House on Stilts

House on Stilts

by CG Marchl

House on Stilts

by CG Marchl The Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

For the man in my apartment building who told me I wasn’t allowed to smoke inside, even though all I was doing was eating a candy cigarette.

CopyrightŠ 2019 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet Pittsburgh, PA The copyright to the individual remains the property of each individual.

Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual is prohibited.

For copies or inquiries: Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Literary Arts Department Mara Cregan 111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghschools.org Ms. Melissa A. Pearlman, Principal

Table of Contents

1. Queen’s House 2. Be Back Soon 3. Plastic Box 4. Rotten Girl 5. Dave 6. The Apartment Nine Hoarder 7. Octogenarian Status 8. Apartment One 9. 23 Things You’ll Never Know

Queen’s House I saw the ad for the “Queen’s House” taped onto the inside of free newspaper vending box. Inside the vending box was nothing. The only use it seemed to get was as the three-dimensional sketch pad of graffiti artist, “Keez.” I was surprised to even get an answer when I called the number given. I assumed that the building must have been long gone, just judging by the ad’s yellowing paper and bent over corners, but it wasn’t and the manager told me he was looking forward to giving me a tour.

Amenities include: twenty-four-hour doorman, garage and outdoor parking for a small fee, around the clock maintenance man, fully equipped workout room, and community front lawn.

I arrived to my appointment on time and was locked outside. Through the front door, I watched the thin, balding doorman in argyle socks snore. The manager had told me to meet him in the office inside the building, but that didn’t seem very well possible right then, unless I picked the lock. It was 20 minutes before the manager came bumbling down the steps. He was sweaty, stout, and balding. He wore a suit that was too small on him with the yellowed-white shirt half tucked and half untucked. He slapped the doorman who startled awake. The manager yelled at the doorman and pointed towards the door. I couldn’t hear them through the door, only see their mouths moving and a vein popping out in the middle of the manager’s forehead.

One, two, and three bedroom apartments are currently available, as well as commercial office space. Some features include: technologically advanced metal

doors, sizable walk-in closets, state of the art elevators, classy wall to wall shag carpeting, and central heating and air conditioning.

After apologizing profusely and shaking my hand upwards of 18 times, the manager, who introduced himself to me as Rick, began my tour. We squeezed into the elevator which shook a little when we stepped into it. Rick jabbed at the fourthfloor button. It didn’t light up. He hit it again. It didn’t light up. He laughed nervously.

“Technology, am I right?”

Our charming mid-rise building is equipped with balconies and provides an astonishing view of major attractions such as Heinz Field, the Cathedral of Learning, and PNC Park. You won’t ever need to leave your house on Fourth of July again, fireworks are visible from almost every angle!

We visited a one bedroom apartment, a little bit bigger than a studio. It consisted of a joint dining/living room, a bedroom which was a wall away from the living room, a kitchen that was across the way from the dining room, and a bathroom that was located inside the bedroom, plus a few closets. There was, in fact, a balcony. There was a door that came right off the living room. I went outside to take in the view. All that I could see were buildings and houses. There was an open dumpster beneath my feet.

Tucked away from the busy streets of our beautiful city resides the Queen’s House, perfect for those who are royal.

The Queen’s House is located three and half blocks down from one of the busiest intersections in the city. Sirens were the theme music of our tour. At the end, Rick walked me to the lobby and shook my hand. “I look forward to maybe seeing

your face around here,” he said. He slicked back his thinning hairs. I smiled and didn’t say a word. I never returned to the Queen’s House again.

Interested? Schedule your visit today.

Be Back Soon Sorry. I had to go back home for a bit, but I shouldn't be gone too long. The keys are underneath this mat—you can keep the Hooter’s keychain if you want. The key that’s covered in produce stickers is for this door and the one with the red ribbon tied around it is for the outside door. This door gets stuck sometimes. I hate to sound like my father, but, put some shoulder into it and it should come open.

