The Gray House

Their favorite gathering spot is under the porch. That’s where they usually chase each other around like tumbleweeds, crackling merrily, and that’s where they prepare the ambushes, because the last thing a person coming out on the porch expects is a bag flying out from behind the banisters, ready to latch on to any exposed body part. They don’t quit, even when swatted down. The only sure way of fighting them is to nail them to the ground with a stone, no easy task since they’re very quick to flee and repulsive to the touch.

And the white-and-blue Phoenixes that have taken over the House and its environs, because that chain is the principal source of toothpaste, creams, deodorant, and shit like that, are the most insidious. I recognize them by their rustle. It’s somehow louder than any other kind. And that’s why, upon noticing one of them hiding under the sink, I stop listening to Corpse’s mutterings and prepare for battle.

“Damn,” Corpse says, apparently tracing my gaze. “Enemy at the gate?”

I nod silently. The bag chooses this very moment to attempt a furtive feint, but freezes when it realizes it overestimated its chances. Corpse and I shrink back.

“Wait here,” Corpse whispers, reaching for the mop by the door. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

Hunched, on his tiptoes, he hobbles toward the sink.

The bag stays put. Corpse sneaks at it like a warrior with a lance, he sneaks, sneaks some more, then lurches forward and pins the bag to the floor with the mop. It emits a desperate crunching crackle.

I turn away.

“Done,” Corpse says, raising the mop with the speared Phoenix. “It’s finished!”

We put it to the torch, dump the ashes in the toilet, and flush thrice. Time for the victory smoke.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m forever in your debt.”

“Don’t mention it,” Corpse says, waving away my gratitude. “I hate them too. Especially the ones that go flying at night.”

He French-kisses the cigarette and slides down the wall, turning greener and greener. No, it’s not the glasses, since I don’t have them on. It’s just that Corpse has this delicate tint to his skin, and every little thing changes it for the worse. Smoking, for one. They told him long ago that his first drag was going to be his last. So every day he keeps experimenting, getting more and more pissed at those liars.

But we have a deal, me and him. On the day that I appear to him in his dreams, he quits smoking. Except when that happens it would most likely be too late, so it’s just empty words to calm my nerves. You see, I have a peculiar habit of visiting the soon-to-be-dead in their sleep. I seem to come to them and not really do anything except sit silently on the edge of the bed. And soon after that, they die. I don’t really like talking about it, to save myself from the assorted crazies. It took a real effort to get rid of my old nick. I console myself by thinking that as nasty habits go, this one isn’t the worst I know.

“Where you heading?” Corpse says drowsily.

“Vulture’s place. Going to wheedle something green off him. For Hybrid. So he can eat it in peace. You’re supposed to bring gifts when visiting the afflicted.”

“Oh,” Corpse bleats. “Good deeds. Sweet, sweet, sweet. And Spiders are like, ‘Of course, babe, eat all you want, you need the vitamins.’ Perfect!”

He shakes his blue dreadlocks, quaking with laughter. I bet he’s going to fall asleep right there on the tiles as soon as I’m gone. It’s bad for him too, so he never misses an opportunity.

So I go out into the world, carrying the cast in front of me like a tray of my own bones. A handsome specimen of a man, getting handsomer by the day. The zit on my right cheek will have to be scratched by the left hand for a while. The drying soles of the sneakers have developed these unpleasant ridges, biting into my feet.

On my way I take a peek in the Den. And regret it. I completely forgot about the cleanup, and here it is, or rather its aftermath. The entire floor is covered in slimy gunk, and the trash piles are still where they’ve always been, except now they’re damp right through and even more revolting. The crate-table is in the middle, upside down, stuck to the above-mentioned unmentionables, and the prevailing scent is that of puke, even though the bulk of the puking has been performed elsewhere.

No Rats in sight except for Whitebelly, rubbing a sponge over a spot the size of a football. He’s almost all the way through to the floorboards.

“Good boy,” I say to him, by way of encouraging his diligence, but immediately realize that he’s got earphones on, so he can’t hear a damn thing.

What was the idea with that cleanup anyway? They’re nothing but trouble, that at least is obvious.

RALPH