Four Storied House and The Hole Where Very Little Happens

Four Storied House and The Hole Where Very Little Happens

1.

            “GET OUT OF HERE HARRISON!” Jeremy said, loud enough for anyone listening to hear. He was sick of having this boy come around to his house constantly, unsolicited, like a scorned Jehovah ’s Witness. Didn’t this kid have things to do? Wasn’t he supposed to be in college? Weren’t there other men in this kid’s life?

            Certainly, it’s not that he wasn’t flattered to be admired in such a way—Jeremy liked to think that he was being pined over by someone every now and then—but somehow this Harrison thing was getting out of hand. Jeremy’s housemates were starting to ask questions. He wasn’t able to get his work done. He couldn’t even watch T.V. for very long; periodically he’d be forced to turn down the volume and check all of the windows, dimming the lights so as not to give away his presence. Even when he was watching the Daily Show, his favorite skewering of each hot story of the day, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, scanning the noises in the apartment for any unnatural, quiet but persistent tapping. It was driving him crazy; he had begun yelling out “get out of here Harrison!” at any perceived tapping noise, slow, persistent, like Chinese water torture.

            Tonight however Harrison had come by and, mistakenly, been let in by one of Jeremy’s roommates as he was getting home with groceries—had held the door open for that traitor Craig and slipped in after. He had found his way to Jeremy’s room and was in the middle of undressing himself for bed when Jeremy, notified of Harrison’s creepy presence, came in flinging the door open. “Get out of here Harrison!” Jeremy said again, “Get your fucking clothes on and get out of this damn room now!”

            Harrison just looked at him. He didn’t look stunned or hurt like the last times he had been told to leave. He just stood there: a short, half naked black man holding a silk pajama shirt in his little-hands. “You shouldn’t talk to me that way, honey” he said in a quiet voice as he resumed putting his shirt on.

“I’m not your ‘honey,’ shut the fuck up and get outa my room Harrison. This is weird, we had one night together a long time ago. You don’t get to just come in here and act like this.” Jeremy was getting pissed off now. He’d had to wrestle Harrison out of his house before. He had a low center of gravity and he was strong so it was never easy, and Jeremy felt tired today. He hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been eating.

“I’ve been thinking about you honey” Harrison said. “I know you’ve been thinking about me. Dreaming about me.”

“Harrison, you haven’t even crossed my mind” Jeremy said. He remembered he had a nasty little switch blade knife he’d bought one day to feel tough. He liked the shape of it, the weight of it in his hands. It was in one of the drawers in his desk. He leapt for it now. Pulling first drawer open, riffling through the loose papers. He could hear Harrison’ footsteps coming closer to him now. He pulled the second drawer open, flinging empty binders and leaflets onto the floor—nothing. Harrison was almost behind him now, Jeremy felt his heart pounding as the hairs rose on the back of his neck. He opened the last drawer, lifting up all of the folders and tossing them on the floor on top of the binders and the leaflets, sending finished copies of papers flying, lumping in a big mess. He grabbed the knife from the bottom of the drawer. Behind him he heard “I don’t cross your mind, I am your mind.” Harrison’ voice was steadier and surer that Jeremy had ever heard it. Jeremy opened the blade and turned.

“Goddammit Harrison! Get out of my room!” Jeremy said as he turned quickly, a single pivot—all in the hips, Jeremy thought. He felt dangerous as he turned, like an animal, a cornered tiger. He imagined himself striking out, flashing his teeth. Finally he could show that he meant it when he said he wanted to be left alone! He would chase him out of his room, out of his house and out of his life! Finally! “Never again,” he thought, “freedom.”