First, the kitchen: leave some wine or apple cider vinegar in a cup if you don’t want any flies, if that fails, try honey; don’t tug too hard on the cupboards, only three of them actually open; don’t tug too hard on the refrigerator handle, it pops off in your hand; the stove is electric; the back right burner is broken, replace the tin foil on the hotplate every week or so, if you don’t, the house will smell like char; if you hate saunas, open the window when you bake, but be careful of the flies; don’t cook on the stove shirtless, some of the pans like to spit at you.

The bathroom: water leaks from the upstairs neighbors into the overhead light; if you see bubbles, the water’s boiling, turn it off immediately, wait at least an hour before turning the light on again; periodically unscrew the cover and toss the light’s water; if you see something fall in the shower, don’t worry, the paint’s just peeling from the ceiling; pretend that it’s snowing if you’re bothered; don’t let the paint collect or the drain will clog; toss the chippings blindly out of the shower; listen to their falling patters, hope that they landed in the waste basket; the tub drain is broken, if you want to take a bath, plug the drain with your body; if it’s not relaxing enough for you, then light the lavender candles in the cabinet above the sink.

Laundry: steal quarters from the change jar of the corner store on Fifth; never

give away your quarters; each floor has a designated room; do it in the morning to secure a machine; if there are no machines empty, try a new floor; if no machines on any floor are empty, take out another person’s clothes from the machine and put yours in; (look through the pockets for quarters); leave their clothes soaking in a heap on the old wooden desk; mostly only do this to piss off the guy who insists on walking around in his Speedo; only touch his soaking Speedo with the tips of your fingernails; ignore the memos; ignore all memos; being mindful of others’ space is only a thing for kindergarteners.

The bedroom: you can take mine, it’s the biggest; it might feel bare; (don’t worry I won’t be gone for long); always keep the TV on if you tire of echoes or silence; I’ve stripped my bed, but left the mattress; the closet door is stupid, slightly lift it up as you slide it so it doesn’t get stuck on the carpet; some Scotch tape is still stuck on the walls, should come off easy, the paint might peel; if you want to keep the security deposit, cover it up with liquid paper; the window is stuck the way it is, don’t try it, if it starts raining, tape a garbage bag over the screen.

Misc: don’t turn on the heat, you don’t need it; in the summer, you’ll need the A.C., the only one that works is in the living room, temporarily live there; I’ll be back; I left my goldfish in the spare room, his name is Boyfriend, he only needs one tap of TetraFin a day; I’ll be back; rent is due next Tuesday; slip it under the office door on the first floor; don’t worry if you’re a little late, it takes two to three months before he starts pounding on the door about the bills or finding a roommate.

Never fix things, only find new ways to patch them up.

Thanks. Good luck.

Plastic Box Inspired by #3, Aphex Twin With little to no research or warning, my mom moved us into the first, and crummiest, apartment she could find.

We used to live in a classic white picket fence house in the country with a creek and a forest in our backyard. I’d take my little brother for walks there. We’d trap bugs in a plastic container and watch them struggle to escape. Our favorite game was throwing sticks into the creek to piss off the population of water snakes. Sometimes they’d slither close to us in a tactic of intimidation, which worked on my little brother who would cry.

Our sheep dog, Sally, would fight them off, barking at them until they went away.

We moved after a little girl drowned in the creek and a baby vanished from the community park; once Sally started showing up to dinner with more wounds than just snake bites. We had to leave her behind to another family in the neighborhood, dogs weren’t allowed in the apartment.

My brother didn’t see any difference in living in the apartment building. He didn’t miss the creek or our dog. In fact, he completely forgot about the creek now that we had a vending machine in our basement, which he made daily trips to.

