Page 7 of You'll Love it Here

The elevator dings and Divorced Dad, Uniform Family, and Fighting Couple load themselves in, disappearing without a second glance at the wreckage.

Sami weaves forward and I dare a look at the side of his head as his eyes drag from the mess of flowers to the water splattered on the beige textured wallpaper, to the knocked-over little library books and restaurant flyers scattered everywhere. When his gaze reaches mine, he quickly diverts. He puffs his cheeks full of air before saying, “We should straighten things up while Irene’s out, if anyone’s got time to help before I gotta be back at the diner?”

“I do!” I call brightly, willing Sami to look at me and indicate he doesn’t think I’m a total wretch worth turning in to the cops. He just lowers his chin in a half nod, not even fully turning my way.

“I can’t,” 1A Incel croaks as he weaves around the group. “I have to log into work.” He marches past us, stiff as cardboard, as he makes his way through the door that leads to the main-floor hallway.

“See you around, Norm!” Sami waves behind the guy.

I get the feeling that Norm may need days to recover from this ordeal.

As soon as he’s gone, Old White Perve—Carmen, I mentally update—just has to announce, “Funny that that guy is named Norm when there ain’t nothingnormabout him.” Nobody laughs, so, of course, he doubles down. “I’m just saying he’s got a shitty way about him, that guy.” Carmen shakes his head, his leathery skin crunching. He’s looking pretty affronted for a man wearing grossbrown leather flip-flops, and I don’t remember consenting to seeing his funky red toes while I’m this hungover. “Don’t you think he must’ve done all this? He’s so creepy.” I get the feeling Carmen doesn’t contain multitudes.

Although he has a point. Norm lives on the lowest floor, and even though he has a walk-out balcony, I’ve never seen a door or window without their blinds completely sealed. In short, he could have some bodies in there, and maybe that helps my case, if we’re getting into speculation.

“I don’t know about that,” Weird Girl Beside Me says. “There are a lot of fucking weirdos in this building.” She looks pointedly at Carmen. “It could be someone dangerous. I watch a lot of true crime. For my anxiety. This is how it starts.”

While I get it, you don’t say that kind of thing out loud. Directly to a guy like that.

“I suppose you’re right, Jane,” Carmen says.

Does everyone here know each other?

All our eyes draw to the whiteboard as Carmen makes his way over to it. “Anyway, I doubt he’d have writtenthaton the board.” He raps the wall next to it with his knuckles.

Scrolled across the whiteboard in dry-erase marker is a note from Irene:

Dear Residents,

A city technician is coming to do routine pipe draining Thursday, May 20. Water will be off for 2–5 hours. I suggest filling your sinks for personal use. This is the charm of a more seasoned, private building.

Sami advises that Corner Coffee & Food will have plenty of drinking water available for residents.

Best Wishes,

Irene Laird

I always forget to check the whiteboard when I’m rushing out the door to work. I’ve asked Irene several times if she could email important notices. Once, I even offered to set up a Slack account for her to communicate on. Still, this note is kind enough. If I had been my best self, I would’ve been annoyed at worst, but I also would’ve given very few fucks.

But after the day I’d had. It’s not an excuse of course, but after drinking, after not keeping myself in line, seeing that notice was the last straw, and I became the lowest form of myself. The person I always feared lived inside me.

And my heathen self had to Cheeto-powder-up the marker Irene sometimes writes inspirational quotes with, and draw a big arrow pointing from her notice to a new addition:

I have to dunk my vagina in the kitchen sink now!

My uncle once traced back the ancestry of our entire family on my Persian side. I found out I was the direct descendant of a Zoroastrian poet. Anancientpoet. It’s fascinating, what he may have mused on about the human condition. And now, this is the latest piece of writing to come from his bloodline.

Carmen grabs the eraser from the track below the board, and while Jane’s cat rests on his shoulder, he starts wiping the slate clean. I catch Sami looking at me again before he quickly kneels and grabs a recycling bin and gathers the wilted flowers strewn near his feet.

I rush into action and make my way to the tumbled-over little library, only too eager to be rid of the rest of the mess I made. I push the cabinet back against the wall and leave my coffee cup on top as I start gathering the books. I can’t imagine why I would’ve even touched this thing. It’s an old glass record cabinet. I’m never drinking again.

I sort the books I’d strewn by size. Over the years, we’ve had such classic literature as: retro Canadian Tire flyers, a porno DVD (which I opened out of anthropological curiosity and the diskinside was actually a twenty-five yearOprah Winfrey Showcelebration), and my personal favorite—Microwave Cooking for One. I almost considered taking it for the artistry, but someone beat me to the chase. Today, there are just a few worn-out Clive Cussler–type books.

“Hey, I don’t know if I ever caught your name?” Jane taps my shoulder, holding out a pocketFarmer’s Almanacfrom 2018 for me to add to the collection. The scent of Aussie shampoo wafts from her. I’ve never met an Aussie user who wasn’t a train wreck of a person.

“Oh, I’m Mona,” I say. “Like the painting.” This gets a few cheap chuckles from all, which is as expected.

“And you work downtown?” Jane asks casually, her bright pink nails tapping against her paper Corner Coffee cup.