What’s Under The House?

Status: Quo Minus

by F. Theresa Gillard

Here’s a nice little tidbit for a quick summer read. I dug this one out especially for Jennifer Morrison, simmering down there in North Carolina. Stay cool!

BOSTON Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—8/1/11—There is something under the house. At various times, night and day it makes monster sounds. When it rains, the something gets rowdy. It kinda sounds like a Pentecostal revival in overtime.

So, my sister, who is Miss Analytical, says, “I think someone should go under the house and check it out. You know that things always sound louder than they actually are. I saw where it dug a hole to get under there and there’s a little door for someone to crawl under there and check it out.”

Now, I’m thinking that she must be dippin’ or something, ‘cause I’m not ‘White and in a movie.’ Those White people always have to be curious, going outside when they hear something, talkin’ about, “Is anyone out here?”

It happens every time—they get mutilated. And, I kinda think they deserve it. I mean the best thing to do if you hear something outside is to just quietly pray, “If you stay out there, I’ll stay in here and we can both live a little longer.”

And, if that prayer isn’t answered . . . run like hell.

I don’t exactly tell Miss Analytical all this. I just say, “I’m all set. You can go check it out if you want to, but I really think you should call a pest control company.”

She mews, “How much would that cost? No, I’ll just ask Mom to go with me.”

You know, you try to give sound practical advice and what happens? The advice is ignored and your mother becomes the fatted calf.

But, whose mother would say yes to crawling under her daughter’s house to “check out” a monster? Mine.

How could this situation get worse? My sister doesn’t have a plan and my mother is just going along like it’s a Sunday drive and I’m thinking, why do I always have to clear the table? What if that monster attacks Mom?

I’m not really concerned about my sister: she’ll analyze the monster away while Mom will be asking the monster if it’s been eating right. Then, I’ll have to go and, once again, clear the table.

And, would I be praised? Of course not.

Miss Analytical will be all-a-fret, mewing about not finishing her psychological analysis. And, Mom will be crying, wondering who will tell the monster’s mother.

OK, I’m all set with that scenario and I’m thinking and thinking when Miss ‘A’ interrupts: “I told Mom we would check it out Saturday afternoon around two.”

Surely, she just didn’t set up a precise day and time to be ‘White and in a movie,’ with Mom as her supporting actress. I wonder if she called the monster to make sure it would be home?

And, all I can think is I’m gonna be on TV trying to explain what happened under the house on Saturday at approximately 2:00 p.m., and I’ve already gained 15 pounds and video adds another ten pounds, so, obviously, I’ll be looking even lardie-er than usual. Ahhhh!

All right, I have to do something. It’s already Thursday and I can’t get a hit out on my sister that quick—hit-men require a 48-hour notice. So, I call the next best and the next best just happens to have an opening on Friday afternoon.

Cool, Friday will come.

Friday comes. The pest control guy is kinda cute and I’ve always got the White Zinfandel chilling, but doesn’t he mess it up?

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Where’s the door?” he says.

“What door?” I say, still clinging to my Zinfandel fantasy.

“The door, the door, the little under-the-house door,” he says.

I’m back with quickness, wondering who told this pest guy that the under-the-house door was little. But, of course, it’s little. What house has a big under-the-house door? I show him the little door and, all along, he’s been checking his instruments, checking them twice.

“You need to stand back, Ma’am. This could get ugly,” he says.

Since I’m starting to feel like a “Twilight Zone” main character, I say, “Listen, I’m going back in the house. If you need anything, yell.”

I don’t walk. I run back to the house.

Suddenly, I hear the Beringer calling me, so I answer and settle down with my wine and my book. Really now, what could be finer?

I’m relaxing and relaxing and relaxing.

Against my will, I’m beginning to wonder about that T-Zone pest guy. I haven’t heard a hair outta him.

Remembering how he described the door, I start getting freaked again. How did he know that there was a door at all?

I decide that enough is enough and I’m good for knowing when to get the hell out. So, I leave the T-Zone guy a “Bill me” note and I jet.

When I come back, the note is gone. The pest guy is gone too. Against every sensible thread, I go around the outside of the house, making sure I am at all times at least six feet away from it.