Once, my brother came back up to the apartment empty handed from a candy trip. He told us about a man that smelled like piss who accosted him on the landing on the way to the basement. He told us how he sat on a soaking piece of cardboard like Aladdin and read a real estate newspaper. She reported the man but said that she didn’t love the atmosphere—how the lightbulbs changed from floor to floor, going from dim to yellow to dim again, how they flickered, how the steps sometimes crumbled off

as you walked down them. So, she forbid us from using the stairwell. The ban on the stairwell couldn’t possibly be followed all the time. The elevators always seemed to be out of service.

I didn’t understand when she’d ever be satisfied. She had us in her plastic box, watching our every move, but her box still had its flaws. I wondered at what age she’d stop checking our legs for skinned knees.

One day, after squeezing into the elevator with my little brother and two other people, it screeched to a halt. The lights shuddered and the floor shook. The lights on the call buttons turned off. One of the other people in the elevator repeatedly jammed his fat fingers onto the emergency and fire department buttons. We listened for a bell or an alarm but only heard the second elevator next to us in action and the snuffed sobs of my little brother. I remembered all the insects I tortured from the country. I regretted trapping them in the little plastic box.

Rotten Girl The house on stilts has many inhabitants, ranging from working men to deranged elders to disorganized families, but, no matter their differences, they all claim to hear a mysterious moaning and whining that emerges from the trash chute. Most say that it’s just the wind or the pipes creaking within the walls. Some believe that it’s the rotten girl.

Long, long, ago in the house on stilts there was a girl who laid around her home like a peeled banana. Every week, the girl’s mother would ask her to take out the trash, but the girl would refuse. Her mother devised a plan. For three weeks, the mother stopped asking the girl, and let the garbage pile up. The first week, the girl barely noticed and complained of the stench. The second week, the girl plugged her nose with cotton and plugged the air with scented wax. The third week, the smell had grown too unbearable. In a moment of fury, the girl stormed out of her home, leaving her mother in the thick air of trash.

She came across a mysterious metal door, that read, “Rubbish.”

“What is this?” she wondered aloud.

She opened the metal door and stuck her head in. The same stench that stunk up her home was here, too. It was dark and she could not see the bottom of wherever this strange door led to. “Like a well,” she said. She leaned in farther, tucking her arms in. She felt the side walls. They were gritty. Suddenly, she heard a rattling coming from above her. A large bag fell from the sky and landed on her head. The sheer force knocked her body like a see saw and she tumbled into the dark well of the mysterious metal door.

After falling for what seemed like hours, the girl landed in a large basin, filled with a pool of liquid and bags. The bags did not completely soften the blow. They poked and bit at her back. She attempted to move, but every time she did, another bag would fall and she’d lay stick straight, afraid of being suffocated by another great, big bag falling onto her head. Never in her life had she wanted to move more.

Days passed and the girl became more and more distraught. Every time she heard the familiar rumbling and the sound of an opening latch, she’d scream. “Help me!

Help me! I’m down here!” But, nobody could hear her, and she’d have to befriend another rotten sack and nearly suffocate against the plastic. She kept herself fed by hunting through the basin. From carefully folded white boxes, she ate rice with the texture of stone and drank juice that she squeezed from old fruit. She gathered the dripping secretions of the bags into cartons and drank them. She fashioned herself a hat from Tupperware containers to protect herself from the glass bottles that were often flung violently from the unknown and into her abyss.

One day, a particularly peculiar bag came floating down. The girl thought it familiar, it carried the same stench of her old home and was the only bag with a red plastic handle. It was accompanied with a halo of winged beasts that seemed to carry it down gently. The girl ripped through the bag. It was her trash, she knew it. “So this is what I was supposed to do?” The girl cried.

Her mother must’ve forgotten about her, or else she wouldn’t have thrown away the trash. She hugged the bag and whined. And whined. And whined some more. She would only stop whining once she was practically drowning in trash. A man would clear out the bags sometimes and she could properly breath again.

It’s unclear what happened to the rotten girl. If she lived forever or if she died. If she was transformed into a bag of trash herself. If her mother ever found her. But, what is clear is that her spirits lives on.

