The Gray House

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.

Its handle is not much thinner than he is. I look at him laboring, then at the Logs, who quickly assume a busy look, then at the condom floating by. Someone added more water, even though I told them two buckets is the limit, otherwise it would trickle down to the first. It would be one thing if they dried it out quickly, but they just slosh the water from one wall to the other.

Also someone gnawed on the aloe plant again. A minuscule nub is all that’s left. I take the pot and look at it, and immediately Hybrid starts cleaning his nails, whistling tunelessly. It’s not often you meet a person who can gobble absolutely anything, and only get healthier for it. Hybrid is one. I have this suspicion that he even takes an occasional bite out of us when we’re asleep. Carefully, so that we won’t notice. The disappearing stocks of toothpaste are definitely him. There aren’t any others who’d eat it.

I make it look like I am preparing to toss the pot at him. He shrinks and screeches.

Microbe and Monkey whine, “But Red, but Red! We’re cleaning!”

So sincerely that one might even believe it’s actually the case. Unless the one is me.

“Right,” I say. “Carry on.”

And go out to grab some fresh air, a quick smoke, and something to eat. Maybe also have a rest somewhere. I know I shouldn’t. Even before the door closes behind me they’re going to drop everything and dash to the bathroom to check on their priceless bag, if it’s still holding together.

Four homeless Ratlings sitting right outside. Poor orphans on a winter night.

“When is it going to be over?”

“Can we go back now?”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Patience, Red. Patience,” I say under my breath, but loud enough.

That should shut them up for a while. I take advantage of the pause in the action and leg it to the Coffeepot. No guarantees, though. If they have a mind to they can barge in there too. Good thing I’m not their father, or I’d have throttled the whole gang long ago. Nothing but whining and zits. Enough to drive anyone nuts.

It’s girls’ night in the Coffeepot. Six walkers, crowding the counter, deep in conversation. Three of the maidens are fresh off the cleaning shift. Still bearing the traces of honest working sweat. Judging by the hushed exclamations, the subject is serious business. The shorts-clad bottoms sway like the tails on fretful cats. Apart from them it’s a thin crowd. Corpse with his book and Sleepy dozing in his wheelchair.

“Over here!” Corpse screams. “Move your flippers! I’m holding a place for you.”

Places are abundant, so his screaming is more in the nature of a habit. I go over and sit down, and all the girlies immediately turn around and stop talking. I don’t like the glint in their eyes. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for my arrival.

Corpse turns his head from side to side, trying to figure out what the deal is. There’s a chilly pause, and then the gunshot of a glass slammed against the counter.

“So that’s it,” Gaby says loudly. “I’m now damaged forever. Because of that lowlife.”

I was planning to go get a drink, but their stares make me reconsider. There’s a real danger of choking on the first sip.

“What’s wrong?” I say, because it’s somehow clear that the lowlife is in fact me.

“And he’s the one asking,” the supporting cast drones helpfully as Long drops down from her stool and hobbles in my direction, miraculously not toppling off her heels.

“You bastard,” she spits through the strata of lipstick. “I’m pregnant, that’s what!”

Three-ring circus, that’s what it is. Even Sleepy wakes up. And I’ve got enough of empty hysterics without cause back in the Rat-hole.

“All right, I get it. What’s that to do with me?”

“With you?” Gaby repeats sharply. “You maybe mean it wasn’t you and your damn Rats that’s done it?”

“That’s enough. Get lost,” I say, at the same time realizing that it should be me getting lost, and fast. So I start getting up. It’s either that, or fighting with her.

“Oh, nooo! You’re not getting off that easy!” Gaby screams, jumps closer, and slaps me one across the face.

Heavy as hell, my head almost flies off. I just manage to grab the camouflage glasses. The girls at the counter cheer. I return the smack an instant before it dawns on me that it’s that very reaction she wanted.

Gaby throws her head back and squeals, more gratingly than an electric drill biting into a cement wall. The maidens pick up the infernal squealing and unstick themselves from the counter, one after the other, falling off like overripe toadstools. Except the toadstools wouldn’t then turn on me.

I jump up and shield myself with the table. A couple of pointy heels crash into it. The girls, huffing and puffing excitedly, try to conquer the obstacle, constantly getting in each other’s way.

