We didn’t miss the noise from downstairs---the shouting and falling bric-a-brac. No, we didn’t miss it one bit! Now the two brothers were our landlords. We got along with them just fine. The problem was that they couldn’t get along with each other. Consequently, the older brother, Angel lived downstairs, and Erik moved into the basement. It was a bit awkward, because every time I’d go downstairs to do the laundry, I’d have to yell, “Are you decent?” But, I got used to it, and most of the time he was.
I never saw Angel, because he had a night job and slept during the day. However, I felt sorry for Erik, the basement dweller, and would periodically take him leftovers, so he wouldn’t starve to death before my clothes dried. He was so appreciative, that one morning he left an unidentifiable blob in front of our door. His note said, “It’s a pecan pie, and I baked it myself.” I was glad he told me what it was so I wouldn’t have to guess. His creation was floating in grease. This was one movable feast that would never touch my lips. I wouldn’t even feed it to W.S., and he would eat almost anything.
W.S. took one look at it and said, “How do you suppose he did that?” ”I don’t know,” I said, “but I have never seen anything quite like it.” We watched with fascination as Erik’s labor of love began to coagulate. “How are we going to get rid of this thing?” I asked. We didn’t have a garbage disposal, and we shared the garbage can with Angel and Erik.
“I know,” said W.S. He found an old box and some gift wrap and advised “We simply wrap it up, and throw it away.” When it got dark, I snuck outside, and buried the pie under some pizza boxes. I prayed that the pie wouldn’t leak and corrode the can before the garbage men arrived in the morning.
We spent a blissful six months in that apartment. We had adjusted to the peculiarities of our landlords, and we had finally found a place we could stay for a few years.
One night we drove into the city and went to The Black Orchid. It was a famous club and it was closing. “Nothing is forever,” I sighed wistfully. “You’re right,” said W.S. “I have something to discuss with you. How upset would you be if I didn’t renew my contract the end of the year, and we’d return to cow dung country so I could get my PhD?”
“How did this come about?” I asked. “Professor Taser was invited to speak at a meeting that I attended, and I ran into him today in the Men’s Room. He suggested that if I were going to get my degree, I’d better “shit or get off the pot.” “Did he know who you were?” I asked. “I think so,” said W.S., “I stood on the right side of the urinal.”
“What do you think?” said W.S. “Do you mind moving again and going back to working at a menial job for a few years?” “I married you for better or worse,” I replied. “I just have one question---Which part is this?”
Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006