they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  ***

  I snorted, blinking awake from not knowing I’d drifted, a hard of phlegm having formed in the grip of my throat, but immediately realized I should keep quiet.

  I heard the door to thirteen open, close, and focusing I stood up, trying to be quiet, no idea what could be heard through the thin of the door.

  Face to peephole, I waited a moment and the man with the stitched mouth passed by, not stopping to look. It was over in three breaths in, two out.

  The straightening of my body caused my stomach to unsettle, burrow down, a damp weight, sour lining my mouth. I got to the toilet, both loosening my pants and going to my knees, certain it was more likely to be vomit than a bowel movement, but my face over the crisp of the water, my breath moving stiff chills of ripples to the surface, stirring flat scents, seemed to settle me. But when I tried to move, the sensation of cramp and foul intensified, I just remained there, plastered, eyes viced in irritation.

  If she was home, it’d only be her in there, she’d have to come to the door. Or, she wouldn’t have to, but I couldn’t see why she wouldn’t. She’d assume he’d gotten locked out, it wasn’t like he could call through to her. I’d knock, hold a finger over the peephole, she’d have to at least say Who is it? or something, maybe open the door, think he was playing a joke.

  I let the thin spittle drizzle the water, blew, a mist of little bubbles popping, ugly sounds.

  I straightened with less of a bad reaction, started getting to my feet, cramped back up, draped forward, grinding my forehead into the curve of the seat.

  It was ridiculous, I hissed out of my nose, nothing, no air coming out, my sickness a clog, ears closing up.

  ***

  A sudden burst, more like a sob than inspiration, I probed fingers down my throat and forced myself to vomit, did this three times, stood, felt unsteady, then had to sit for a loose bowel movement, breathing strange and digging fists into each of my thighs.

  I took only a moment to rinse my mouth, throw water on my face, give myself a quick look—I seemed disheveled, miserable, almost hideous—and moved to the door.

  Quietly, I undid my locks, stepped into the corridor. Empty, quiet except for the hushed buzz it always had.

  I looked at the door to thirteen, then glanced in the direction of the elevator. If he wasn’t doing anything but switching out the laundry, he could be up any minute. Or, he could stay down, have a cigarette, read a paperback.

  I was frozen, didn’t even want to do what it was I was doing.

  It was just a knock on the door. It was a knock on a door.

  What could happen? Everyone would be irritated, think I was an idiot, a creep?

  I stepped to the door, looked over my shoulder at the elevator, again, gave four deep knocks and put my hand to the peephole. In the wait, not able to swallow properly, dizzy, my legs feeling numb, my groin too warm, I wondered what it would look like to him if he came off the elevator just then, saw me. I should’ve hit the summon button, know it’d at least take the time for the elevator to go down and back up, but it was too late, pointless to think about.

  No answer at the door.

  I knocked louder.

  No answer, knocked louder.

  No answer.

  I let breath out my nose, warmed, I must’ve been holding it in two minutes, the blurt of it a whisker of mucus down to my chin.

  ***

  Knowing that the gibber of thoughts was my own invention, that I was in the meager adrenaline of the moment, I teetered, left heel thumping the dulled carpet, staring at the back of my hand.

  She wasn’t in the apartment. This is what this meant.

  I couldn’t bring myself to knock, again, but the sensation of the thought was one of half-awake running into a wall, not even caring it’d happened, face to a flat mattress before the sensation of pain even warmed, a confusion about what’d actually caused the injury, wall, mattress, just the tightening of the face.

  With my free hand, I touched to the door knob and gave it a turn, not having meant it to, but it turned, completely, my arm seizing fast.

  A pause of one mouthful, no breath out, no breath in, a nothing.

  I pressed the slightest weight forward, just enough that I’d be able to note when the deadbolt caught, but nothing did, the door was just unlocked. I had it opened a sliver before my thoughts caught up with me, then pulled it shut, slipped to the side, my hand covering the peephole as long as possible, got back in through my door, which I should’ve done quietly but didn’t, the locks all to place in a coughing fit of one two three.