Sleepy, in the background, quickly steers toward the exit, trying his best to appear invisible. Tongue hanging out from the effort. Echidna climbs up on the table. The rest are pulling her down. And all of this is accompanied by the unceasing squeal bordering on ultrasound. Crazy. Enough to make me feel like an honest-to-goodness rat. One that’s about to have its spine crushed by the sharp heels. And then smeared across the floor. Why? No reason. And the worst part is that before it ends, it’s going to hurt. A lot.

The table slams into my stomach and drives me backward in the direction of the wall. I’m boxed into the corner. By pushing my back against the wall I manage to stop the advance, but at the same moment my hair is grabbed so viciously that it has a hard time staying attached. Now it’s my turn to squeal.

“Are you mental?”

That was Corpse. What an inopportune moment to be joining the discussion. I’m shielded by the table, and he’s not. He’s immediately shown the error of his ways. I save my scalp at the expense of a handful of hair, while Corpse ineffectually fights back against the kicking feet and the piercing talons until he ends up on the floor.

I jump out of my pen and run to him. In any other circumstances I wouldn’t have, because Corpse is not someone who requires outside assistance. His other nick is Scorpio, as his see-through complexion is matched by his overall fuzzy harmlessness, but I’m not sure about anything anymore. And it appears that the girls will more likely kill him than not. There’s already a sizable crowd in the Coffeepot, and someone gets to them before me. Which is good, because Echidna sinking her nails into my face hampers my progress.

After that it’s no longer clear who’s slugging who and for what. A writhing knot of bodies, wheelchairs and tables being overturned, the squeals climbing higher yet, and at the most dramatic moment, Sheriff and Black Ralph come bursting in.

That is to be expected. What’s unexpected is that their arrival fails to stop the melee. Probably because the maidens don’t give a hoot, to put it mildly, about our counselors. They are afraid somewhat of their own hags, but they’ve learned that our geezers, one, never would lay a finger on them and, two, have no way of raising a stink later. So the ballet exercises continue. Not for too long, though, because the girl-tamers are not far behind.

I haven’t been taking an active part in the proceedings for a couple of minutes now. I’m busy sitting under the counter trying to ascertain the source of that unpleasant crunching sound I heard when someone stomped on my hand. Also of the ringing in my ears and the double vision.

“Hey, Red. You all right?”

I’m being jostled gently. It’s Ginger. I look at her until the two very pink faces float closer and combine into one, and then tell her that yes, I am all right, but not really.

The Coffeepot is strewn with bodies and debris. The bodies seem to be alive, or at least stirring, and the world around me is unusually bright and pretty. Takes me some time to figure out that it’s because I’m not looking at it through green lenses. It’s useless to even think about finding them now.

Microbe whines pitifully in the middle of the room, clutching his jaw. Horse is attempting to get him to stand up. He succeeds after two more tries, and the two black-jacketed figures lead out the third ceremoniously. The brotherhood of Logs. Such a moving spectacle.

“They are all bastards! Animals!”

Reptile Godmother is wheeling out the chair with Bedouinne, who is drowning in tears and tightly clutching something flail-like in her puny hands. Where does Bedouinne figure in this at all, I wonder. What could possibly be her problem?

“What happened?” Ginger persists. “Are you going to tell me or what?”

“I wish someone would tell me. If such a sage could be found, I’d personally present him with my favorite table fan.”

I get up, checking my brace for cracks with the hand that’s still functional. But it’s not there. At all. I only now remember that I stopped wearing it two weeks ago. Which means that all this time I was hopping around with my spine left completely unprotected. The thought makes me deeply sick.

“Hey, you!” Ginger says, alarmed. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

“No. It’s just my heart sinking. Visibly.”

Tabaqui the Jackal is busy arranging the variegated hair samples around himself, like a wizened old shaman who’s just received a fresh consignment of scalps. Humming softly. Spooky stuff.

My hand is swollen and hurts like nobody’s business. I try to wiggle the fingers and immediately regret it. Also, someone was sick at some point in all that ruckus. On me, it seems.

“Come on. I’ll help you wash up.”

Ginger takes me by the clean sleeve and makes for the door.

