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Date: June 4 11:13am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Recycling bin
Hi Linda,
Good to bump into you coming back from The Comet (and sorry if I was a little bit tipsy—those spicy margheritas sure are addictive.) You said to let you know how Melanie and I are adjusting. Well, there are fewer trees than I’d like, and the drivers here don’t seem to have seen a cyclist before. The heat and humidity are oppressive. But Melanie likes her new colleagues. And I like my home office. From my window I can see a pine tree (and no major highway): a great spot to write. (Linda, I saw the look on your face when I said that I was a writer. Don’t worry: Melanie’s position is tenure-track, and, although I am only an adjunct, I’m nearly done with my novel—which means soon I’ll be eligible to be a real professor. The due date (a “hard deadline,” my editor says) is less than two months away: August 1.)
Speaking of the novel, I was at my desk just this morning when I paused to gaze out the window (an important part of my process). Up and down our fair block, pairs of bins, black and green, stood out on the curb—except in front of our place, where there was only a garbage bin. Amy—our downstairs neighbor, your tenant—had promised to take out the trash. I assumed she’d forgotten the recycling bin. I got up from my desk (another important part of my process), and I fetched our empty bottles and cans and carried them out to the yard, where, mysteriously, I saw no green bin. I checked the alley out back, the side of the house, and even the basement—there are many broken appliances down there, but no bin. I ventured out to the curb. Inside the garbage can, nestled among bags of trash, were Amy’s bottles and cans.
Who knows what happened to the recycling bin—maybe Amy lost track of it, somehow, and she’s too embarrassed to ask for a new one. Would you be so kind as to provide a replacement?
All best,
Tom
Date: June 5 12:43pm
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Re: Recycling bin
Hi Linda,
I appreciate your speedy reply. It is unseemly—unethical even—that Cincinnati charges for recycling. As for your claim that to separate recycling at all in this city is inconsequential, given the mischief at the municipal dump—I have to say, I am skeptical. I’m reminded of my mother at the dinner table, back when I was a kid, scolding me for the boundaries I imposed between my peas and mashed potato and meatloaf: It’s all going to the same place, isn’t it, she’d say. Well, Linda, as I used to say to my mother: Yes, sure, but that isn’t the point. Just because a meal’s components combine in the stomach, it doesn’t mean Thanksgiving dinner should be blended up in a Vitamix and served in martini glasses. Just because the Cincinnati dump has a reputation for carelessness, it doesn’t mean we citizens should toss bottles and cans in the trash.
Linda, just as you once stood up for the rights of unloved endangered species—I hope you won’t mind that I googled you; your former law firm’s track record is impressive—you must now stand up for empty bottles and cans, which, if they could talk, would urge us to repurpose them. I hope you’ll send a recycling bin. Until then, I’ll dump our bottles and cans at The Comet. They seem to have plenty of bins.
As for my novel (thanks for asking): it’s the story of a small town flooded to make way for a reservoir—a saga of city versus country, inequality, corporate greed (or so my editor wants me to say).
All best,
Tom
June 12 10:02am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Fireplace
Hi Linda,
With the summer stretching before us—a whole month and a half till my deadline!—I’m in the mood for a project. Would it be okay with you if I painted the fireplace white? The original stonework, unfortunately, is an eyesore: the sooty beige of a school cafeteria. I hadn’t quite realized how ugly it was until just last night, when Melanie and I had dinner at the apartment of one of her colleagues. Caroline and Peter’s white fireplace caught my eye: sleek and clean and appealing. The landlord had painted it for them, they said. Peter said that painting ours would be easy. (He teaches design; he knows what he’s doing.)
All best,
Tom
Date: June 13 11:44am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Re: Fireplace
Hi Linda,
First off, I am flattered. Having passed your house with some frequency lately—heading to and from The Comet—I’ve admired your taste: the slate-gray siding, the maroon-and-white trim, the terraced garden. (You’ve even got a lap pool!) And so, when you say that you like my “design idea,” I am pleased. But I am disappointed that you do not wish to proceed.
