Monday, March 2, 2009

Write Cleanly

Day opened. Leonard woke up; the sun brightened his room. A square of paper lay on the floor. He imagined that it was a letter from Mrs. Elm: “Dear Leonard, I am glad you studied well enough to get an A. We should talk in the afternoon. Don’t forget. Love, Mrs. Elm.”
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  1. AnonymousMarch 6, 2009 at 3:32 PM

    The light shone through the living room windows, casting white - hot squares of light on the cool floor. The darkly stained oak planks shone as they caught the light. Otherwise the room was unlit, though fully illuminated by the afternoon sun. The air was redolent of the warm lemony smell of polish, the flowery smell of rug shampoo and the sharp ammonia tang of the window cleaner. Bill had just cleaned the windows. He wiped and wiped and wiped them until there were no streaks, no dust; just clear glass to let in the pure light. The sun shone through them as if they were not there. "Transparent" Bill thought, his heart swelling at the idea. A few flecks of dust danced in the sun. That won't due, he thought, but promised himself he would dust again later, after they had settled. He cast a glance around the room. The furniture was clean; the floor, immaculate. The tables had been waxed and the lampshades dusted. The magazines were arranged as to size and placed artfully on the coffee table. "Flawless" Bill said to himself, and his lips parted with a secret smile. Bill loved order; he loved organization. He loved things to be, you know, just so. He loved being perfect; from the sharp crease in his chinos, to the pressed collar on his striped polo. He was cleanly shaven, freshly washed, his hair carefully combed and gelled into place."It is ready," he thought.

    And just in time. The doorbell rang. He raced to open it. There she stood, dressed, as always, in pink Channel. Her hair was pulled back and up, Her makeup freshly applied. Clearly, she had just been to the beauty parlor. Her head was slightly raised. People thought she did this because she was haughty; but Bill knew it was because she wanted people to see her pearls - and her flawless neck. She smiled with that smile Bill knew so well: A small pursing of the lips that seemed to say hello and watch out. But this time Bill was ready. He was really ready. "Mother" he exclaimed, "welcome to my new apartment!" She breezed past him into the living room, the stiletto heels of her pumps clicking on the floor. "Darling, take my wrap and bag please. I can’t stay long; the car is waiting downstairs. You know Carver, if I leave him more than a few minutes he just DRIVES off to some dismal fast food den and the rest of the day I am forced to sit in a car that reeks of greasy chicken." She stopped, and stood, her hands on her hips as she surveyed his living room. It was then he noticed. She had not taken her gloves off. His heart froze. She turned at the waist, casting a glance over her shoulder, her left hand still on her hip, the right, sheathed in an immaculate white glove, stroking the strands of pearls at her neck, the skin smooth and wrinkle-free as freshly pressed linen. "Well, William," she continued. "At least you chose a proper neighborhood in which to live. That LAST rat infested warehouse of an apartment, . . . where was that again?" Bill interjected, "You mean my loft in Tribeca, mother?" "Yes! THAT place, filled with rats the size of small dogs, it has horrible." "Mother, they were small dogs. They were Sergio's chihuahuas." "Oh yes, him." She said, a downward inflection on the word "him" indicating displeasure. "What was he again?" She said, turning back to look at the room as if to indicate she did not expect an honest answer. "He was my roommate, mother," Bill said, his voice rising with fear; not at what she was saying about Sergio; but rather because her gloved right hand was now slowly waiving in the air, illuminated in the shaft of light coming from the window. "Well, I am glad you got rid of HIM before you moved here to the East Side. Now that you are closer to mother you don't need any . . . roommates." A glance, back over the shoulder. A wave of her hand. "Not that you ever did. Your father left you quite well provided for." She waived her hand again. "It certainly paid for all this . . ." She stopped. She stared at her hand, illuminated in the shaft of sunlight. She moved her hand slowly her fingers grasping at the air. Bill could see the dust dancing in the light. "My," she remarked. "William, have you had the windows open?" "No!" he lied. And then it happened. The hand sliced slowly through the sunlight towards the top of the table nearest her, its index finger extended. For Bill it could have been a knife. It hit the tabletop with a soft thud and the slightest squeak as she dragged it across the surface. She lifted the hand to her face, examining the finger. She rubbed it against her thumb. Her mouth pursed. "William! This place is filthy. There is so much dust here I am surprised you can even breathe. Thank GOD I saw my allergist before I came here. Little wonder you live alone now. This place is an environmental disaster!" She raised her gloved hand to her face, as if to shield it from noxious gases. She turned to face Bill. "Really, darling, you are going to HAVE to get your cleaning staff in here before I come - you KNOW how sensitive mother is." She grabbed her bag and wrap and headed towards the door. "I have to leave. I have dinner with Coco and Mimi at six and I don't want to arrive there wheezing and swollen from this den of allergens." She opened the door, turned and stood, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. Her hair, like spun glass, glowed, halo-like. "Do have the place cleaned next time, dear. You took mother's advice about that man and his rats . . . I'll have a list of cleaning services sent over this afternoon." Pause. "At least THEY will be able to clean those filthy windows!" She spun and left, pulling the door shut with a slam.
    Bill stood there in the sudden silence, his heart pounding, his breathing heavy. He felt something move on his cheek. He reached up and touched it. It was wet. He ran to the bathroom and stared at his face. He was crying. And he didn't even know it. He thought of the tear, its salty wetness gathering up all manner of dust and microbes from the air as it coursed down his face. He was filthy.
    He washed his face. He wiped it with bacterial wipes. It was no use the tears kept coming. He had tried. He had really tried. He had gotten rid of the loft. He had gotten rid of Sergio and the dogs. He had done everything she wanted. He always did everything she wanted. He sat down on the toilet seat and held his head in his hands, his palms pressed against his eyes. Suddenly the phone rang. He did not get up to get it. He knew it would be her secretary, phoning over that list of cleaning services. He knew he would call one. They would come, clean the place half as well as he had. They would charge him an exorbitant amount of money, and only then would she return, complimenting herself on helping her hopeless son get his life into order. Bill looked up. The sunlight was now spilling down the hall past the open bathroom door. The dust dancing in the afternoon light now looked to be the size of cornflakes. He stood and headed to the closet for the furniture polish. She was right. She was always right. This place is filthy. But soon it will be clean. He was sure of it.

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