The $100 Debt and the Unbeatable Name

My neighbor, Ms. Adellina Kleistenschlectenbergenstein, is one of those unforgettable characters—an old lady who’s as sweet as she is tall, which is very, very tall. She’s like a walking exclamation point in a floral apron, and let’s just say she doesn’t fit comfortably in most doorways. She has to duck to get through them, and it’s like watching a giraffe try to enter a room made for humans.

Her crowning glory, though, is her hair—a gravity-defying, enormous gray beehive that could probably double as an emergency shelter. She’s a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, she's also the source of all my current problems, which all stem from a crisp $100 bill I owe her after losing a bet about a cheeky squirrel swiping her Brillo pads.

"Just pop a cheque in the mail, dear," she grumbled, which I thought was a nice, simple request. But oh, that was my first mistake.

Writing a cheque to Ms. Kleistenschlectenbergenstein is no simple task. That tiny "Pay to the Order Of" space on the cheque? Well, it’s not built for names like hers. My first attempt with a ballpoint pen ended in disaster. I got to "Adellina Kleisten" and ran out of room. Completely hopeless. I even pulled out my old typewriter. “Dang it!” I muttered. The bell rang halfway through “Kleisten.” No luck there either.

To make matters worse, my other neighbor, Barry, often gets Ms. Kleistenschlectenbergenstein’s mail by mistake. Our postman usually just gives up, tossing anything addressed to her over the fence and hoping for the best. Barry’s witnessed the chaos firsthand, and he’s no stranger to the confusion. One morning, Barry saw me struggling with the cheques. "You just gonna leave it at ‘Adellina Kleisten’?” he asked, shaking his head. “That’s what I do.”

It wasn’t just on paper either. This morning, a burly handyman knocked on my door. "Lookin’ for... a Kleisten ... sheck ... shleck ... shlecten ... bergen ... steen?" he stammered. “Dispatch said something about a leaky tap and a squirrel issue?” I pointed him to the right house, but as soon as he glanced over, he froze. "I ain’t goin’ over there," he muttered. "The stories…" Before I could even blink, he hopped back in his truck and sped off like a man running from a monster. I was left standing there, wondering what kind of reputation Ms. K had that was scaring away the handymen.

Determined to end the madness, I went over to her house, holding the $100 bill. “Ms. K,” I said, “Here’s the money I owe you.”

She had to duck her head to see me, her massive beehive scraping against the doorframe. She glanced down at the cash, squinted, and said, “Don’t be daft. I don’t carry cash. Just pop a cheque in the mail, won’t you?” She slammed the door shut before I could protest.

Frustrated, I stomped back to my apartment, staring at my useless chequebook. But as I walked, an idea struck me—an absurd, yet brilliant idea.

I got back to my flat, grinning like a madman. I pulled out three cheques and carefully wrote “Adellina Kleistenschle-” on the first, “ctenbergen-” on the second, and finished with “stein” on the third. Each for $33.33. Then, I taped the three cheques together, end to end, creating one magnificent paper trail of debt repayment, with one final penny taped to the end for an even $100.

Feeling like a genius, I marched over to her door, tape roll in hand, and posted my three-part masterpiece. It was done. I had won. Finally, I could return to my regularly scheduled programming of "As the World Turns"—or at least, that's what I told myself.