Dave “Bill” stitched in cursive red letters on the breast pocket of a shirt of a teenager who never knew Bill.

- Don Kaplan, “Bill” “Dave” jaggedly stitched in white floss on the breast pocket of Dave’s Dickie jumpsuit. Dave’s eyes the size of gumballs underneath his thick-rimmed glasses.

Dave’s curling lip over his toothless top gum. Dave in the deserted hallways in the middle of the afternoon, covering the chips and scrapes of paint with a thin layer of grey.

Dave watching the paint dry. Dave’s hot breath. The ice cream melting in the man’s grocery bag and his polite smile. The man’s invaded space. Dave’s insistence on carrying the petite woman’s grocery bags. The tug of war game Dave played. The apple rolling on the carpet, candied in grey paint. Dave in the dumpster, throwing up black bags of trash to the garbage man. Dave’s smiling palm. Dave eating Doritos and drinking Mountain Dew in the lobby. The excited jump of Dave’s stool. Dave opening the door for tenants. Dave, accompanied. Dave, abandoned. Dave’s eye as big as an eclipse behind a magnifying glass. Dave inspecting the torn-up carpet Dave filling in the faded white stripes with liquid paper. Doorman whispering “Dave” underneath his breath. The burning of his heels as spins on them. Dave on the cold fire escape, breathing in the city’s second hand smoke. Dave’s waves ignored by the people down below. Dave feeding the cat with the bitten ear in the boiler room. Dave petting the eating cat. Dave returning home in his ’97 Ford. The exposed yellow paste on Dave’s wall. Rotating pizza rolls in Dave’s dirty microwave. Dave, alone.

The Apartment Nine Hoarder These cats did not eat well and did not clean themselves carefully, and one by one, each in its own way and in its own time died, leaving behind it a different strong smell which hung in the air for a week or two and then dissipated.

- Lydia Davis, “The Cats in the Prison Recreation Hall” My mother and I always knew that things with the old lady down the hall were bad. We’d peer in sometimes whenever her door was open; fascinated by the Alice in Wonderland like rabbit hole that swallowed the entryway and more concretely, by the stacks of cardboard boxes which formed a wall in the living room. But, we knew it had gone too far once her door couldn’t close; blocked by a pile of newspapers, bags of miscellaneous buttons, an abundance of crocheted blankets, among other things, but most importantly by a colony of mangy cats that spilled out into the hallway. They made their beds on piles of eviction notices.

My mother informed me I’d be helping the old lady organize; said it wasn’t fair of us to sit idly by and watch a struggling woman be evicted when we were perfectly capable of helping. I didn’t understand why we had to involve ourselves, us of all people; me with my dusty stacks of Goodwill vinyl spilling onto my floor and my mother with her shelves upon shelves of plastic encased National Geographic’s; me with my family of crushed Schweppes cans that lived underneath my bed.

Upon entering her apartment, I was confronted with a variety of smells; rotten meat, eggs, and urine—human and cat. She told me to make myself at home. “You could take off your shoes if you want,” she said.

I looked down at the carpet—speckled brown and some spots condensed with crumbs—and politely declined the offer.

“Well, if you change your mind, could you please put your shoes over there?”

She pointed to a corner near the door where there were two piles of shoes—one distinctly men’s and the other distinctly women’s. I told her of course I would, but found the request ridiculous. The place looked like a second-hand store after a tsunami. I couldn’t understand why she needed the shoes to be neat.

The collection of men’s shoes by the door bothered me. They weren’t hers. Her tiny, grey feet would float in them.

It was too silent. “Didn’t know you had a husband,” I said.

“Have,” she said. “R.J., he’s in the bedroom.”

I looked around. “Where?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’ll have to find it first.” She chuckled shakily—that long kind chuckle that old ladies do.

I inhaled the air again and felt a bullet of bile shoot up into my throat. A tabby, practically skin and bones that was previously walking around, gasped and fell at my feet.

