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everybody thinks i need help
one
When this whole mess started, I remember thinking I should've been in church. It was a Sunday morning and I didn't have anything in the way of the Gospel; no vodka, no cheap red wine, no chorus shouting Hallelujah at the mention of my name. Instead, I was sitting at my typewriter - hands shaking from a two-dollar hangover - tapping out another sob story to my wife. There was a glass of water and some aspirin on the big metal desk. It wasn't exactly one of those beg-for-forgiveness letters. We were separated, but she already had the house and the kids. I lived on the East side in a crummy apartment, about the size of a cheap oven. It had been like this for six months. I was trying to give her some reasons for the way that I felt. It didn't make any sense. I'm sorry for not being sorry. Well, not exactly that. Only for not being myself or telling you sooner that I wasn't myself. The sort of drivel you save for the governor when you're on death row. I didn't have any whiteout and I had to hit the typewriter pretty hard to get the keys to work. The capital N kept giving me fits. It took me awhile to notice the loud banging outside in the hallway. The way I remember it at least, that's when all this started. Every five seconds or so. A loud banging. Bam. Bam. Bam. It was my neighbor from apartment 12. A few minutes earlier he had knocked on the door.
"Um, sorry to bother you...but, you got a hammer?" Marvin was the quiet type. I rarely saw him. When I did, it was usually as we were entering or exiting our apartments. This wasn't a community sort of place. I got the feeling we both liked it that way. He had a few wires of hair on his head and crooked, coke-bottle glasses. His lips were fixed in a permanent grimace; the skin stretched over his face. He looked about 60, but hell, he could've been 50. It was as if he was fixed in that permanent range of 60-something; frozen cryogenically, grimace and all. When I signed the lease, the apartment manager told me about him. The Mayor of the Sherwood Arms, she said. I think she meant it as a compliment, but that probably sums it up; both the apartments and him.
Peering through the doorway at Marvin, I stepped out a bit and looked down the hall. I stretched my arms and twisted my neck. The sun was shining on the hallway and splintered along the cracks. I squinted and looked at Marvin. He was looking at my stomach.
"Yeah, umm, I'm trying to hammer a sign down the hall there," he said.
I attract these sorts of people: weirdos, zealots, bums, whinos, witches, bible thumpers, conspiracy theorists who drag your ear off into a corner. In a way, I'm a freak magnet. I've given this quite a lot of thought and I think it's sort of simple. I listen. When most people would walk away, I keep nodding thoughtfully. The only thing I can't figure, is how they notice this from far away. Once, I got stuck by the mailslots, talking to Marvin about the exterminators. There was a notice on the bulletin board.
Exterminators will be coming to the Sherwood Arms on the 11th of July. Please let us know if you do not wish to have your apartment treated for termites, roaches and other insects.
He told me he didn't trust the exterminators. He was a janitor at an elementary school. He said that only boric acid could really kill cockroaches. That's what he used. Boric acid. Everything else just drove the cockroaches into someone else's apartment. He said if you can get past the smell, it's the only thing that really works. I just nodded. My nose twitched a bit.
"I was wondering if you had a hammer because I'm trying to hammer a sign," he repeated. He pointed down the hall and then held his hand out. He was holding the sign. In his other hand was a screwdriver. The sign said something that I couldn't make out. I didn't really want to ask. I imagined a closet in his apartment, stacked to the top with plastic bottles of Boric acid.
"Hold on." I left the door halfway open, not really wanting Marvin to follow me. I swung open a drawer in the desk and pulled out a medium-size hammer. I had purchased it a week prior to hang some pictures. It felt like an extravagance. Just about everything did.
"Here ya' go," I said. Marvin took the hammer and then stood there for a few seconds. He was still staring at my stomach. My brain was back at the desk. Sure I screwed up. Doesn't everyone? All of a sudden I'm the bad guy? There's a point at which you're thinking so many of the same thoughts at once, that none of them make sense. Or they're just too stale and you're sort of sick of running through them. What's the use?
"I wanted to hammer this sign, umm, because of all the solicitors," said Marvin. "They put the paper in our doors, in the, umm, door handle, right there," he said, pointing at my door.
"Yeah," I said.
"And that's basically trespassing. I mean, umm, they can't do that. And I've complained before to them. But they still do it."
"Yeah, man. So you got a sign?" I was thinking that it couldn't really be trespassing.
"Yes, so this sign, umm, it says 'No Solicitors' and Miss Barbara said that was just fine." Miss Barbara was the landlady. Mayor Pro Tem of the Sherwood Arms.
"Oh yeah? That's cool."
"Yes, so I was just going to hang the sign and go ahead, y'know, because, if we put up that sign, then it's a form of trespassing."
