“There’s a vast difference between playing classical music at a reasonable volume and…”
“It was too fuckin’ loud.”
Frank tightened his lips into that stern expression of disapproval that was becoming all too familiar to Vicky.
“There’s a difference between me playing my stereo at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning and you cranking your volume to max on a Sunday night at eleven p.m.”
“Listen pal, not everyone works nine to five around here. Friday night is my busiest night. I’m bustin’ my hump for nearly twelve hours. Last call ain’t ‘til two a.m. By the time I finish cleaning up and closing up it’s after three. All weekend’s like that. I don’t get a break ‘til Sunday night. That’s how I unwind,” Vicky said raising her bottle of beer and gesturing back to the living room where the stereo was still blaring.
“It’s inconsiderate as hell. But shall we discuss some of the other noises coming out of your apartment–noises that have also awakened me in the middle of the night?”
“Fuck you!”
“In your dreams.”
The door across the hall opened and Tim stuck his head out. He was bare-chested and bare-foot, clad only in a grey pair of sweat pants. “Keep it down, guys!”
Sally opened her door and strolled sleepily down the hall in her floral robe. “What’s going on?”
Vicky realized she was outnumbered, so before anyone had a chance to answer, she slammed the door and bolted it. Frank’s little pin prick was poking at her flesh again, irritating her, making her feel bad for no reason with his haughty hoity-toity attitude. She would have turned her stereo down if he had just asked nicely, but someone like Frank just couldn’t do that. He had to use this little infraction as an opportunity to remind her of her ignorance and inferiority. All the people who ever thought they were better than Vicky came back to haunt her in the form of Frank.
That demon anger burned inside the pit of Vicky’s stomach, causing her to clench her fists and grit her teeth. She thought about turning the volume on her stereo up louder, but then that might be pushing it too far, even for Vicky. She thought about acquiescing just to get Frank off her back, but then he’d win. She left the volume dial alone, leaving it at the same level. This would show Frank that she wasn’t about to budge. She plopped in her rocker and began to feel very pleased with herself, when suddenly she heard vibrations come from the ceiling above her. Her initial thought was that it was an earthquake. She reached over to the volume dial and turned it down to get a better listen. It was Frank’s classical music–some loud and fiery piece penetrating the floor boards and barging through her walls in a most unwelcome manner. The tune was familiar and Vicky thought maybe she recognized it from a salad dressing commercial. Then she heard more pounding coming from upstairs and an angry female voice which she thought she recognized as belonging to Allison. Soon Frank’s stereo was silent. Vicky turned her stereo off too, partly because she wanted to hear Frank and Allison’s conversation, and partly because she didn’t want to make Allison mad. Allison was the only person she had any regard for in this God forsaken Camelot. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, just their voices bantering back and forth–first Allison’s then Frank’s. They both sounded angry. The conversation ended with the slamming of doors.
The next day Louise the landlady paid a visit to Vicky. Louise was a middle aged woman with a round friendly little face, and a penchant for pink and polyester. Vicky opened the door on Louise mid-knock. Louise’s fist was raised in knocking position. Vicky observed her large callous knuckles which were the same chapped shade of pink as her slacks. The pant suit which clung to her in a most unflattering way, revealed a bulge of cellulite on either hip.
“Oh, hello,” Louise said. Despite the friendly smile, Vicky knew why she was there. It was all right though. Vicky was not the least little bit intimidated by Louise. She could handle her as long as she didn’t trespass on two particular counts–property damage and rent payment. Those were the two points she emphasized again and again when Vicky moved in.
“Well, hi there neighbor,” Vicky said, pouring on the Kentucky accent. Louise was from Kentucky originally, in fact she and Vicky were from neighboring counties, but Louise had been a Hoosier so long she’d nearly lost her Kentucky twang. Vicky thought if she could remind Louise of something homey and familiar–something from her distant past, then maybe she’d have better luck with her.
“What a pleasant surprise. Come on in and make yourself at home.” Louise stepped across the threshold of Vicky’s place, as Vicky closed the door and motioned toward her couch. “Please excuse the mess,” Vicky said rapidly moving about the living room, grabbing up stacks of junk mail and newspapers off the chairs, sofa, and hope chest. Louise’s eyes scanned quickly over the clutter, moving to the walls and ceiling. She was examining the place for damage, no doubt. “What can I get you, darlin’?” Vicky’s arms were full of paper which she tried to arrange in a neat stack on the kitchen counter top
“Oh, I can’t stay, honey,” she said. The term of endearment was a good indication to Vicky that her that defenses were down. Kentuckians either called you terrible names or sweet names, depending on your present standing.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, this is not an easy matter for me to bring up. Normally, I tell tenants to work out their disagreements themselves. As long as tenants pay their rent on time and keep the place up, it’s none of my business what they do with their time. I don’t enjoy playing referee or babysitter. Y’all are grownups around here.” She said ‘y’all’, Vicky thought. She was reverting back to her Kentucky roots. Her defenses were dropping even more. “It’s only when tenants can’t work out their problems on their own that I intervene. So you understand I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been pressed.” Vicky heard the subtle but distinct way she dragged her vowel sounds out a little more with each spoken word. She was beginning to talk Kentucky. Vicky had her right where she wanted her.