In my previous email, I neglected to mention that Caroline and Peter’s landlord is named Grover Vinegar. Isn’t that some name? Do you know him? I might have to borrow his name for a character in my novel. Cincinnati is small enough that I imagine all you landlords know each other. Maybe, like Melanie and her colleagues, you all go out weekly for drinks. Perhaps one of your landlord friends—not Mr. Vinegar, surely—is to blame for the idea that you can’t “absorb the continued cost” of painting the fireplace white. Next time you go out for drinks, sit next to Mr. Vinegar for a change, and ask about our friends’ fireplace. I bet he’ll say he understands your concerns. Then he’ll point out that honoring a request like mine creates good will with a tenant. Also, he’ll say, a stylish white fireplace looks good in photos on Craigslist.
Linda, is there any chance you might reconsider? Caroline and Peter are coming over for dinner on Friday; I’d love to have the fireplace painted by then.
By the way, I’m still hoping for that recycling bin. As the temperature climbs and the humidity inches past eighty percent, I am growing less eager to walk uphill to The Comet. Today I had to take a post-walk rinse in the shower.
All best,
Tom
Date: June 18 3:54pm
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Urgent request
Hi Linda,
I regret to report that there is now a large hole in the wall of my office. Caroline and Peter arrive for dinner at six. Since you’re basically our neighbor, I’m hoping you might come right over and patch up the hole.
Allow me to explain: I am not local; neither is Melanie. We hail from different quadrants of the eastern U.S., which, despite their differences—my northeastern small town, her southeastern suburb; my snow, her slush; my F-150s, her Beemers; my Greek Revival farmhouses, her suburban Federal ranches—do indeed (we now know) have one thing in common: walls receptive to nails. Never having lived in what I’m told is a classic Cincinnati brick house, hanging art on the walls never seemed like a big deal to us. And so, having chosen a spot, I started banging away. When the nail wouldn’t budge, I put some muscle into it. Soon, with each swing, a worrisome sound echoed out—a stony pitter-patter, which might have been satisfying if I were chipping away at the entrance to a previously unexplored cavern, but which, in my new home office, was, to say the least, disconcerting.
You may rightfully ask: why in god’s name did I keep on hammering? Because I don’t know a thing about masonry. Because bare walls depress me. Because the charcoal drawing of Virginia Woolf that I was trying to hang—which I stole from the basement of the English department at Portland State—is a talisman for me, and looking up from my work to stare into Virginia’s kind eyes is an important part of my process.
Please, Linda, come over as soon as you can. I’m embarrassed enough about our hideous fireplace; don’t make me have to explain the hole in the wall to our guests.
All best,
Tom
Date: June 18 9:45am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Re: Urgent request
Hi Linda,
I know it’s only been several hours since I wrote about the hole in the wall—if you haven’t yet read that email, do go back and catch up—but I am writing with another maintenance request. Linda, it’s our broiler door.
With thunderstorms in the forecast, I’d decided to forgo the grill and broil the salmon for our dinner party. It’s a wonderful recipe, if you want it—olive oil, soy sauce, maple syrup. (Link here.) Our broiler sits under the oven, inches off the floor. Melanie, amazingly, had never seen anything like it. She thought it was a drawer to store pots and pans, which honestly makes more sense than a broiler at ankle-height. Who’s to blame for this strange invention? Anyway, I got down on my knees and slid the salmon inside.
When the timer beeped, I kneeled again and tugged at the door. I pulled. Yanked. Nothing happened. Wisps of smoke stung my eyes. I didn’t know what to do, and suddenly it occurred to me that the salmon could combust and the fire could spread and the house could burn down. “Is everything okay?” Melanie yelled from the living room. “Not okay,” I shouted back. The smoke alarm shrieked. Soon Melanie was beside me and then both of us were down on the linoleum, pulling on the door. It groaned. It scraped. When it shuddered open, the kitchen filled with smoke. I heard coughing behind me. Caroline and Peter were standing there watching.
If the broiler door isn’t an easy fix, perhaps you could sub in one of the basement stoves. Have I mentioned the appliances in the basement? There sure are a lot of them—ten at least.