After four hours, I had dumped four shopping carts worth of trash down the garbage chute and figured that an entire forest must have been cut down to account for all the paper in her apartment. We never cleared a path to the bedroom. We were both too slow. She was working against arthritis and nostalgia. I was working against apathy.

I returned home with a stack of records that I found in the bathtub and the skeleton tabby that I had assumed was dead but was really just tired. I threw the

records onto my already avalanching pile in my room and decided to clean out the ginger ale cans underneath my bed. I had to rip one out that was stuck to the carpet. I pulled it out and closed one eye, looking into the can like a camera lens where a pool of flies sat. I let the tabby paw at the ones that flew out.

I told my mother it would have been more beneficial to have just given the old lady some gasoline and a match. She didn’t like that comment. Then I thought about it some more. Maybe it wouldn’t have been easier. We would need an awful lot of gasoline. My mother didn’t understand how much better it felt to have a sense of humor about it.

That night I dreamt of myself as an old man with skin that crinkled like plastic bags. I had an IV drip filled with flies. I slept on a crusted carpet and used record sleeves as a blanket. The room was bare except for a pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. They were stacked like firewood. I heard a man’s low guttural screams buried beneath them, but never saw his body.

Octogenarian Status Sometimes her legs are forgetful. Like the time it took them three extra stops to remember it was time to get off the bus.

- William Lessard, “The Old Woman” There’s no scarier topic to discuss with good friends than old age. We talk about it a lot. I don’t ever get much out of those conversations, though. They all end up being the same and my friends don’t understand my position on the topic. I talk about turning thirty someday and they cover their ears with their hands like children. Na-na, boo-boo, I can’t hear you. They’re even more fearful of an octogenarian status. Jack doesn’t want to be alone or forgotten. He hasn’t gone without a Facebook status for years. Kyra puts money aside every week for Botox. Alex says he wants to preserve his body, so he’s going vegan tomorrow. He’s been saying this for months. Emma says she’s going to pull a Harold and Maude type of deal and bow out gracefully on her 80th birthday. I tell them I want to be exactly like my neighbor.

My neighbor is almost spectral. I see her all the time, her walker scraping against the gravel as she walks in the middle of the road. She’s like a phantom stoplight in her neon yellow vest. Cars beep at her when they drive past and she glares. She’s always talking to herself. When it’s too slippery outside, she monopolizes the hallway, trailing up and down it. The neighbors wait until her slow shuffle is over before they leave their houses.

She’s stopped clinging onto appearances. She used to fill in her roots with a bloody red and carry on with a stained scalp. She’s since let her natural colorless white grow out, leaving her head looking like Neapolitan ice cream from the River Styx.

Coming home one day, I found her halfway up the steps to the elevator. She was methodical in the way she went up them. Holding on to the railing, she went up one step, then pulled her walker up behind her, tennis balls dragging. I passed her, but then retracted my steps. I asked her if she wanted any help. She flipped me off with a skeletal middle finger, nail polished a natural dead yellow. There’s nothing left to care about and so she doesn’t. I can’t wait to get there.

But, at some point, I stop seeing her around and I remember why my friends love their youth so much.

Apt. 1 Once a week, for about three months, I think I visited an agoraphobic therapist.

Her name was Dr. Miller. One of the first things I noticed was her resemblance to the Log Lady from Twin Peaks, with her round red glasses and chunky knitted sweaters.

Though, she never said anything so profound as Margaret Lanterman. Only, “And how does that make you feel?”

Her office was in apartment building. She was recommended to me by a friend’s friend. I was apprehensive at first. On the first visit I was nearly decapitated by a falling, age bitten brick, and I’d never seen a shrink in an apartment building before. Seeing a therapist in one seemed too personal. It was like I was stepping into someone’s home.

But, she seemed legit enough. She told me there were other offices like hers in the building, and I noticed her degree was printed on thick paper. She was there to help when no one could.

