crawlspaceplayblog

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John Doe #2

I’m not a monster, you know. I do feel bad about doing this sometimes. I know that sounds ridiculous because then I don’t stop. I’m just trying to say I’m not a monster, I’m just a bad person. But I feel bad when sometimes I realize they’re only doing something because they’re sure they’re all alone, and I feel bad when they cry, and if they don’t stop crying sometime soon I don’t know if I can keep this up. I’ll spare you the rigmarole of what this guy was writing. Some kind of research project. He had a fellowship through the library, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t just doing his project there. He did nothing interesting while unpacking his plain brown clothes. He read some plain brown book. Eventually made some plain brown food and brought it back to his room to eat. While he was eating, something seemed wrong. I wondered if maybe he was going to be sick, and how I would go about offering him Pepto Bismol and saying I just sort of sensed he needed it. He kept stopping and putting his hand on his head. Eventually he picked up the towel and buried in his face in it and just started crying. Those really bad sobs, the heaving kind that make your head hurt after a while. And you feel damp and heavy for hours afterward. He couldn’t stop. I had to leave. Then I felt worse for not waiting it out with him. He had to stop eventually. Right? When are they going to stop crying?

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Contemporary Apartments, 1982

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Jane Doe #4

There was almost nothing remarkable at this woman until the very end.

She seemed normal enough when we chatted in the kitchen; she’s pleasant, I’d even say witty. Lot of questions about laundry. She’s writing a play, got some sort of grant.

It was so straightforward the way she went into her room, unpacked a few things, but not everything, then went to the bathroom with her toothbrush, came back after a few minutes with her hair up and a glass of water and a tissue in her hand, adjusted the curtains a bit, got a book out, and crawled into the bed. I was just about ready to call the night a wash – the first time I ever had that feeling. What was there to find out about her through this? I could have guessed any of it. I’m certainly getting knowledgeable enough.

Then she puts the book down for a moment, leans over and taps her phone a couple times. Usually at that point they’re texting or setting an alarm. She taps her phone, puts it down again, and bursts into tears.

She’s fully sobbing for at least two minute straight. Then this alarm on her phone goes off and she stops. Like someone slammed the brakes. She blows her nose in the tissues, drinks some water, and opens her book again. She reads and reads so long, and I’m waiting for the crying to start again, then I realize it’s at least an hour. I start falling asleep. I can’t fall asleep in the crawl space, it’s not an option. I have no idea if I snore or not, and I don’t want this to be the way I find out. So I leave. Then I’m in bed and I can’t fall asleep. I’m busy worrying if I’m missing her timed crying again.

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Jane Doe #3

Not much to note about this woman for the longest time. She’s the youngest person I’ve had yet. She probably will be the youngest for some time. I have some pretty judgmental assumptions about how she can afford this.

She changed into her pajamas which had – I kid you not – Christmas monkeys on them. Monkeys swinging around Christmas trees. And a band shirt. At least I think it was a band shirt – I don’t know the band.

She had a Skype conversation with a friend, another overgrown teenager like her. Or whatever it is people are using these days instead of Skype.

Then she shut her laptop and got out a notebook. This huge spiral bound thing, beat to shit; she must take it everywhere. A couple stickers, more spots where they peeled off. Bits and pieces of paper flying out everywhere. The second she started writing in it, I felt my mood change a bit. I thought I must have made up my mind about her too early. Here I am, judging some young woman for what? Looking young? And she’s taking the time to hand-write whatever she’s working on. I felt myself smile watching her.

And then.

She comes to a pause in what she’s writing.

And she rips it out of the notebook, clumping up the paper, and throwing it over her shoulder.

It was so startling it took me a second to catch up with it, like I wasn’t even sure that was what she did – I thought, WHAT did she just do with that page? WHAT did she just throw over her shoulder? But before I could even ask WHY in the world she would do that, she did it again! After an entire new page’s worth of work!

And then, less than a quarter page later, again!

Why would somebody do that? If you’re not liking it, why not just leave it there? Can’t it possibly serve some inspiration later? What if you want to come back to it? The notebook had plenty of paper in it – I wonder if she recently started doing this?