Normally, I’d conclude this email by reminding you again about the recycling bin, maybe noting how many bottles and cans our dinner party produced. But despite the evening’s traumas—or because of them—Caroline and Peter each drank just one beer. I shouldn’t have to walk to The Comet for at least a couple of days.
All best,
Tom
Date: June 29 9:48am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Compost bin
Linda,
Strolling past your house yesterday, on my way to The Comet, I couldn’t help but admire your backyard: the chicken coop, the patio, the lap pool, and the compost bin in the corner. Would it be okay with you if I set up our own compost bin?
You might be thinking: Why is Tom even asking permission? A compost bin is no big deal; it doesn’t take up much room. This is true, when it comes to the fancy bin that you have. But those “tumblers,” as they’re called, are out of my price range—at least until I sell my novel. Even if I did have the money, I’d feel weird about splurging on a tumbler before I’ve even set off on my “compost journey,” as it’s called in certain corners of the internet. It would be like buying a carbon-frame racing bike before I’d graduated from training wheels. No: I will build my own compost bin.
You might be thinking: is it a good idea for Tom to build anything? Tom who doesn’t know about pilot holes? Well, Linda, yesterday morning I attended a compost seminar at the community center. (Taking breaks is an important part of my process.) What a beautiful sight: college students, suburban dads, and retirees with time on their hands, all of us enticed by the promise of a free “kitchen collector,” which turned out to be a glorified Tupperware. The woman in charge got us all fired up about browns and greens, aeration, and hot and cold piles. When I walked out that door, I felt like I’d been converted. I felt like I could do anything—or I did, at least, until I sat and faced my novel again.
I plan to build in the yard’s southwest corner. Poking around in the alley, I discovered cinder blocks and brick pavers. Do these belong to anyone? The pavers seem to be either stolen from or intended for a memorial garden. (Love One Another, The Damons, Julie, Scott, Debby, says one; In Memory of Thomas R. Lynch Jr., 1981, says another.) I will feel slightly guilty about using them—the in memory ones, in particular.
Let me know what you think.
All best,
Tom
Date: July 3 4:50pm
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Air Conditioning
Hi Linda,
The compost bin’s done—although there have been speedbumps. Suffice it to say, it was hot and miserable work. And the apartment, increasingly, feels hot and miserable too. The air conditioning has never been perfect, but I fear that it is weakening, getting worse, as it attempts to fend off the 95-degree heat.
Now that I’m back at my desk every day, one month away from my deadline, I need to focus, and the heat makes me sleepy. The heat is becoming unbearable, especially in my office. I’m not even confident this email will send—not with so much sweat dripping onto my keyboard. Linda, we’re dying in here. Or I am, at least—Melanie has escaped to her office on campus. It’s too hot to even walk to The Comet, and the recyclables are really piling up. Please, Linda—come and take a look at our AC unit. I can’t focus. Writing reservoir scenes—rain filling the basin, water rushing through a pipe to the city—I find myself imagining swimming, cooling off, unable to think, in this heat, about anything else. I haven’t even gotten to the part where the mob’s role in the reservoir plot is revealed, a scene which takes place in a boiler room—and dreaming my way into that scene, in this scorching apartment, may be too much to bear.
All best,
Tom
Date: July 15 10:32am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Water Pressure
Linda,
You say there’s nothing you can do about the heat—you say this is just Cincinnati—and so I’ve done my best to adapt. One new routine, which helps with the writing, is to take cold showers multiple times a day. But yesterday and today I climbed into the shower and was met with a trickle of water. I hope we can get to the bottom of this.
A possible clue: three days ago, clanks from the basement interrupted my writing. I went down to investigate, savoring the cool air that hit me on my way down the stairs—and, Linda, there you were: fixing Amy’s water heater. (I don’t get why you acted affronted when I asked what it was you were up to; I do live here.) You said the water would be off for an hour or two.
