In the kitchen, Tracy struggles to keep upright, leaning into the counter, tears streaming down her face. She pounds the marble top in frustration and wails into the phone. The dishwasher roars beside her, loudly, water flowing in cycles. Sally wishes there is something she could do, but she knows that is impossible. Pity and sadness evade her, just compassion that she understands the most.
She has little choice but to back away, calmly, quietly.
Just a week ago, the guys in the apartment next door were rushing to make the ferry for that much-anticipated camping trip. They didn’t even notice as she stood in the hall amused by their last-minute frantic packing. Exactly seven days to the minute, they sit behind closed doors in their respective bedrooms wondering what exactly happened. The story repeats itself in their minds, obsessively, both immersed in guilt, completely estranged, yet just feet away from one another. They have been silent since they have returned. No booming music, no loud laughter. No spoken word. The third roommate, the youngest of the three failed to return from that weekend. His belongings remain undisturbed.
Again, Sally goes unnoticed, but she can see his face: A soft reflection beyond the dark wood of his once-was bedroom door.
She wonders if they’ve seen him.
In suite 248, the young man sits as he’s recently become accustomed to, slumped despairingly on the floor, his back against the sofa. All my plants die in this apartment, he thinks to himself, and all day long he stares blankly at the television set in front of him no matter if it had been turned on or not. Sunlight seems scarce, as he never bothers to pull open the blinds. He has spent his days in this position for quite some time now, it seems, mourning the loss of life itself.
All my plants die in this apartment.
It is unfortunate that you waste your days worrying about death, Sally thinks to herself. She wishes she could somehow express this to him, somehow say it in a way he’d hear her. This man was a friend of hers, not too long ago.
The realization that she has somehow wandered across the hall is brought to her by a sudden gentle whisper. Behind her a man and his girlfriend lay in bed, entangled by each other’s arms and legs, half speaking, half embracing the sound of the rain hitting the windowpane. It almost occurs to Sally that the girl is looking directly at her, foolish, as it may seem, as she speaks to her lover.
I dreamt that we were in a park, you and I and a bunch of friends. Somehow I lost sight of you and right away I began to panic. I couldn’t figure out what happened, where you went. You just suddenly disappeared.
He embraces her face lovingly. Perhaps, concern?
I woke up in a stress, she says, her body pressing closer to his. But you were right here, before me, my arms wrapped around your chest. At that moment I felt closer to you than ever.
They begin to kiss.
Usually this room is empty, as Sally passes through this suite often, her final spot behind the wall…just past their bed…
Once they—the children on the third floor—had bored of it and had asked all they needed to know, or once the elders turned the lock, they slid the game underneath the bed and she was freed to go.
When asked, ‘WHO R U?” on the board, the same question they had inquired before, she smirked and replied: I M THE FLY UPON MY DEATH WATCHING U FROM THE GLASS DOOR.
She is allowed her sense of humour. For that she feels something akin to gratitude. Sally does not understand this next part, only knows it from instinct, a progression, perhaps habit.
From where she had been laying on the living room floor, before they had sent out that beckoning call, the same spot and position Sally had woken up from so many times before. From where Sally had suddenly stood up, on command, without a choice, after she’d heard that intrusive sound echoing from down the hall. This is where Sally finally lays down, in that same position he had left her that one rainy afternoon—after his hands had let go of her throat, and before he had pierced the blade himself into his own—before he’d fallen to his knees, slumped over on the carpet next to where her screaming had already gone unheard.
Forgotten, unnoticed, and then unrecognized so many days afterwards.
As she now gently moves back down into that position where the red stain on her gut meets the wet puddle on the carpet, she sees him, suddenly, standing before her—watching with beastly eyes as she falls defenselessly to the floor. This is the last image, the last memory. Her own personal routine she has been cursed to uphold. There she is, on her left side, her head twisted and lifted, her shocked eyes seeing the smile fade from his face. And it becomes all too familiar to her, as Sally remembers. Him. Her beloved-turned-murderer.
Ldm
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Morning, Sunshine!
At three A.M Thursday morning, in Suite 411, Wendell grins from ear to ear on his couch in total self-adoration. Beaming and smiling, he feels pretty damn good about himself. His stories at the bar that night, always bigger and better or sadder and sorrier than anyone else’s were particularly engaging.
What a charmer, he thinks to himself. What a charmer!
His local just a few short blocks up the drive, he’d forgone the cab in favour of staggering home, stopping only to urinate on a newspaper box. Amused by his own defiance, Wendell declared, “I am not an animal!” after the man who sleeps every night in the bakery’s doorway dared curse something unintelligible his way. Once back in the apartment building, he pounded and kicked at his door when the lock wouldn’t give before finally realizing he had still one more floor to go. He stumbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, snickering loudly, immersed in his own genius mind, grabbed a beer from the fridge, slumped down on the couch in the dark, and spilled all over himself with his first enthusiastic chug. It didn’t matter, though. Wendell raised the bottle for a self-congratulatory toast and began to collect his thoughts from the last few hours he’d spent at the bar.
