1.1. Knock Knock! Who's There?

Greetings from Earth, Wisconsonites! Your old friend, son, brother and Cousin Larry Appleton here, getting settled in the Windy City and sending out a big midwestern hello. For those of you who stumble onto this, here's my deal. My name is Larry Appleton. I'm 23 years old. I grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, where I studied journalism. My likes include peace and quiet, photography, and having plans. I recently moved to Chicago to take a crack at a career in journalism. I've since found a job at a second hand department store and an apartment in the same building. My life is quiet and uninteresting. My boss is an asshole. But I'm giving it my best shot.

It still feels like yesterday that I burst forth from the front door of that row house in Madison, greeting a line of handshakes and high fives a mile long as I made my way to the 'Stang and set out on my own. I've questioned the move lately. It was a hard decision; things were all right in Madison. Everyone seemed to love me there. But you know, sometimes, the world LOOKS perfect. Nothing to rearrange. Sometimes you just, get a feeling like you need some kind of change. So I grabbed life by the balls and headed southeast to the big city. I thought I'd start this journal to keep my friends and family up to speed on my adventures out here and keep my writing skills sharp as I pursue my dream as a journalist.


So anyway, weird start for old Larry here in Chicago.

There I was in the living room, sitting down to a glass of fresh pink lemonade and talking to myself like usual when a knock came at the door. And on the other side was a lean, shabby man of unclear foreign lineage smiling like an idiot, calling himself Balki and claiming to be my long lost cousin.

Before I even knew what was happening this stranger was in my apartment with his arms around me, and I just kind of held my breath and waited for the knife to puncture my gut. But he didn't attack. No, not in the least bit. Instead he rattled off the branches of some complex, half remembered family tree that explains how we're related and said he's been looking all over America for me. What the hell?

Hey dad; he said he showed up at our house and talked to you. Did you seriously give him my frigging address? Did you even think to make a couple phone calls and see if his story is legit? He said you tried to call me to let me know he's coming; what, once? Kind of an important heads-up Pop, maybe try to call a few more times until I answer? Frankly this story reeks of bullshit - so if he never actually showed up in Madison, or beat my address out of you or something I really need to know ASAP. Actually, if someone else sees this can you go check on my parents and make sure they aren't dead?

While we're at it, do any Appletons out there know if we have any Greek or Mediterranean blood or something? I can't figure out where the hell this guy is actually from on a map but I doubt they have many curly-headed, pasty faced Anglos there. I cracked wise that we're sort of "related by rumor" hoping he'd get the nuance (that I'm calling him a liar) and the fella laughed it off, which I must admit I found endearing - but I'm deeply suspicious of this man with the non-descript accent, unidentifiable homeland and a conveniently convoluted family history that he claims ties us through blood.

I've heard of these hustles before in the big city. They always end in stolen cars, or stereos, or organs, or some kind of weird sex. Not interested, buddy! So I tossed his ass out, but as he started to walk off all sad and dejected into the unforgiving streets of downtown Chicago I felt a twinge of pity and called him back. I gave this "Balki" a good once over. He didn't seem to have any weapons on him. He looks about as harmless as a housefly, and I like to think I know karate. And so, after putting virtually no thought into it at all, I invited him to stay in my home. He seems to have some amount of money; maybe it's time for the prey to become the predator? I've lived on the mean streets of Chi town longer than him. Welcome to the Lion's Den, Balki Bartokamous. If you're not too careful, you might end up on the menu.

So there we were. Although we'd just met a moment ago and I sure as hell had a lot of questions, we immediately sat to watch TV in silence like an old married couple. But he couldn't get a handle on the fact that it has colors, and I didn't really want to let on that I was sizing him up in case the shit went down - so after we talked for a grand total of 90 seconds from the moment he'd walked in the door, I called it a night and left this complete stranger alone in my living room trying to figure out how the magic box makes moving pictures. Slept like a baby.

