HUMIDITY II

My room is in the corner of the house. The house was constructed in the 1920s. There is no insulation in the walls. My room is often humid. The sheets feel wet, and books curl. This morning, I waited until it stopped raining. I plugged in the space heater and turned on the air conditioner. I took a shower. When I came back, it was better, marginally. After work I need to get some DampRids®. I usually get 3.

HUMIDITY

Last night a mosquito buzzed my ear. I got out of bed and turned on the light. I looked, but couldn't find it. I went back to sleep. When I woke up, it was behind my bed. I slapped it, and blood stained the wall. I tried to find the bite, but couldn't. Then I ate some cookies.

PROJECTIONS

Little did I know when I started washing blackboards in the third grade that it would turn into a career. Luckily, Mrs. Kapper recognized my talent immediately, and was able to convince the principal to take me on as a paid employee. I continued to attend classes, but focused most of my energy on walking to the janitor's closet, filling the bucket with water, and wiping downward with quick, strong strokes of the sponge. Throughout middle and high school, I commuted back to Harding Elementary to fulfill my contractual duty, and upon graduation became a full-time worker. My new status brought great responsibility, and I assumed board-washing duties for every classroom, as well as a series of apprentices. Although dry erase boards and PowerPoint threaten to make my calling obsolete, I continue to devote myself to the cleaning of the slate, and hope that one day my profession will be recognized as the art that it is. Until then, I remain yours, forever in chalkdust.

MORTARS

Do you need the darkness described to you? The infernal hatred with which generations have fueled themselves? Or would you rather sit back and enjoy tonight’s program? On the news today. Struggling. Bumblebees fighting. Anthropomorphic. Spell it. Childhood toys rescued from a fire. I can feel it in the top of my head now, numbing, moving further down scraping, through the spine, into the marrow… The knife slips. Someone must have done something wrong. I pushed the door open and walked out on my own. Removed the needles and threw them on the floor. Stumbled on a pool of oil in the parking lot. Crouched down, spilled over, into the mulch. I had my clothes on but the holes were bleeding badly. It was none of her business, though. Get back to work.

WALL STREET JOURNAL

These children! Stamping over concrete and asphalt with neither shoes nor socks, feet encrusted with grit and dirt. Which way are they heading? I'm too far away to tell. Need to get a better pair of binoculars. You'd think the office would supply some, but no. Have to buy them myself. Can't even get reimbursed... but they're at it again. Now they have pea shooters. (God, where did they find pea shooters? Amazing.) There must be at least 100 of them. Some standing, some milling about, most marching. Where are they going? Why are they here?

EXCERPT

There's no point in explaining how or why I turned my late grandparents' fully-furnished home into a detective agency slash apartment. I just did. The first floor was the agency and the top floor was the apartment. I kept the basement as it was. Cake decorating supplies, tools, washer and dryer, all of it. I left the first floor as it was, too. The front door opened into the living room, which served as a space for me to confer with clients. It made people feel comfortable. And since most of my clients were people from the neighborhood, people from my past, people who had never hired a detective before, comfort was important.

IPS

Sophie goes home and reaches out. Makes an attempt. Something is on TV, she watches it with her mother. She says it's a good story. Sometimes there are good things on. Her father has a tape recorder. He tapes family parties, and her little brother playing the piano. She likes these best. I listen to them, and picture her listening to them.