My neighbour thinks that basically I’m a good person, easy to get along with, probably affectionate with friends. He has never said as much, and he wouldn’t; that would be ungentlemanly, and Wallace is very well-mannered. But I can see the expectation in his eyes. I know how to read drunks, and he knows that I know. So I'm safe: he'll keep trying to bamboozle me; I'll glide through like a fairy. He'll never know I'm real.
From the very first indication of physical violence between Wallace and his friend, or boyfriend, roommate or protégé, whoever he is (I’ve never seen him), our communications have resembled communications between trusted acquaintances - the constructive, hopeful words that fall between pitched battles, the words spoken by the strong, who, however stressed and strained, know about the promise of serenity, know that they should want it. He knows that I want peace and quiet, and somehow I think that part of him (the part that does understand conflict) wants that for me, too. I suppose he uses our brief conversations to regroup. I use them as a security measure, knowing that a well executed sentence can provide protection in more ways than one.
But we are not friends. We rarely speak, and when we do, we are in the hallway of the apartment building. I am on my way in or out and the noise of my keys has drawn him to his door. Wallace is always impeccably groomed. Elegant silk shirts fall gracefully on his slender frame and his shoes gleam. Even the smoke of his thin cigarettes has a certain dash to it as it spirals off towards the staircase. His appearances are almost always for the purpose of apologizing for the most recent eruption. There’s no rhythm to the schedule. I’m out a lot, and I’m sure I miss some of the sparring, but when at home I’m no longer surprised by the shouts and thuds, the crack of a body slamming against a wall. So yes, I would really like to see this come to an end. But another part of Wallace enjoys the spectacle, of course, not the actual fighting, not even witnessing my discomfort, but his role as the eloquent narrator, as though it’s the best tale he can tell, and it will go on and on. Part of the plot is that he is apparently trying to help this other person. This story line has emerged in the notes he has started slipping under my door.
But we are not friends. We rarely speak, and when we do, we are in the hallway of the apartment building. I am on my way in or out and the noise of my keys has drawn him to his door. Wallace is always impeccably groomed. Elegant silk shirts fall gracefully on his slender frame and his shoes gleam. Even the smoke of his thin cigarettes has a certain dash to it as it spirals off towards the staircase. His appearances are almost always for the purpose of apologizing for the most recent eruption. There’s no rhythm to the schedule. I’m out a lot, and I’m sure I miss some of the sparring, but when at home I’m no longer surprised by the shouts and thuds, the crack of a body slamming against a wall. So yes, I would really like to see this come to an end. But another part of Wallace enjoys the spectacle, of course, not the actual fighting, not even witnessing my discomfort, but his role as the eloquent narrator, as though it’s the best tale he can tell, and it will go on and on. Part of the plot is that he is apparently trying to help this other person. This story line has emerged in the notes he has started slipping under my door.
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