I am on my couch. I realize that I fell asleep there with all of my clothes on and a glass of water tipping over in my hand. My neck is angry with me. It cracks and whines as I try to move. It must be three or four in the morning. Outside it is as black as space.
There is a rustling sound outside. It is a soft scraping, rhythmic and consistent. I peek out the window, expecting a raccoon, an alley cat, a swaying tree branch. Instead it is Peter. He's sweeping the concrete. All of the apartments look out on this shabby patio where people usually smoke. He's out there sweeping away in the moonlight. All of the tenants are sleeping except him. He is taking a broom to the cement. I doubt that much dirt is being moved.
It takes only a few nights to discover that he does this every night. When does Peter sleep? Having one overpowering urge to clean in the wee hours of the morning is not uncommon. You could write something like that off as an act of boredom. A large clump of dead leaves could drive a sane man to do this. But a stringent schedule of unnecessary labor is not healthy. Upon further prying, I see him toweling off the Coke machine, note that he continually measures the dimensions of the parking lot. I don't think any of this is alcohol-induced. I can imagine that his rotting teeth and protruding gut can be attributed to his love affair with the bottle. This however is the product of acute insomnia, O.C.D., or pure, uncut insanity.
I don't know whether to feel sorry for him. If he has enough free time to detail ashtrays and give ants shoe shines and all, you would think he'd pencil in a shower, that he would make a date with a hair brush, find that damn, disgusting tuna that is mutating in his living space and throw it out.