Not that I’m Stephen King, in any place to be handing out advice, but I wish I could have just reached out and grabbed her hand. Or grabbed the notebook. Maybe I just wanted the notebook to be safe.

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Jane Doe #2

For the most part, I actually really like the process of renting the space out. There’s something soothing about cleaning between the renters, the sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, changing sheets, all that. Something nice about how it’s both cleaning up after someone is gone and cleaning in preparation for the next person’s arrival. I like how in theory you could be in this cycle forever. If you have enough business, that is. I have enough business. Maybe it’s the woods. Maybe it’s the high ceilings. Or the natural light. Or how good I am at cleaning.

I could tell this woman was looking for things to be out of place. When we did the customary chat in the kitchen, she spent most of the time looking under lids, peeking into cabinets, touching things and then checking her fingers. When she wasn’t being nosy like that, she had her arms crossed so tightly it looked like it hurt. One of those people.

Alone at night, people tend do things you’re not expecting – the Type As with their hyperstreamlined emails actually throw their belongings around the room like tornados, whereas the ones who haven’t bothered to shave anything in months and think I can’t smell the weed are the ones who fixate on one ant on the windowsill. After all, that’s their space to finally do what’s not expected of them. It’s almost more surprising when everything about them matches up, right down to their final moments before sleeping.

I should have brought a notepad because this woman did so many things I think I lost track.

She unpacked everything in her suitcase, checked every pocket, then put it beside the dresser. Then she unpacked her little makeup bag, which had its own littler makeup bag inside it. Then she lit a candle that came out of nowhere. Then came the actual grooming routine. Anything you can think of, she did it. Clipped her fingernails, then her toenails, then did some clear polish touch-ups. Plucked in front of the mirror for a few minutes, popped a pimple, then did some makeup remover, followed by a clay mask of some kind, followed by a pore strip. At this point I started hoping this wasn’t going to be the routine every night – not just because it’s going to get boring, for you, and me. But just because if she does this every night, she won’t have any skin left by the time she’s thirty.

She changed what she was going to wear to bed three times. The first time, some big kind of t-shirt from a camp or something, and a pair of those soffe shorts. Then she switched to a bigger pair of shorts and a slightly smaller t-shirt. Finally she switched into sweatpants and called it a day. Almost as if she knew someone was going to write about the final result.

Then she went up to the window. I wondered what she was going to do. Windex it for me? Apply a coat of clear polish?

But she just stared out the window into the night.

It was the first time she was still all day.

[crawlspaceplayblog]

John Doe #1

I know I’m not the first person, especially not the first woman to say it online, but truly – may we all walk through the world with the confidence of a privileged white man.

I’m not making assumptions about the privilege part. I won’t get into my exact fee for this house – I wouldn’t want to make it that easy for you to find me. Let’s just say it’s not the kind of house most people will be able to rent casually. Most of these people are not emerging writers. Most of them are on a bestselling list, or at least have a fellowship or something like that to help foot the bill.

Then again, maybe he didn’t do it casually. Maybe he scrimped and saved. Maybe he’s one of those. It’s so worth it to him to say that he was in this Airbnb, along with all the others who win whatever obscure award he wants, a mention in some overly expensive magazine with the other rich, mostly white people who pay my bills, that he’ll blow his savings on it. He thinks it’s some sort of good luck charm to come here. He keeps going to the edge of the forest, staring into it, and coming back into the house. He thinks that will give him inspiration. The only thing it’ll give him is Lyme disease.

After his fifth sojourn just past the patio, he came back in and asked if I had a tea kettle. I made us some tea. He drinks English breakfast at night. He tried to make conversation. I politely excused myself when he asked about long-term rentals. I’m not looking for roommates, sir. Imagine how boring that would get.

I went to watch T.V. for a little while because I heard him really settle into the bathroom. Unfortunately, I don’t have any way to see people in the bathroom here. That would certainly be interesting. I wouldn’t want to get greedy, though, so I settle for being able to hear a bit of what they’re doing through these old pipes. I can hear how long your showers are. Thankfully, that’s it.