“Yes, I understand,” Vicky said as sincerely as she could. “And I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t know why you’re here. It concerns a little scrap I had with a neighbor upstairs. Right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Louise looked almost embarrassed that she had to mention it. “You gotta keep the volume down on your stereo.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Like I say, I hate bringing it up but...” Vicky heard her dragging out those long “i” sounds and she wanted to smile but didn’t dare. “It’s my job, you understand.”
“Oh, I understand. Ain’t no hard feelings. I was wrong to have my music up so loud. Sometimes I just forget that I’m the only one in this here building who don’t work your typical day shift. Thoughtless of me, ain’t it?”
“To tell you the truth that neighbor of yours who’s doing the most complaining,” Louise said in a hushed tone. “I won’t mention any names but I think we both know who I’m talking about–I’ve received complaints about his music being too loud a time or two. I’ll tell you, those New York City folks really think they’re something. Think they’re better than everyone else. Think they can talk down to you just ‘cause you’re from the Midwest.”
“Or the South,” Vicky added.
“You got that right. What’s he doing here anyway if he thinks we’re all such dang hicks? Why doesn’t he just go back to his precious New York where he belongs?” Vicky was doing a victory cry in her head. She knew she didn’t have to say anything–just listen. Louise disliked the stuck up Prince Charming of Camelot just as much as she did.
“He thinks he’s something, don’t he?” Vicky finally said after she knew it was safe enough to speak her mind “You sure you can’t stay for a short visit?”
“Why no, honey, you’re very kind,” she said looking at her watch. “But…”
“Well, hell’s bells, lady. You gotta eat, don’t you?” It’s just about time for your lunch break, ain’t it?”
“It’s a little early yet.
”
“So take an early lunch. I make one hell of a Kentucky hot brown, course I don’t have all the necessary ingredients right now, but I could fix you up a toasted BLT. I make the best, you know.”
“Well, I suppose I could take an early lunch.”
So Louise took an extended lunch break at Vicky’s. Vicky made them sandwiches, chips, and coke. Louise mentioned that her nerves troubled her and that she suffered from chronic back pain. Vicky convinced her to take a little dash of rum in her coke–“just a dash”. She propped pillows behind her back, insisted she put her feet up, and made a terrible fuss over her. By the time Louise left, Vicky knew all about the trials and tribulations of managing an apartment complex.
Those tenants with bad tempers were especially troublesome, not because of all the mean and evil things they did to others inside their apartments, but because of the inevitable damage to the property. She heard about the windows they’d broken, the full length mirrors on the back of the bedroom doors they’d cracked, and the drywall they’d stuck their fists threw. It seemed Louise didn’t care if murder was committed in her apartments as long as the murderer didn’t get blood on the carpet. Then there were those tenants who didn’t know that body waste and toilet paper (in small quantities) were the only things that belonged getting flushed down a commode. Oh, the plumbing bills she’d been stuck with over the years! Then, of course, there were those tenants with children. It wasn’t that Louise didn’t like children. Why, she had children and grandchildren of her own, but children inevitably meant one thing–property damage. But she didn’t have any control over that. People were going to have children and there wasn’t much she could do about that. But, by God, she could control the little four legged critters with a strict no pet policy. Try though she might to enforce it, there were still those renegades who snuck animals in.
*****
Temperatures dipped into the thirties on that exceptionally cold and frosty morning in late October. Vicky shivered from the unexpected cold as she stepped outside around three a.m. after closing the bar. She stopped to get gas and a pack of cigarettes on her way home. When she got back in her truck and started the engine, she was startled to hear a shrill screeching noise come from the engine. She turned the ignition off, grabbed a flashlight from under her seat, and stepped outside to take a look. Vicky popped the hood and spotted a pair of green glowing eyes staring back at her. The beam from the flashlight revealed a brown, black, and white striped animal curled up between the wires and coils in the engine. Vicky wasn’t exactly sure what it was until it meowed loudly at her, as if scolding her for disturbing it.
“Good Lord in heaven, you poor little thing,” Vicky said reaching into the hood and pulling the small creature out. “I almost killed you.” She felt the cat shake and shiver as she held it against her. She thought of the cat’s fate had she not turned the engine off. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said rocking the cat and rubbing her nose on its soft fur. “Forgive me,” she whispered, but not to the cat this time. She stood there rocking the cat for some time until the emotions subsided.
“You must’ve crawled up there to get warm,” she said holding the cat away from her body and examining it more thoroughly. “Looks like you’re an ol’ tom cat. “ It bore no collar, so she assumed it was a stray. If not it was badly neglected judging from the extreme thinness of the creature. “Poor little thing. Poor little whiskers,” she said lifting the feline up until she was face to face with the small creature and could feel its whiskers tickle her cheek. “I think that’s what I’ll call you–Little Whiskers. Ain’t very original, I know. Guess I ought to try and find out if you belong to someone.”