We negotiate the piles of overturned tables and chairs, sprinkled with the shards of the broken lampshades. Noble, sitting on the bar, nods at me sullenly. The whole gang’s here. And they’re not green! That freaks me out, it really does.

In the shower stall (I seem to have acquired a strong aversion to them lately) I try to explain to Ginger what has transpired. Not having much success, because I actually have no idea. She lathers my hair as she listens, so I can see neither her nor her reaction to my ramblings.

“You think Gaby made it up about being pregnant?” she says.

“How would I know? If pregnant girls behave like brainless berserkers, I guess she didn’t.”

The blackberries of her eyes seem to be tearing up, because I look at them through the curtain of water.

“What about the others?”

“They jumped right in. Like it was the plan all along.”

She shoves my shirt into the stream, and the razor case falls down on the tiles. Ginger picks it up and looks at it intently.

“Tell me. If it were guys going at you, would you have taken this out?”

“I guess. I’m not sure. I always carry it around, and then always forget to get it out in a tight spot. Corpse, now he doesn’t need to even think about it. The razor finds its way into his hand by itself. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Why didn’t you use it? Either of you?”

I push the hair away from my eyes so that I can see her when she says that.

“You mean to scare them? I don’t think it would’ve worked.”

Somewhere outside, Sheriff howls for all the “clowns” to present themselves for Sepulchral ministrations.

Ginger rinses off my shirt under the shower. Her own is almost as wet. Shorts too.

“You have to understand. They could have killed you. Easily.” Having said that, she looks me straight in the eye for the first time. “It wasn’t mercy that made them stop when they did.”

“Oh, I got that. I just don’t understand why.”

“Yeah, you don’t.”

I continue to hold up the damaged hand, away from the walls and from my body. Because of the constant worry that I might bump it against something, it’s hard for me to concentrate on the conversation. That, and Sheriff banging on the stall doors.

Ginger is right, but not entirely. I did understand something back there in the Coffeepot, except I can’t quite pin it down. That happens a lot. The knowledge sits inside you somewhere, and you don’t notice it until something shakes you up, and then you understand it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for. But you still won’t know why that is.

This annoying thought keeps chasing itself around my head, that if not for me there might never have been this new Law. Even though it doesn’t much matter now.

The door slides to the side, admitting Viking’s head.

“Everyone went to the Sepulcher,” he reports, then cracks a dirty smirk. “I’m not interrupting anything?”

Ginger decides to walk me over. It’s peace and quiet in the hallway. We stumble on, leaving puddles in our wake. Big ones and small ones. Ginger wrung out my shirt before slapping it on me, but the hem is raining water again, both pant legs are streaming, and my sneakers squelch lustily. This is the first time I’ve looked like that in the full light of day. A regular water sprite. Ginger isn’t much better.

“What do you think is going on right now in the Sepulcher?” I say, imagining our triumphal entrance.

“If you think I’m going in there, forget it.”

I’m grabbed and squeezed at the edges to wring off some more water.

“I hate public displays of all kinds,” Ginger says, getting up from her knees.

“Then you should’ve changed my clothes. And if you’re really serious about this, how can you live alongside Jackal? Did you see his ripped-out-hair collection? Now don’t tell me it’s not him you’re living with. He is there wherever any of them is.”

No answer. She doesn’t like talking about the Fourth with me. I don’t know why. She just doesn’t.

My purple shirt not only drips, but also stains. I am covered in spots the color of dawn. Or of baboon’s butt. I’ve never had problems with associative thinking, so looking at them I picture myself bleeding out, and then Solomon. These images always go together.

Solomon, my very own illicit basement-dwelling Rat. The pudgy wobbling cheeks, the haunted look, and his damn asthma. One and a half candles until the day after tomorrow, a flashlight, and a stack of newspapers. Good thing I hauled some grub down to him last night. He’s probably OK for today. I am not going to the basement with my hand in this condition, no way. And don’t tell me about rats and their behavior. I used to keep a real rat. Not one of those white ones, no, I mean a genuine authentic gray. You can go to sleep with it. Just feed it out of your hand, that’s all. No tricks. But a human—that’s entirely different. Feed him or not, but never come close, especially when not healthy.

