— Even a journey of a thousand miles begins with the following cancellations, Roy said once.
Elizabeth’s murderous impulses were ordinary, that’s what made them dangerous. She’d never do time, like Jeanine, who expected it, like middle-class kids expect to go to college. Elizabeth wouldn’t do time, unless life became more unpredictable than it had been. It could happen in time. Time could do it to her, do her, anything could happen.
The super who hated her walked back into his apartment building.
She even hated the way he walked. It was an insolent, arrogant swagger, almost indecent. He disappeared into his pitiful, creepy world, hidden in his apartment building. His building was next to the laundromat.
The laundromat was one of the centers on the block. She could watch the dryers from her window. She and Roy knew when to do the laundry. From their windows they could see how many dryers were empty. They could also check when their dryer had stopped spinning.
It’s impossible to be on both sides of the window simultaneously. Windows were paradoxical. She was vulnerable with them, vulnerable without them. She had to be wary of attack, but she had to be open. She was not an eyeless mollusk in a cave, she needed air and light. At the window, she made an effort to think about how she was seen and if she was being seen. She was like a window, she thought, sometimes transparent, usually paradoxical, and always open to tragicomic views of life.
She liked watching people do their laundry, but she didn’t like doing it. Roy did the laundry more than she did. It didn’t bother him. Occasionally she found herself enjoying it. She recognized that the pleasure might be the onset of a disease, wholesomeness. Clothes just became dirty again, dirtier, so the activity was endless and unimportant. People washed and dried their clothes in moments of great, incommensurable despair. For many, it was their finest hour.
It depended on your point of view. Views were always a problem. Elizabeth didn’t own her view. A builder could buy air rights to the building across the street and destroy what she saw, steal her light.
Finally Jeanine finished the guy off. They left the doorway. Maybe he was a cop.
— All the guys I have used to be cops. Isn’t that weird? Some no-good man-that’s my worst addiction. I’m addicted to no-good men.
The sun was orange and furious. It was engorged, insensible. There was nothing Elizabeth could do about Jeanine, the elusiveness of sleep, or the stagnant effects of memory. Sleep wouldn’t absolve her anyway. It wasn’t her friend. Who was a friend. Friends and enemies come and go. They’re turncoats, reversible. She hated reversible coats. She didn’t see the point.
Elizabeth turned herself inside out and threw herself into reverse, into regret, remorse, and the puny unspeakable.
You wonder why as you sit and nurse old wounds and new sores you wonder why I vanished that night, you were inside yourself, rotting like dead meat, your paranoid stories poisoned me, it’s my fault I listened, I’m tired of doing that, even so I love our past, isn’t that funny, but I can’t be next to it, you don’t hear yourself, you have no idea.
She wouldn’t have friends or enemies for long because life was mercilessly and mercifully short. Her days were numbered. Her nights didn’t count. She had to put up with noise. Noise was the voice of the people. Raucous laughter erupted from somewhere. Then a bloodcurdling scream and more bloodstopping laughter.
Hector was the super of her building. He couldn’t take care of it. He spoiled it, he dirtied it. His very existence negated what he was paid to do. She had to accept that. The problem isn’t always plain incompetence and poor administration. It must have to do with why people take the jobs they do, even if they think they don’t want to do them. They take them because they can’t do them. Maybe they hate what they’re doing. Not being able to do it, constitutionally, is another thing. Working a job that attacks your worst habit occurs all the time. It’s not an accident. People who don’t understand mental illness and who are punitive, people with a little money, moderately well-off people, think neuroses are a luxury. They blather on about poor people, how the poor don’t have time to be neurotic. It only demonstrates the narrow-mindedness of the nonpoor. If they’re out of work, which makes them poor and crazy, the poor have all the time in the world to be neurotic.
Rich people were blocked. Poor people were blocked. They blocked other people. She saw them. They set up obstacles for themselves, for her and everyone else. It was amazing she could walk down the block.
Elizabeth pictured a listing in the employment section of the Times:
HELP WANTED
Someone who would never have considered it, because it’s menial work, someone who finds pleasure in fixing
Someone who would never have considered it, because it’s menial work, someone who finds pleasure in fixing and washing things, think about this: You might consider becoming a super. If anxious about maintenance, you’d do the job well, if worried about spots and grime, you might be the one. You could achieve success in an underestimated field. Any tenant can attest to how important a super is.
It’s a small world, someone said to Jackie Curtis.
Not if you have to clean it, Jackie Curtis answered.
Her day was about to eclipse her night.
Some will never be clean enough, some can’t clean, some don’t want to, some are doomed, some want others to do it for them, some hate putting their hands in hot water. Some love filth and shit and dirt, some roll in it. Not that many, but some. Hector is one. But some people love cleaning so much, they can hardly admit it. Their hands become raw and dry and they keep their hands in steaming water and they soak off life’s filth, and they make themselves smell good and they let nothing collect on their tables or on the floor. They’re happy. They’re clean. They think they’re safe. They’ve kept life’s grime off them. It’s a constant battle. They’re private sanitation workers. Cleanliness is next to anything. It’s just itself. It becomes its opposite, a viler identical twin.
Maybe Hector understood this and didn’t even try. He collected instead. If it can’t be cleaned, it can be collected.
Anyone can collect anything, any dumb trinket is collectible. Put enough of them together and you’ll get money for the collection. Some other moron will give you money because you collected hotel matchbooks, coasters, or autographs from movie stars who’d spit on you if they could. Empty feelings were temporarily negated by being smothered and surrounded by thousands of the same kind of thing, mounting and mounted. People start collecting on a whim. It just happened, they say. They just started. They started with one baseball card, porcelain cupid, button, postcard, and then it took over their lives, consumed them. They never know why. They say, I thought I’d get another one, then I wanted another one, and suddenly, I wanted this one, and then I wanted all of them. I had to have the whole set, all of them. The stuff’s all around them, in boxes or cartons, or displayed on shelves. It fills their houses and their lives, the irresistible, the harmless. Their impulses are everywhere. The stuff that isn’t collectible collects inside them, silently, cunningly.
What she collected kept her from sleeping. Elizabeth shook herself. She didn’t want to go under.
Why do WASPs like taking planes?
For the food.
Two men strolled along the street, talking casually. To them everything was cool. They were in love, they were inviolable. On the next corner they could be murdered by a moron. She’d probably be murdered. Her life would come to its pathetic statistical end, and she wouldn’t have murdered anyone, wouldn’t know the thrill.