My apprehension returned when I started noticing the little things. Twenty minutes before my every appointment, I’d watch a tall man disappear into her apartment with a handful of Whole Foods bags and exit with twenty dollars his shirt pocket.

Outside, there was a car that never moved. It had so many parking tickets it looked like a filing cabinet.

It all clicked the appointment with the white undies, lying lone on the ground. I pointed and Dr. Miller looked as if she turned to dust, scurrying away with them into the door that was only introduced to me as, “No, not the bathroom.” I never once saw her toes step over the wood stopper of her entrance doorway.

I canceled all my appointments after that.

I drove past the building a few months later. I noticed the dusty gaping hole where the falling brick had been. They hadn’t fixed it, yet, the building wasn’t falling over. I thought about Dr. Miller. She had holes, too, but for three months, she kept me standing.

Apt. 1 Once a week, for about three months, I think I visited an agoraphobic therapist.

Her office was in an apartment building. She was recommended to me by a friend’s friend. I was apprehensive at first. On the first visit I was nearly decapitated by a falling, age bitten brick, and I’d never seen a shrink in an apartment building before.

Seeing a therapist in one seemed too personal. It was like I was stepping into someone’s home. But, she seemed legit enough. She told me there were other offices like hers in the building, and I noticed her degree was printed on thick paper. She was there to help when no one could.

My apprehension returned when I started noticing the little things. Twenty minutes before my every appointment, I’d watch a tall man disappear into her apartment with a handful of Whole Foods bags and exit with twenty dollars his shirt pocket.

Outside, there was a car that never moved. It had so many parking tickets it looked like a filing cabinet.

It all clicked the appointment with white undies, lying lone on the ground. I pointed and Dr. Miller looked as if she turned to dust, scurrying away with them into the door that was only introduced to me as, “No, not the bathroom.” I never once saw her toes step over the wood stopper of her entrance doorway.

I canceled all my appointments after that.

I drove past the building a few months later. I noticed the dusty gaping hole where the falling brick had been. They hadn’t fixed it, yet, the building wasn’t falling

over. I thought about Dr. Miller. She had holes, too, but for three months, she kept me standing.

Apt. 1 Once a week, for about three months, I think I visited an agoraphobic therapist.

Her office was in an apartment building. She was recommended to me by a friend’s friend. I was apprehensive at first. On the first visit I was nearly decapitated by a falling, age bitten brick, and I’d never seen a shrink in an apartment building before.

Seeing a therapist in one seemed too personal. But, she seemed legit enough. She told me there were offices like hers in the building, and I noticed her degree was printed on thick paper.

My apprehension returned when I started noticing the little things. Twenty minutes before my every appointment, I’d watch a tall man disappear into her apartment with a handful of Whole Foods bags and exit with twenty dollars his shirt pocket.

Outside, there was a car that never moved. It had so many parking tickets it looked like a filing cabinet.

It all clicked the appointment I saw the white undies, lying lone on the ground. I pointed and Dr. Miller looked as if she turned to dust.

I canceled all my appointments after that.

I drove past the building a few months later. I noticed the dusty gaping hole where the falling brick had been. They hadn’t fixed it, yet, the building wasn’t falling over. I thought about Dr. Miller. She had holes, too, but for three months, she kept me standing.

23 Things You Won’t Know 1. 25 people’s hearts have stopped underneath your roof.

2. On your 55th birthday, they lined you with explosives and detonated your foundation. It was broadcast on the local news.

3. The saggy old man with the Nike slides and the thick, ingrown toe nails went outside of you to smoke a cigarette, rain or shine, at least three times a day for 20 years. By the time he quit, there were five or six sporadic black dots scorched into your bricks.

4. Henry, the teenager in Apt. 13, used to try to punch holes in your walls. He hated being inside his own head, so he took it out on you. It never worked anyways because you were too dense. He couldn’t even leave a dent. You left white dust on his knuckles. He walked around with bruises that ran down his tendons like stripes.

