Davo and I have the misfortune of living across the hall from a classic, textbook Karen. The first time I had a run-in with her, I was in a secluded area of our apartment complex filming a TikTok video, and she came storming over to yell at me. Not because I was doing anything wrong or was in anyone’s way — she just didn’t like that I wasn’t on my porch, which is where I belong.
I tried to explain that the space where she’d found me was quiet and had good lighting and was an optimal place to record, but she wasn’t having it. And when I expressed confusion as to why she was so angry, she smirked and was like, “Oh, yeah. Playing stupid always works for me, too.”
She stomped off before I could bounce back with a proper eye-for-an-eye response, which, from a personal safety standpoint, was probably for the best. She had her dog with her: a big, snowy white mix who seems to be part German Shepherd and part Welsh Hound of Death, and who always has this flat, intent look in his eyes. Everything about him suggests that he’s trained to go for the throats of managers, and I would very much prefer that his bloody muzzle not be the last thing I ever see.
Since that encounter, she’s clashed with other neighbors and has regularly scheduled screaming matches with beleaguered family members inside her apartment. Most recently, she called the cops on the apartment complex itself.
It was hard to get all the details, even with our ears pressed all the way to our door, but apparently, she thinks that someone’s been trying to break into her place, and she is convinced that management has something to do with it. Management is understandably baffled by the accusations.
Overall, Davo and I just do our best to avoid her.
But a couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out into the breezeway to head to work, I noticed a big mess of white powder all over her welcome mat (which I assumed was baking soda or dried caulk, and not, like 1980s nose candy). There was also a handful of bent-up nails next to the powder, so it looked like it was just some kind of DIY project gone awry than anything insidious. More than likely, she’d been attempting to install some kind of anti-burglary device and took a breather to go get a cash refund on the tripwire or poison darts or whatever without a receipt.
Suddenly inspired, I popped back inside and grabbed a small, glass jar from my supply cabinet, then scooted over to her door, scooped up the nails and a pinch of the powder, screwed the lid on tight, and ran away before her dog could explode through the wall and eat me. Any danger to my personhood aside, I just felt like physical representations of her differently-sane vindictiveness should not go to waste.
Some of the debris has already gone into protective work to keep Davo and me off of her radar, but I’m saving the rest for a special occasion. It’s like that time I hung onto the screw that blew out my tire (which ended up in an fairly pointed witch bottle) — the stories behind the components we use in our magic fuel their potency and provide them with correspondence. Positioned apotropaically, the Karen-powered bits will keep other Karens out of my business establishment. Aimed aggressively, I can channel the power of Home Improvement Gone Wrong to muck up the nefarious plans of others.
And you know… it would be ambitious, but I could always try to create a Karen-themed servitor, although I’m not quite sure what its programming would be. I am forgiving to a fault when it comes to customer service issues, mainly because of my extensive background in hand-to-hand combat retail, so the idea of kit-bashing up a thought-form specifically to make the lives of salespeople harder is pretty anathema to me.
I do, however, lack the necessary confidence to request that legitimate problems affecting my own consumer experiences be remedied. I’m like Taylor Tomlinson trying to send food back at restaurants: “I would have to have a toupée on my lasagna, and even then, I’d be like, I’m so sorry, I asked for this without toupée… I didn’t? I should have. You know what? Leave it. It’s garnish.”
Bringing just a smidge of Karen energy into these situations couldn’t hurt, even for a pushover like myself. I’m thinking one of the nails, a little of the powder, and some yarrow tied up in a yellow pouch (yellow being the color of courage as per the Chaos Star), and I would have a handy little charm for those times when I have to be like, “Listen, I understand that there’s not a lot of mushrooms in this, but I did order it without mushrooms. So if you could have it remade, that would be awesome. I’ll wait.”
But let us return to the present. Word around the complex is that Karen is moving soon — I would love to take credit for banishing her, but as it turns out, management very generously offered to let her out of her lease, in exchange for never, ever darkening their doorway again. Tenants in our building are breathing a collective sigh of relief: Karen will neither be missed, nor fondly remembered.
And what will remain is a vial of liminal souvenirs, transmuting the residue of her residency/infestation into something surprisingly useful. In that respect, her story does end quite well for me.
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In