Thursday, April 24, 2008

The Case of the Missing Bananas... Conclusion

I spent the rest of that day at work sick to my stomach, wondering what to do. Maybe I was overthinking things... maybe Mr. Dumb Head put those things in a bag only to get them out of the way... maybe I SHOULD have offered to pay them more, to cover what Mr. Dumb Head had done.

But the REAL issue, the thing that was threatening to send me over the edge, was the reaction that I knew Satan was going to have. I found myself hoping someone got sick and the whole crew would have to leave... I nearly called and told them to go ahead and leave early...

But that "Get your fucking money's worth, you MORON" thing kept getting in the way.

So, at 4:30, I drove home as slowly as I could. The garage door was open and Satan stood, his eyes burning into mine as I parked my car. I walked over to him, trying to gauge just how angry he was. "Hey," I said casually. "They're still here, I see."

"Why is there a man in my house?" he asked me quietly.

Oh shit. This was bad. I started to stutter and sputter out an answer, and then something stopped me. "HEY!" I thought to myself. "I'm just as angry as you are, this is absolutely not my fault." So I looked him square in the eye, and said, "They brought him with them. I don't like it, one little bit. Do you?"

He relaxed a bit then, the anger that he'd been ready to unleash on me redirecting itself to the three inside my house. "Miss Anne," he said. "You can't have them back. I don't want strange people in my house. I've got shit in there that's worth a lot of money. A woman might not realize what guns are worth, but most men would."

"Ok, I actually agree with you," I told him. And I told him how they had tried to fleece me for more money.

"If they actually come out and ask you for more money, send them out here to me. I'll take care of that."

I was actually grateful to him. Sometimes I can stand up to anyone, for any reason... but passive aggressive, I don't know how to deal with that.

We sat in the garage for awhile, smoking, talking, trying to decide whether to try and find someone else, or whether I should do it myself. You guys KNOW how I voted on that one, don't you? Right. No fucking way am I going to do it myself. I have a reputation to uphold....

Finally, at about 6:00, I told Satan, "I'm going in there. If SOMEONE doesn't come out in about 30 minutes, come in and save me."

I went in and I have to admit, they'd done good work. My kitchen walls were shiny and white. Counter tops were gleaming. My stovetop looked almost new. They hadn't gotten to my kitchen window yet, but everything else in the kitchen and living room looked very good. But they were STILL working. It was 6:00. I was tired. I was hungry. Satan was hungry.

I walked into my living room and sat down at my computer. It was off again. The last time Linda was here, she'd turned off my computer too. What the fuck? Why do you need to turn my computer off? It takes FOREVER to load everything up. I'll fucking be ASLEEP before this thing is up and read for me to use it. GRRRRR.

While I'm smoking a cigarette (and I had to HUNT for an ashtray, for piss sakes, they'd carried them all to the kitchen) and waiting for my computer to boot up, I listened to the conversation coming from the kitchen. Bits and pieces of truly stupid conversation drifted in to me. "You ever been to the beach Mr. Dumb Head..." "Yeah, I don't care for it. I'm probably unique that way... I don't like the ocean..."

Suddenly, I hear Daisy Doofus, fat sister extraordinaire, say, "You gonna tell her about the bananas?" My ears perked up at this. Bananas? What could they have to tell me about the Bananas? Was there a Banana Incident? A Great Banana Debacle? What the fuck happened to my bananas?

I heard Linda WHISPERING furiously. But I couldn't hear what she was saying. My computer chose that EXACT moment to spit and spew and blink and pop and fizz and stutter to life. My ears are actually PULLING MY HEAD BACK in their attempts to hear what was happening in the kitchen.

I logged into my computer, whispered for it to PLEASE. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. ALREADY. and leaned back in my chair as if I were exhausted. That got my head about three inches closer to the kitchen, and I listened carefully.

But I heard nothing. Fuck.

I turned around and was just standing up to walk in there, when out they came. The three of them, marching in a straight line, towards my front door. There were mumbled goodbyes, and thank you's and nice to meet you's... Linda stopped with her hand on my door knob. "We'll be back Monday and Wednesday of next week," she said.

And they promptly left.

Um...

"You'll be back next week?" I thought. "You've made that decision for me, have you? You're gonna come in here for another 200 dollars of my money? Who ya gonna bring next time? You're Aunt Sally? The FUCK you will be here next week."

I walked purposefully into the kitchen, looking for signs of a Banana Mishap. I found none. I also found no bananas. There had been four, when I went to work that morning.

All of a sudden I was so fucking angry I had to sit down. This was just too much. They fucking stole my bananas! What kind of fucking person comes into your house to clean it, for decent money, I might add, and then steals your food?

