Fiction

Rental crisis

In the morning they give him a coat, buttoned agape in the wrong holes, the door slams behind, muffled curses follow, in the pocket he finds a handkerchief, unless it is an oily rag, it might be an oily rag, moist if not oily, moist from wiping the condensation from the mirror, what else resides there in the pockets? money? no, keys? no, he stands on the top step, low clouds puffing up the street like breath, his thoughts going fast, something yet may happen he thinks in the distant purrings of the dawn, if I stand here long enough, and sure enough the door behind him opens to deposit at his feet a shiny, if empty, suitcase containing all his worldly… unless it is a briefcase, brown leather, brass buckles, bone worn handle, the initials, his initials, etched in gold on one flank, or perhaps better branded, in faded gold, on one flank, he turns at last to the top step to utter some form of farewell, of forwarding address, to face again the door crudely slamming in his face, he limps forward the door still shuddering, he doesn’t recognise the door nor the voice that utters the words “and don’t you come back here again” or like words, it’s impossible to tell which comes muffled through the door, it might have simply been “come back here again”, his eyes sting, confused he sits down by his briefcase on the step in the rain, the gate at the end of the path is shut, crows line the telegraph wires, streetlights wink off one by one, a car, yes a car is waiting, a shiny new unit with doors open and vivid upholstery, an invitation and a summons.

What is left behind in his room? his books? no, someone else’s books, nothing of importance, that only he could find use for, no clothes to speak of other than the coat, the boots on his feet, where have they come from? if there are more, where are they now? being preserved for prosperity? and why has he been woken so rudely and sharply bundled out of bed, roughly bundled downstairs, swiftly bundled outside into the merciless weather, next to naked and hatless, the rent certainly overdue, but for that, no real reason, not enough to substantiate eviction without notice, it’s the landlord has done all the bundling, other tenants waiting in the queue, watched over by a wife, a sister, an aunt armed with a can of fly spray, squirting it sporadically at his eyes, no warning, no explanation, no piece of toast for breakfast, but why? because he didn’t put the rubbish out, because he gambled away the rent on a horserace, something to do with the thumping on the floorboards in the night, some objection, but has it not been quiet as per usual, no undue noise, beyond the toilet seat up-and-down as per function, the flushing thereafter a chain of gurgling reactions following the path of the pipes through the house so clear are the acoustics, next? the stubborn window frame squeaking in the night, hardly a tenant’s problem, the teeth-cleaning murmur of bathroom floorboards, nocturnal tenor of tap water, the last rinse and gargle. Spit. Sensuous rattle of the bedsprings followed by swift silence, no noise, silence, he might have been dead, then sudden thumping on the ceiling above, directly above the bed, or is it below the bed, or even in the bed, there seems to be music, a party, at this time of night, a radio perhaps, talkback, unless it’s blood in the ears, a horserace, someone is calling a horserace in the dead of night, the moon’s own little patch of light on the floor, or more specifically the rug, the old rug, and the thumping continues, even up-and-down the stairs, he dreams fitfully, finally, near dawn, of crows cawing and is woken roughly by grasping shaking hands at his shoulders, the bristled face of the landlord who looks exhausted if not horrified, “get him out, get him out”, cries the wife, sister, aunt, sssss says the fly spray, “I want him out of here”, “I’m trying”, moans the husband, landlord, man, “give me a hand will you?” the lens missing from one eye of his spectacles, he sits numb on the edge of the bed while they roughly dress him in the coat, eyes averted for modesty before more bundling down the hallway to the kitchen, cold dishes still in the sink, an old dog sitting in the corner with a wise look on its face, been here before it appears to think, as if to say, “I am only an old dog and not very smart, but I do what I do which is all I can do and in the meantime I sit here stinking in my habits that are hard to break but maybe in all this there is something to be learned”, his mail unopened on the hall table, a car outside honking its horn. Behind him the door forcibly, inexorably closed.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on June 7, 2025 as "Rental crisis".

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