Note Talking

Last night I told her I had a dream where we had sex, and she laughed and asked me how it was, but I couldn’t remember so I said her orgasm was somewhere between “almost” and “uneventful.”

She laughed again.

Today, there’s a bright green note from her stuck to my TV. The front of the note says: I want you to live with me and waste the weekends while we lay around in bed, I want to hate you and hug you, I want you to play with my hair, I want to suck ass at video games (yes, Mario Kart) and throw tantrums,

I skim the back, but she’s got me awfully confused by the front. About a month ago we played Mario Kart for the first time. She sat cross-legged and red-faced, still on her first lap, while I marched around the room yelling, “These hands! Like King mother fuckin’ Midas, ‘cept everything I touch turns to fantastic.” She pitched her controller across the room, called me a closet case, and left.

I’ve got a bigger problem right now: a garbage bag outside my door. I can’t have this mess sitting here. I kick the bag with my foot and hear a familiar melody of thin plastic, glass, and tin crashing against one another.

There’s a paper towel on the bag that says: Check the rules, we are not your servants!!!

Usually, the recycling goes down a chute, but I guess that’s not good enough for the help anymore.

My neighbor, a little man, pokes his head out of his place.

“Hey there,” I say, “what’s the deal with this bag?” I’ve startled him, and he makes a half-motion to duck his head back inside. Realizing he’s caught, he stays and humors me.

“Oh, hi there, uh,” he can’t remember my name. He’s been my neighbor for two years, and he can’t remember my name.

“Mason.”

“Mase!”

“Mason.” No nicknames. We’ve been through this, “Look, about this trash bag, has there been a change in the recycling rules?”

“Huh, well, I don’t really know anything about that so,” he opens the stairwell door and starts walking down the stairs.

“So, what, no suggestions? Something? Anything?” He doesn’t answer.

The apartment across from the stairwell has a pair of notes stuck to the door. The first in red pen on white paper: Dear Rachael, Your magic orgasms saved our lives. Love, Brad

The second in black marker, ink aroma still fresh, on a torn piece of paper bag: WHORE

Someone’s door is no place to air your grievances. That’s low. I open the stairwell door and start walking downstairs. Rummaging through my wallet produces the manager’s contact information: Sahba Cadola, on-site manager, apartment 101.

Her note catches my eye, so I unfold it and read the back, carefully this time: I want to make you read good books (Dave Eggers) and watch good movies (Heathers), I want to study with you because I think you could make me less of a procrastinator again, I want you to edit all of my shitty papers, and yes, asshole, I know this sentence is 100 words.

“I want to make you read good books.” Christ. Just because I’ve got Charles Barkley on my bookcase doesn’t mean I’m some uncultured slob. Besides, this Eggers guy doesn’t negate the fact that this girl calls me, “pussy” like a second name.

Moved to top floor 30 use other door is stuck to the door of 101. Phenomenal, all the way upstairs. I’m getting sick of being jerked around and assaulted by all these notes. Apartment 106 has note written in blue pen on expensive-looking stationary: Brad, Don’t give yourself so much credit. Thank Zach. Thoughtfully, Rachael

Apartment 301, the supposed new home of the manager, has, of course, a note of its own: Use other door

I hear people talking, so I knock, and a deep voice, probably this Sahba guy, says, “Use other door. Check the signs, idiot.”

“Yeah, your signs blow, buddy. Does Mister Cadola live on this floor? I mean, I know the sign on 101 said he moved up here, but, uh, I’ve got this garbage bag outside my door, apartment 211, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

“He’s here, but he ain’t your momma.” A high voice this time.

“I’m not asking for a damn sack lunch! I’m asking for Sahba to do his job and take out the trash.”

“Come on in, dude, I got a sack lunch for you.” The high voice again. Everyone laughs.

The deep voice says he’ll handle this. The door bursts open, “If you’ve got garbage outside your place, take it outside, and throw it away! Jesus Christ, kid.” The door slams in my face.

