Meet a Sucky Heroine

Let’s get one thing straight up front. I should be shot for what I did last night, and I know it.

Yep, put me in the category of those heroines you hate because they’re too stupid to live. And yes, I’d probably follow the serial killer into the basement saying, “who’s there?” too.

Okay, so it’s about 8:30p.m. I’ve got a potato boiling on the stove, the T.V.’s blaring, and I’m in a negligee. Typical Wednesday evening.

The doorbell rings. Not so typical.

First of all, no one ever “shows up” at my door. So, I flip on the outside light, and yell: “Who is it?”

“(unintelligible) your neighbor.”

My neighbors don’t show up at my door either.

Thoughts flit through my head. I should probably go upstairs for a robe, but no, I’m too lazy. I should probably ask what he wants through the door, but no, I feel too silly.

I open the door a crack and peek around it.

I’ve never seen this person before.

Lucky for me, the guy turns out to be a former neighbor (one I’d never met) who’d rented a room from the psycho who sold and moved out last year. I believe him because he mentions having had a boat, which I do in fact remember. He says he fell in love with the neighborhood, is looking for a place to lease, and did I know of any?

That he missed the “for lease” sign in front of the first townhouse he passed gives me some concern, but I quickly chalk it up to figuring he’s really looking for another room to rent, not an entire unit. Oh, God. He wants to rent a room from me?

He seems to doubt I’m the same person he saw going in and out during his tenure across the street, but I confirm I drive a Mercedes, and he rambles on about how he’s German, like that means we have something in common. He keeps motioning toward his pocket, asking if I’ll take his name and cell number in case I hear of anything, and I wait for him to produce a business card but eventually realize that’s where his cell phone is, not the business card.

I have to leave the door to get a pen and paper, and when I return he isn't there. For a moment, I panic—did he come inside the house? Why don’t I just invite him in to rape me and be done with it, for God's sakes? Whew, no. A moment later, he reappears out of the darkness and I dutifully take down his info.

We shake hands, he mentions he’s a retired fire fighter (oh, now I’m relieved because everyone knows all fire fighters are upstanding, honorable, non-rapists), I promise to let him know if I hear anything, and he leaves.

Half an hour later, I check my back slider and sure enough it’s unlocked. Probably been that way for months.

I’ve lived in my townhouse for 23 years, and believe me when I say it’s in one of the safest neighborhoods in the nation. Still…there’s no excuse for my negligent behavior.

Like I say, you’d hate me if I were a heroine in a book you were reading.