Then Jeremy felt it; the warm flowing over his hand. He felt the warmth soaking through his canvas shoes and pooling in his sock. The specks of it in his ear and on the back of his neck brought with a small puff of metallic air as Harrison coughed. Harrison’ eyes were wide now. He didn’t say anything, but tears were flowing down his cheeks. He fell onto Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy felt the soft silk of his shirt and the warmth of Harrison’ body underneath it. He lay Harrison’ body on the floor, propping his head and shoulders up against the hollow drywall. Jeremy couldn’t think, he just kept muttering one phrase under his breath, saying it again and again as if it were some ancient incantation with the power to undo what had just been done, like some a magical reset button: “oh god, oh god, oh god.”

            The knife was stuck in Harrison’ stomach and angled up under his chest plate. It shivered with Harrison’ shallow breathing. “GET A DOCTOR! GETADOCTOR! GETANAMBULANCE! GODDAMMIT OH GODDAMMIT!” Jeremy ran down the hall screaming, though it still sounded to him like he was muttering under his breath. He pounded on every door and his Housemates came out slowly, curiously. “HELP! HELP! GETHELP HENEEDSHELPHESDYING!”

2

            He had been checking his phone nervously for the call all night, but when it never came he grew agitated. He had been expecting him to call. What was so hard about calling? “Well,” he thought, “I’ll just have to go over there, he’s never doing much of anything.”

            He grabbed the new silk pajamas he had just bought from Nordstrom Rack—they were on sale but they looked great still—and his tooth brush and headed over to Jeremy’s house. The entire house was lit up except for the living room where Jeremy sat on the couch watching the Daily Show, silhouetted against the blue glow of the T.V. He sipped from a can periodically. It was probably a beer; he always had a can of beer in his hand at this time of night. Harrison didn’t want to bother him, so he sat down on the porch and waited for a commercial, then knocked.

            He never liked to knock loud. He preferred to do it softly, and if anybody heard him to let him in, then that would be fine. If they didn’t hear him, then he wouldn’t have been any bother, just ambient noise.

Harrison’s family was filled with loud knockers. It always made him so agitated that when he opened the door he couldn’t help but get into an argument with them, which is probably what they wanted anyway. Some people just like to argue, Harrison thought, but he was certainly not one of them. Half the time, when people argue they aren’t even arguing over the same thing, or even about anything they were saying at all. It was pointless. Jeremy liked to argue, but he was silly; he’d argue even though he really didn’t want to argue. Jeremy always made a fuss when Harrison came to the door, never mind that he hadn’t bothered to call Harrison at all that day. So, instead of having the argument they usually had, which never ended up well for either of them, Harrison decided to wait for one of Jeremy’s roommates to get home and sneak up to Jeremy’s bedroom. That way Harrison would already be where Jeremy really wanted him and so let him stay the night.

            He sat outside on the front steps watching the wind blow leaves into the street. The moon was out, and it looked very nice tonight. He wanted to knock on the door to talk to Jeremy, he liked the sound of his voice, but he decided against it, knowing what would inevitably happen.

            Craig, one of Jeremy’s housemates, finally came up to the house, arms full of groceries. Craig said hello and asked him if he wouldn’t mind opening the door with the spare key under the doormat. Harrison did and put the key back under the doormat after holding the door open for Craig to sidle in. It was nice to feel that Jeremy’s housemates trusted him, even though Jeremy didn’t. “He’ll come around soon though,” he thought, as he closed the door behind him and walked briskly up to Jeremy’s room.

            He put his backpack down next to Jeremy’s bed, unbuttoned his shirt, folded it nicely, and picked up his silk pajama top. He was about to put it on when Jeremy came crashing into the room. He seemed a little drunk. “GET OWAHERE HARRISON!” Jeremy screamed “Get out of here Harrison! Get your fucking clothes on and get out of this damn room now Harrison!”

            “You shouldn’t talk to me that way, honey” Harrison said, holding back his laugh. Jeremy was silly when he was drunk.

“I’m not your ‘honey,’ shutuhfuckup and getowtta my room Harrison!” he said something else but it was in indecipherable drunken slur.

