unit 2g

I live in unit 2g, quiet as a mouse. The silverfish, spiders and roaches are more than welcome and do not need to pretend that they do not exist. It is the two-legged insects that I deeply abhor.

I watched new neighbors move in last weekend. So arrogant, so supple, like female herbivores-without words they promise to give me their faith and follow my lead.

Somehow not able to afford a downpayment on a house, but they still manage to have a flat screen television and a two story oak cabinet stuffed with gadgets galore. A full day to cram their possessions into unit 2D.

They don't know it, but the man who lived there before them was handyman enough to manage hanging himself from the drywall encrusted support beam that ran the length of the hallway. I felt like asking them if they had yet to notice the landlords glaringly obvious attempt to hide the evidence under a fresh layer of spackle.

3AM, always in those wee hours, that's when the herpetic drunks invariably like to fight. Arguing over lost keys, the laundry, or the last four shots of vodka--this time it was over the whereabouts of a cell phone--it never matters, the object never matters.

Awake in bed, on my back, my pillow is a jacktar canvass wrapped in sweat, the cellophane entrapments of an uncomfortable sleep are torn from me. The unsynchronized crashing, the discombobulated yelling, my new friends call out to play. Lucky for them I am listening.

I steal away to the front door, at my behest the door opens slowly, a fresh breeze tufts in and washes away the stale, sour odor of my prior sleep--the doors' creakings and groanings are barely audible above the hissing refrains of curses uttered over and over again to the point that they sound rehearsed.

Ahh the excited pangs of conflict...its odor is in the air. I imbibe it, savor it and soak it in for awhile, content to simply watch the two fight from my unnoticed perch.

The man is a mere boy, so full of pride. His blistered ego is raw and tender, and I cannot help but to notice the way in which it hangs from his neck like a frayed leather leash. His girl--she is a fool. To say anymore about her would be to clutter the truth with words unneeded.

"HEY DIPSHIT!" the words leap from my throat, hoarse and angry, stabbing sharply into their affairs, taking effect immediately.

Two pairs of eyes peer around through the darkness of a sun robbed morning, silence, tentative silence, blind anticipation and a reluctant fear grab us all.

"Why don't you just kill the bitch you fuckin' clown. You know thats what you should do--at least then I can get some sleep."

The proverbial light goes on, the gears click, the haze clears up, his eyes are on me and my widening grin. Dense with blank apprehension, he begins a brisk yet uncoordinated walk toward my door, each step of his gait being punctuated with slurred threats.

I always wondered what it would be like if the bears and the tigers taunted the zoo patrons from their cages rather than the other way around--

The screen door is locked, hardly a barrier, just enough of an obstacle for now.

Now in a subdued and hushed voice, "I said why don't you just kill the dumb bitch, shes askin' for it, you hate her, do it."

His own mouth is a runaway train, spilling vulgarities and half promises to kick my ass all along its course, but somewhere, deep within his head the words he was talking over arrest him and stop him dead in his tracks as if he were hit with a slug from a .45. He pauses unnoticeably, his mind wobbles, as if registering a command disguised as an option, and then continues in his fluctuating ramblings.

The taunts go on for a few rounds. His breath sags under the weight of alcohol and his eyes wander restlessly, trying to hold a steady glare. He is frustrated, confused, and angry--oh so angry he is defenseless. For now he is obviously not comfortable with the prospect of going beyond threatening me.

A few more choice words come from my throat and he is reluctantly pushed over the line, he stabs at my screen with his fist, I slam the wooden door shut and let out a howling orgasm of laughter--he lingers, kicks my door and meekly declares me to be sick. He then retreats back into the argument that I so rudely interrupted--although it's no longer about the cellphone--magically the subject turns to his girl's apparent infidelity.

By lunch the next day I was awoken yet again, this time to the official sounds of several policemen milling around the courtyard of the apartment complex. The man of such narrow concern, and flaccid will, with whom I exchanged words hours earlier seemed to have taken my advice to heart. He was handcuffed and leaning between the side of a police car and an officer with a clip board busily writing and listening. A poorly maintained two door sedan was swarming with uniformed activity. The trunk lid was open revealing an unusual shape covered with a white sheet. It would appear that the unfaithful girl was the only one to have found rest and repose last night. How I envy her sleep, for it will be forever undisturbed.