By the time I made my way upstairs to watch him, he was already naked in the room. He unpacked the rest of his stuff naked. He ran his fingers along the top of the dresser to check for dust, yes, still naked. Who checks for dust in the nude? Then after I suppose I passed his test, he went over to the mirror and stared at himself for a moment. He pinched his arm. And then he flexed. Like he was a bodybuilder in a show.

I wondered to myself as I saw him pretend he’s buff, what could this guy possibly be writing about? Does he like to write in the nude too?

I don’t understand people who sleep completely naked. What are you going to do in an emergency? Who do you think is there to cover you up?

I can practically hear you objecting, Well, some people sleep with their clothes right next to do the bed. If the fire alarm goes off, if a bomb hits nearby, if a tree falls in the room, will you remember your clothes are right there? Or will you run for cover first?

What am I supposed to do if we hide in the basement together, and I have to pretend to be surprised by your naked body?

At least if we’re stuck together in some natural disaster, and he’s naked, and he starts flexing, I won’t laugh. So he won’t kill me. I hope. With men like this, you never know.

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Natural light beaming into the kitchen is both charming and practical.

The Complete Book of Home Decorating, 1999

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Jane Doe #1

Before you read any more of this post, I want you to keep something in mind. Above all, you and I, in the end, are not so different.

Have you ever been at a friend’s house for a dinner party and took a quick peek in the medicine cabinet? Did you pretend you were getting a headache, then not bother to take one of the Advils?

Have you ever been waiting patiently in the restaurant while your date was in the bathroom, and when their phone glowed and vibrated the table, did you wonder in the back of your head if you had time to take a peek and see who was texting before she made it back to the table? When she got back, and you asked who had texted, did you wonder if she was lying?

When the two of you went home together that night, did you see one of her dresser drawers left just a crack open, and pray for her to go to the bathroom again so you could open it more?

Ever been on someone else’s computer and want to open a folder, just because you’re not sure “memes” really contains memes?

At the doctor’s office, ever wanted to take a quick look in the trash, that biohazard bin, even if it would put you at risk, just to see what had transpired that day? Who had a worse time than you? But of course, you didn’t. Because that would be gross and unsafe.

That’s why you’re here. I’m here, and I’m going to do more than open the medicine cabinet.

My renter this week is a woman I’d say is 45 or so. I could do a little digging on this novel she got some sort of hefty advance for and find out – she certainly talks about herself enough, she’s practically begging for people to research her. But why find out the way people present themselves on the internet when I could find out how they present themselves for the mirror all alone?

I was expecting her to be one of those woman with a nightie and a robe, maybe a matching one. Instead it looks like one of those pajama sets from Target – the matching shorts and shirt that looks so cloyingly soft, I can practically feel it from here, from far up above her. She changed in it the split second that bedroom door closed. I can’t blame a woman for wanting to get out a bra like that. One of those old-fashioned ones that’s built more like a prison than lingerie.

She changed into her pajama set and then hung up a few tops. Didn’t put anything else away. Practical – only worried about those wrinkles. She put something on her face, probably some kind of anti-aging cream. Couldn’t see the label from where I sat but it doesn’t look too expensive. Guess the advance was only so big after all.

She answered some kind of phone call that was over before I could figure out what it was about. Lots of clipped answers, she really didn’t want to talk – husband or agent or something. A series. “Yes.” “Yeah.” “I’m here, I’m in the rental.” “Don’t worry about it.” “Yeah.” “Sure.” “Okay.” “Good night.” She didn’t even say the name. I would have liked just to hear the name. That probably would have been more informative than the call itself.

After the call, she went to bed. She brought over a notepad and a novel with a bunch of tabs in it. She didn’t write anything in the pad, just read it for a few minutes, then put it aside and went to the novel. I watched this for a while to see if she was going to put any more tabs in it. She didn’t. Tomorrow I’ll ask if she’s reading anything these days. If the title is interesting, I’ll update you.

Not sure how long I watched her read. I’ll give her this – she knew when she was ready for bed. She closed that book, turned out the light, and was snoring in three minutes.

It must be nice to be her.