MOVING HOUSE

It all started with a dumb-ass prank.

My son had broken up with his long-time partner, her having being playing away behind his back. When he off-loaded their apartment, he bunked down at mine for a few weeks while he got sorted. I could understand his pain, the same thing having happened to his mother and I four years earlier. I now lived on my own in a quite spacious top floor studio, but with only one bedroom, he had to sleep on the lounge in the front room.

Coincidentally, my lease was coming up for renewal, so we had a long talk and decided it would be good for us both to move into a 2 beddy and split the bills. In another 12 months, we could see how we stood, and then move forward as required.

Sounds like a plan, yes? Except for my son’s dumb-ass prank.

My agent arranged an ‘open-house viewing’ of my place for prospective new tenants. Fair enough.

He asked if we could make ourselves scarce for the two hour appointment. Most of my ornaments and photo-frames were packed away anyway, so we collected up all our valuables and ‘light-finger’ magnets into a big cardboard box and stowed them in the trunk of my car, then rode my son’s SUV down the local mall. Just as we were parking up, my son slaps his forehead and announces he’s forgotten his cell.

“You jump out, Pops, grab yourself a bite and I’ll see you in fifteen in the food court.”

So off he burns, and we meet up again 25 minutes later, him with a big smirk on his face.

“What’s with the big grin, you ass?”

“Oh, nothin’ Pops ….. There’s cars pulling up everywhere outside when I left. It was funny.”

“Don’t surprise me.. Popular spot being so close to the mall and all.”

“Yeah, really, really popular,” he splutters down his nose, trying to suppress his laughter.

“Ass,” I says, “You’re an ass.”

..…

We wanders around the mall for a long while, my son seeming to drag his heels.

Then my cell rings…..

“All done, Mr. T. I’m just locking up. You can come back now.”

“Agent,” I silently mouth at my son as I’m taking the call.

“By the way, Mr. T… have you been running a business from here?”

“Scuse me? Business. What business?”

“You know …. A business.”

“Sorry. Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Well, just so you know, Mr T., in this county it’s illegal to run any form of business from a rental without permission from the agent, but seeing as you’re leaving, I’ll let this one slide.”

“Oh, OK,” I answers, shrugging my shoulders, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

…..

Returning to my place, my son is snorting a chuckle down his nose at almost every lamp-post.

“Ass”

….

When I walks into my bedroom, my jaw drops to the floor as the scales fall away from my eyes.

Dangling from my bed head-board are two sets of hand-cuffs. A chrome shiny set on one side, and pink furry-fluffy ones on the other. On top of my bedside cabinet, there’s an assortment of bottles of oils and jells, along with a scattering of unopened condom packets and rubber gloves. On the floor there’s a couple of canes and wooden spoons, along with a bin, half full of scrunched up tissues.

But most damning of all, there’s a whiteboard leaning up against the wall with my cell number at the top and a long list of random female names down one side. Along-side each name there are various notations

A only, no A, both, rough, gentle, long tease, no marks, long as poss…… the list went on.

I turn to my son, who’s now standing right behind me in fits of laughter and I says,

“Spoons? Wooden spoons? What the hell were you thinking?”

………..

I took it for the dumb-ass prank that it was. It seemed pretty cool, thinking I could probably tell this story a hundred times before I died. But a couple of days later my cell rang….

…..

I was already running late for my regular golf stint with my best mate, Pete, over at the links about 40 minutes drive away. I knew the traffic would be building with morning school-run Mom’s taxis, so I was in no mood to be stuffed around, so when the female voice on the other end stuttered and faltered and dithered with a “Errm, I was just calling, I mean, needed to speak. I hope it’s not a bad time, but it, I was wondering, if you don’t mind …..”

Just around then my frustration boiled over and against my normal nature, I pretty much barked,

“Well, spit it out woman….”

“Oh, yes, sorry sir,” my harsh snap appearing to sweep away her hesitation. You could almost hear her shuffle to sit herself upright in her seat. “My name is Charmaine, and I’m calling from Pollomina-Watts Real Estate ……”

Now she had my full attention. These were the realtors of my son and I’s new place where I’d signed the lease and paid a substantial bond and deposit. I would be handing back the keys to the old place in two days, and couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.