5. The day the big buckeye on the lawn was planted, Agnes scattered her daughter’s ashes into the dirt. She collected the fallen seeds and kept them in a Tupperware container on the dresser next to her bed. She meant it to be more meaningful than it turned out to be. Her husband used to chuck the seeds against your walls.

6. The big buckeye on the lawn was chopped down in less than a decade.

7. The day of your death, the grass burned completely and was as crispy as fallen leaves. The boys from the school down the street stepped on it until it turned to dust. You were like the charred remains of ribs from annual Fourth of July barbecues on the front lawn.

8. The ceilings on every floor except the top radiated heat down like a lamp. In the summer, the overweight aunt on the third floor would wear her husband’s wife beater and fan herself with her chubby fingers. She drank glasses of lemon iced tea. She liked to watch the pitcher sweat. Sometimes she stuck her arms in the fridge.

9. During the winters, Henry slept with four blankets: a fleece comforter, his grandma’s quilt, a knitted shawl, a thin cotton sheet, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles towel. His bed was in the corner of two outside walls. Absentmindedly in his sleep he’d roll over and his cheek would press into the walls. He’d wake up with his mouth like ice.

10. After her stillbirth, Agnes became a fulltime nanny.

11. When the Chinese restaurant across the street caught on fire, everyone inside ran over and took refuge in the lobby. They all smelled of burnt eggrolls and sweat. A fat man spilled his leftover miso soup on the carpet. The balding, flamboyant doorman took a smoke break.

12. The new Whole Foods is open from 8 A.M to 10 P.M. Not one of your old residents care to visit; they can’t afford it.

13. Agnes frequented the vending machine in the basement the most. She tracked the price of chocolate in a notebook, which became pissed stained after she lost control of the cats. At the time of your death the cost of a Hershey bar was two dollars. At the time of your birth, the cost of a Hershey bar was five cents.

14. There was 10,000 dollars hidden in the closet with the fire hose. Sadly, it went up in flames.

15. Two engaged art students snuck two pet snakes into their apartment. The first got out on Christmas and was found two months later curled up in the boiler room, dried like jerky. The second one lasted about a week. It ate one of its unfertilized eggs, choked, and died. After that, they got a chameleon.

16. Henry would insist on listening to warped noise records on vinyl. He would turn up the speakers to the loudest possible volume and at the most ungodly hours.

His mother could hear the squeaking from her bedroom. She slept with a pillow tied around her head. She was very supportive; the tenants were not.

17. You fell into disrepair so early in your life, but, the owner wouldn’t take care of you. All he did was wash you in new paint.

18. After Agnes’ husband died, the family she nannied for hired a home care nurse named Wendy to keep her company and make her lunch. Agnes enjoyed their time together and appreciated that Wendy would always agree to a game of Scrabble, even though her phone was always buzzing. In a startling turn of events, Agnes fired Wendy once she discovered that Wendy was dating the maintenance man. The maintenance man speculated that Agnes was just jealous.

19. The first janitor ever hired took up in the basement by the water heater after his wife caught him kissing another woman.

20. People say home is where the heart is. Only one person ever found one in you.

21. The police scoured the floors to make sure they were empty before they gave the two thumbs up to blow you away. There was a family of mice living inside a hole in the wall of the third-floor laundry room. Apparently, they hadn’t heard the news.

22. The people that built you forget they ever did.

23. Before Agnes died, she hid her remaining buckeyes in the cereal aisle of Whole Foods. She spit on the butter lettuce leaves inside the produce section. Two men with stubble and half shaved heads dragged her outside by her leathery arms after she refused to leave. She claimed that this had been her home for 50 years.

She sat in the parking lot where the lawn had once been. Her back was hunched and her legs were spread eagle out in front of her. She thought she heard you whispering, telling her to never move on.