Homesick for Another World(16)

“Are you here to see the apartment?” I asked. I had my clipboard with the requisite forms, the keys.

“We love it here,” said the woman frankly. She wiped her hands off on her skirt. “We’d like to move in right away.”

I walked toward them. That tattoo on her forehead was like a third eye. It looked like a diamond on its side with a star inside of it. I stared at it for a second too long. Then her boyfriend chimed in.

“Are you the manager?” he asked, thumbing his nose nervously.

“I’m the manager’s girlfriend. But don’t you want to see the place first?” I jangled the keys for them.

“We already know,” the woman said, shaking her head. She moved gently, like dancing to soft music. She seemed sweet, but she talked mechanically, as though reading off cue cards. She stared resolutely at the stucco wall above my head. “We don’t need to see it. We’ll take it. Just show us where to sign.” She smiled broadly, revealing the worst set of teeth I’d ever seen. They were sparse and yellow and black and jagged.

“These are the forms to fill out,” I said, extending the clipboard toward her. The man continued to eat the chips and walked to the edge of the pool, stared up at the sky.

“What’s with the birds?” he asked.

“They’re Egyptian crows,” I told him. “But I’m going to shoot them all.”

I figured they were weirdos and nothing I said to them mattered. From the way the man nodded and dove his squirrel-like hand back into the bag of potato chips, it seemed I was right.

“Now listen,” said the woman, squatting down with the clipboard on her knees, breathing heavily. “We’re selling our estate up north and we want to pay for a year’s rent in advance. That’s how serious we are about renting this apartment.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell the owners.” She stood and showed me the form. Her name was Moon Kowalski. “I’ll let you know,” I said.

The man wiped his palms off on his shorts. “Hey, thanks a lot,” he said earnestly. He shook my hand. The woman swayed from side to side and rubbed her third eye. When I got back to the apartment, there was a message from my boyfriend’s agent saying he’d gotten a callback. I went back to bed.

? ? ?

“I got you some ammo,” said my boyfriend. He put the box right in front of my face on the pillow. “So you can shoot the birds.” He seemed to have turned a corner. He seemed in high spirits.

“Call your agent,” I told him. Then I turned my head. I could not stand to see him roar and pump his fist and dance excitedly, thrusting his crotch in celebration.

“I knew it, babe!” he cried. He pounced on me in the bed, flipped me faceup, and kissed me. His mouth had a strange taste, like bitter chemicals. I let him peel my shirt up to my throat, twist the fabric until he could use it like a rope to pull me up toward him. He unzipped his shorts. I looked up at his face just to see how ugly it was and opened my mouth. It’s true I relished him in certain ways. When he was done, he kissed my forehead and knelt by the bedside table, index finger on his crystal skull, and prayed.

I picked up the box of slugs. I’d never fired a gun before. There were instructions on how to load and fire the shotgun in the box it came in, with diagrams of how to hold the butt against your shoulder, little birds floating in the air. I listened to my boyfriend on the phone with his agent.

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Thank you very much,” he was saying. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

I really hated him. A crow came and sat on the sill of the window. It seemed to roll its eyes.

? ? ?

There were people I could have called, of course. It wasn’t like I was in prison. I could have walked to the park or the coffee shop or gone to the movies or church. I could have gone to get a cheap massage or my fortune told. But I didn’t feel like calling anyone or leaving the apartment complex. So I sat and watched my boyfriend clip his toenails. He had small, nubby feet. He collected the clippings in a pile by dragging his pinky finger neurotically across the floor. It pained me to see him so pleased with himself. “Hey, babe,” he said. “What do you say we go up on the roof, try the gun out?” I didn’t want to go up there. I knew it would make him happy.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I think I have a fever.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “You sick?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m sick. I feel terrible.”

He got up and ran to the kitchen, came back chugging from a carton of orange juice. “I can’t get sick now,” he said. “You know this commercial is gonna be huge. After this, I’ll be famous. You want to hear my lines?”

“My head hurts too much,” I said. “Is that your new hairstyle?” He was always putting gel in his hair and he was always squinting, pursing his lips. “Is that gel?”

“No,” he said, lying. “My hair’s just like this.” He went to the mirror, sucked in his cheeks, pushed his hair around, flexed his pectorals. “This time when I go in,” he said, “I’m gonna be sort of James Dean, like I just don’t give a shit, but sad, you know?” I couldn’t stand it. I turned and faced the wall. Out the window the palms hovered and shimmied and cowered in the breeze. I didn’t want him to be happy. I closed my eyes and prayed for a disaster, a huge earthquake or a drive-by shooting or a heart attack. I picked up the crystal skull. It was greasy and light, so light I thought it might be made of plastic.