At the front office, Monica the landlady is behind a desk wearing a pink jogging suit. The phone is lodged between her ear and her shoulder while she flips through paperwork. I sit in the chair in front of her with my hands crossed. Monica is pretty. I've never noticed. The only time I've talked to her before was when I signed the lease.
Her tan skin looks like the peel of some sweet fruit.
When she's off the phone, I tell her I want my neighbor removed. She's says that's not possible. My chest hurts.
"Why?"
"It is just your word against his."
Monica adds that she doesn't have the power to evict someone without running it by the owner. What she suggests is gathering a petition. One tenant complaining of noise and stench and voyeurism is nothing compared to a file full of signatures.
Yes. I can handle this. I'm not violent enough to beat his ass with a bat and drag him out into the street. I'm not confrontational enough to give him an ultimatum. So a plan centered around a petition getting signed behind his back sounds perfect.
The hippies down the hall sign it in the name of animal rights. They say no animal should have to be whipped senselessly by an idiot boozer. I can't argue with them. They attach a letter to my petition indicating that abuse of animals is a common practice among serial killers. The guy right above Peter has apparently been ravaged by the smells below him. He's got severe allergies, so what has bothered me has sent him to the hospital.
"I didn't realize what it was. I thought it was just bad pollution."
It was pollution all right, composed, produced and directed by a single man.
Every person of color is quick to sign. They call him names I have never heard. They say he has given them the finger in the laundry room. There's this older lady, short and round with fire on her tongue.
She tells me, "He gives a bad name to the whole black community. He's a pathetic man. If I wasn't a good Christian, I would have cut him along the neck long ago."
"So, will you sign this petition?"
"You damn right I'll sign. I hope I find that bastard living under a freeway," she lets me know.
She wonders why no one has tried to kick him out before. I theorize that is was because they were scared of getting shanked by him.
I tell her thanks and receive the John Hancocks of people he has vomited on, girls he has ogled, victims of his spying hobby, dog lovers and judgmental, religious fanatics. My hand is soon weighed down by a stack of papers with angry signatures, letters, and photos of him passing out on people's car hoods.
I feel victorious already. I am reveling in this solidarity and empowered by my own drive. I have met neighbors I didn't know I had. I feel like I have climbed out of a shell, cut off the milquetoast part of me, leaving it to rot. I will have this stupid sot out on his ass. I will sleep and breathe and fuck in peace. I will be rescuing this complex from a leech, a parasite that beats the hell out of little, furry dogs.
I take my heaping evidence to the office, gleaming. Monica is typing away at her computer. She says hi with a hint of flirting and surprises me by remembering my name. Under her gray sweats, her body is lean and tight. She has big, fake eyelashes, which I love. I can tell she is not a tranny. Maybe it's time for me to start dating regular girls. Maybe I can spark up enough courage to ask Monica out. Maybe she can stop by my place and fill the absence of Peter's fish smell with her cherry-tinted perfume. I tell her with a goofy smile that I took her advice.
"I even got some people from Oak Manor to sign. They say sometimes he stumbles over there and cusses out all the black people."
I put the papers on her desk. Checkmate. The chapter of Peter ends.
She looks up at me like I touched the inside of her thighs.
"Don't put that there."
I pick it up. She is protective of her desk space, I can understand that.
"You're going to have to give it to the owner. Don't know when he'll be by next. Sometimes he goes a week without stopping by here. I don't mind, I take full advantage. I'm IMing my sister right now."
I can hear her gum smacking too clearly.
"Where can I find him then?" I ask.
"He lives in the complex. 302. Peter James. Don't tell I'm I sent you though, he doesn't like to be disturbed."
Of course she can't understand why I start crying. She's sure I'm a pathetic momma's boy. I crumple to my knees, my body giving out, giving up. She's thinking I'm soft and feeble. I drop the papers, the signed pages. They fall around me like slow-moving, white confetti.
Ryan Dilbert is both a Caymanian and a Texan. He is the editor of Shelf Life and a rapper for The Willie D Fan Club. His work can be seen in FRiGG, Bartleby-Snopes, White Whale Review, and decomP.