“I’ve been thinking about you honey” Harrison said. “I know you’ve been thinking about me, dreaming about me.” Harrison was really holding back his laugh now. Jeremy said something like “nacrossmmeyend Harrison!” but that was in drunk-slur too. Then, like a wild man, he leapt to his desk and started riffling through some drawers for something. Paper was flying everywhere, and Harrison was sure Jeremy would regret this in the morning when he had to navigate this mess hung-over.

            Jeremy’s back was turned, and Harrison thought he could sneak up behind him and sooth the wild-beast out of him. He crept over to him. When he was close enough that he thought he wouldn’t startle him Harrison said “I don’t cross your mind, I am your mind.” It was a line that came to him earlier in the day, and he thought it was so romantic he couldn’t wait to say it to Jeremy. Jeremy just yelled another incoherent silly thing. He had stopped searching the drawers now though

Harrison was very close now, and was reaching out to touch his back when Jeremy whipped around and Harrison felt a something in his stomach. A long foreign object that wouldn’t move as the rest of his body moved.

            The pain followed; heavy pain that took all the energy out of him. His legs grew weak, he felt strange, like a water bottle someone turned into a gravity bong—his insides falling out and as a heavy cloud descends upon him. He felt like a whack-a-mole, he struggled to keep his head up. His vision blurred. He leaned against something and felt hair against his check. It was Jeremy’s hair. He could smell him, could feel him, but he could not hear, he could not see. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, but he could not see. Then he was sitting down, leaned against something else hard. The hard thing in his stomach moved as he tried to breathe, he could feel it’s solid weight against his soft flesh, but he could not get air. He felt a hot liquid in his throat that he could not swallow. It came into his mouth and he spit it up, felt it drip down his chin. Then he got some air, not much, never enough, but some. He felt tired.

The House

            A siren on an adjacent street disturbs some birds on the telephone wires outside of Jeremy Langley’s house. They leave their pirch, fly high over the house and veer off towards the Pacific Ocean. Jeremy is sitting on his couch drinking a beer. He periodically glances out into the street, looking for something but finding nothing. Finally he closes the drapes and half of the light that was on Canfield Avenue is gone for the rest night. 

            Jeremy finishes his beer and gets up to go to the kitchen. On his way, he crushes the empty can and tosses out of an open window and it into a steadily growing pile in a small blue trash can outside. He leans on the kitchen counter as he opens the beer and stares at the open window. A breeze blows a curtain open and it knocks against another empty can that falls to the floor. Jeremy winces, moves to the window to shut it. He stares for a few moments longer then pulls the drapes closed and turns the light off in the living room as he ambles back to the couch. He sits in the dark and the glare from the T.V. reflects off of his glasses. He reaches for his beer to take a sip but pauses half way. He turns quickly to the window and opens the drapes. He peers outside for a few seconds longer before he sits back down.

            A light turns on upstairs and sends a beam of light across the living room. Jessica walks quickly by the stairwell holding a towel around her. James bounds from the room across the stairwell after her. He is stark naked. He lands with a thud that shakes the upper floor of the house, but does not disturb Jeremy downstairs.

            Jessica and James quickly enter the bathroom and close the door. Jessica turns on the shower as James looks at himself approvingly in the mirror. “You got yourself a stud here baby,” James says, drawing out his voice like John Wayne. He lifts up his chest and sucks in his gut. Flexing he turns to her, “you sure you can handle that, partner?” She hits him in the sack and his gut drops. “HA! Yeah, maybe I needa call whatshername… What’s her name? Sammie? Samuel? Samsonite?”

“Sammie, Samantha” James says with an exaggerated sigh, “Jesus, it was just a dream, I’m not in charge of what I say when I’m sleeping, damn…”

“Ha! Ew, Samantha Pendington… She looks like Joan Rivers!” Jessica says, hanging the towel on the rack and stepping in the tub.

“Hey, Joan Rivers is hot” James says stepping in after her, grabbing her around her waist.

