Page 1 of BJ’s Lost Crayons (Found by Daddy #13)

BJ

I pulled the envelope off my apartment door and went inside. I already knew what the letter inside it said. My neighbor, Betty, had called crying about it when she found hers this morning.

Our apartment building had been sold. We didn’t even know it was up for sale.

One day, everything was fine and dandy in the land of renters and the next, everything fell to shit.

I wasn’t sure how legal it was, but, according to the official statement, we all had to be out within the next sixty days.

Not six months or even three. Nope, we had to be gone at record speed.

I had no love lost for the owner or the building. Sure, the rent had been decent and most things worked. It was hardly what anyone would call magnificent. To top it off, he was absent most of the time, so, when issues arose, it was always a struggle. But none of that made this any easier.

Why couldn’t he have sold it to someone who wanted a turnkey real estate investment?

That would’ve been so much easier for every resident in this place.

I’d had that happen before, back in college.

It meant paying more in the short run, but it gave me the time I needed to think and decide what to do next.

We didn’t have that luxury now. The new owners were tearing this entire thing down and beginning again—building condos, of all things—exactly what this town didn’t need.

But it wasn’t my money, and none of this was my decision. The only thing I could do was figure out my next plan stat.

I shut the door behind me, barely clicking closed before I pulled the letter from the envelope. Sure enough, it was exactly as Betty had told me. Why couldn’t it have been a just kidding, the sale fell through letter?

The only upside was that we would get 100 percent of our security deposit back as long as we were out by the correct time.

I had a feeling that this was their way of preventing us from fighting and possibly a loophole to the timeline.

Nothing about that felt like it was within the laws of our city.

But I didn’t see how any of us had a choice.

Fighting cost money and if…not when we lost, we wouldn’t have enough time to find a new place.

And you couldn’t exactly squat in a building that had a wrecking ball coming at it.

“Ugh. This is not what we need, Stu.” I walked over to my support cactus.

Why he was named Stu, I didn’t know. There was a little sticker on his pot when I got him at the yard sale a couple years ago that said, “Please take care of Stu.” I wasn’t looking for a house plant of any kind, but with that sticker and him being in the free box, what choice did I have? He had to come home with me.

That had been a good yard-sale day. I found quite a few things to add to my collection.

My collection of retired crayons. It was such a silly thing to amass.

Crayons were crayons, and the colors were always kind of the same, even if they had various names or slightly different hues.

It wasn’t like I was an artist creating masterpieces out of them where I needed the colors to be spot-on.

One day, at a thrift store, I’d found a box holding not one but three of my favorite violet-blue shade.

I did the only rational thing—bought the box of broken crayons.

It had been such a hodgepodge, with a few broken colored pencils in the mix.

There were all different brands, including the ones that didn’t actually draw on things but were really cheap at back-to-school time.

Giddy, I skipped my other errands and went straight home. I sat on my floor, dumped them out, and sorted. It was like a treasure hunt. I found ones I liked, ones I loved, and a bunch for the trash. Then came the fun part—using them in my favorite coloring book.

After that, it was game on. I kept chasing that dopamine—yard sale after yard sale, thrift store after thrift store. I even found some at a dead stock store once. As hobbies went, it was inexpensive and it didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t see any reason to change it. Besides, yard sales were fun.

I rarely got much else at them—maybe a shirt for work, and one time, I found the little nightstand I placed by the window with my remotes on it.

And, of course, Stu. He’d been on my crayon journey with me ever since, the perfect plant for me.

Stu was just the right amount of responsibility.

I didn’t need to remember to water him often.

I didn’t need to prune him. Just kind of let him be, talked to him, made sure he got sun. That was that.

“We’re gonna have to find a new place, Stu. Maybe it’s time to buy.”

My stomach clenched at the thought. I wasn’t ready for a house yet.

Sure, I had a good job, and the money was there, but I didn’t want to come home and have to worry about maintenance projects or fixing things that went awry.

I had a hard time taking care of myself some days.

I didn’t need to add a real estate portfolio to my list of responsibilities.

I thought about pulling up the listings for apartments nearby and getting down to business, but instead, I opted to take a bath with my little rubber monsters that were just like rubber duckies, but way cuter.

The bath did a world of good, telling me I’d made the right choice. Tonight was a little kind of night.

After drying off, I slipped into my training pants and my favorite pajamas. They, too, were covered with monsters of all different colors. They weren’t the same ones as my bath toys, but I figured I might as well go with a happy adorable theme if I wanted to let go.

My stomach rumbled, so I nuked a frozen meal of chicken nuggies and fries. Hardly the dinner of champions, but they were shaped like smiley faces and were easy to make. Ordering or cooking a real meal would’ve meant being big, fully big, and after the day I had, that was a hard pass for me.

I sat on the floor by my coffee table and pulled out my new coloring book and box of “special” crayons. Because, yes, I had multiple containers of crayons throughout my apartment, each with its purpose.

I only took these out when I was little.

They were stored in an old box that at one time had a gift from my boss in it—a huge mug that wished me a Happy New Year.

It likely originated at the dollar store but still managed to hold up over the years.

I’d taped it up more times than I could count, and the confetti printed on it was missing in spots. But it was perfect.

The crayons were used. Very used. They had to be well worn and loved. Not sure how that became the rule. Even on the rare occasions when I played with another little or daddy, I wouldn’t use new crayons. It felt wrong.

Each of these had been with me through many, many drawings, color sheets, mazes, and connect-the-dots.

Their history brought me comfort. I dug inside and found my violet-blue and colored the house on the page I opened up to.

This was one of my favorite kinds of books to color.

The spaces were large, the paper like the kind they used for comic books, and the pages opened flat.

I let my worry slip away as I relaxed into the pretty world I’d created with my crayon, the paper, and I—one that didn’t have landlords that sold buildings out from under you. No bills to be paid or little old ladies calling me, crying in the middle of the day, making me feel helpless.

A world perfect, colorful, and filled with love.

One I wished existed.