Drove up to Franklin OH for a one-week assignment at a tiny apartment complex off an industrial road just off I-75. It’s all one-story bungalow-style buildings. Old. Sort of like Camp Crystal Lake for retirees, without the lake.
Arrived five minutes early but no one was here–door was locked. There was a guy reading in his truck, door open, one leg hanging out, but he was far enough away tha tI didn’t think to holler at him. I knocked, rang the bell. Went back to my car to text BG and call the property number. Eventually R–the guy in the truck–got out and walked up to the office–I didn’t see ya–and we got set up. Full instructions on desk. No current vacancies. Their 2/2 is only $784 but it’s just 864 square feet.
T got home yesterday morning at around 10:00. I didn’t know when to expect him, and I’d only just gotten up, having finally settled into a good sleep somewhere after 5 AM. At one point I walked him out onto the balcony to show him all the peppers on his Ghost pepper plant (it’s loaded) . . . .
Almost noon. Quiet. I turned down the radio; the wash of the air conditioner is the dominant noise in the room. The music faint enough to recognize after a few seconds but soft enough to be unintrusive.
A tall, slender man walks his dog across the way. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a bright t-shirt. He stretches one arm out, willowy. Rolls his head on his neck. Moves like a dancer. He could be eighteen, or thirty-five. I can’t see his face clearly. I stand at the door and watch. I wish he would come see me, come to the office and say hello.
I should have brought page sets to fold. Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain hard. I’ll have to pack a better lunch. T mistakenly took the chicken I was planning to use for sandwiches, so I took his brown rice and dumplings, but there’s no microwave here.
Reading Taije Silverman’s Houses Are Fields. Pacing slowly in this small, quiet room. Wondering if I should try to have something delivered for lunch.
Then later: crickets like a sack of silver necklaces.
–“If You’re Asking”