What was I thinking when I agreed to that? Is it that I’m compassionate, or simply stupid? It’s a great feeling when your worst enemy is dependent upon you for absolutely everything. When he lives the life of a lowly rodent, never seeing the light of day. There’s the answer, I guess. I’m enjoying it.

“Why the long face?” Ginger says. “You were looking much happier just now.”

“Thinking about my moral fiber.”

She nods. Not a single word to make me feel better. Is it because she agrees that there’s a reason for the face elongating? I guess. I should keep quiet, because whatever else, she’s going to give it to me straight if I ask. “Having your respect is all that matters.” I’m never telling her that. You just don’t say things like that out loud. Even to someone who’s a dozen times closer to you than a sister. I’m talking to her too much as it is. She knows everything about me, and I know almost nothing about her. Because she never discusses her business with anyone. Ever since the time that she was teaching me not to whine when it hurt. She is the older half of our tandem, and the older sisters do, of course, wipe the noses of the younger brothers, but when it’s time to cry on someone’s shoulder they run to others. It rankles immensely, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. She looked after me, so I am forever a baby to her, only grown up a little. The month in my favor that separates our birthdays is a silly joke of the calendar. Tyranny, if you think about it. I will probably never know if she cries on Noble’s shoulder or not. I’d like her to have a shoulder like that, for crying, and I’d like to know that Noble is not just another infant for her to care about, but whatever’s going on between them is none of my concern. Or I might start stomping my little feet in a jealous pique, pawing at her shorts, whining. Or whatever she imagines me doing. Heaven forbid I’d find out what that is.

“I’m off. Don’t sit in the Sepulcher chairs unless you want your backside kicked by the Spiders.”

She turns around and leaves. Wet like a squirrel out of water.

I shout after her, “Yes, chief!”

And rush in the Sepulchral door.

Spiders detest Rats, especially when the latter are wet and numerous. Which is why we get treated out of turn, and expeditiously.

Sheriff stomps and swears, “He golden teeth aflame.” I leave with my hand in a cast and a handful of pills in my pocket. I can feel them doing me good already, even before I’ve taken any. I’m the only such freak in the whole House, getting a cheerful boost out of the Sepulcher. Yes, I know I’m perverted, but what can I do? Not that I want to. My life, almost all of it, has been spent inside it. I sometimes even feel like I was born there. So all that high-minded stuff about blessed home and hearth—for me it’s always been more about the Sepulcher, not the House itself. I don’t exactly make it a point to come here often, but when it happens, it happens. I also heal quickly, so I have no fear of this place, unlike some who go to pieces every time they’re anywhere near it. It probably should have been the other way around, because there isn’t anyone who’s been split open and stitched back up more times than me, but human nature is a strange beast and logic doesn’t figure into it.

I’m not sure who’s staying for observations from the other packs, but we lose only Hybrid. Corpse and I are the first out the door. Must be our fame, that of the cheerful undead who are ready to party even in their graves, preceding us. Being an exceptional individual has its privileges.

We take a detour into the common crapper and compare the loot. His haul of pills is almost as big as mine. It’s not every day you get this many, even after a major surgery.

“Cheer up, man,” I tell him. “There’s an entire fortune here, if you spend it wisely.”

“But I’ve got nothing that hurts,” he says. “Strange, huh?”

I’m full of envy. Because I do have things that hurt, and how. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold out.

“I’m surprised you haven’t stolen more,” Corpse says. “Oh, right, the hand.”

I don’t answer, because I’ve just noticed something really troubling. It’s lying in wait under one of the sinks. The Phoenix plastic bag. Sneaked behind the pipe and probably imagines itself well hidden. As if that acid-blue color could ever blend into the background. Those ghastly wadded bags hunt me constantly and everywhere. There is no more disgusting sound than the rustling of a bag that’s creeping after you. Supposedly it’s the wind pushing them. Yeah, right. Wind has nothing to do with it. I mean, if there is wind they behave even more brazenly, but they can ambush you even when it’s totally still. Ever since that time when a particularly dusty and sticky member of the species attacked me from above, parachuting onto my face and clinging to it in the manner of a carnival mask, I’ve been very touchy on the subject.

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.