  I shut off every light that was on and closed the door of my bedroom, the instincts of childhood, as though dark and asleep was proof I’d not done anything.

  My clothing unbearable, I stripped, laying to the floor, laying my shirt over my face, my hands rubbing it down on me, a squish of the wet in my nose, my mouth, behind my eyes. I removed it in a cough, shoulders tensing me an arc, gut cramping, sitting me up, curling me forward, knees brought up by my ears, legs splayed, head hanging over my crotch.

  ***

  I wanted to move to the front door, but was completely drained out, like a portion of me had leaked, was slowly drying into the carpet fibres.

  I tried to calm down, reasoning that I’d only almost gone into a complete stranger’s apartment at two in the morning for absolutely no reason at all, feverish and looking like a degenerate cretin.

  Only almost.

  I chuckled, sadly, blaming it all on something else. This certainly wasn’t how I behaved. I was only acting this way because this was happening.

  Eyes adjusting to the dark, I looked at the closed door to the room, half expecting the knob to jiggle, for there to be some pock-marked face behind the opening, a face as large as a train station clock, disc of skin covered with eyes, blisters and eyes—I actually had to put my hands over my eyes to stop the fixated gaze, felt on the verge of manufacturing the hallucination.

  But it was worse, unending behind my hands, worse getting my thoughts to focus, because they centered on legitimate possibilities.

  How did I know that the girl wasn’t in there, that she hadn’t just not come to the door?

  She’d tell the man someone had been messing with the door, he’d know just what to think about it.

  Or not even the girl, but some other person in there, some person who knew the door was unlocked, so it wasn’t the stitch mouthed man knocking.

  I started to cry, but made myself stand up, get a grip, made myself stop thinking, began talking aloud, said No more thinking, only talking, you need to stop thinking about all of this and stop being an idiot.

  But immediately after the snap, I slumped, mute, sat to the bed, stared at the closed bedroom door, thought about my hand to the peephole of thirteen, someone’s eye to the other side of the hole, only a door thick of wood separating their blinking lash from my sweating palm.

  ***

  When I approached the kitchen again, groping, dragging my feet slow, bent toes roughed hot by the carpet along them, I felt better, like leaving the shut in room made me somebody else, or just myself, but then I upset the soup cans and overturned bowls, stumbled, caught to the opening into the kitchen, immediately understanding what I’d done. Fumbling, I got to hands and knees, flipped the bowl back over, held it down , got the cans on top, stood, hopping backward, brushing myself, brushing myself, coughing from the effort of brushing myself.

  The light switch flapped up, a sour wince against the three exposed bulbs from the squat fixture, I cursed loud, balloon pop.

  Eyes bitter slits from adjusting to the illumination, I scanned the floor, bent halfway, like having a squat, righted myself, flipped the main light on, looked for some disruption to the flat and nothing I should’ve seen of carpet, saw nothing, saw flat and nothing of carpet.

  I attempted to convince myself the insect was still trapped, but even before my weight
fully settled, leaning to the counter, I’d collapsed into angry tightening of my wrists, slaps at the air, throttles of nobody there.

  I got the broom from the corner and ran it over the kitchen tile, at least wanting to be sure the thing wasn’t hiding in the undersides of the cabinets, in the inch and a half the bristles got under the dishwasher.

  For a hideous moment, I wasn’t even certain if I was positive I’d caught the bug under there, the first time.

  Had I? Or had I just hoped I had, not bothered to verify?

  The problem was, if I’d verified it before, now I couldn’t think how I had, because I wanted to verify it now, but just stared at the bowl, the cans, not able to imagine myself lifting them for a peek, not able to imagine I’d done so just an hour or so ago.

  I tipped the cans down with the broom handle, then put one back, went into the parlour for a heavy book, found a dense film directory, returned, removed the can and slowly began to lift the bowl. Peeling it up like a bandage, underside-wet, scab stuck to the raising adhesive, I already knew nothing was there.