Ah yes, they really like him there. He knows this well enough to go back at least a couple nights a week, spend the evening, watch the game, listen to the band, engage in thrilling conversations with everyone around him. Whether they expect it or not does not daunt Wendell, as he knows after a few minutes they will be thoroughly entertained by his wit, his passion, his determination to make them laugh or cry or reflect upon their own lives, none of which, of course, would be more interesting than his own. Oh yes, each time he goes he makes a new fan. Tonight he had teased Angie each time she passed by, each time she took his order, each time she refilled his pitcher and the pitchers he bought around him. When she scuffed at his remarks Wendell playfully referred to her as his ‘muse for the night,’ providing him with ample material with her new hairstyle, her ex-boyfriend and the private conversations he’d overheard her having with the other bartenders. A willing victim, as he’s sure Angie’s also his greatest fan. Tonight was especially special. Tonight was the first night of hopefully many to come where he took to the small stage and improvised a bit of stand-up in between the band’s sets. Nobody had asked him to, but he’d taken it upon himself to entertain.
“Brilliant!” Wendell’s inebriated voice fills the room. “Quite brilliant, charmer.”
He hears a cough, suddenly, loud and crisp, as if right behind him. He smells cigarette smoke, as if someone else in the room was smoking. Barely able to even raise his head, he sees he’d left the balcony open, forces himself up and trips through the doorway. There in front of him stands a man in a black leather jacket.
It takes Wendell a moment or two to register the man who smokes on his balcony just a few feet in front of him. He is stocky, a tad taller than he, perhaps a few years older. The man’s face is hidden in the shadows, and when Wendell’s vision is once again focused he stretches out his right arm and points at the man with the same hand that holds his bottle of beer.
“Who da fuck are you?” Wendell blurts out in a language only another drunk would understand. With his other arm he holds onto the outside wall of his bedroom for balance.
The man restrains his voice, speaking quietly and with ease. “I followed you from the bar.” He exhales, adding, “I’m a fan.”
As he says this he smiles but Wendell can spot condescension through any cloud of smoke. Trying to understand, he takes a swig of beer and even a few seconds to hang over the balcony to look down. His vision is still blurry as he barely can see the ground. He scratches his head and finally turns back to the man.
“I climbed.”
The man steps closer, slowly.
“Climbed? But it’s—“
“Four stories.” He grins. “I’m good.”
Directly in front of him now, Wendell finally recognizes the man. He is the lonely bloke who sat at the far end of the bar, keeping to himself and watching quietly from afar. At one point Wendell saw him laugh, but perhaps he was just coughing, now he wonders as sometimes it’s tough to tell. This man stayed right up to the end, until it was just the two of them and the staff left behind. It was Wendell, though, who stayed last, right up until Angie finally kicked him out by, jokingly of course, threatening to call her motorcycle friends.
And now on Wendell’s balcony the man smiles and beams proudly upon being recognized and Wendell notices the right fist and just barely before it makes contact with his face as the man decks him with such enthusiasm Wendell’s mouth and nose make three distinct crackling sounds and Wendell’s beer goes flying over the edge and shatters as it smashes on the ground and Wendell himself slides to the balcony’s damp astroturf surface where he will wake up a few hours later, wet and cold, dazed and bloodied.
The man takes a long final drag of his cigarette before tossing it over the edge and laughs to himself as he rubs his hands together three times and quietly says, “Job well done.”
He continues laughing as he steps over Wendell into the living room where he stands and pisses in one of Wendell’s fake plants. The man’s name is Todd and it is not usually his style to follow people home, in fact, tonight was a first, but this guy here, the guy laying unconscious on his balcony, the guy who spent all night being obnoxious, harassing and irritating everyone at the bar, including the staff and especially that cute waitress, annoyed him so much that he had no other choice but to stay behind a few hours just to give the guy a real story to tell.
If he even remembers it.
Still laughing, Todd makes himself a sandwich in Wendell’s kitchen with leftover turkey and whatever else he can find in the fridge. He packs it to go with some fruit and grabs a few soft drinks for lunch later that day. For his walk home, he grabs a couple beers and toasts Wendell as he lets himself out.
Ldm
What a charmer, he thinks to himself. What a charmer!