He makes it sound so simple, and it is, but this note stuff has got me all flustered and I wish people would say what they mean instead of being all mysterious, and why can’t anyone in this goddamn building just sit down and talk stuff out because there’s no reason for anybody to be flaunting their stupid relationship problems out in the open, and maybe this is a case of a skirt not having enough good goddamned sense by trying to ruin our perfectly functional gunfight with a load of peace and goodwill, and there’s another God damn note.

Darren is outside, smoking, wearing a Canadian Tuxedo which is no surprise because I’ve never seen him in anything different. If not for the denim, I could take him seriously and maybe consider him a friend, “Hey there, you old sandbagger.”

“‘sup.”

I lift the garbage bag, “Saving the world, check this out.”

He takes my note, “From the five and a half feet of argyle I been seein’ around?”

“Yeah, I never thought she had this in her.”

“Uh huh,” he nods his head a couple times, “this’s pretty heavy stuff, brutha. You got yourself a damn lady here. Congrats.”

“Hey, hey, this is no reason to crown her Mrs. Mason Demarco.”

Darren snuffs out his cigarette, “Dang, man, we goin’ do this?” He breathes in deep like he’s going to do some heavy lifting, “Hell, this girl, she’s a good steak. Like Kobe, maybe better, and you’re using a busted ass knife to cut her. All tearin’ the holy hell outta it, gettin’ the juice all over the fancy white table cloth. Head of the table gettin’ visions of your place with baby-safe wall sockets. You sittin’ there, sweatin’ and chucklin’ sayin’, ‘Wow, what are they makin’ Kobe out of these days, am I right?’ Everyone else all laughin’ politely but secretly ashamed.”

He trails off, and I guess he’s done because he’s staring at the concrete nodding his head, “Are we talking about the same skirt?”

“For real.” Darren nods a few more times and hands the note back to me.

“Uh huh. See, I’m thinking joke. I mean, did you see those other notes? This is a joke, like parody or satire or something, you know? I mean, look at this,” I hand him the note from the third floor; torn paper bag, black marker, still fresh: Zach, Get your junk looked at. All the best, Brad, “who acts like this? Jesus, this has to be a joke.” Darren keeps nodding. A light turns on in my apartment. I get an idea, “Hey, I gotta bail, man. Good talk.”

Darren rolls a new cigarette and shakes his head.

She’s in my kitchen, boiling water. I start our routine, “How the hell did you get in?”

“Macy, you can’t hide anything from me for shit,” she slides me my lockout key.

“Don’t call me Macy.”

“When you stop being such a pussy, I’ll stop calling you Macy, Macy.”

“Always a lady.”

“What’sa matter? Did I hurt him’s feelings?” She reaches up and rubs my shaven head. “It’s good to see you.”

She’s breaking from our script with the “good to see you” line, but I stay in character, “Shut your hole, what do we have here?” She’s been to the grocery store instead of the liquor store.

“I’m making dinner.” The water hits a rolling boil, “Did you get that, uh, thing I wrote?”

I hand her a note. Black ballpoint pen on the apartment building’s stationary: S, Though we can probably both do better, you’ll always be the love of my life. M

“Yeah?” She’s beaming, thinking she’s got me, and I feel good, damn good, about this.

“No, I was worried there, darling! I started to think you went all fag on me. Did you see those notes, too? Jesus Christ, what a goddamn mess.” I pull her note out of my wallet and hold it over her head, “You know, I don’t keep you around because you’re quick, but, damn, this is fridge worthy.”

While I stick her note the refrigerator, she’s selling this joke like a gunshot. Water spills out of the pot.

She says she’s sorry.

“For what, did you fuck up dinner?” Darren is still outside, smoking and nodding his head, “I think that mother fucker called me slow.”

“I said I’m sorry,” head down, she turns down the stove and starts cutting cucumbers.

“It’s not your fault, dude. Darren thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room because he uses the most words.”

Her cutting keeps getting louder.