“EW!” Jessica says, squirming, smiling, fighting back James’ kiss. James kisses her neck, her collar bone; he bites her ear and presses their bodies together. She gives in and they kiss. He draws the curtain over them. There are puddles on the floor. 

            Outside of the bathroom Tania listens, covering her mouth to muffle her snickering. She kneels by the door, putting her ear close to the seam, and doesn’t notice when Harrison comes in. His sneakers are muffled by the stale green carpet. He opens the door to Jeremy’s room and slips in so carefully that he doesn’t make a squeak and so quickly that he doesn’t make a shadow. Tania’s giggles go on un interrupted.

            A few seconds later Jeremy bounds across the living room to the stairs, each impact between floor and bare foot echoing throughout the house, in spite of the stale green carpet. Tania turns and quickly dashes into Jessica’s room. She reaches the door and closes it just before Jeremy reaches the top of the stairs.

            Jeremy opens his door wide and the handle further indents a growing handle-shaped groove in the drywall. Jeremy’s voice sounds throughout the house: “GET OUTA HERE HARRISON!”

            Tania leaves Jessica’s room and dashes up a few small stairs to Craig’s attic room, crouching through a small door and closing it tightly behind her. Jessica and James temporarily freeze in the shower and stick an ear into the air. Downstairs Craig shakes his head, smiling wryly as he stocks a shelf with cereal, beans and Raman noodles.

“Ow. What do you think is happening?” Jessica says into James’ ear.

“Get out of here Harrison!”

“I don’t know” James says and continues thrusting. Jessica pants heavily and strokes the back of James’ head.

“Get your fucking clothes on and get out of this damn room now Harrison!”

            Tania was on her computer now. Her Facebook page was loading and she was rapidly pressing enter. “Come on come on, this is too funny, hafta tell Kaitlin about this…” she said under her breath. The Facebook page loaded. There was some more noise from the room.

 Jeremy was looking for something in his desk, throwing papers all around the room. Harrison stepped cautiously up behind him. Tania typed rapidly on her computer: “Craig’s roommates are sooooooo funny, Kaitlin OMG!!!!!” Downstairs Craig dropped a plastic cup of wine. “Fuck,” he said. Wine spread along the tile, streaming along the grout paths. Craig looked around for a paper towel, there were none.

“Goddammit Harrison! Get out of my room!”

            Craig looked at his old and ratty white t-shirt now stained red-purple with wine. He brought it over to the sink to ring it out. The red juice dropped into the sink. He brought it back to the spill and soaked more of it up. “We had a good run buddy...” he said, and sighed. Shirt saturated with the red liquid he returned to the sink. The drops in the metal basin were the only sound in the house. Tania paused at her keyboard, James and Jessica paused once more in the shower.

            “It’s quiet now” Jessica said to James.

            “Hold on, I don’t know what’s going on it got really quiet just now” Tania typed to her friend. “KK” her friend’s message flashed. Craig’s ear turned up. He put the soaked shirt down into the tub.

            The house was quiet except for high pitched monotone hum of the television which Jeremy had left on. Then there was a hollow thud. Jeremy’s low voice vibrated the thin walls, then he began to shriek.

            “GET A DOCTOR! GETADOCTOR! GETANAMBULANCE! GODDAMMIT OH GODDAMMIT!”  He pounded on the bathroom door, on Jessica’s door, on the closet door, on walls. He ran down the stairs pin-balling from side to side “HELP! HELP! GETHELP HENEEDSHELPHESDYING!”

            James took Jessica’s towel and was the first to reach the room. Harrison’ legs were twitching and his shallow breathing shook the knife. James bent to him. Tania got there second. She peeked from behind the door and immediately turned away. She covered her mouth and began to sob. “Get a doctor,” James said to her. Tania did not move. Jessica came in to the room in a robe, her hair dripping on the floor. She looked at James, looked at Tania, and retrieved her cell phone from her room. She was on hold when she returned to the room. Jeremy had returned with Craig. The four of them stand over Harrison’ body. Tania sobs outside. 

