It’s persistent, the sound of anything that enters the mind as the couch becomes even more uncomfortable. The couch cover has now fully unraveled, and no matter where I sit on the couch, one side will flush up, making the guest who someday may enter this apartment just as uncomfortable as me. The television is on—it has been on for the last forty-eight hours, with the occasional break in between trips to the library or the corner store to buy only eggs. The television is immediately turned on after I enter the house, way before I let my library books that I may or may not read hit the coffee table, or a few moments before I go to the kitchen to put the eggs in the refrigerator. The television—I’m addicted to its glow, even when it’s painful to watch; I do not want anything to do with its consistent false light, but I compromise. I sweat when it comes on, then I chill, then my temperature evens out. I watch the shows I’ve watched a week ago. I watch them to see if my brother will enjoy a joke or witty line a desperate or defeated—but talented—writer has gotten past the empire of editors to make us happy for those few moments. If my brother does not seem interested, then I’m still interested, as I later become the topic of interest—why do I continue to watch the television?
I couldn’t tell you. I’d like someone to tell me it’s a drug, a habit that will never be broken unless I don’t pay the cable bill for two consecutive months—this may become a reality.
It is winter again, which may explain my apathy, or better yet, my laziness. I do not want drugs. I do not want therapy. I want to get rid of my television—the bastard.
The sounds continue. The sound minus the television are nothing but sounds of thoughts, and maybe the cat, or maybe the neighbors upstairs whose dog’s tail beats repeatedly above the kitchen door. The sound reverberates kind of cutely. At least the pooch is happy. The cat—satisfied.
The carpet, pre 9/11, that is now bunched in areas only covered by the mats, very similar to the floor mats in a car not-so-conveniently covering up the little dips the carpet didn’t cover up in the first place. The Persian carpet in the living room, adjacent the television, makes sound—though it doesn’t if walked on by loafers. Loafers don’t make sound across the Persian carpet, but sneakers do—maybe it’s the rubber sole, the colored rubber sole that helps with the audio. It’s a nice rug, but it needs to be cleaned, much like the cat box that resides down stairs. It’s been three days now, and the shit has finally piled up to the point where even the tangy cat finds the filth revolting. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought the little guy spelled the word “help” with his dried and quite brick like poop.
The spices in the cabinet—the few there are—make a sound. The granular shift of paprika sparks the warming vegetable oil in the non-stick pan. It’s the sound of chemistry, an edible chemistry that may or may not satisfy the palate of the novice food critic—my brother amongst the masses.
The occasional mouse who finds a temporary solace in the drop ceilings of my apartment definitely makes a sound—a merciless little squeal that fills the average heart with sadness. In the winter months, the bold rascals find their way out of the cold into the crevices of an old apartment building, eventually making its way in through to a dark cavern, man-made of plastic and cheap, bendable wood. The dust bunnies are taking the shape of Br'er rabbit, the cobwebs left for smaller prey—the hole the mouse came out of is now buried within the dark. The mouse, now starving and without the mental capability to find it’s way out of the maze is in fear, and its only logical step is to chew it’s way out of the ravished wood. As much as this sound irritates me, I can’t imagine what it does to the cat. The feline climbs the television, now warm from the hours it has been on. The cat makes its way to the very flimsy bookshelf carrying the ancient video tapes, and DVD’s that now bear no fruit in terms of entertainment. He pokes at the drop ceiling. The mouse is only ever near where the cat can almost get to it, but the border prevents any possible altercation. The little prick is sly, and after hours of gnawing, he is free. The cat—frustrated.
Me—I fear the bubonic plague.
At last, the sound of the coffee table is the sound I most fear. The coffee table is wobbly, like the bookshelf. The coffee table is quite big as far as coffee tables go. It’s littered with unpaid bills, the past due cable bill being one of them. Magazines are opened up to pages that were read, unread or opened to pages that were partially read. I can’t decide if I leave these open for me in the hope I will reread these articles, whether I’ll eventually read these articles or perhaps finish these articles, or do I leave them there to let people such as my brother know that I’m at least trying to be productive, even if I have the success in reading only one paragraph. Or do I leave these out like some people do as picture books for those visitors who I can’t seem to capture with conversation. The sound of the magazine against the sticky wood revolts me—the sound of apathy, the sound of aging papers. However the sound of the plastic that wraps the cigarette pack is the sound I most often I hear. It’s constant, because smoking is really my only constant. The sound of the vibrating cell phone against the coffee table is quite scary. It has repercussions—the call from the landlord asking where my rent money is; the call of the bill collector telling me I owe money forever; the call of the employer telling me to come in early; the call of the girlfriend wanting to come over, meaning I have to re-stuff the cover to the couch, clean the cat box, bang on the drop ceiling so the twisted mouse doesn’t make any noise, wash the pots and pans so the smell of spices do not filter through the living room, place the mats on the dips of the carpets. But worst of all, the sound of the phone against the coffee table sometimes means the television has to go off, my only escape from the sounds of my apartment. The coffee table, sitting in front of the television exacerbates my fear, and my habit.
-Zakariya Willis
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