Tables, desks, floors, and beds.

I'm using every flat surface I can find to spread my life out on. I'm stacking up photos on top of books I haven't opened yet but pretend to know what they are about. There are cans of spray paint holding up sketch pads that I only use as a surface for my knife blade and an extension of the screams stuck in my throat. Things to burn: candles, receipts, lottery tickets. Things to recycle: cans, bar poetry, canvas. They alternate on these flat surfaces, sometimes merging into piles that are so cluttered I don't know what to do with what. There are pens, a screwdriver, first aid spray and bobby pins. Change and wrappers to things that save my life and keep my mouth moving. A plastic apple shoved full of blades that won't rot or rust. If I could pour my heart into that lifeless fruit of temptation I would. But tonight I'll keep it. I'll mix it with the sweat on my skin, the fluids on my sheets, the beer on my nightstand, the broken dreams my friend left on the old brown couch last night. I'll learn to play that song on guitar that I should be singing to myself that I pretend is for everyone who is gone. I'll draw road maps, leave detailed directions, carved and burned into my skin. A treasure map for the hunt of all the bullshit that gets listed here. From where my car sits tonight: first right, second right, third left, first left, fourth right. You'll pass the spot I last saw family; it'll be on the left. And you'll see where I spent my first year, trying to be all the things that I thought would make us happy that just tore us apart; it'll also be on the left. And if you go a little further, then go right, then second right, then follow that street till it ends You'll find some other haunted spot. There's a bunch of them, and this is one of the few I thought of, because I know that ghost is around. I can hear familiar voices and feel some of those familiar knots. I'm not nearly drunk enough for this tonight. But I am tired. Let's leave this unfinished.

Apartment 108

Randy is 28. He lives in apartment 108. His building is small, enough. The other residents only know his name from the mailboxes out front. His is the only one with both a first and last name. The tag is also not centered like the rest of the tags. The color is worn. It has been like that for 10 months.

Every Thursday Randy takes a late lunch. He walks around the corner from his office to his favorite pupuseria. It not his favorite for the food, the food was fine. It is his favorite because it is the closest place by his office to get the new issue of L.A.WEEKLY. He brings back whatever random thing he orders to his office and opens the L.A. WEEKLY. He goes straight to the personal ads and spends the rest of his time at work on the phone with various agencies, working out the specifics of his reservations. It is the same every week.

Friday night he gets home at 6:05. Every week, 6:05. He takes two side streets and rolls one stop sign to pull into his space at the same time. Randy carries his lunch bag and avoids contact with any neighbors that might be out.

Thursday is the only day he doesn’t bring his lunch to work.

6:25, his phone rings. “Randy?” “Yeah, let me buzz you in”.

There are two quick knocks on apartment 108. Randy lets the young women in. Her hair is long, a couple of inches below her bra strap, or where it would be, and dark. Usually he likes it longer, but this will work. He locks the door behind her, which startles the woman, but she sees the money sitting on the coffee table. Her quick counts makes out a few bills adding up to 275 dollars, a little more than what was agreed, and that makes her slightly more comfortable.

Randy leads her to the bedroom. The bed is made, the floor is clean, there are a couple framed posters hanging on the wall and one picture on the nightstand, Randy and a women with dark hair.

The conversation is short and specific. “I must have music playing”, “Your hands must be here”, “Please be quiet” and “Please don’t smile”. She follows every order, though typically that is not her specialty.

Randy pushes play on tape deck. The first song starts slow. Kick drum, then cymbals, then some bass. Funky, but not funky enough. Randy stands behind the women and spends a very short time exploring her body. The songs keep playing, he doesn’t say a word, and neither does she. Each song is getting louder, each song is picking up pace, but Randy’s mood does not change. The seventh song, she’s been counting, slows dramatically. This doesn’t affect him at all. The last song fades out and Randy gets off of the bed. He slides open closet door, puts on a yellow robe, and gives the women a twenty-dollar bill. “The rest is on the coffee table in the living room. Thank you.”

The woman says nothing. She gets off of the bed and starts to put her clothes on. She looks at Randy, but he is in the bathroom and has just turned the shower on. She finishes getting dressed and grabs her money as she leaves apartment 108.

Randy takes off his yellow robe and steps into the shower. He faces the showerhead and puts his head down, letting the water stream down his face. He holds his hands around his eyes, making a scuba mask, the way she showed him that day in the hills. A few tears mix with the water. He turns around and tries to finish his shower. He can’t. It has been 10 months.

Pre-work-meditation

It gets old, being told everything is your fault.
It gets old, being told you are a mistake.
It gets old, trying to work out problems.
It gets old, trying to stay quiet.
It gets old, wanting to run away.
It gets old, wanting to not be responsible.
It gets old, the apologies.
It gets old, the revisionist.

Things are fine, or they will be when I get home from work.

Friday is MAYDAY. It will be nice to put the things that keep me up in the mornings on a different shelf then the one they reside.

A story later, ok?

the noise

Its 1 in the morning. Every night the same strange tapping noise comes from the apartment above and to the left.

It excites and interests me.

the days seem short in chicago

I've been an official rent paying resident of Chicago for 17 days. I have had a job for 10. I have lived in 2 apartments. Confused?

I moved out of my apartment today. Matt helped me out. He is awesome. Here is the rundown of the last 48 hours.

Bill sent me my computer. I had it shipped to Allison's apartment because it seems a much safer package delivery spot than my apartment. So I carried my box on two trains to my apartment. It took 60 minutes. I don't have a monitor yet, so at my apartment I took the old roommates and hooked it up to my computer. See, the guy I replaced moved from my room to the living room, where he is sleeping and storing his stuff. Rent Free. Anyways. I have the computer running and I am super excited about uploading pictures and blogging and listening to music and all of that when I can't connect to the Internet. After adjusting settings I get a comcast page. It says to set up the account. But the account is already set up I thought. So I search through out the apartment to find a bill. I did find a bill. It was just shy of 100 bucks. It hadn't been paid since before I moved in. The reason I couldn't connect to the Internet was because there was no Internet. They turned it off on Monday.

I also found the gas bill. It is nearly 300 bucks, very much behind and on the verge of getting shut off.

So I talked to Allison and I am staying at her apartment. I didn't feel like living in Chicago in January and February with no gas. And god knows what state of unrest the electric bill is.

One of my now former roommates is in Europe for a school trip. The other called me after the couch guest told her about my stuff being gone. I was still in transit to the new apartment, I hadn't had a chance to call her. She is upset, but not about me not living there, or about the late bills, even if she know about them, but about having to find a new roommate. There is no lease, no deposit, no give us 30 days agreement before moving out. I would have gladly giving them 30 days, but I assumed I would be moving into an apartment with the things advertised and not in danger of loosing vital utilities. I'm not asking for any money back, but I'm not going to give anymore.

It's been snowing most of the day. It is nice. I really like Chicago. I have to get ready for work.