Grandma’s Phone

Here at the end of the internet, 4chan stands as the great archive of a vanishing culture built online. Its various boards are the true successors of the Neolithic campfires around which hunter-gatherers shared tribal lore. Spend any length of time browsing /x/ or /k/, and you’ll soon discern a unique storytelling tradition with its own customs and archetypes.

Most of the greentext tales are copypastas swapped back and forth by aesthetically impoverished Millennials. But every once in a while, you stumble across a series of posts with a ring of truth. Pun intended.

Transcribed and reformatted from greentexts, with connective tissue added for coherence and pacing, a long-forgotten Anon writes:

I was homeless for most of one semester in college. Here’s my experience.

Dad had been out of the picture for years when Mom died. I went to live with my uncle, her brother. He was a truck driver who was gone most of the time, leaving me at home with his wife. She always bitched and snapped at me, blamed me for everything that ever went wrong. I think she resented me being there because she had no kids of her own.

Sorry for the backstory, but my childhood situation is important to understand for later.

As you’d imagine, I couldn’t wait to get out of that house. I started applying to colleges at the start of senior year and got accepted to one out of state. Back then my modest inheritance paid for tuition. I got a job at McDonald’s to cover living expenses and had just enough to split an off-campus apartment with a stereotypical stoner roommate. It ended up being cheaper than the dorms in the long run.

Taking a full class load and working nights full-time wore me out, but the freedom of finally living on my own was worth it. I really did feel as if a physical weight had been lifted off my chest. By the end of the year, I’d started hanging out with some people in my classes and even had a girlfriend for a few months. That first college semester was the best time of my life up to that point.

One night in early February, I got home from a double shift to find my apartment trashed. My first thought was to call the cops, but it turned out I didn’t have to because they brought me in for questioning. At the station the cops informed me that they, and not some crackhead burglar, had raided our pad. To make a long story short, my pothead roomie got four months for possession. I walked after I passed every drug test and proved I was hardly in residence except to crash for a few hours a night.

I was a free man again, but with a whole new problem. My meager wages could not cover rent and living expenses, and I had no time to find a new roommate. Even worse, when I asked the landlord for more time, I found out that my old roommate, who’d been in charge of depositing the rent since I was gone so much, had been spending our rent money on drugs. The landlord had been leaving messages with him for weeks, but Stoney McStoneface hadn’t told me.

Another long story short, my landlord was in no mood to cut me any slack and evicted me a couple of days later. I sold everything I could, packed the rest in my green Civic hatchback, and drove around for a whole day wondering what to do. No way I’d go crawling back to my aunt. I vowed that I’d starve first.

Thankfully it didn’t come to that. I spent a couple of weeks crashing on various friends’ couches. Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I tried sleeping in my car after that. With a nice electric blanket, a car can actually be a cozy place to sleep. Another run-in with the cops taught me right away to choose my parking spots carefully. A side street on the line between commercial and residential zones is best for car camping. If you get a car cover and keep lights to a minimum, no one knows you’re inside. Nearby businesses think the car belongs to a local resident, and neighborhood residents think it belongs to a local business, so no one calls the cops.

I lived out of my car for a little over a week, switching between five parking spots I’d scoped out. The cops didn’t bother me again, but the low duration and quality of sleep started taking a toll on my school and job performance. I needed a better solution.

One presented itself the next night I shambled into work, feeling like I’d been dragged behind a bus. A coworker who was also a friend of my ex-girlfriend started chatting about how my ex-GF’s grandma had just been put in a nursing home. That news made me sad because my ex-GF’s grandma was a super nice old lady. She’d taken to me right away, giving me an open invite to hang out and study at the house where the two of them lived. Since I kept such odd hours, Grandma had even let me have a key so I could get in without disturbing her. She’d already been pretty infirm, basically bedridden, when her granddaughter and I were still dating. Several study and make-out sessions had been interrupted by my GF’s ringing phone. The house had a second line going to the attic bedroom, and Grandma would call it from her room downstairs when she needed my GF for something.

Don’t get the wrong idea. Our breakup had nothing to do with Grandma. I still miss her and wish I’d had a grandma like her to live with instead of my bitchy aunt.

When my coworker told me that my ex-GF had moved back with her parents out of town, and Grandma’s house was empty while they got it ready to sell, I got an idea.

That night after closing, I parked on a side street just off the main drag  between a video store and a house rezoned as student lodgings. Much like my old apartment. I walked two blocks, keeping my coat’s hood up, not just for the cold but to avoid notice, and turned down the alley that ran behind my ex-GF’s old house.

Every crunch of my shoes on the pea gravel set me on edge. Most of the houses on the alley were dark, but a few kitchen and back bedroom lights shone behind chain link fences. I made it to my ex’s back yard gate, took a breath, and swung it open. The rusty creak made me cringe.

Right away I got visual confirmation of my coworker’s story. Grandma’s wrought iron patio set was gone. So was the Lincoln that had sat idle in the driveway as long as I’d known my GF. The house was totally dark.

Having gone that far, I decided to go all-in. I hurried to the back door and pulled out my key. Half-expecting that they’d changed the lock in the past months, I tried the key. It fit. I was in.

A short flight of steps to my right rose from the back landing to the kitchen. It was empty. Even the stove was gone. Nothing moved on the main floor, at least nothing I could see in the darkness.

The even deeper darkness of the basement yawned down a longer stairway before me. I tiptoed down the carpeted steps. This wasn’t a dirty, spidery cellar. It was mostly finished, with nice carpeting and paneling, even a full bathroom. No sign of human habitation remained except the fading scent of a pineapple plug-in.