Vicky took the cat into the convenient mart and asked the man behind the counter if he knew if it belonged to anyone. The man said he’d seen the cat hanging around the place before and was pretty sure it was a stray. That’s all Vicky needed to know. She took Whiskers home with her that night. Vicky wasn’t sure if she’d keep the cat or not. She wasn’t accustomed to thinking or planning too far into the future. She only knew that Whiskers needed a place to stay for the night, but her decision to keep the cat was forever sealed by morning.
Vicky laid towels down in the bathroom and was careful to close the toilet lid so Whiskers couldn’t crawl in. She tried to ignore the constant meowing as she tossed restlessly in bed that night, but she soon found herself in the same state as a nervous mother with a fussy newborn. “Why fight it?” she said to the cat as she wrapped him in a blanket and plopped down in her rocker. She rocked him and sang lullabies to him and soon his anxious meowing became soft purring.
The moonlight shone in her window as she rocked and sang to Whiskers. How Vicky longed for a baby, but she feared that would never be. She believed she had the same curse as her mama. She’d already lost two babies to miscarriage. She felt certain that as the clock ticked closer and closer to her thirtieth birthday that her chances of becoming pregnant were quickly diminishing with each monthly cycle. She had the same heavy periods and gut-wrenching menstrual cramps as her mama. Still, she was never one to give in to sickness. She’d simply pop a couple percodan and wash them down with a shot of whiskey. That was usually enough so she could stand up straight and smile. If she could do that then she could still go about her business.
Vicky thought of her own mama while rocking and singing to Whiskers. Sometimes her mama would sit by her bed at night and sing to her when she was little. Once she told her that it was a miracle that Vicky was born at all–that she was the one and only baby of hers who made it, and that God must’ve had some reason for getting her here safely. But then she slowly began to lose her mom, long before she ever died. As her daddy got drunker and meaner, the roles reversed and Vicky had to become the mother when her mama became too down hearted to do much of anything but lay in bed and watch TV.
The orange-pink glow of sunrise shone through Vicky’s window, pouring its light on her as she lay on the couch with the sleeping feline on her chest, both Vicky and Whiskers sleeping peacefully, breathing in unison. She woke up worrying about the cat, eager to get to the store for food and a litter box, and wondering how she could sneak him in and out of the apartment to take him to the vet for a check-up. She’d grown up with animals all around and waking up with a warm, furry, little creature next to her felt so natural. Now her apartment felt like home.
*****
Once Frank figured out that Louise wasn’t going to do anything about Vicky’s music, a cold war was declared. She’d turn her music up and he’d turn his up even louder until she finally turned hers down. When that didn’t work, he’d wait until she was asleep–and he always seemed to know just when that was–then he’d blast her out with the strange fiery sounds of his classical music. The truth that Vicky wouldn’t admit to anyone, least of all herself, was that sometimes she turned her music down so she could hear his. It was different. It intrigued her. Sometimes when they weren’t in the midst of a music war, she’d hear the sound of a piano or strings playing a woefully romantic melody, floating hypnotically down the stairs and through the hallway until it reached her ears. Sometimes she’d sit out on her patio so she could hear it better.
It was a couple weeks after Vicky adopted Whiskers that Frank showed up on her doorstep again wearing a perfectly starched white Polo shirt, khaki pants, and beat up loafers. His face didn’t match the rest of him. He said nothing but merely stood there with an accusatory look as he wheezed in and out with the labored breathing of a dying man.
“Why if it isn’t Camelot’s own Prince Charming. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Allergies. Pet hair allergies to be exact. That’s what’s wrong with me,” he said coughing out the last few words into a white handkerchief with fancy lettering on it.
“You know, it would be nice if you spoke English for a change, then maybe I could understand what the hell you’re talking about,” Vicky said, knowing perfectly well what he was talking about. She hoped Whiskers wouldn�
��t meow too loudly from inside the bathroom where she made sure he was hidden when she heard Frank knock on her door.
“I do speak English–the King’s English which is why you don’t understand me. But if you want me to speak in your vernacular, I will. You’ve got a fucking cat in here and I’m allergic to it. Is that plain enough for you?”
“Whoa, whoa, back up.”
“What part didn’t you understand?”
“I understood all of it except for one word–sounded like it started with a “V”.
“Vernacular?”
“That’s it. Could you spell that for me,” Vicky said pulling out her small spiral notebook and pen from her jean jacket pocket. H
“Why, may I ask?”
“Because I like to look up new words in the dictionary.”
“Look I didn’t come here to give you a vocabulary lesson, so if you’re trying to get me sidetracked forget it.” He inhaled with a painful sounding wheeze and exhaled with a forceful cough into the fancy white handkerchief.
“So let me get this straight. You think I got a cat just because you got yourself a bad chest cold there.”
“Listen, goddamnit!”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Vicky said emphatically.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from the original Miss Potty Mouth.”
“I never take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve heard you throw around the ‘F’ word and other charming little expletives.”
“Ex-ple-tive. That’s E-X…” Vicky began writing in her notebook.
“I don’t believe this!”
“I don’t understand why the ‘F’ word offends you so. The way I always understood it, it was New York City folks who invented that word. You know, all them pissed off taxi cab drivers hollering out their windows at one another, flipping the bird back and forth.”
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