"Oh, O.K., I gotcha." I said. This is what happens. I listen. Or sometimes I just stand there. My wife would definitely agree. You just stand there, she'd say. You just stand there and nod.
"Holler if you need help." I said. He nodded and shifted his feet toward the mail slots. I looked back down the hall toward the splintered cracks of sunlight and then shut the door.
Bam. Bam. Bam. After about 20 minutes of this, I threw on my slacks and shoes and stepped out into the hall. Marvin was standing on a stepladder over the mail slots, trying to hammer the sign into the wood paneling above the bulletin board. He was holding the hammer almost directly under the head. I took out a cigarette. My head felt like a bucket of crushed ice. Used to be I could drink like that. Nowadays, I feel it all over. Marvin kept pounding on the sign.
"Here, let me help you," I said. I stepped up to the ladder, holding my hand out. He handed me the hammer and inched down. He'd put a sweatband around his head, but sweat was just pouring down his head. I took the hammer by the end and nailed the sign up. I tried to take my time with it, just to make him feel good. I finally leaned back and stared up at the sign. It was hanging a little too much to the right.
No Solicitors. Do not leave papers or advertisements in doorways. This will be considered trespassing.
"Nice sign, Marvin," I said.
"Yes, so now, if they do leave those papers in our door handles, that's trespassing. I mean, umm, I'm sure they'll still do it, but, Miss Barbara said now we may have legal recourse to stop them."
"I sure hope so," I said. Legal recourse? I handed him back the hammer, forgetting for the moment that it was mine. I saluted Marvin and then walked back in to my little one-room shithole. The letter was waiting for me.
Later that afternoon, after a bit of wrestling with going to the store for some early morning drinking and then tossing out the letter completely and giving the whole sloppy paragraph to my poor wife on her answering machine, my old answering machine, I decided to go down to the store. I needed cigarettes and ice cream and more beer.
two
The summer heat kills just about everything in this town. The bugs wriggle into the dark cracks and wait it out. The unsprinkled grass withers into brown dust. Car dashboards crack. I stepped out into the microwave and decided to take the back alley up to the Lucky Seven. It felt like solid puke. The alley backed up against one of the nicer neighborhoods in town. It was an area just north of the UT campus. Rich brats lived in 5-bedroom rentals next to ex-hippie professors who had grown old listening to the Grateful Dead. They all drove Volvos and had neatly xeriscaped lawns. The alley served as a sort of divider between these haves and the rest of us.
Not that I had anything to complain about. I was getting by. Even before our separation, though, I could never see myself being able to quite afford the lifestyle that these people did. Maybe it was a mirage. I sure couldn't see how they did it. One of the signs of the dividing line were the bums. They used it as a passageway and stopover between the Lucky Seven and the bus stop near my apartment. As I neared the convenience store, I noticed one of them curled up next to a dumpster. He was wrapped up in an old horse blanket and there was an empty 40 ouncer next to him.
"Watcha need?" he said as I stepped by carefully.
"Watcha got?" he said. He was clearly having a good old time.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I seen you" he said.
"Seen me where?"
"Around." I started to walk realizing the full extent of my stupidity.
"Nah, nah. Come here man. I need to tell you something." He sat up and got to his feet. He was slightly hunched over, but that looked to be more pose than anything. He seemed in earnest now. He motioned to me.
"I saw something, maybe you know?" I stepped in a bit closer.
"Know what?" I asked. Again with the riddles.
"There's a guy and a gal, y'know? With a car. Last night. They had someone."
"Had someone?"
"Yeah, y'know they was taking someone."
"What are you talking about?"
"They was taking a kid I think, man. Down there." He pointed back down to my apartment. Nutjob. I had no clear idea how to end this so I just decided to turn around and walk. Like most people do.
"Hey, man, where you goin'? I'm tellin' you… Hey!" I turned the corner of the strip and headed into the Lucky Seven. I had that nervous twist in my stomach. I was hoping he wouldn't follow me; not that I was really scared of him or what he had to say. More or less, I was scared of the ensuing scene and having to treat someone like an animal. We're so used to the tolerable level of niceties that wallpaper our day. Even little outbursts in traffic seem perfectly within the scope. You're separated from it all. But being hit up by a bum in the middle of an alley kind of squares you to the other side of life. The bit where shit does not go smoothly.
I stepped into the Lucky Seven. The clerk looked bored and air-conditioned to death. I grabbed a six pack of Lone Star, some ice cream bars and asked him for a pack of American Spirits. Yellow, in a box. They have these little foldouts with photographs of endangered animals on the back. I guess they're meant to be collectibles.
"They should put the Marlboro Man on the backs of these." I said to the clerk.
"You want Marlboro's?" he asked.
"Nah, nah, nevermind." I said.