Back upstairs, it wasn’t easy to write. Along with the usual heat, I now had to contend with the knowledge that I couldn’t hop in the shower. There was also the noise—like you were rehearsing a piece for experimental percussion. Also, just knowing that the water might return at any moment, I couldn’t resist getting up from my desk every couple of minutes and going to the bathroom sink to twist the knobs and check the status. After lunch, when the water returned, it did so in a manner not unlike how my writing is going—flowing in fits and starts, stuttering from the faucet.
Linda, cold showers are now an important part of my process, and, since that morning, my showers have been miserable, drizzly—like getting rained on in Portland. I get my best thoughts in the shower—or I do, at least, when the water pressure is strong. You might suggest I try taking a walk—another proven idea-producer—but, Linda, it’s so goddamn hot. Tonight, after dinner, I was due to take our bottles and cans to The Comet, but I couldn’t face the heat. Instead, I took the recyclables down to the basement. I dumped them in an old cardboard box.
All best,
Tom
Date: July 20 at 9:24am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Towel Rack
Linda,
I appreciate you fixing the water pressure, although I am mystified as to why you made me leave the apartment as you worked—think of all the writing time that I lost! Is this how you treat all your tenants? (I am also still concerned about the strength of our air conditioning.) The issue of the day, however, is the towel rack in our bathroom, which has fallen right off the wall. As I typed the words “Towel Rack” above in the subject line, I knew I had perhaps doomed this email to plummet to the bottom of your inbox—but, Linda, you’ve made it this far (if you are indeed reading this.) Please read on.
With the water pressure returned to its former glory, and with an office that feels like a sun-beaten stall on an industrial hog farm, I have continued to take my cold showers—a habit that produces numerous towels. Frequent use of our towel rack, I believe, has done in this cheap fixture. Now there’s nowhere to hang our wet towels. You might say, what about the bathroom door? What about the shower rod? We tried the door. Unable to shut it, we felt like barbarians. The shower rod was no better: sopping cotton draped over a wet shower curtain, it turns out, does not dry. And sure, it’s possible to push the curtain aside, bunch it up on one end. But then you’ve got a wet shower curtain, which (I now know) grows blue mold.
Well, you might be thinking, at least with all this showering, Tom must finally be having some good ideas—he must be making progress on that novel. He better be, with his deadline looming. Maybe all these showers (you might think) are helping Tom to write more convincingly about his fictional reservoir. Not quite. After each shower, I sit again at my desk, temporarily refreshed, and stare down my bloated Word document until I want to punch a second hole in the living room wall.
All best,
Tom
Date: July 25 at 3:22pm
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Basement Appliances
Hi Linda,
I write to you from the basement, where I’ve recently moved my office. It’s dark and damp, but much cooler down here. Now there’s only one thing that stands in the way of my final manuscript: the basement appliances.
I know I’ve mentioned them before. When you showed us the apartment, I remember asking about them—you said you would get them out soon. Linda, it’s been nearly two months, and the appliances are still here. (An aside: just this morning, surveying the washers and dryers more closely, I found myself struck by one particular Whirlpool. This was my childhood dryer, I realized, which once blared from the bathroom, interrupting dinner with a bleat as loud as a half-time buzzer. The dryer that once narcoticized me as an infant, lulling me with its gentle vibrations. The dryer that, if my parents forgot about me, woke me screaming when its buzzer went off. My parents put me on top of the drier. Not in it.)
Linda, the appliances have to go—all of them but the Whirlpool washer (my desk) and the dryer (my childhood).
All best,
Tom
Date: July 29 8:48am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Basement toilet
Linda,
If you can’t be bothered to move the basement appliances, you could at least fix the basement toilet. If your response to this request is, What basement toilet?, I totally understand—until two days ago, I was not aware of this amenity. I was taking a break from my writing, pacing (an important part of my process) when I noticed the partition under the stairs was a door. I shoved it open, and, lo and behold, a toilet. One that flushed! True, it was dusty, cloaked in cobwebs; true, it lacked a seat. But I could easily clean it up; I would urinate only. (Don’t shit where you eat, quoth one of our wisest sages; I say, Don’t shit where you write).
And so, for two glorious days, I haven’t had to leave the basement to piss. I was really making progress—the reservoir is built, Linda, completed, and soon the divers (employed by the mob) will descend and retrieve the lumberjack’s buried treasure.
