The Gray House

Noble blows his nose loudly into a handkerchief and says, “You need nerves of steel with this crowd.”

He goes back to cuddling the crutch. I look up at the ceiling, at a snaking line of letters barely distinguishable from down here, and think: There we go, the need for expression has driven them to the ceiling, it’s only a matter of time before ceilings start looking like walls with all the writings and drawings, and whoever would want to read them would need a stepladder, so we’re going to have an infestation of stepladders in the House.

I sit in silence and think about all of this.

RED

They throw a bucket of soapy water on the floor. Clanking, splashing, sudsy rivers flowing. Colored green, for me. For everyone else they’re probably gray. Those who didn’t scamper out in time now besiege the windowsills and peer down, terrified.

The second bucket. The rivers receive reinforcement, and there’s a veritable lake on the floor. I wouldn’t want to swim in it. Just the accumulated spit alone would be enough, though it can’t be seen, actually, having merged with the suds. But the cigarette butts and assorted floating half-eaten dreck melts and congeals unpleasantly.

“I wish I had a boat,” Whitebelly squeaks from the windowsill, leaning precariously. “Sail away, sail away! A rowboat!”

Someone pushes him off, and we have one more Ratling-worth of general wetness.

Microbe and Monkey, both sour-faced, push ahead brooms wrapped in rags. Water splatters everywhere. They look at their shiny boots in horror, as if they haven’t been walking over this same crap for the last month, only sans water. The brooms reach the wall and turn the other way. Honestly, it’s all just spreading around the dirt. Not much effect at all. Still, if this isn’t done once a month, I shudder to think what would happen to all of us here.

Gaby, Echidna, and Treponema mill at the doors, pretending like they’re all dressed up to pitch in. Echidna is even clutching a brush, with two painted talons, as if she’s holding a delicate flower arrangement.

I look around the dorm. It’s almost empty, apart from the spectators. Everything that could be hauled out has been. I grab a sleeping bag that’s drifting nearby and drag it to the bathroom. It spews forth torrents of water. The maidens scatter. Figures. This is the communal screwing bag, better not to imagine what’s inside. Personally, I wouldn’t venture to climb in on the pain of death.

I lower the leaky monster in the bathtub, open both taps wide, and pull on the zipper. It’s stuck, naturally. I yank on it harder. Then I leave the bag to bleed out and beat a retreat.

There’s a mini-assembly in the dorm, in the middle of the remains of the lake. They mourn the disappearance of the hallowed bag. “O brethren, where shall we copulate?” The looks directed at me are not exactly friendly.

“You’ve thrown it away! How’s we supposed to do it now?”

Whitebelly rinses his sneakers in the bucket. He couldn’t care less about the bag.

“We’ll take yours, then,” Hybrid says, businesslike. “Yours is even roomier. Because you went and got the old one wet. And it’ll take a while to dry out.”

I demonstrate to him how, where, and under what circumstances he’s going to so much as lay a finger on my sleeping bag.

“I’m gonna cut you,” Hybrid screeches. “Tonight! Cut you up like a sausage! It’s coming, you hear?”

I hear. I hear all kinds of stuff from him. All he ever cuts is furniture. Sometimes the walls. No one has been paying any attention to his screams for ages.

“The room isn’t going to clean itself,” I say.

Hybrid rummages in his pockets, looking miserable. Dropped his razor somewhere, I’ll bet. Again. Always the same story.

Surly Rat-Logs wring out the washing rags. Viking, shirtless, is hard at work on the table, spitting on its surface from time to time in lieu of other cleaning liquids.

I close my eyes and . . .

A vision. This very dorm, except squeaky clean, like on the first day we entered it. Snow-white walls, sparkling windows. No sleeping bags. No Rats. Not even a single Walkman. In short, Sepulcher. The dear old home. Only without Spiders.

I shake myself out of it, grab the nearest mop, and run to the farthest corner. I scrub and scrub until my head spins. A tiny little light spot appears on the floor. That’s all I get for my trouble. And my back is already howling in protest. Got to sit down.

Whitebelly splashes closer, in cutie-baby mode.

“You need help? May I?”

“Sure,” I rasp. “Knock yourself out. I don’t seem to be producing much of an effect.”

“There’s this clean spot over here,” he assures me and grabs the mop.