Landlord

 

       My landlord is subject to spontaneous outbursts of rage. He used to be alright before the accident. I pay my rent in cash. The bills are sticky. He takes them without a word, but still scans me up and down. Drool. I owe him; he owns me.

 

      Three dollars for a pack of gum. Whatever. I’m in a rush. I manage to be late for a job that bans clocks to blur the perception of time. He slides my change across the flimsy plastic counter with a disturbing squeak. I need to leave. He pounds his fist, jiggling the yellowed selection of lotto tickets, and pleads with me to listen to an anecdote he’s been saving for a special moment. 

 

      Standing in his shop in winter clothes, it’s too easy to imagine him walking into the club. My workplace, where I lap up repressed violence, grief, and lust from similarly sweaty and socially awkward gentlemen. I’m not ready to cut out the middleman. I distract myself from this intrusive fear by staring at the army of dust bunnies behind the vending machine. They look like a happy family. In the winter, I have to come down with my kettle, move the vending machine, and pour boiling water on the frozen pipes. Then I can take a bath. 

 

*

 

     She is in her mid-forties, but she has also just turned twenty-nine. It’s normal to bring a silk scarf to sit on so you don’t get ass pimples from so many weathered laps. The terrycloth kitchen towel she sports is so out of place that it becomes erotic. Balloon breasts are customary. Her porcelain skin stretches over silicone into transparency, revealing the blue network of veins underneath. Marble is preferred by sculptors for its ability to scatter light beneath the surface.

 

      She’s on the phone screaming at someone. Her acrylics are so long they start to curl. 

 

Monday is lemon yellow stars

Tuesday is checkered with a silver tip

Wednesday is a human-dolphin carnal fantasy

Thursday is candied teddy bears and pearls

Friday is big clear dew drops

Saturday is extra-long fuchsia

Sunday is a bubble bath and a glass of wine and I’m not listening to any of your bullshit

 

      She hangs up and looks at me: Unbelievable. The tenants are demanding hot water. They went way over quota this month. Damaged property. Stab wounds on the wall?! This is the final straw. Turns out they’re tire tracks. Still, so disrespectful. They deserve to be thrown out onto the street. They all seem like sweet kids at first, but then turn out to be a bunch of rats with lenient mothers who pitch in for rent, which is quite affordable, especially in this neighbourhood.

 

      I recall my own landlord. Socrates was described by his contemporaries as having bulging eyes and a snub nose. His unfavourable features are mocked and exaggerated in alabaster and bronze, as if to say - look around you, divine madness is everywhere, in the most unlikely and unkempt of places. His private celestial guide, comparable only to an inner voice that issues warnings against faulty actions, has been long mythologized, personified by some as demonic and others as angelic. My landlord’s nose is an overgrown potato. Red with warts, patches of hair and pores that tunnel deep down. Maybe posterity will recall his appearance in contrast to some benevolent characteristic I have yet to find.

 

      I look at the landlord in front of me. If only her tenants were lucky enough to run into her at the club. She downs a shot of tequila and bends over in front of the mirror to examine her perfect marble pussy before she hits the floor, where she drops into splits from five meters high, tickles clients with her freshly polished claws and coos to herself through an infinite maze of overlapping mirrors.