His local just a few short blocks up the drive, he’d forgone the cab in favour of staggering home, stopping only to urinate on a newspaper box. Amused by his own defiance, Wendell declared, “I am not an animal!” after the man who sleeps every night in the bakery’s doorway dared curse something unintelligible his way. Once back in the apartment building, he pounded and kicked at his door when the lock wouldn’t give before finally realizing he had still one more floor to go. He stumbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, snickering loudly, immersed in his own genius mind, grabbed a beer from the fridge, slumped down on the couch in the dark, and spilled all over himself with his first enthusiastic chug. It didn’t matter, though. Wendell raised the bottle for a self-congratulatory toast and began to collect his thoughts from the last few hours he’d spent at the bar.
Ah yes, they really like him there. He knows this well enough to go back at least a couple nights a week, spend the evening, watch the game, listen to the band, engage in thrilling conversations with everyone around him. Whether they expect it or not does not daunt Wendell, as he knows after a few minutes they will be thoroughly entertained by his wit, his passion, his determination to make them laugh or cry or reflect upon their own lives, none of which, of course, would be more interesting than his own. Oh yes, each time he goes he makes a new fan. Tonight he had teased Angie each time she passed by, each time she took his order, each time she refilled his pitcher and the pitchers he bought around him. When she scuffed at his remarks Wendell playfully referred to her as his ‘muse for the night,’ providing him with ample material with her new hairstyle, her ex-boyfriend and the private conversations he’d overheard her having with the other bartenders. A willing victim, as he’s sure Angie’s also his greatest fan. Tonight was especially special. Tonight was the first night of hopefully many to come where he took to the small stage and improvised a bit of stand-up in between the band’s sets. Nobody had asked him to, but he’d taken it upon himself to entertain.
“Brilliant!” Wendell’s inebriated voice fills the room. “Quite brilliant, charmer.”
He hears a cough, suddenly, loud and crisp, as if right behind him. He smells cigarette smoke, as if someone else in the room was smoking. Barely able to even raise his head, he sees he’d left the balcony open, forces himself up and trips through the doorway. There in front of him stands a man in a black leather jacket.
It takes Wendell a moment or two to register the man who smokes on his balcony just a few feet in front of him. He is stocky, a tad taller than he, perhaps a few years older. The man’s face is hidden in the shadows, and when Wendell’s vision is once again focused he stretches out his right arm and points at the man with the same hand that holds his bottle of beer.
“Who da fuck are you?” Wendell blurts out in a language only another drunk would understand. With his other arm he holds onto the outside wall of his bedroom for balance.
The man restrains his voice, speaking quietly and with ease. “I followed you from the bar.” He exhales, adding, “I’m a fan.”
As he says this he smiles but Wendell can spot condescension through any cloud of smoke. Trying to understand, he takes a swig of beer and even a few seconds to hang over the balcony to look down. His vision is still blurry as he barely can see the ground. He scratches his head and finally turns back to the man.
“I climbed.”
The man steps closer, slowly.
“Climbed? But it’s—“
“Four stories.” He grins. “I’m good.”
Directly in front of him now, Wendell finally recognizes the man. He is the lonely bloke who sat at the far end of the bar, keeping to himself and watching quietly from afar. At one point Wendell saw him laugh, but perhaps he was just coughing, now he wonders as sometimes it’s tough to tell. This man stayed right up to the end, until it was just the two of them and the staff left behind. It was Wendell, though, who stayed last, right up until Angie finally kicked him out by, jokingly of course, threatening to call her motorcycle friends.
And now on Wendell’s balcony the man smiles and beams proudly upon being recognized and Wendell notices the right fist and just barely before it makes contact with his face as the man decks him with such enthusiasm Wendell’s mouth and nose make three distinct crackling sounds and Wendell’s beer goes flying over the edge and shatters as it smashes on the ground and Wendell himself slides to the balcony’s damp astroturf surface where he will wake up a few hours later, wet and cold, dazed and bloodied.
The man takes a long final drag of his cigarette before tossing it over the edge and laughs to himself as he rubs his hands together three times and quietly says, “Job well done.”
He continues laughing as he steps over Wendell into the living room where he stands and pisses in one of Wendell’s fake plants. The man’s name is Todd and it is not usually his style to follow people home, in fact, tonight was a first, but this guy here, the guy laying unconscious on his balcony, the guy who spent all night being obnoxious, harassing and irritating everyone at the bar, including the staff and especially that cute waitress, annoyed him so much that he had no other choice but to stay behind a few hours just to give the guy a real story to tell.
If he even remembers it.
Still laughing, Todd makes himself a sandwich in Wendell’s kitchen with leftover turkey and whatever else he can find in the fridge. He packs it to go with some fruit and grabs a few soft drinks for lunch later that day. For his walk home, he grabs a couple beers and toasts Wendell as he lets himself out.
Ldm
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