The next morning reality started to set in on this unskilled island hayseed that they don't need many shepherds in Chicago. I let him into the store downstairs where I work - did I mention my boss is also my landlord and I probably shouldn't burn him? And then left him alone to watch the store mere seconds later for a pretty significant length of time, hoping he doesn't steal anything but not really thinking much about it enough to care. I heard he had a customer. Not surprisingly, he got ripped off. God knows how long I'd been gone for, but the store was practically cleaned out when I got back. Sure enough the boss, Mr. Twinkacetti, strolls in a few minutes later; and here I am, stuck with a half empty store, 45 clams to my name and some kind of Mediterranean simpleton braying about silly putty or something.

To make matters worse Balki IMMEDIATELY started wising off to Twinkacetti, who already has rage problems and I think might be connected, if you know what I mean. Twinkie challenged Balki to fix a stereo or else basically, and I think Balki didn't realize his life probably depended on it.

Cut to later that night. Susan's over, and I've got the standard Larry charm cranked up to 11. She's trying to tell me Mypos doesn't exist and I argue that it does, even though I haven't looked it up either. I should probably take this suspect origin story with as much caution as Susan is, but my man-brain kicks in hard - no skirt gets to teach Larry Appleton about geography! So anyway the clown comes in  from trying to fix the stereo and starts running game all over Susan like I'm not in the frigging room. I mean, his tongue is practically hanging out and his slacks are three inches above his ankles all of a sudden. Not even subtle about it. Hey guy, you're sleeping on my couch. You screwed things up for me at my job. Now you're after my old lady? Why don't you just go ahead and bleed me out while you're at it, steal my identity and dump my body in the river?

Here's what happens next. Even though I've suffered this monster for the worst 18 hours since I got to Chicago, I decided to save him from himself and planted a small portable radio in the big old stereo he's supposed to fix. So when Twinkie tried to turn it on, I would flip the switch, he'd think Balki fixed it and I'd get a little more time to figure out how to get myself out of this jam. But because my boss isn't the mouth-breathing idiot Balki is, my scam didn't work. He found the radio immediately, and I started coming to peaceful terms with the bloodshed that's probably about to take place. But get this:

Turns out Balki had fixed the frigging stereo on his own. After finding my planted radio Twinkie cranked the stereo up to top volume and blasts the roof off the place. Every piece of glass in the room shatters. Between the stuff he sold for pennies on the dollar and all the merchandise he just destroyed, Balki's gotta be in it to Twinkie for half a grand. But amazingly, some guy walked in the room from nowhere and buys the stereo for 500 bones exactly; so Balki's dead even, right? Wrong. Turns out he picked over every working piece of equipment in the store to fix that stereo, putting him back in the red to the old man by an easy $500.

So Twinkie totally justifiably fired me - and Balki who he never hired in the first place. Honestly, we're lucky he didn't come at us with a baseball bat, I wouldn't have even been able to get that mad about it.

But then something interesting happened.

Balki laid on this heavy guilt trip on TWINKACETTI like HE'D done something wrong! And he seemed like he meant it! Talk about a hustler! End of the day, I get my shitty job back with a debt owed to Twinkie and Balki handcuffed to me until we can pay our way out. We're basically working slave labor and giving up part of our pay each week so I need a roommate now to cover rent, and here we are.

Despite the wake of destruction left in his path from the one day Balki's been in the city, I kind of have no choice but to take him in. Besides, I feel like I might need a scapegoat sooner than later and if Twinkie goes off the deep end, he's better off having "The Turnip" to take it out on than me. And you know what? After his shame game on Twinkie earlier, I realized this guy might make a useful partner in my grand schemes after all. I feel like the two of us could get away with being selfish scheming assholes for the next several years and his dopey-eyed earnest bull crap will get us off hook after hook.

I know this sounds like the beginning of a series of dangerous misadventures with an untrustworthy perfect stranger, but don't worry, friends and family. I'll get over on this Balki character soon enough. I'll either figure out how to make him work for me or I'll leave him squatting in a flop house with a band of Chicago junkies faster than you can say Cousin Larry. Am I going to get the raw end of this deal?

Of course not.

Don't be ridiculous.