Gabrielle Taylor's "Cockluck"
February 05, 2002
Judith was out front, idling her enormous green Ford, with Bertram's bicycle wedged mostly in the trunk. "Sit on the dog blanket please." Then she looked at him. "You're not disgusting. You should be covered in beer."
"I should be. I feel disgusting. Usually I bike home because cab drivers want a big tip to let me sit on their dog blankets."
"Was it bad tonight?"
He said it was hard to know what was bad. He said, "I'm tired. I'm lonely. I'm lonely, Judith."
"I've been married five times," Judith said, "and I'm lonely too, Bert. I don't know what to tell you. I don't know anything either."
"I know. Take me home. We can have tea and you can convince me I should do this collection, which I hate doing, because I used your Barbies as POWs that time playing GI Joe retaking the sewer pipe from the Viet Cong."
Bertram lived in a concrete highrise in Vanier that smelled of cockroach powder and rotting varnish. The prostitute population of the building now averaged about fourteen, down from a high of twenty six before the police chased most of the regulars away from downtown over to Somerset Avenue in Chinatown.
The elevator was large enough to hold both of them and the bicycle if he tipped the bicycle up on its back wheel and rolled it straight in. This morning it stopped only two inches below floor level. Bertram pushed in his bike and Judith slithered around him. They went up with a grind and a grisly mechanical choke. When it stopped, the door opened only halfway.
"Hurry!" He shoved Judith out with one hand and then lurched back. The doors clamped shut on his tires. "Hit the button. Hit the button!" He wrestled the bike while Judith slammed the button until it popped off. The doors opened with a torn watermelon sound and Bertram yanked his bike out. He wheeled it down two doors, leaned it against grimy yellow floral wallpaper, and slapped all his pockets for his keys. Shrugging, he tried turning the knob; the door opened and he dragged in his bike.
"Bertram," Judith said, "this place is a..."
"It's cheap, it's convenient, and I have all my stuff where I want it. What kind of tea?"
"Bert, this place really is awful."
He plugged in the kettle, took down two mugs, put a bag of jasmine tea in one, and a bag of chamomile in the other. He put a honeyed teaspoon in each cup.
"It's not so bad," he said, looking out the tiny filthy kitchen window. Cleaning it was useless; car exhaust from the street below permanently grained the glass. The linoleum was curling in the one-man-standing-room-only kitchen. The windows never opened except in the winter, when they'd shrink in their frames and not shut. The hot water tap streamed rusty water at all times. Power randomly failed if he used his computer and his kettle at the same time.
Those were the constant problems. Sometimes chunks of wet plaster would melt into his kitchen cupboards when the upstairs apartment flooded. Sometimes the water leaked down into his closet and he would find his shoes stuck in yellow puddles. Sometimes there were mice when rent-skippers left food behind. The entire place was sprayed for roaches every September.
It had never even occured to him to drink the tap water.
"You must be able to afford something better."
The kettle whistled. He unplugged it, poured water in the mugs, walked into the living room and booted up his Bondi blue iMac.
"I'm not home very much. I just need somewhere to sleep."
"Listen, maybe I can make you a better deal. The house you're going to clear, it's the guest bungalow on the same property as the big house Urq bought me. The main house is empty too though. I have a court date with them next week... Tenants are really getting worse all the time. I should sell all the houses. I haven't even been looking for new people. I just don't need the money that badly. So why don't you take it? Instead of your per diem I'll discount your rent."
"I can't afford that house even then."
"I bet you can."
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe it'll sound better in the morning." He stirred the tea, took out the teabag, handed her the jasmine tea and drank his straight down. He set his email downloading and scanned the subjects as the mail unpacked.
"In the afternoon," she said.
"Right," he said vaguely.
He said, what should I do? She's been dead for three years and I still can't stand to look at anyone else. How can I keep hanging on to this? Why can't I stop?
He didn't say it out loud, and Judith finished her tea.
"How about I come back this afternoon and we go take a look at the place again. It's really a wonderful house."
"Okay. Come at 3. Bring breakfast." He kissed her on the cheek. She rinsed out her mug and, waving, let herself out.
He watched out the window until he saw her drive away. At home I turned over in my bed and tried to shake off his misery. I thought of Fort; I dreamed of Fort, in Casablanca, talking to one of the locals...