The next day I sat with my dad looking over the paperwork for the short-term stay apartment that I had thankfully not yet signed. We agreed that given Mort’s reckless behaviour, there was no way that I could sign paperwork on his behalf, it could cause all sorts of legal nightmares.
What if he was cooking something, got dead drunk and set the apartment on fire. There were dozens of different scenarios where his causing damage to a property would be on my head.
I threw out the papers and informed him that he would have to source his own accommodation. He threw all sorts of child-like tantrums asking how he was supposed to do that. I told him it wasn’t my problem and he’d need to act like a grown-up and figure it out.
Now I can’t recall in here when exactly or in fact at what opportunity I had to take away his house keys and the garage door remote control which he kept in his car, but I did. It was a swift and deft move.
A couple nights later, I went to a concert with our schoolie friends that I had in fact purchased tickets to months in advance (of the concert and this craziness). This was the day that I noted he called 87 times. I actually got the giggles at one point because of the absurdity of him saying, “Oh, I was really looking forward to the concert, too bad I can’t come along and hang out with everyone.” Again, somehow avoiding reference to the large intoxicated pink elephant in the room.
Then there were the messages where he would revert to “what if this is the last time that I say goodbye” yadda yadda….and then call 15 more times in 10 minutes.
At the concert a friend asked for an update on the Mort situation with a hug and the preface, “god, are you just sick of talking about it?” I laughed and said, “yep sure am, though I am more sick of living it”.