  I flipped the bowl.

  Nothing there.

  Flipped it back. Set one can on. Set the other on. Took both off. Set the film directory on. Set one can on, again. Set the other can on, again.

  ***

  I started a shower, dreadful, couldn’t really tell that the water was hot from touching it, just from the way it steamed the room. I left the overhead fan off, not my habit, but I wanted the steam, the moist to everything.

  I was more aware of being ill, more aware of how I felt clamped, stale air kept by force in a mouth unable to open, air passing from the nose into it, out the nose from it.

  I turned on lights throughout the apartment, a childish quiver to me, any time I saw it dark around a corner it made me feel uneasy, caught my thoughts in worthless sideways.

  So I flopped on the bed, cheek to the mattress sheet, a view of the odd pile of books over on my dresser, no idea which they were, if I’d read them, how long they’d been there, and I didn’t care, fell anything, just looked.

  My eyes closed.

  If I went to sleep, I could wake up unremembering. Obviously, I was just excited and fatigued too much at once.

  Either way, I really was out of options.

  And either way, nothing was happening.

  I rolled to my back, sometimes my eyes open, sometimes my eyes closed, making taps in the air as I moved through points, tried to come up with what I was actually so worried about, to begin with. The best I’d manage—noticing a tepid trick of saliva in the crack of my mouth over and over, proving I was nodding off, not thinking about anything—was to make a list of words, icons, ideas.

  The man’s mouth.

  Going to the store.

  He’d not been following me.

  I’d thought he had.

  Too late for laundry.

  Too early for laundry.

  My throat had dried and I sat up, violent coughing, sure I’d passed out, forehead swimming with the dull warm of an hour past.

  But an hour hadn’t passed. The shower was still running hot, the sweat of the room too unpleasant to enter so I shut the light and decided to let the water run itself cold.

  ***

  I’d nibbled the skin at the side of my thumb to the point it’d started to bleed, not much, just a dot, a shaving, but if I sucked on it or pressed on it, the bleeding didn’t stop, the spot’d go lifeless pale, then slowly recolour red, form a droplet, stand.

  I got up from the sofa, hadn’t even been paying attention to the film I’d put in, and went to the kitchen for a paper towel. In a casual glance, I took in the front of the stove, noted the time, turned to find the towel, then tensed, chuckled, realized my pizza was still cooking. For a breath I wanted to move quickly, give a violent tug to the oven door, but it wouldn’t have mattered, so I just sighed, shrugged the motion, found the pizza burnt, inedible. I left the tray on the stove top, went for a slice of bread, decided not to eat, finally took the paper towel from the roll and saw Ginette’s identification, money, credit cards.

  I could take them back to the laundry room. I felt sober for realizing this, almost cured, giddy. I even said it aloud, like a fine conclusion to an intricate logical construction, said that I could just take the things to the laundry room. The dryer would even still be going, I could toss them right in, that would be that.

  A pang of curious guilt went through me, concern that I’d definitely be wrecking the things. But it’s what would’ve happened anyway, it’s what should’ve happened—my being the one to make it happen was a gesture that, in effect, removed me from the situation.

  -Yes.

  I said that aloud, too. Didn’t feel happy, exactly, but agreed.

  ***

  I was only hesitant a moment, stepping into the corridor, but had decided to dress in more than just pajamas, had tucked cigarettes in my pants, would either smoke in the stairwell or step out to the building side.

  I tucked Ginette’s things into my pocket, felt them in there through the fabric compulsively on the elevator down, in the silence of the decent really attempting to hock up phlegm, get rid of what seemed a dome, a film of thick mucus that covered the roof of my mouth, seemed to sheet over the drop of my throat down into me. The spot wouldn’t clear, no matter what, I was even tempted to forcefully clear my nose, like a homeless man, degenerate, anything to feel for a moment like my mouth was actually empty, like something wasn’t just halfway down me.

