I didn’t want to think when I got home, didn’t want my mind to wander to Dru. Fortune tellers have never done it for me. Tarot or horoscopes I can understand. At least there’s something tangible, a card or a constellation, to use as evidence. I don’t buy that some stranger can look into my face like he’s blazing into my brain and tell me I’ve given up something I didn’t really need. Who hasn’t given up something they didn’t need? It’s a good catch-all, if anything else, and his timing couldn’t have been better.

I opened the fridge as soon as I walked in the door. Fixing lunch would give me an excuse to not think, to just zone while I chopped and stirred.

My fridge is way too small. It came with the apartment, and I’ve always hated it. Harvest Gold, the color everyone bought from 1970-1975. It’s stuffed so full of crap I don’t need that I can’t remove an item without either rearranging everything or knocking stuff over. The top shelf is pitchers, jugs, and bottles – iced tea, diet Coke, ½% milk, peach wine, cranberry juice, and water. Everything’s at least half-empty. I pour the tea in the sink. The soda’s flat, so I dump it, too. Wine won’t keep, and the milk expires tomorrow, so they’re gone.

I’ve got a magnum of white zin, maybe a glass and a half remaining, shoved into the door. It’s too tall to fit. The neck of the bottle stays lunged forward, so I have to slam the door to make it fit. I get a garbage bag from under the sink, whip it open, and drop the bottle in. There are three bottles of mustard – brown, Dijon, and Chinese, all crusted around the lids. They get swiped into the bag, too. I’ve got four kinds of cheese – mozzarella with mold, Velveeta Lite with hard edges, cheap gouda, and goat cheese, a taste I never acquired, no matter how hard I tried. They go into the bag.

I throw away the frozen eggs, which had been left too close to the refrigerator’s coils. Forgotten heels of bread, leftovers so old that I don’t even bother to open their containers, they all go into the trash, Tupperware and all. I’m so used to cooking huge quantities of food that I’ve forgotten how little it takes to feed me. The crisper is forgotten territory, the place where artichokes and carrots go to die. I shudder as my fingers sink into their festered slime.

By the time I finish, the water pitcher and cranberry juice are all that’s left, and beside me is an overflowing bag of rotted, forgotten, wasted food I never bothered to prepare, never really needed. The smell of decay, moist and bitter, lies under the organic odor of produce. I drag the bag outside, through the pouring rain, and leave it on the curb. I go back inside, wash my hands, and fall asleep on the couch, no longer even remotely concerned with what I’m going to do about lunch.

The clatter of the telephone awakens me two hours later. I never answer the phone unless I approve of the name I see on my caller I.D. box. This is my way of conducting a friendly relationship with the fine folks who are responsible for collecting my student loan payments. I avoid them at all costs, and we get along just fine. But this time, I answer.

"Ms. Crowe, my name is Craig. I’m calling from the Missouri Student Loan Association’s office in Jacksonville, Florida…"

"If you’re representing Missouri, why are you in Florida?"

"We’re a private agency contracted by organizations who lend student loan funds. When those loans become delinquent, our offices assumes responsibility for collection. Ma’am, are you aware that you…"

"So, if you send someone to break my thumbs, do you contract someone locally, or do you fly someone in from Florida? If you fly someone in, do you tack the air fare onto my bill?"

The Parasite falls silent. I wait.

"Ms. Crowe, our records indicate that you left school three years ago this month. Since you haven’t made any payments on your student loans, you are now nineteen months delinquent."

"Yep, that sounds about right, Craig." Again, he’s silent. "I’m sorry, Craig, but I don’t have a copy of the script. Is the next line mine or yours?"

The Parasite clears his throat. "These delinquencies have been noted on your credit report. We advise that you remit payment immediately to prevent further damage to your credit standing."

"Craig, did you go to college?"

"Ms. Crowe, that’s not pertinent…"

"I’m guessing you didn’t, since any monkey can operate a telephone. Been doing it myself since I was three years old. I’m protesting, Craig." He stays silent, other than the low hum of his breathing. "You see, Craig, I majored in something I love, but it turned out all wrong. But I don’t have to tell you about bad career moves, do I, Craig?"

"Ms. Cr…"

"Anyway, Craig, I don’t think it’s right that I have to pay, what is it now, fifty some-odd thousand dollars, on a product that has proven itself faulty and useless. Are you with me, Craig?"

"Ma’am, if you…"

"I’m unemployed, Craig. I rent an apartment, and the blue book value of my car is under $800. I’d offer you my first-born child, but I’m experiencing a bought of secondary virginity. So, if you’re looking for, what’s the amount, Craig?"

"Fifty-three thousand, eight hundred seventy-four dollars."

"If you’re looking for that, from me, you need to take off your goddamn blindfold. That’s just a little less than I’ve grossed in the past three years."

"Ma’am, we can make arrangements to adjust for your unemployed status. I just need for…"

"Great, Craig. You make those arrangements. I’ll get back to my nap." I hung up, erupting the burst of laughter that had been threatening during the entire conversation. I’d never had the balls to answer those calls. That’s the whole reason why I got called I.D. in the first place. I think I avoided those calls because I never had an excuse for not paying, other than being bad with my money and intimidated by all the paperwork. But now I’ve got an excuse. No job! No money!

I get off the couch and go to the kitchen. Grabbing another trash bag, I go to work, ridding the pantry of more food I don’t need. I can stand to lose a few pounds, anyway.