where Harriet Gumm was coming from.
“She’s in a never-ending forest with slithering nocturnal creatures,” she said.
I asked her why the forest was never-ending.
“Because that’s what I wanted it to be,” she replied.
“And the light?”
“What about the light?”
“What’s its source?”
“Who knows?” Harriet said. “Maybe you are.”
That’s where she lost me. Harriet Gumm liked being provocative for the sake of being provocative.
“You should seriously pose for me,” she said.
Again I asked her why.
“Because I think you’d make a good subject. I’d pay you twenty bucks a sitting.”
“Nude?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the surface of the stool and imagined all the large black men who’d sat upon it, their anuses and perinea, their bulbous testicles dangling. Did she disinfect the top of the stool after each sitting? Was there like some special disposable doily that was utilized?
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
We were quiet for a moment. Harriet wouldn’t take her eyes off me. It was like she could see me naked. My atrophying muscle tissue and fish-belly skin. My average, flaccid, circumcised penis. The strange mole in my belly button that Kent used to say was Nestlé Toll House’s lost chocolate chip.
Her buzzer sounded. She crossed to the front door, let in whoever it was.
“A subject?” I said.
“Keith. Final session.”
“Time for the noose?”
She didn’t answer.
Before I let myself out, I said, “Should I shave?”
“No,” she said. “Keep the beard.”
And then I glanced at the triptych again and asked if she’d made a snowman in the past few days.
To which she answered: “I’ve never made a snowman in my life.”
I didn’t want to run into Keith, so I exited toward the second-floor aft staircase. From the stairwell window overlooking the backyard, I spied Mary Bunch on her way to the alleyway Dumpsters with a bloated black Hefty bag. With great effort, she lugged it through two feet of snow. I had an impulse to scream out to her. From behind the double-paned window she likely wouldn’t have heard me, but I still had to cover my mouth to stop myself.
What the hell was in that Hefty bag? I couldn’t contend with the dark possibilities, so I went down to the basement and started pacing the laundry room. There was a load tumbling in the dryer. Was it a load of the Bunches’? Were they washing bloodstains out of their clothes? I couldn’t quite get myself to open the dryer door and check.
After I heard Keith’s heavy feet pad across the second-floor hallway and disappear into Harriet Gumm’s apartment, I headed to the front porch to check the mail. Bradley was coming up the steps, wearing the black trench and skullcap, carrying a bag from Ace Hardware.
“Bradley,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” he said, the y barely resonating.
His beard had really cool cowlicks in it. Sort of silvery-blond whirlpools that seemed to have their own little fairy-tale universe. I imagined Lilliputians emerging, stealing crumbs, and diving back down into the depths. He could probably store things in his beard. Like almonds or match heads or even a mailbox key. He was almost fifteen years younger than me and his beard was teaching my beard a serious lesson.
For someone so low-pulse he seemed a bit agitated. It could have been the simple fact that he’d been walking and was out of breath. If he’d hoofed it all the way to the Ace Hardware and back, it meant that he’d covered some four miles.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, so I said, “Long walk?”
“Longish,” he replied, hardly hitting the g .
He wore old mustard-yellow Chuck Taylors, which were soaked from the snow, and no socks. All of the buttons but one were missing from his black double-breasted trench. He kept it closed with a brown extension cord. Underneath the trench he wore a white thermal not dissimilar to the one I was wearing.
I pointed to his footwear
“She’s in a never-ending forest with slithering nocturnal creatures,” she said.
I asked her why the forest was never-ending.
“Because that’s what I wanted it to be,” she replied.
“And the light?”
“What about the light?”
“What’s its source?”
“Who knows?” Harriet said. “Maybe you are.”
That’s where she lost me. Harriet Gumm liked being provocative for the sake of being provocative.
“You should seriously pose for me,” she said.
Again I asked her why.
“Because I think you’d make a good subject. I’d pay you twenty bucks a sitting.”
“Nude?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the surface of the stool and imagined all the large black men who’d sat upon it, their anuses and perinea, their bulbous testicles dangling. Did she disinfect the top of the stool after each sitting? Was there like some special disposable doily that was utilized?
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
We were quiet for a moment. Harriet wouldn’t take her eyes off me. It was like she could see me naked. My atrophying muscle tissue and fish-belly skin. My average, flaccid, circumcised penis. The strange mole in my belly button that Kent used to say was Nestlé Toll House’s lost chocolate chip.
Her buzzer sounded. She crossed to the front door, let in whoever it was.
“A subject?” I said.
“Keith. Final session.”
“Time for the noose?”
She didn’t answer.
Before I let myself out, I said, “Should I shave?”
“No,” she said. “Keep the beard.”
And then I glanced at the triptych again and asked if she’d made a snowman in the past few days.
To which she answered: “I’ve never made a snowman in my life.”
I didn’t want to run into Keith, so I exited toward the second-floor aft staircase. From the stairwell window overlooking the backyard, I spied Mary Bunch on her way to the alleyway Dumpsters with a bloated black Hefty bag. With great effort, she lugged it through two feet of snow. I had an impulse to scream out to her. From behind the double-paned window she likely wouldn’t have heard me, but I still had to cover my mouth to stop myself.
What the hell was in that Hefty bag? I couldn’t contend with the dark possibilities, so I went down to the basement and started pacing the laundry room. There was a load tumbling in the dryer. Was it a load of the Bunches’? Were they washing bloodstains out of their clothes? I couldn’t quite get myself to open the dryer door and check.
After I heard Keith’s heavy feet pad across the second-floor hallway and disappear into Harriet Gumm’s apartment, I headed to the front porch to check the mail. Bradley was coming up the steps, wearing the black trench and skullcap, carrying a bag from Ace Hardware.
“Bradley,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” he said, the y barely resonating.
His beard had really cool cowlicks in it. Sort of silvery-blond whirlpools that seemed to have their own little fairy-tale universe. I imagined Lilliputians emerging, stealing crumbs, and diving back down into the depths. He could probably store things in his beard. Like almonds or match heads or even a mailbox key. He was almost fifteen years younger than me and his beard was teaching my beard a serious lesson.
For someone so low-pulse he seemed a bit agitated. It could have been the simple fact that he’d been walking and was out of breath. If he’d hoofed it all the way to the Ace Hardware and back, it meant that he’d covered some four miles.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, so I said, “Long walk?”
“Longish,” he replied, hardly hitting the g .
He wore old mustard-yellow Chuck Taylors, which were soaked from the snow, and no socks. All of the buttons but one were missing from his black double-breasted trench. He kept it closed with a brown extension cord. Underneath the trench he wore a white thermal not dissimilar to the one I was wearing.
I pointed to his footwear
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