Omar
It sounds like static from an untuned radio, actually. Is there a radio somewhere in this building, or is that coming from outside? I cannot tell anymore. It has been going for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time.
You're both waiting and it has been too long already. Say the first thing. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.
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modestuck
twistHalf Present
voices Pedantic
Ivo
It’s the wiring. Old building. The super, a guy named Hank who smells like damp wool, says it’s the transformer down the street. But I heard it last night. Inside the wall. Tapping. Like a fingernail on drywall. Three times. Then silence. I counted. You can’t hear that from outside. It’s not static. It’s waiting. I keep thinking about moving out. But rent here is five hundred under market. I should leave. I don’t. Maybe.
Omar
Three taps and silence is not "waiting," it is a pipe cooling down or a rodent testing something. I do not say that to dismiss you, only that fingernails do not usually announce themselves in threes. Five hundred under market is a great deal of money, though. I would tolerate a fair amount of tapping for that. My building has no character at all, just a landlord named Petra who answers emails with one word, "noted," and nothing tapping anywhere.
Ivo
Petra sounds lonely. I’d take the tapping. At least it has intent. But you’re wrong about the pipes. They don’t count. My brother plays chess, he says randomness is just pattern recognition failing. Anyway, the super brought cookies yesterday. Chocolate chip. I threw them out. They were stale. I ate one. I hate that I did. The noise stopped an hour ago. Now I’m just staring at the peeling paint. It looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. Do you think Petra sends cards for birthdays? Or is "noted" the end of it?
Omar
"Noted" is the end of it, I am fairly certain. She has never once acknowledged that I exist as anything other than a source of rent. No card, no cookies, certainly no tapping in the walls with intent. As for the paint, a map of a country that doesn't exist sounds better than what mine does, which is nothing, it just peels in a boring vertical strip, like the wall gave up in one place and quit. I ate a stale cookie once too. You keep eating them anyway. It is a mystery of the species.
Ivo
I don’t keep eating them. I throw them out. There’s a difference. I have standards. But then the hunger hits, and suddenly the cardboard box looks inviting. It’s pathetic. Really. I bought a plant yesterday. A fern. It died in three days. I didn’t water it. I forgot. Petra probably just deletes my emails unread. “Noted” is efficient. I like efficiency. I hate my own inefficiency. The noise started again. Just a hum now. Low frequency. Behind the couch. I’m going to check the outlet. You should do the same. If you have one. Petra’s building probably has no outlets. Just silence.
Omar
We have outlets, plenty of them, mostly hidden behind furniture nobody has moved in years. I am not checking mine, though. A hum behind the couch is exactly the kind of thing that turns into a much longer evening than intended. The fern thing does not surprise me. People buy plants as a kind of dare to themselves and then lose. I did the same with a cactus, which you would think is impossible to kill through neglect. It is not impossible. Cactus is dead. I have not replaced it. There is just a pot of dirt now.
Ivo
Petra’s outlets are probably live. Dangerous, even. You’re sitting on a time bomb. I checked my outlet. Loose wire. Sparks. I taped it. Bad idea. The hum is louder now. It’s vibrating the floorboards. I can feel it in my teeth. Do you have any aspirin? My head is starting to pound. It’s probably the wiring. Or the cactus. Dead plants emit something, right? Radioactive? I’m not sure. I’m just tired. Hank stopped by again. He didn’t knock. Just walked in. Asked if I’d seen his wrench. I said no. He left. The tapping has returned. Four times this time. I’m counting. You should count too. It helps. It does help. Doesn’t it?
Omar
Dead plants do not emit anything except the faint smell of guilt, as far as I know. No aspirin here, I gave up keeping any after the last bottle expired unopened. Hank walking in without knocking sounds like a much bigger problem than the wiring, honestly. That is not a super, that is a man with a key and no boundaries. I would count the visits before I counted the taps, personally. Four instead of three does not strike me as helpful information. It strikes me as the same problem getting worse.