The Hole Where Very Little Happens

            Sometimes I wonder if having my own entrance at the back of the house isn’t such a great idea. I almost think I’m missing out on something by not having to interact with anybody upstairs. We moved in here together, had known each other for almost three years. We all imagined we’d end up better friends for this. Now, though I’m not so sure about them, I know I’m more distant than ever. At least I feel I’m more distant than ever.

            It’s cold in my basement, like it always is. I set my backpack on one of the million hooks the previous owner of the house felt the walls simply couldn’t do without. The door never closes on the first swing; I always have to put my shoulder into it. It’s a hassle, and I always wonder if my roommates all think I’m a really angry guy because every time I come home I’m hitting shit.

There’s no light in the hallway so I always have to grope my way to the light in the little kitchenette. The dishes are exactly as I left them. Everything in this place is exactly as I left it. For once I would like something to fall or be mysteriously moved, something out of Paranormal Activity. Fuck, I’d love to be haunted. It’d give me something to do besides getting home, getting drunk and staring at the wall until I pass out.

I’ve listened to all my CD’s and all my records and almost everything allmusic.com says I might like. I know every word to almost every song in my collection. I wonder if the artists know their work as well as I do.

That’s another bad thing about being alone all the time; you’re alone with all your thoughts and your mind starts to wander and you end up getting stuck on all of your own problems. They get big and mean looking.

I can’t even get drunk anymore. I drink and I never feel any drunker, I just get more in love with my loneliness. Like a having good vomit or taking a really painful shit, I begin to feel that I need this experience to feel better—that happiness is around the corner. “Karma” is one of the more masochistic aspects of the Californian mentality.

On the one hand we have the crushing Catholic guilt and sadomasochistic Protestant work ethic. These ideas surround us, pervert us in our schools, force us to kill ourselves with work to justify living—or force us into invisible underground hopeless rebellion. They’re the general justification for our class system here, but “Karma,” there we meet our tormentor.

Is it that we’re surrounded by short cute Hollywood narratives? So completely saturated in movie-T.V.-aging-baby-booming-hippie culture that we’ve started to look to these illusions—no matter how self-consciously we do it—for some sense in our everyday lives? Nevertheless, it gives us a self-importance: we will suffer now, but not for long. Or, if we suffer long, “they” will suffer longer.

The sad Californian Karma-dogma doesn’t rely on any strict hierarchy—maybe that’s why it thrives so well here. It offers a simple dialectic as well—its simplicity is undeniably charming. There are simply the steppers and those stepped on, and everyone will get his. Everyone deserves his.

California Karma is unique. It allows millions of people to imagine that they’re the center of the universe; that their story is being told. There are other stories, but they aren’t so important. Millions of people, all leading men and leading ladies, all struggling with invisible, imagined worlds—millions of stories being told. Some Californians get to feeling “liberal”: just an extension of their narcissism. They feel screwed by “the system, bro,” and their cursory knowledge of “the third world” tells them “the system is fucking the entire world as much as its fucking me” (No, I’m not above air quotes, I quite like them). So the global proletariat will rise up to give the fuckers theirs because that’s fate.

I got a C on that essay! Like I don’t know California! I grew up here, I know it: the steps to City Hall are insurmountable, loathsome, glorious and triumphant; the cranes on the docks are fabulous Star Wars science fiction symbols of devaluing labor; the bringers of goods, livelihoods, careers—legal, illegal and multinational; the freeways are terrible, loud polluting murderous writhing beastly lovely freedom bringing gateways. These things can be, and are, all of these descriptions at the same time with an intensity that can only be experienced by one deep inside this karma produced solipsism; the relativistic cult of Californian individuality. And I know it! I am aware of it and no one else seems to be! Millions of people, but everyone has a story; and California will crumble into the sea waiting for its karmic justice, but everyone has a story.