  I’d gotten a cigarette to my lips in the hall up to the laundry room entrance, moved in through the propped door, eyes on the thudding machine, only one operating, was two paces in when I knew I’d walked right past someone seated, reading from a beaten up paperback.

  I felt nauseous, ridiculous, caught, pathetic.

  I took a moment, coughed into my fist, doubling over though I didn’t need to. When I straightened up, I turned, like I was just stretching out a discomfort, and even expecting it to be there the sight of him, hand over his mouth, eyes on me, was a jab. He was still dressed as I’d first seen him—no coat, but otherwise the same.

  He fixed his eyes on me, giving me a nod, slowly letting his hand go slack to his knee, scratched his ear, turned his attention back to his book, like finding the point where he’d left off.

  ***

  Assuming I was just making matters worse, I pantomimed opening a dryer unit, reaching a hand in, squirmed my face put-off, as though I was touching something still damp. I couldn’t bear to turn around, knew he was looking at me, or wasn’t perhaps, he didn’t need to be, but certainly thinking about me.

  As part of my act, I reached into my pocket, removed Ginette’s belongings, skimmed two of the dollar bills into my left hand, replaced the rest to my pocket, and then as casual as I could make it, dragging phlegm around gratuitously in my nose, as though this was something important to establish, I stepped to the change machine.

  If I left the room, he’d of course go over to the machine, open it, find it empty. He’d check the machine, whether I started it or not, though, at least if I started it there was a chance the illusion would not be poked through.

  The obvious solution presented itself—have a seat myself, pick up a lousy magazine—but I winced against it, walked back over to the machine, not exactly sure it was the same one, not sure whether he’d notice, if it even mattered at this point.

  He knew he was the only one doing laundry. He was just watching me, completely bewildered, watching me lunatic around with make believe laundry.

  I wouldn’t stay. It was impossible. I would not sit next to this person, in silence, no choice about that unless I wanted to blather, not that I could maintain even a flimsy nonchalance.

  The dryer started up, vibrating coolly, no real difference to the overall drone in the hollow space, just a two second clap of louder, then everything evened out.

  I m
ust’ve drifted, just been standing there, caught myself and rolled my neck, found he was looking at me, something almost like concern on his face.

  I broke my eyes from him, slowly, at a loss for what to do, not wanting to do anything, dismal and finished, absolutely finished, childishly destroyed.

  ***

  Again, I was too aware of my walking, felt stiff, rickety the corridor back to the elevator.

  I hit the button, training my eyes back on the opening into the laundry room, craning my neck to see if there was some strange angle he might be able to see me from.

  In the elevator, I hesitated, popped sounds from my lips, cigarette in them, two fingers pressing the ridge of my nose to relieve some pressure.

  A few minutes went by and I thought I could let the door open, sneak back, quickly slither up, catch him red handed checking on the dryer I’d started.

  Then I flapped limp hand at the button for the lobby, knew it would be even worse to catch him, because then a confrontation would be forced. At this point, I still had nothing to do with him, other than perhaps he thought I found him distasteful.

  His mouth was stitched shut, I snorted, spit without meaning to, a thick of it striking the door, hardly moving down even with the weight of it, but moving down, moving down, if I stared I could see it. Of course I found him distasteful.

  My breaths were swimming and stale, made into a loose mouth, out through a shaped pucker. I’d either pass out as soon as I laid my head down or else vomit for an hour, empty myself dry.

  The doors opened on the lobby, the waft of the damp in, evidence of sloppy footfalls on the tile, new damp on the carpet, a big stack of telephone directories all along the wall beneath the fire alarm panel.

  The door closed.

  I hit the button for twelve, dabbed my cigarette tip at the smear of my spit that was no longer moving, no longer a lump, the descending line of it had flattened it into an off colour lick, the touch didn’t even make the patted cigarette tip dampen.

  ***

  I didn’t leave the confines of the elevator, a rectangle of my corridor appeared, replaced by the door again.