I’m starting to get this eerie feeling the closer I get to the little door. My sensible thread is steadily giving way, but before it goes south, it’s screaming, “Run, Run, Run! I SAID, RUN YOU IDIOT!”

Now, usually, it only takes an inkling of danger for me to start steppin’, but I was feeling a sense of responsibility to see this thing through. I couldn’t stop. And then, confusion. Where is the door? Where is the little under-the-house door?

I’m standing there looking like a woodchuck on Fifth Avenue, trying to process this improbability. What did he do with our little under-the-house door? I was missing it already. And, how will Miss Analytical analyze this?

Now, I’m a practical person. The door had to be somewhere. So, I start looking. The only problem is that I can’t maintain my six-foot radius. I’m thinking . . . I got it! I run back to the house.

What I need is one fatted calf, and my cat hasn’t had his walk, yet. Better to sacrifice Xerxes than to let my sister get to my mother. Besides, Xerxes was a gift and not a very well thought out one.

I take him around the house. Xerxes is walking slow and sniffing like he always does. I let him walk right up to where the missing door should have been. Then he turns around, plain as flour and says, “The door is still there. You just can’t see it. If you want, I’ll go in and check it out.”

Now, the last time I checked, even purebred Balinese cats don’t talk. His breed profile did mention a lot of not-your-typical cat information, but it said nothing about actually speaking English or any other language. I must admit, the profile described the Balinese cats as being “very social.” Well, this must be the “very” part.

Xerxes is standing there looking up at me with his iridescent violet eyes, waiting for an answer. Am I supposed to respond?

By now, he’d probably be tapping his claws if he had some. Oh, no! What if he asks about the declawing and the neutering? That would be the first thing out of my cat mouth.

He’s still looking at me, so I say, “Sure Xerxes. You can check it out.”

I take off the leash and off he goes, straight through the door that isn’t there. Ten minutes go by and Xerxes is still under the house. I can hear him talking to something, and then I hear a scuffle.

Oh my goodness, Xerxes is under the house fighting the monster! What should I do? Run?

I’m considering my options, which are all coming up “run,” when the monster darts out of the missing door and starts kicking me.

Except he’s not a monster at all. He looks like a Little Person, or whatever the politically correct term is for a midget.

“Hey, stop that!” I scream.

“No, you sent your cat to eat me,” he screeches.

“What? Are you insane? Xerxes only eats Science Diet dry formula. Believe me. I tried to make him eat the cheap grocery store cat food, but he rejected it.”

He says, “Oh, I’m sorry. He said he was coming for take-out.”

I say, “I think you misunderstood. He was actually checking you out.”

“Well, I ate him. How was I to know?” he says.

“What! You ate my cat?” I say. “He cost somebody $150. You better throw him right back up!”

“I can’t just barf him back up, but I can go steal you another one,” he says. “Anyways, I’m moving. Your sister is driving me crazy. I can hear everything that goes on up there. Can’t she just accept blue as being blue and red as being red and not some innate expression of repressed tragedy?”

“Hold up! You’re starting to sound just like her,” I say. “And, that’s OK about stealing me another cat. By the way, where is the pest guy? Did you eat him, too?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s still under there. I tied him up. Can’t you hear him?” he asks.

“Yeah, he’s knocking on the missing door,” I say. “You can’t just leave him under there. Someone is going to come looking for him. What did you do with his truck?”

“It’s still out there. It’s just invisible like the door,” he says. “Look, I’d like to stand here and shoot the jaw with you all day, but I gotta find a new crib. See ya!”

“Hey, wait! You have to fix everything. Let the guy out and fix his truck. Please let him out ‘cause he’ll be making more noise than you did.”

But, he was already gone. What a pickle! The T-Zone guy won’t stop knocking.

“I’m finished,” the T-Zone guy says.

He’s finished? What’s he talking about? Maybe he has decided to commit suicide?

“I’m finished,” he says. “You wanna come out?”

I jerk awake, looking around frantically. The first thing I see is Xerxes staring at me. I squelch a scream, realizing that I must have been dreaming. My drool confirms this. I wipe it off and go to the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say, opening the door. “How long have you been knocking?”

“Not long. I’m all set,” he says. “Come on out and I’ll show you your monster.”