask if there are any bids to my house. The only one who will bid will be the bank’ s attorney. A gavel will hit a wooden plate, not too firmly, not too softly, somewhere between a click and a pound, because there are 41 houses on the list today and a guy could get carpal tunnel if he kept swinging that thing too hard.

That’ s okay. I don ’t need two hours for this. I will be back at my office soon. This will only be a long lunch.

I pull behind the old ’80s Buick. Right behind it. Practically grinding against its bumper. I walk away from the driveway, onto the grass, which is starting to look a little ragged.

I knock on the door.

I wait. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds.

I knock again, then hit the buzzer. I’d forgotten I had a buzzer. I never had to buzz my own door, I guess.

Seven, ten, fifteen seconds. Buzzer again.

I hear muffled sounds, speaking, footfalls. The door opens. Squatter Guy is real. He is taller than me, which, admittedly, isn ’t saying much. He ’ s younger, but not by much, either. More hair, less fat. Round-rimmed John Lennon glasses. T-shirt with the insignia of the Iowa Hawkeyes and blue gym shorts. As a Penn State grad, I have an immediate, visceral dislike of that. He doesn ’t deserve to be wearing a Big 10 tshirt.

“This is my house, ” I say, in a voice that may or may not be calm.

“Come in, ” he says, in a voice that’ s definitely calm. I resent that even more than the t-shirt.

I look around. He has started putting together some of the IKEA stuff, but it’ s only partially assembled. I think it’ s a bookcase. Or maybe an entertainment center.

“How long have you been here?” I ask him.

“A while, a while, ” he says. I focus on the accent. Not Central Pennsylvania, not at all. A little bit Jersey, north but not too far north. He sits down on the loveseat. “Do you want a tour?” He smiles. It’ s not a nasty smile at all. That unnerves me even more.

“Look, this is my house. You don ’t belong here. ”

“You won ’t either soon. ”

I start to pull one of the empty wooden chairs towards the loveseat, but stop. Instead, I take the thirteen-inch TV off the chair it’ s sitting on, put the TV on the ground, and use that chair. “I want you to leave. Now. ”

“Aren ’t you the least bit curious what the hell I’ m doing here?”

“Yeah, but I’ m not going to ask. ”

“Why not?” He leaned back, practically being swallowed up by the loveseat in the process.

“This is my house. For the next 90 minutes, it’ s my house. I want you out of it. ”

“I’ m not going. And you really can ’t make me. ” He has the same tone of voice I used when I was denying someone a loan. No, more than that; when I was denying a customer who was already into us, who needed more money, just a little bit more to cover expenses, a little extension on a line of credit, and I’d say no. We can ’t. We just can ’t. It’ s not personal. Though I’d never say that last part,

Staying In Place

Carol Dorf

The way each intersection in a city where you ’ ve lived a while becomes layered with personal archeology

The cafe that replaced a liquor store you avoided, and the friend (or lover) you broke up with there, and the way on the day of the big fire you passed this corner as she said, “ no, this isn ’t much, just grass in the hills. ” Somehow in this place, even disaster passes into ordinary life: insurance, contractors.

Unfold the map of all the places you have ever worked, the colleagues you have run into, and the way they complain about some of the same people and some new ones you ’ ve never met, and you nod, like, of course, I get exactly how it is to sit at that desk, in that cubicle, and how it feels when that creep stands in the entry, leaning against both walls at once.

This is the prequel to moving to Honolulu or Prague, places full with narratives no one could expect you to know, but peaceful at the moment. You choose someone else ’ s landscape to drink coffee in, while you observe the morning commute.

Before she went to college, Carol Dorf, had never been outside of the Philadelphia area, for more than 4 nights. Her house on Ninth Street has been torn down, and the one on Pleasant Drive was condemmed. Her poems have appeared in Fringe, The Midway, Poemeleon, New Verse News, Edgz, Runes, Feminist Studies, Heresies, Coracle, Poetica, Responsa, The NeoVictorian, Caprice and elsewhere. She ’ s taught in a variety of venues including Berkeley City College, a science museum, and as a California Poet in the Schools. She now teaches at a large, urban high school.

because I was already condescending to them just by the denial itself.

I get up and walk towards the pile of IKEA wood. I grab a plank of something light colored and smooth, and begin smacking it in my hand. “Look, you ’ re trespassing. I want you out of here now. ”

“I’ m not going until the sheriff comes and changes the locks. ”

Still no anger. Still no reaction.

God, I want to hit him first. I want to hit him with this goddamn Swedish wood. I want to crack his head open with Blaarg or Kräppi.

“I think you should leave, ” he says in a voice that seems almost kind.

I swing the piece of wood, aiming for the television, but I have to aim low since I placed it on the floor. The mechanics of my attempt at destruction throw me off. I hit the side of the TV, not the tube. As my right knee buckles, I pitch forward, onto the top of the TV, into the coffee table, scattering books and magazines.

He grabs me while my head is spinning, and I’ m still in a daze, not sure if he ’ s helping me up or throwing me out. I get my answer when he lifts me under my right arm, opens the door with his left and gently deposits me, standing, outside. I think I hear him say “I’ m sorry, ” but I could be wrong.

I crumple to the ground. I’ m dizzy, and I notice blood coming out my nose. I stay on the ground a while, a long while. I want to throw up, but I can ’t. I want to cry, but I don ’t. I just pant and gasp and stay down, down so far I don ’t even notice a township police cruiser pulling up in the driveway, and a cop walking up to me.

“Are you okay?” he says.

“What?”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I look at the kid in front of me. Can ’t be more than 23, 24. Tall, about 6’3” , he ’ s leaning over me, trying to figure out whether I’ m a victim or a perpetrator. Maybe I’ m giving off the vibe of both.

“I’ m alright. I just, well, tried to get Wayne by Corey Armpriester © 2009