I stepped back out into the summer heat and decided to take 38th street back to my apartment. I knew the bum would probably have moved on by now, but I didn't want to chance it. Of course, there's always a part of me that grinds everything over. My head ticks even when I'm trying to dull it. What in God's name was that guy talking about? A kidnapping? I tried to remember if I had heard anything. I'd like to think that I would've heard a muffled scream or a kid struggling, but I was three sheets under by midnight and even on a good night, I probably wouldn't have heard anything. The traffic on 38th street mixed with the near constant buzz of overhead airplanes and helicopters seemed to concoct a nice whir that could conceal a chainsaw. I couldn't recall if I'd seen anything strange either. Everything seemed strange. Or not.
When I got back to the apartments, Marvin was in the hallway walking backwards. He said he did it for the exercise. I'd usually catch him doing it early in the mornings when I was off to work. He crouched down low and put his hands on his knees. He was wearing gym shorts and a tiny Goodwill t-shirt. It said "Baker Bears" on the front. I tried edging by with a nod, but Marvin's too quick for that.
"So you got some heat relief," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"I usually do this about 50 or so times up and down the hall," he said. "But I've got to watch out now you know."
"Why's that Marvin?"
"Well, I nearly ran over Miss Barbara yesterday. She was here collecting stuff." he said. "She told me to be careful. Of course, it's hard to walk backwards with your head on straight." He snorted at that one.
"Well, yeah…" I said. I had finally made it to the door and had my key in it.
"You have a good one Marvin," I said and twisted the door open.
I stepped inside my apartment and closed the door. The cool air sifted all over me. I put the bags down on the counter. My dingy efficiency had a kitchen, a small bathroom, a walk-in closet and an open living area with carpet. The kitchen tile was a bit torn up around the edges, but the carpet was fairly new. Nothing about the apartment stuck out except for the walk-in closet. It was an odd luxury in an otherwise average building. There was no dishwasher, but I rarely cooked much more than soup. I bought a desk, a chair and a lamp from a used office supply shop down the street. I already had a mattress and a typewriter. That was about it.
I had 30 years behind me and this is pretty much what I had to show for it. And for what? What sort of life drives you here? Unfortunately, not much more than the usual boring shit that you've seen on Oprah more times than you'd care to count. Actually, it wasn't even that exciting. Just the countless arguments and wrestling over who did what when. Fighting and cussing and stomping around. Our friends had no idea. They were her friends now. And I guess just a wanderlust. Anywhere. Everywhere. There's something better just around that corner. If only I could. My old man had it. And his old man before him. They both just walked out without so much as a word. So, finally, she told me to get the hell out and I followed them. No fuss. I told her she could have it all and I walked. And now she did have it all and I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't lost something. I guess it's the sort of mushy-headed crap that makes the Lifetime channel so popular. I wouldn't know. I don't have a TV.
I needed to do laundry, but I decided to wait a bit for Marvin to clear out. I popped open one of the Lone Stars and stood in the middle of the kitchen. The phone rang. I always hesitated to answer the phone. Sometimes it was my boss needing me to come in. Sometimes an old friend wanting to pour over all the lousy details. No. Yes. Yes. I left her. Well, she asked me to leave. Right. Or better yet, one of her relatives threatening me. Her uncle called up once, drunk and cussing. He told me he'd find me. I gave him my address and then never heard from him again. I didn't have that many friends and most of them knew just to come by. I picked up the receiver.
"Tom?" It was my friend Dale from work.
"Hey Dale," I said.
"How's it goin' man?"
"Fair to shitty."
"Yeah, well, hey man, you feel like getting a drink later?" Dale and I would occasionally hang out at bars and talk about world affairs.
"Sure thing. What time?"
"7:30?"
"I'll meet you at Nasty's over off Guadalupe."
"OK, talk to you then."
I finally gathered up my clothes in the laundry basket and headed down the hall to the laundry room. There was a young girl and her father moving into an apartment on the 2nd floor. They were carrying a desk. Probably a college student just starting out. She gave me the secret smile as I walked by. Her father nodded. I got the whiff of her perfume and nodded back. Hello there. More trouble that I don't need. The laundry room was on the back side of the apartments. Two washers and two dryers. It's usually full of several baskets with little notes attached to them. I'm lucky this time. No baskets. I dumped my clothes into the washer and pulled out 8 quarters.
The sun was falling down below the trees. I stepped back out onto the concrete steps to have a smoke and wonder what my boys, Andrew and Jonathon, were doing right then. Andrew's five and Jonathon is two. They're probably getting ready for bed. They just got through with their baths and they're sitting on the edges of their beds, waiting for Mom to come in and read them Thomas the Tank Engine for 57th time this week. I should've called them. One more mistake in a whole history of careless gestures. Instead, I sat out on the steps to the laundry room, listening to the whir of the washer.
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