Greetings from the Flipside by Rene Gutteridge Page B

show up when you have an apartment for rent.” He pats my shoulder with a thick, swollen hand. “Your credit checks, it’s yours.”
    “Thank you!”
    “Come on inside.”
    I start to follow him, but suddenly my foot doesn’t move. I glance down and the cats are still there, but none of them are holding my foot down. I try again, but it’s stuck. With a lot of effort I pull one more time and then hear the strangest sound . . . like something coming unglued from something else.
    I realize I’ve stepped in a glob of sap.
    I quickly slip off my shoe and follow him in, but not without noticing that there is not a tree in sight.
    Inside he is already seated at an old computer tucked in the corner. I hand him my driver’s license and a sheet of paper with all the information he’ll need to look up my credit.
    Outside the cats are meowing their protest.
    “Take a look around, see what you think.”
    With measured delight, I peek here and there. One bedroom. A tiny kitchen. A decent sized living room, at least large enough for a couch and a chair. The bathroom is swallowed up by a claw tub. The sink is crammed in so tightly it seems like an afterthought. But it’s charming, nevertheless. Once I start bringing in some real money, I can think about getting something a little nicer. For now, this will do.
    The man is now at the small kitchen table, barely big enough for three. Reading glasses are perched on his nose and several papers are spread out in front of him.
    I sit down. “Well, the place is just lovely.” It’s not lovely, it’s just what it is, but you shouldn’t insult your landlord. Even I know that.
    He peers at me over his glasses and then says, “You’re dead, woman.” I’m about to bolt for the door, realizing how stupid I am for assuming serial killers are opposed to cardigans, when he adds, “This report here says you’re deceased.”
    My head drops to the table with a thud. “And yet,” I mumble, “I’m not even feeling woozy.” It is no use explaining my predicament, that I’m dead/alive by way of my crazy mother.
    He grabs my shoulder, shoos me out with his big, fat hands. “I’m sure this is a shock,” he says flatly. “If you need to sit down, there’s the curb.”
    “Come on. Do I look dead to you?”
    “That’s the problem with this country!”
    “Zombies?” I can tell this is going south all the way, so I figure I might as well be witty.
    “You’re dead to me, identity thief!” The door slams in my face.
    I shout back through the door. “You think if I’d steal an identity, I’d choose this on e?” As if he’s looking through the peephole, I make wild gestures at myself, trying to paint a picture of my mother, my fiancé, my wedding day and other continued nightmares of my life. To the passersby, I probably look like I’m seizing out. The technical term is conniption fit .
    At my feet are four cats. The color of the new one doesn’t matter. At this point, it’s just a mismatched quilt of fur.
    * * * *
    It takes me an hour to scrape all the sap off my shoe. I’m seriously regretting my perfume choice, but if I can just get in a building somewhere for the night, I’m hoping these cats will lose interest.
    While I’m rolling the small stick up and down the sole of my shoe, I notice a sign for the YMCA. It’s only a block away, and already I can hear the sounds of the kids outside playing. I’m exhausted. This was not how I pictured my first day going, but I realize that I’ve got to stay focused on the goal. So for now, I need a place to stay until I can figure out how to rise from the dead, government style.
    I walk the block or so, dragging way more than physical luggage, if you know what I mean. The kind I’m dragging doesn’t have wheels and a pop-up handle. It’s heavy too. Real heavy.
    I stand outside the YMCA for a long time, trying to decide if I have the stomach for it. Say what you will about my mom, her house was always tidy and my sheets were