I did a walkthrough of the whole house. Every stick of furniture was gone. I was alone.

As quietly and quickly as I could, I walked back to my car and grabbed the sleeping bag and toiletries I’d added to my homeless guy kit. Returning to the house, I went down to the basement again. The main room had a small door in the back wall next to the steps. It blended in with the paneling and led to a little storeroom. The floor was carpeted in there, too, and the window was painted over. I shut the door, unrolled my sleeping bag, and read a paperback novel by the glow of a pen light until I drifted off. 

When my watch alarm went off an hour before dawn, I woke up feeling like a million bucks. But trepidation set in again. I still had to make it back to my car unnoticed.

I rolled up my sleeping bag and stashed it in the drop ceiling. After thoroughly checking my cozy storeroom hotel for any sign of my presence, I snuck out of the house, locked the back door behind me, and headed back towards my car at a brisk but quiet pace.

The combined wave of relief and rush of tasting forbidden fruit almost overwhelmed me when I sat back behind the wheel and started the engine. Driving away scot free felt almost as good as living on my own for the first time.

Over the rest of the semester, I developed a pretty workable pattern. On weekdays I’d go to class and hang around campus until work. After my shift, I’d park in one of my rotating safe spots and walk to Grandma’s house. There, I’d take a shower, being careful to wipe the bathroom dry with my towel afterward. The basement bathroom was centrally located with no windows, so I didn’t see much risk in having the light on in there. Once I’d gotten myself cleaned up, I’d retire to my small but comfy storeroom to grab a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. On the weekends, I’d couch surf at friends’ apartments.

For the first time since I’d been kicked out of my place, my life had a semblance of stability. My grades were good. Work was going good. I secretly hoped my new setup would last until I graduated. But a part of me knew it couldn’t.

One unseasonably cold night in March, I got off work later than usual. By the time I’d parked, walked the two and a half blocks to Grandma’s house, and bedded down in the storeroom, I was trashed. The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to see a thin line of light shining under the door.

Panic hit me like a jackhammer. I sat there, practically hyperventilating, racking my brain for what to do. I finally cracked the door open to see sunlight pouring through the basement windows. Checking my watch, I saw it was 7:18. I’d slept through my alarm!

Still being as careful as I could, I left the house in broad daylight, sure I’d be discovered this time. Somehow I made it back to the car without meeting anyone on the way. The five-block drive to class seemed to take hours, during which I expected flashing blue and red lights to appear behind me at every turn.

I got to school just fine and went through the day without any problems. But I spent the rest of that week sleeping in my car and at friends’ places. I did a precautionary drive before going into Grandma’s house again, fully expecting to see bars on the windows or a “sold” sign out front, but everything looked the same. Surely, I thought, they’ll have changed the locks this time. But my key still worked, and I resumed my old routine.

It was over a month later when I was awakened from a deep sleep in my storeroom quarters. I groggily checked my watch. 3 AM, still two hours before the alarm. But my sleep-fogged brain was sure it had heard ringing.

Probably just a dream. But then a distant yet clear ringing split the night again.

I’d recognize that ring anywhere. It was a phone, specifically my former GF’s upstairs phone.

I jumped up and took the steps two at a time. Stealth took a back seat to keeping the phone from alerting the neighbors. 

Adrenaline woke me up all the way, and I remembered searching the whole house but finding no phones anywhere. Someone must have come back and plugged one back in.

Luckily, the ringing stopped just as I reached the first floor. But I couldn’t take a chance on it ringing again. I frantically went through every room, desperate to find the accursed device that threatened my sweet deal.

My fear-fueled search turned up nothing. There was still no furniture in the whole house, not so much as a folding chair, and no phone.

I was standing baffled in the dining room, when moving lights slanted through the coat hall window. I sprinted to the heavy drapes covering the front windows and peaked out. A police car was cruising down the street, shining its searchlight on the house!

I got down and crawled like a crab fleeing a Deadliest Catch extra to the kitchen stairs. I barely stopped myself from tripping and rolling down to the basement. Once there, I holed up in the storeroom, straining to slow my rapid breath.

My luck had finally run out. I knew it. The cops would bust in like they’d done to my apartment. It was only a matter of time before they found me cowering in the storeroom. Having been questioned in connection with a drug bust a few months ago, I’d definitely be jailed for vagrancy, or worse.

I waited in that cramped, dark room for two hours, constantly checking my watch. Dawn was coming, and I knew I had to make my move. I gathered up all my stuff and walked out of the storeroom, ready to face the music. 

The house was quiet. I took another peek out the living room window. The street was empty.

I got the fuck out of Dodge, sure that a pack of police dogs was right behind me all the way to my car. My heart didn’t stop pounding until after my second glass of water slumped in a booth at an all-night Shoney’s.

It probably goes without saying, but I never went back to Grandma’s house after that. A friend took pity on me and let me live out the semester at his place in exchange for paying my share of the utilities. I’ve never told anybody about my time squatting in that empty house until now. I did make subtle inquiries with my ex-GF’s friend and found out the family had asked the cops to do nightly checks on the property due to local gang activity. If I’d kept squatting there, I’d almost certainly have been caught. To my knowledge, no one else had heard the phone ringing.

The other thing I know now is that my ex-GF’s grandma had died on my last night in her old house, just before 3 AM.

I still wish  I’d been her grandson. And maybe that’s how she thought of me.

 

“Couldn’t put this one down!”

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