They’re dropping shit for fun again upstairs—I’m convinced that’s what they do periodically, perhaps to test if the laws of gravity still apply in their stories. God, I hate living under people. Why did I choose to live here, of all places. Jeremy is yelling again, like he always does at night when he’s drunk. Now there’s a lot of dropping of shit—they’re having a dropping-shit party. Why don’t they ever invite me? Jeremy yells something again. Doctor? Who needs a doctor? The floor looks nice. Want to make it to bed, but the floor looks nice and my door is so far away. More yelling, doctor? Floor.

There’s a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe I need to puke. Stop drinking. Sirens outside? House with some guy drunk in the basement face down on the floor. Dying. I’m dyin’ in here! Red and blue lights on my walls, I need to decorate. Dyin’ ova here! Get some shiiit on my walls like I don’t live in a basement! Abasement! I’m dyin’ inabasement!

I don’t need to justify my inaction to you. I protested after Meserle got off on manslaughter, sure: BART cop executes a kid while he has him pinned on the ground, sure. Peaceful, the protests were, great speakers up on the podium in the intersection of Broadway and 12^th. Then the march, which of course the speakers advise against (they even offered an alternative—some kind of rollerskating-dance party off the intersection), but of course that’s the funnest part. So we march, back and forth, along twelfth street, along Broadway; the pong-cube of the mob to the wall of cops in riot gear, three or four deep with big black mariahs behind them. Cops with rifles on the terraces of buildings. And you know what, not one News Crew up til then. But then, you know what I did see? Two guys with dumb-fuck looking bandanas over their faces carrying around ice-picks. And then you know what I saw? Those two guys taking turns swinging-away at the window of a Footlocker, breaking the glass. And this was about one hundred meters from a large wall of cops, mind you, who did nothing (!) to stop these people. Then once these two guys had broken the window of the Footlocker, that’s when other people, regular people without bandanas on their faces, came in and broke down the metal grating and started to loot the place. Some ladies grabbed some of the looters and asked who they were—mostly people from outside of Oakland—and some of those ladies took whatever loot the looter had and threw it into a pile. Burned it. Then, oh, then, fella, that’s when The News Crews got there! Channel 7-On-Your-Side, getting the whole story: the looting aand.. nothing else. All the while the cops did nothing. Not until about an hour later or so—time flies when you’re burning Phillie Fliers gear..Then the mega-cop got on the mega-phone and started calling the protest unlawful… At which point the jackboot, divide and conquer routine got under way: three or four cops in riot gear break from the line, tackle somebody random, arrest them, charge them with the crimes of the whole protest. Who were the guys in the masks? Well, one of the ladies who was grabbing the looters and bopping-them-on-the-head happened to grab one of these guys too, I was right there when she did it, just snatched his arm and he froze like his mom caught him masturbating: “where are you from?” The guy stayed quiet at first, but she really tore him a new embarrassing asshole. He eventually came up with some-story about being from Santa Cruz and being an Anarchist. He was apparently trying to help this “uprising” evolve into a “condition of general unrest” or whatever the next radical category this event had the potential to turn into. Whether or not their revolutionary logic made sense, whether or not he was telling the truth or (conspiracy!) working for the media to create good footage (ratings!) or the cops to create support (there’s no fundraising campaign like a good ol’ fashioned riot).. that’s all beside the point. The point is it got broadcast like that because, in the end, that’s what it was all about: leftist “revolutionaries,” Channel 7, the cops (who brought out all their nicest toys specifically for the occasion) were waiting for some way to use this situation to their advantage: leftists because they want to prove this is a moment where the contradictions in the system become apparent; Channel 7 because they want to keep showing You the hard hitting, cutting edge, Truth with Teeth (not, of course, members of the community, family members etc. speaking out, mourning, etc.); the cops because they’ve got all this gear, how else are they going to prove that they need it.. then the politicians behind the cops who get praised for saving the city from rioting hoolagans.. keeping the city safe! Frame it, make the situation conform to what we already think of the world: the event is justified if it justifies our worldview. And it’s the same all over, baby, from kids getting maced in Occupy to the teargasing, free-press-limiting and just plain shooting in Furguson. Its great television, its great for law enforcement (even if there’s a temporary backlash [belch] it still sets a precedent, “it happened” and people in America are so used to being desensitized to shit [how many Americans are still angry about our government fabricating reasons to go to war against a country we had no business going to war against, even if you think it was a good result, there were no WMDs, but now theres a destabilized government and ISIS/ISL cutting off our heads and how many people, exactly, dead, Americans and Iraqis, because, oops, we lied]). Everything is part of some other, bigger narrative, tragedy isnt tragedy, its an opportunity…Robin Williams did a comedy show during a drinking relapse.. the audience kept buying him drinks. “You wana see me fuckin’ die” he said, and the audience cheered. The audience cheered Rick Perry when he cited Texas’s rate of executions… and the audience applauds…There’s a cockroach.. and no I haven’t peed myself I just laid down in something. I don’t need to justify my inaction.

