Tenements
Un
Always above me is the incessant clack clack clack of my neighbor’s typewriter. He just broods in his apartment, leaving only for Chinese food and cigarette breaks. I’m fairly confident he doesn’t have a job. Sometimes I wonder what awful sexual favors go on between himself and the landlord, because he sure as hell doesn’t have any source of income to pay the rent with.
On the rare occasions I get a glimpse of him, he always looks the same. Deathly pale skin, an incredibly gaunt frame, long fingers and a sharp nose are really the only features you can make out. He always leaves at night time and he always has himself covered – almost hidden – in a trenchcoat and trilby. Maybe he’s got a Warhol complex.
Anyways, this writer fellow. He brings home some of the most interesting people I have ever had the pleasure of chasing away from my doorstep – real bohemian, artsy types. It’s a damn shame that their scene died back in the 60’s and they’re really just rudimentary hobos with a bottle of whiskey in one hand (still “inconspicuously” hidden in the brown liquor store bag) and a handful of bad poetry in the other.
He has parties. A lot. Too often for my taste. He gathers all of his transient friends into his tiny apartment and they dance, sing, stomp on the floor, and probably a number of other things. Pipes you see, pipes you don’t. I’ve actually managed to put a hole in my kitchen roof from banging on the ceiling with a broom to quiet them down. Is it really that much to ask? I’m a secretary, and my job is actually exhausting, Scratch that. If I asked him to be considerate for my career’s sake, he wouldn’t understand. I’m willing to bet the boy hasn’t worked a day in his life. He’s probably just living out his silly writer fantasy at the expense of his daddy.
So one night he shows up on my doorstep. He asks me for a place to stay. I tell him he’s got his own apartment. No no, he says. Not anymore. Apparently the landlord is a smidge displeased with our young man and refused to allow him to take up precious space in his complex. In other words, he got evicted and now he’s got these crazy expectations of the person he’s been tormenting non-stop for the past two years. Hah. I threw him out, I did.
But this kid, my god, he’s got determination. You know what he did? He sat out on my porch in the pouring rain, huddled under the stairs that lead to his former apartment, with a newspaper held over his head in hope that it would block the rain. He looked downright pathetic. After coming home from work and still seeing him in the same position since I’d left in the morning, I invited him in.
I gave him the grand tour of the house. This is the kitchen, this is the bathroom, and this is the linen closet. Here’s the couch you get to sleep on. See all these things on the walls? They’re of substantial value and you must never, ever touch them, you hear? And he nodded at my every word like an obedient puppy. I made him a coffee then went off to bed.
If only I’d known that he would turn out to be the man who came to stay.
On the rare occasions I get a glimpse of him, he always looks the same. Deathly pale skin, an incredibly gaunt frame, long fingers and a sharp nose are really the only features you can make out. He always leaves at night time and he always has himself covered – almost hidden – in a trenchcoat and trilby. Maybe he’s got a Warhol complex.
Anyways, this writer fellow. He brings home some of the most interesting people I have ever had the pleasure of chasing away from my doorstep – real bohemian, artsy types. It’s a damn shame that their scene died back in the 60’s and they’re really just rudimentary hobos with a bottle of whiskey in one hand (still “inconspicuously” hidden in the brown liquor store bag) and a handful of bad poetry in the other.
He has parties. A lot. Too often for my taste. He gathers all of his transient friends into his tiny apartment and they dance, sing, stomp on the floor, and probably a number of other things. Pipes you see, pipes you don’t. I’ve actually managed to put a hole in my kitchen roof from banging on the ceiling with a broom to quiet them down. Is it really that much to ask? I’m a secretary, and my job is actually exhausting, Scratch that. If I asked him to be considerate for my career’s sake, he wouldn’t understand. I’m willing to bet the boy hasn’t worked a day in his life. He’s probably just living out his silly writer fantasy at the expense of his daddy.
So one night he shows up on my doorstep. He asks me for a place to stay. I tell him he’s got his own apartment. No no, he says. Not anymore. Apparently the landlord is a smidge displeased with our young man and refused to allow him to take up precious space in his complex. In other words, he got evicted and now he’s got these crazy expectations of the person he’s been tormenting non-stop for the past two years. Hah. I threw him out, I did.
But this kid, my god, he’s got determination. You know what he did? He sat out on my porch in the pouring rain, huddled under the stairs that lead to his former apartment, with a newspaper held over his head in hope that it would block the rain. He looked downright pathetic. After coming home from work and still seeing him in the same position since I’d left in the morning, I invited him in.
I gave him the grand tour of the house. This is the kitchen, this is the bathroom, and this is the linen closet. Here’s the couch you get to sleep on. See all these things on the walls? They’re of substantial value and you must never, ever touch them, you hear? And he nodded at my every word like an obedient puppy. I made him a coffee then went off to bed.
If only I’d known that he would turn out to be the man who came to stay.