But now the toilet won’t flush, and it’s beginning to stink. I can’t concentrate. Please come as soon as you can. I need every second to write; I can’t spare the time to go to the upstairs bathroom.
Tom
Date: July 31 9:14am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: Recycling
Linda,
You won’t fix the toilet. You won’t fix the AC. You won’t provide a recycling bin. And so, here I am, on July 31—the eve of my deadline—in a basement that smells not only of urine, but also of garbage: flakes of tuna stuck to the bottom of cans; marinara crusted onto the rims of glass jars; sour dregs in beer bottles. You see, Linda, with the 95-degree heat and the imminent deadline, it’s been two weeks since I trekked to The Comet. I’ve been dumping our recyclables in a cardboard box near the furnace. No longer able to withstand the smell, I’ve decided that, if I’m going to have any chance of finishing my novel tonight, I need to haul out the recyclables. Instead of writing, I am bagging bottles and cans. A situation I wouldn’t be in if we had a recycling bin.
You might hear me as I pass by your house. Listen for furious muttering. Whispered curses. Listen for rattles and clinks.
All best,
Tom
Date: August 1 at 7:47am
To: Linda (Rockland Realty)
Subject: My apologies
Linda,
I’m sorry. I know you must have been startled to creep outside to the patio, in your bathrobe, and see me, of all people, splashing around in your lap pool. I regret that I didn’t get a chance to explain.
As mentioned in my previous email, I had set off for The Comet last night around 8:15. I lugged three bags of recyclables up the hill; the humid air was swollen with leftover afternoon heat. By the time I reached The Comet’s green bins, I was breathing hard and my shirt had stuck to my back. I was desperately thirsty. Thoughts of cold beer, real air-conditioning, a twenty-minute break, a small reward for myself—because wasn’t I almost done?—drove me through The Comet’s back door and onto a stool at the bar. The beer helped. As I sipped, some darkness inside of me lifted. I had hours left to write! I just had to have fun with it—get a little bit drunk, weave my way across the finish line, send the manuscript in. I ordered a second beer, then a third. I don’t know how many beers I ordered in total. I do know I was there until closing time, at which point I found myself back outside.
Linda, it was one in the morning. Thumping back down the hill—thinking ahead to the basement—I felt my confidence draining. I smelled roses rotting on bushes, a whiff of chlorine, but none of it penetrated—I was already smelling the urine, seeing the Word document.
Then I passed your backyard. Your chickens clucked gently. Your lap pool, a lit rectangle, had the look of a landing strip: it called to me, Linda. A breeze swept the pool’s surface and wrinkled it like a sheet. I followed the fence. Then I opened the gate. I took off my sandals; the brick patio was cool on my feet. I sat on the edge of the pool, slipped my legs in. Then, in gym shorts and a t-shirt, I slid all the way in. Bobbing and floating, I imagined myself in the reservoir of my novel, far above an inundated small town. I began to see the final scene, the one I’d been struggling with. I saw an anti-reservoir activist, my protagonist, swimming out along the edge of the dam. I saw him get sucked under—a kind of ritual suicide—contaminating the city’s unfiltered water. Energized by this new idea, I started to swim—what I thought was a smooth, soundless crawl. The lap pool was so short, I could only churn through a few strokes before turning around. I didn’t know how to switch on the current. I tried pretending the resistance was there: swimming and treading water at once, moving my arms while I floated in place. I must have splashed more than I realized, because it seems you heard the sound from your bedroom.
When you came outside and discovered me, Linda, you looked scared. Then concerned. Then angry. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, flailing there in the pool. You made a face—anguished disbelief: tight lips, hard eyes—and, seeing your disdain, I felt a wave of embarrassment.
I’m sorry, Linda, but I feel it was worth it. I’m back in the basement, about to start on the final scene I dreamed up. Your lap pool did so much for me, Linda—so much for my novel—that I think it’s safe to say you’ll see your name on the acknowledgments page. I only ask for one thing.
Would you please provide a recycling bin?
All best,
Tom