They really invited the cops over for the dropping party. Maybe it’s the fabled reality police—these Californians have gotten too far out! Kid drunk in the basement looking at your feet now! Cuffed pants are very 80’s sir or madam! I’m an equal opportunity heckler. Are things dropping upstairs or in my head. I need the toilet. The bathroom floor is dirty, need to fix that.

            Toilet paper is a very interesting thing. It has a very definite mass and shape but it’s so light and fluffy—it’s weird that it looks so sharp and angular on the floor like that, stained with the god-knows-what that I ate for lunch today. Knock at the door? Knock again.

            “Sir, I want to ask you a few questions,” the cop says. She’s an older cop with a really good cop stance. “What time did you get home?”

“I got back around 8 to this fucking basement. You know there’s a funny word play with living in a basement: ‘living in abasement. Living in abayayasment.’” She doesn’t get it. The air guitar does not help.

“Alright, alright sir that’s ok. Just have you been upstairs at all tonight?”

“No, they don’t invite me up much. I think its cause I’m livin’ in abasement, or they’d be in abasement, if they asked me to come up. Ha, don’t know what I’m saying I know that, but it’s good word play.”

“Yes sir. I can see that you’re very drunk sir, you’re going to need to calm down now, I’ve had enough of these little jokes. They’re not funny. Now, have you heard anything strange upstairs?”

“You mean other than the dropping party?”

“The what sir?”

“The dropping party: they get together and drop shit on the floor to test Newton’s laws and shit.”

“Sir, you’re going to have to be more specific…”

“Loud noises. Hey what’s Jeremy doin’ in your car?”

“Ok, sir. Your friend is in big trouble, there’s a boy going to the hospital. Since you haven’t been upstairs I suppose you’re… Just…” the radio on her shoulder said something that was muffled by a “ssszzzurp.” “Ok Jeff, I’m just talking to the downstairs tenant Lawrence Brown. Mr. Brown doesn’t seem to know too much and he seems to be a little intoxicated at the moment, I think he’d better just take a good shower and go to sleep,” she said into the radio “tell the others to meet us down at the station for questioning, I think that’s about all we can do for now. We’ll need somebody up here to look at the scene.” She turned and walked away, “Just don’t leave town.”

            “Don’t know much!? I know a lot!” I felt like yelling at her. I didn’t though. Abasement. Bitch. “I’ll show her who needs a shower.” It’s quiet now. There’s some light stepping upstairs. The lights vanish from my walls. I need some music. A drink too. Those soft walkers upstairs are more annoying than the dropping parties… They won’t come down here. Just some drunk kid talking to himself in a basement. Everyone has a story. Justify myself justtagiveyouareason.