And they took my BANANAS. My bananas, my miracle food. The lovely, lovely sweet fruit, which provides 23% of the dietary fiber I need each day. 33% of the vitamin C. 41% of the vitamin B6. 23% of the Potassium. 30% of the manganese. The Banana, a low fat, low cholesterol, low sodium food of the gods.

Satan walked in and said, "Well? What did they say? Did they ask you for more money? Did you tell them we don't want them back?"

I looked at him through horror-filled eyes. "Dude, they stole my bananas," I whispered.

Satan looked at the counter top where the bananas USED TO BE. He walked over and looked in the top of the trash bag. He looked in cabinets and the fridge. There was no bananas. There was no SIGN of a banana. There wasn't even a USED PEELING. "Well, either they ate peeling and all, or they hid the peeling, hoping we wouldn't notice the bananas were gone."

I told him about what I had heard Daisy Doofus asking Linda. And about how Linda had whispered her answer. "They can never come here again." I vowed. Satan agreed. And that was that.

Linda called me on Sunday night, to tell me she was sick and couldn't come on Monday. Oh, how I wish I could tell you that I told her EXACTLY what I thought of her and her banana pilfering sister and Mr. Dumb Head. But of course I am a card carrying member of the "Biggest Fucking Coward's of America" club, and so what I said was, "Linda, I'm broke (though this is indeed true. I'm always broke.) I cannot afford for you to come next week. I don't get paid till Wednesday, and all my money is already earmarked for other bills. I will call you when I need you again."

"Well, don't wait too long," says Linda. "As it gets warmer, we get more busy. You may not get me for awhile. In fact, I'd really like to get your house finished before the end of April anyway. You think about it."

Now, it's important for you to understand something here. While it is true that I am always broke, I am not a greedy or selfish person. I DO have enough money to buy more bananas. And had Linda called me at work and said she was hungry, I would have directed her to my fridge, which held sandwich makings, milk, fruit, steaks, and the like. Or to my cabinets, which held plenty of soups, snacks, and peanut butter.

Had she told me, when I got home, "Miss Anne, I got hungry and ate your bananas." I wouldn't have minded a bit.

But she TOOK something from me without asking. She took it and she HID the evidence. And she INSTRUCTED the riff-raff that she brought with her to NOT TELL ME.

They stole from me. It doesn't matter if it was a nickel, or a thousand dollars. It doesn't matter if it was a fucking banana, or a big giant gun. Or a playstation II with all the accoutrements. They stole and they lied by NOT TELLING ME.

You can't steal from me. I'll give you anything I have, if you need it, and if I can. But don't you fucking take it and then deliberately not tell me. Especially after fleecing me for more money than we agreed on for a job you are doing for me.

You fucking FUCK.

And your stupid, fat sister.

And Mr. Dumb Head.

Case closed, mystery solved, you're fired, I win.

The end.

10 comments:

Bina said...

How in God's name does someone stealing banana's turn into such an awesome story!

I loved it! Thanks for the laugh!

Burfica said...

maybe they are a bunch of poo flinging monkeys in disguise. hehehehehe

Loved the story, and I feel the same way as you about stealing. Ask me and almost anything is yours, but don't steal.

Gina said...

You handled it far better than I would have! I would have freaked the hell out, found the hubs gun, okay or even my sons bb gun.. and escorted them to the door. Not just for the stealing, but being up in my house and fondling all my things! Heh.

baseballmom said...

WTF? Glad Satan supported you on it! Too bad he didn't give them a piece of his mind too. You were smart to fire them, for sure!

Dory said...

I'm still in shock that Satan worked with you on something. Wonders never cease.

You should've put a price on their heads.

banana split said...

Omg! This sounds like the same three that cleaned our home.. Whatever you do, if you find the bananas in your bedroom under your bed, through them out!!!!!! These three are sexual pervatis erectus!! Heed my warning black rod lover, or dare i say you'll find satan tied to the bed with naners protruding from every oriface....

Sleeping Mommy said...

Here I was dreaming of getting a cleaning lady one of these days and you go and spoil the fantasy with reality.

Damn it.

damon said...

Sorry I can't leave a relevant comment, but this is a really long story. Part way in, my ADD kicked in, and I found myself dreaming about Eva Longoria and Frosted Mini-Wheats.
But to take a stab at it, Mr. Dumb Head did something stupid, and you told him to torture himself anally.
(bet I was pretty close!)

baseballmom said...

I forgot...one of our friends' cleaning lady sat and told my friend's husband all about her sexual preferences and history one day--they're a horny bunch!

OldHorsetailSnake said...

Well, that is, you HOPE it's over.