We paid the rent yesterday, a few days “late.”
I say “late” in quotation marks because I always wait a few days after the first of the month. It just isn’t a big deal for my landlord. He didn’t even cash the April check until the 30th, for example. The man’s about 72, tall and thin except for the kind of pot belly that says alcohol to me, has had congestive heart problems and a small stroke — whatever “small” means in that context. His doctor told him a long time ago to quit smoking, but of course he does it constantly.
A very kind, mild-mannered fellow, he lives in a small apartment attached to the south end of our rented adobe. His kitchen is about the size of my computer desk. I’m not kidding. The stainless steel sink must have come from an old travel trailer or RV, and I doubt it holds more than a single cup and saucer. His bed is a simple sofa, not one that pulls out with a mattress. He just lies down with a pillow and blanket, like old bachelors are allowed.
What I usually do is leave the check stuck to his front door with a push-pin. He’s almost always napping or in the bathroom (?), so that saves us both a lot of embarrassment. When I walked around back yesterday at 6:00 p.m., I saw he was curled up on the sofa and did the pin trick. Fine. I did think he looked awfully still, though.
This afternoon I was talking to my neighor (another one of his tenants) outside her house next door. She mentioned that she’d telephoned him and he hadn’t answered. By itself, that was neither unusual or alarming, but today I did take note.
When my wife reminded me that we were out of milk and booze, I decided to honor my earlier promise to go to the supermarket. Given my underlying emotional state, on my way to the truck I decided to walk back and see if my check was still pinned to his door. It was, and that surprised me. Peeking in the window again, I saw him curled up on the sofa in exactly the same position I’d seen him in the day before. Hmm.
All my intution told me he’d expired. Before I went over there, I just had that feeling, the kind where you know something awful is about to show its face. Oh hell, he’s probably dead, I thought, and I’m supposed to knock now, Jesus. I didn’t want to, of course. On the other hand, I reasoned, if he really is dead, another half an hour won’t make any difference, and I’m really going to need a drink.
All the way to the supermarket and back, the scenario played in my mind:
The guy is dead, I’m going to have to go in and make sure. Somebody has to do it. Maybe the neighbors will find him while I’m prowling for discounted tequila. What if he smells? I wonder how long it takes before a body begins to rot. How will I be able to tell if he’s dead? Hah, that’s easy: when my old man died, he turned cold as a package of lunch meat from the fridge in less than five minutes and had no bones, like a big potato sack stuffed full of Jello. But how long does it take for them to get stiff? Either way, I’ll know, and I’ll bet he does smell, too. I can probably tell just by opening the door. Oh shit! — I’ll have to call the sheriff, too.
And on and on …
When I got home, I carried the bottles inside and told my wife there was something I had to check on, then walked back outside, heaving a sigh. I wonder if we’ll have to move, I asked myself. Hey, the check! Better take that down right away, I realized — maybe there was a silver lining to this after all. The sun’s glare now flashed back from the window where I’d peeked in before, so I couldn’t see into his living room. Slowly, quietly around the corner, and then … the front door was wide open! Relief and disappointment at the same time. He must have opened it himself, because no one else was around. There wasn’t any smell, either, except for the lilacs blooming outside our bathroom window I passed on my way back.
That was about seven or eight hours ago. I’m glad he isn’t dead, but I’d already adjusted to having a breather on the rent. And something’s still not right. Maybe it’s the quarter moon — I always feel like hell when there’s that half a circle up there in the sky. Looking back on the day, it’s a wonder I didn’t pick a fight with my wife. We skated through the evening without a blow-up, but I was gnarly and half-crazy, and you know that she could tell. Is there a woman alive who’d feel otherwise? At least I know now that when I think she’s less than sane (or fair to me), it isn’t her, but me. That’s the marker, though. Sit down on the sofa, read the paper, wait for it to pass.
I still feel tense and sad somehow tonight. Maybe it’s those last few nights of staying up till 3:00 a.m., or maybe the goddamn bastards have launched another war.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
John: Looking forward to the sequel, “My Landlord Still Isn’t Dead!” Maybe your landlord will be one of those who gets to practice at it til he gets it right. That is, if he’s lucky. But I ‘spose most folks don’t get that privilege. The Grim Reaper just sneaks up and whomps ‘em on the backside of the head, muttering something like, “Fuck your practice, I don’t need to practice.”
Indeedy do. See my “Sharks” post.