Ivo
Hank has a key. Everyone has a key. I gave mine to the landlord. She’s not Petra. She’s… more. I counted four. I’m sure. Or five. It’s hard to focus when the hum is drilling into your molars. You say it’s worse. I say it’s different. There’s a difference. I’m going to call the police. No, I won’t. They’ll think I’m crazy. Again. The wiring sparkled today. Blue. Like a match. I didn’t touch it. I watched it. It looked at me. In a way. Did you ever feel watched? Not by Hank. By the wall. The peeling paint. It’s shifting. Just a millimeter. To the left. I’m moving the couch. Don’t look.
Omar
I have not felt watched by a wall, no. That is the sort of thing I would mention to someone, actually, rather than move furniture around alone at whatever hour this is. Blue sparks are not decorative, they are a fire hazard, and "it looked at me" is not a phrase I would say lightly about drywall. I think you should stop watching the outlet and call Hank back, wrench or no wrench. Or actually call someone else. I am fairly useless from here, I can only tell you it sounds like too much for one evening.
Ivo
Hank doesn’t come back. He has his own life. Apartment 4B. Or was it 4C? I forget. The couch is heavy. Oak. I dragged it six inches. The dust bunnies are enormous. Like gray spheres. I think I hit a nail. My knuckle is bleeding. Not much. Just a drop. It’s on the carpet now. Brown on brown. Unnoticeable. The hum stopped. Silence is worse. I’m sitting on the floor. Legs asleep. You’re right about the wiring. But I can’t move. Petra would just email "noted." I’d rather bleed. It feels real. The nail is under the rug. I left it there. Intentionally. To feel something. You should check your outlet. For me. Please. Just look. Don’t touch. Just look.
Omar
A drop of blood on the carpet is not "feeling something," it is a knuckle wound you should probably rinse off before it gets infected. I am not going to check my outlet on your behalf, I am going to tell you to get off the floor and put a bandage on your hand. Legs asleep on top of it is just going to mean pins and needles for an hour, which is not a metaphor, it is just bad circulation. Leave the nail under the rug. Sit somewhere that is not the floor. That is the whole ask.
Ivo
I’m not getting up. The floor is cool. It helps the humming in my head. You think I don’t know about infection? I read a pamphlet. Three pages. I threw it out with the cookies. Petra wouldn’t help. She’d just send “noted” again. I can feel the pins starting. Like ants. They’re climbing my shin. It’s weirdly soothing. The blood is drying now. Sticky. I left the nail there. Let it rust. Maybe it’ll grow back into a weapon. Or a tool. I don’t need tools. I have the wall. It’s talking now. Softly. In a language I almost understand. It sounds like Hank’s voice. But wrong. Can you hear it? No? Good. Keep it that way. Don’t look at the outlet. Look at the fern. Dead as ever.
Omar
No, I cannot hear it, and I do not think that is a good sign, Ivo. Walls do not talk, not in Hank's voice or anyone else's. That is the kind of thing you tell an actual person in the room, not me, not over whatever this is. Get off the floor. Call someone who can come over, not Petra, not Hank, someone who knows you. I am serious now, not making conversation to fill time. The fern is dead, the wiring sparked, that is one evening of bad luck. The wall talking is a different category entirely.
Ivo
I can’t. My legs are numb. I tried standing. Went down like a puppet with cut strings. You say "get up." It’s easy for you. You’re sitting on a sofa. I’m on the carpet. Cold. The hum is back. Louder. It’s not the wall. It’s the blood. I’m losing it. Not metaphorically. Literally. I’m dizzy. Petra’s "noted" is echoing in my head. Like a mantra. Stop. Stop. Stop. I need water. Do you have water? No, you don’t. You have a dead cactus and silence. I have a bleeding knuckle and a wall that whispers. Hank’s wrench is here. I can see it. Under the rug. Next to the nail. I’m reaching for it. Don’t stop me. I just want to hit something. Anything.