been like Hector in that way, except he was a rock musician, not a super. The decals on his guitar case announced his seat in the theater of life. Lobster of Hate was the decal she liked best. She’d heard them play.
People live in very strange conditions. People live in situations no one talks about. People live in ways no one sees. People live in ways that aren’t described and have to be forgotten if they are. People live in ways that no one wants to hear about or can accept, so no one hears about them, no one’s told, no one listens. No one would believe the descriptions. TV sitcoms were descriptions of a very few situations. All situations might ultimately be comedies, but all comedies and situations weren’t on television. So few of them surfaced, so few situations ever lit up the screen, everything was predictable.
The cute guy’s place wasn’t predictable, not from the way he looked. It wasn’t that unusual either, except no one talked about it. People live like this voluntarily. People are free to live like this.
Ernest took notes on the yellow pad while the cute guy talked. Ernest was stable and winning. Elizabeth wandered mentally while Ernest talked to the guy. He was collecting information for their dossier to the City. That was their agenda.
She was collecting other information. She was taking her own notes. She was looking around. She was taking in the guy and his place. It was hard. But she found a way not to be there. She wasn’t fucking the cute musician in her head, she couldn’t bring herself to do it, with him and Ernest in the room. Instead she saw the girl he’d brought back from a club, it was very late, and they were both high, drunk, stoned, and he opens his door, and the girl gasps, she has an asthma attack because of the years of dust, so they never fuck. Or, maybe they do fuck, she’s really turned on by the shit they’re fucking in, she’s from a strict family in the Midwest, or from an upstate New York farm, and she’s never seen anything like this, and she thinks it’s romantic. Elizabeth couldn’t remember if she found this scene romantic when she was twenty. Fucking on dirty clothes. She was too old to be young, couldn’t revive her adolescence like a comeback career. She didn’t think she’d be rejuvenated by fucking him. She could imagine it. The smells would be the same, the actions would be the same, nothing would be changed. But she was older. She was going to grow even older, old, and she was going to become less flexible and drier and more indifferent and she’d eventually become decrepit no matter who or what she fucked, and then she would breathe her last breath and expire. It was inevitable.
The cute guy had filed a complaint with the City once, he told them. Ernest and Elizabeth had him sign his name to their petition. It felt like success. Then they started to leave. The cute guy said to Elizabeth, How’s about getting together again and talking about the situation? Ernest shot Elizabeth a look. Elizabeth said, Whatever, I mean, whatever Ernest wants…. She pretended she didn’t realize what kind of situation he had in mind. She wondered if Ernest was jealous. Ernest never referred to it. Ernest had deep reserves.
The other tenants never materialized, they never answered Elizabeth’s carefully crafted letters. They could have been eliminated, through intimidation for one thing. It was not out of the question—Elizabeth could imagine it—that the renovations started and the tenants, the complaining ones, were not told when the walls were going to be torn down, because the Big G hated them, the way she hated Elizabeth, a little less, and some were lying in bed and the walls fell on them, so their legs were broken, or they were buried under the debris or in a wall. A cryptic end in a tenement crypt. Improbable.
They were eliminated because the noise of construction, the daily crash and boom, drove them out, drove them screaming into the night, or,
People live in very strange conditions. People live in situations no one talks about. People live in ways no one sees. People live in ways that aren’t described and have to be forgotten if they are. People live in ways that no one wants to hear about or can accept, so no one hears about them, no one’s told, no one listens. No one would believe the descriptions. TV sitcoms were descriptions of a very few situations. All situations might ultimately be comedies, but all comedies and situations weren’t on television. So few of them surfaced, so few situations ever lit up the screen, everything was predictable.
The cute guy’s place wasn’t predictable, not from the way he looked. It wasn’t that unusual either, except no one talked about it. People live like this voluntarily. People are free to live like this.
Ernest took notes on the yellow pad while the cute guy talked. Ernest was stable and winning. Elizabeth wandered mentally while Ernest talked to the guy. He was collecting information for their dossier to the City. That was their agenda.
She was collecting other information. She was taking her own notes. She was looking around. She was taking in the guy and his place. It was hard. But she found a way not to be there. She wasn’t fucking the cute musician in her head, she couldn’t bring herself to do it, with him and Ernest in the room. Instead she saw the girl he’d brought back from a club, it was very late, and they were both high, drunk, stoned, and he opens his door, and the girl gasps, she has an asthma attack because of the years of dust, so they never fuck. Or, maybe they do fuck, she’s really turned on by the shit they’re fucking in, she’s from a strict family in the Midwest, or from an upstate New York farm, and she’s never seen anything like this, and she thinks it’s romantic. Elizabeth couldn’t remember if she found this scene romantic when she was twenty. Fucking on dirty clothes. She was too old to be young, couldn’t revive her adolescence like a comeback career. She didn’t think she’d be rejuvenated by fucking him. She could imagine it. The smells would be the same, the actions would be the same, nothing would be changed. But she was older. She was going to grow even older, old, and she was going to become less flexible and drier and more indifferent and she’d eventually become decrepit no matter who or what she fucked, and then she would breathe her last breath and expire. It was inevitable.
The cute guy had filed a complaint with the City once, he told them. Ernest and Elizabeth had him sign his name to their petition. It felt like success. Then they started to leave. The cute guy said to Elizabeth, How’s about getting together again and talking about the situation? Ernest shot Elizabeth a look. Elizabeth said, Whatever, I mean, whatever Ernest wants…. She pretended she didn’t realize what kind of situation he had in mind. She wondered if Ernest was jealous. Ernest never referred to it. Ernest had deep reserves.
The other tenants never materialized, they never answered Elizabeth’s carefully crafted letters. They could have been eliminated, through intimidation for one thing. It was not out of the question—Elizabeth could imagine it—that the renovations started and the tenants, the complaining ones, were not told when the walls were going to be torn down, because the Big G hated them, the way she hated Elizabeth, a little less, and some were lying in bed and the walls fell on them, so their legs were broken, or they were buried under the debris or in a wall. A cryptic end in a tenement crypt. Improbable.
They were eliminated because the noise of construction, the daily crash and boom, drove them out, drove them screaming into the night, or,
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