The Tenant: 'Short Stories'

By Laughing © 2008

The first time I ever smelled vodka was also the first time I ever heard the voice of Kurt Cobain. We had just moved into our new apartment, and along with music blasting in the apartment below us was the distinct odor of the place. My brother Robby had laughed at me when I asked what the smell was. It wasn’t until much later, or a few days at least, that I found out what it actually was. It was only a matter of minutes, however, until I found out what the music was. It was Nirvana, and it was loud.  

The next day was Pat Benatar, which seemed odd to my brother—that someone would like Nirvana and Pat Benatar. “Must be a chick,” he’d said.  

The next day was The Rolling Stones, but I thought for the longest time that it was only Keith Richards, because Robby had yelled that name when the music started. Obviously, though, I eventually figured out that Richards was the guitarist for the Stones, and not the band itself. 

Every day of that summer, my brother and I would wake up early so that we would be ready by the time the music began. Silently, under the threat of death, I would pour two bowls of Coco Puffs and hand one to Robby. He would nod without speaking, because he wasn’t a hypocrite, and then he would eat quickly.  

At precisely 7:02 AM, a new burst of electric guitars, husky voices, and piano riffs would greet us. Well, they were new for me. Not so much for Robby. He could sing along to almost every song that was played throughout the day. 

We had never met the tenant of that apartment below us. We knew him though. We heard him leave every morning around 7:30—around, because he was never consistent in anything except for the time that the music started.  

Robby was convinced that the tenant was male. He also thought that the tenant was gay, because of that whole Pat Benatar episode, but male nonetheless. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him on either of these assumptions, since Mom had known a lot of the songs too, and she was a girl, and since I had liked the songs that Pat Benatar sang. I didn’t tell Robby any of that though, for fear of being called gay or a girl.  

Still though, I believed right along with him that it was a guy who lived below us. Secret admiration that I had for Robby, I would have believed him if he had told me that the tenant was a flamingo.  

Robby was five years older than me. He was fifteen that summer, and I would be ten in a few weeks. Unable to drive or get a girlfriend, he was stuck hanging out with me for three months.  

One day, however, Robby didn’t get up with me.  

“Robby,” I’d whispered in the dark, my small hand shaking him slightly. “Get up. It’s about to start—we have to get up.” 

My brother’s head disappeared under the blankets. “Go away,” came his muffled voice.

“Robby,” I said more insistently, “It’s seven o’clock!” 

A foot appeared from under the blanket, and it kicked me, hard, in the ribs. I stumbled backwards, then ran out of the room. I scowled furiously, willing myself to be angry and not hurt. I didn’t know what I’d done to make Robby not want to get up and listen to the music with me, but I wasn’t going to go back in there to try to find out. Instead, I got down the Coco Puffs, the bowls, and the spoons—just like always—and I prepared our breakfast. I considered waiting to pour the milk onto Robby’s cereal, so that it wouldn’t get soggy, but my rib twinged, and in a moment of pure spite, I drowned the little chocolate balls.   

At 7:02, the music came on. The Eagles, I recognized, were playing. As the apartment filled with the sounds of Hotel California, I sat alone at the small table, waiting for Robby to get up. The song ended, and another began, and another, and another, and Robby still stayed in bed. My mother had already left for work, and I felt very alone. Fed up with my brother, I dropped my bowl and spoon in the sink, pulled on some clothes, and left the apartment.  

I was no longer entertaining to Robby, I’d concluded. He’d heard all my jokes and seen everything I could do—which wasn’t much—and he had grown tired of me. It had been bound to happen,  I knew, but I had hoped that our little routine could have lasted through the whole summer. There was still about a month left, though, so I needed something, anything, to make myself interesting to him again, and I knew just what it was: the tenant. If I could find out for sure who the guy was who lived in the apartment below us, then Robby would have to like me again.  

Nervously, I made my way down the stairs, careful not to lean on the rail, as it was broken in several places, and to the tenant’s room. We’d figured out weeks ago which apartment was his, but neither of us had ever had the courage or the desire to actually go up to the door. I had a reason now, though, and I bravely walked up to the door and knocked. I took three steps backwards, just like they’d taught us at school during the Stranger Awareness program, and waited. When no one answered the door, the thought occurred to me that perhaps they couldn’t hear me over the music. Taking a deep breath, I reached up and rang the doorbell. It was more of a loud buzz than a bell, and I jumped at the sound it made. Before I had time to retreat the required three steps again, the door opened, and I was staring face-to-face with a wrinkled old woman in a bath robe.  

“Yes?” she asked, peering down at me through her thick glasses. 

In the three minutes that I’d been thinking about this idea, not once did I consider what I would actually say once someone answered the door. “Um…I-I…um,” I stammered, my face going red. 

“Well, spit it out, sonny. Are you selling something?” She barked out her words, blowing smoke from her cigarette into my face.

“No, the…music,” I managed. “We thought…I wanted to meet the person who always plays the music. Ma’am,” I added hastily. 

A sly grin overtook her face. “Why didn’t you say so? Come in, then,” she said, opening the door all the way and ushering me in before I remembered the number one lesson in Stranger Danger protocol—never go into a stranger’s house.  

The anxiety that I should have been feeling never appeared as I looked around her apartment. Lava lamps, bead curtains, and vinyl albums filled the room. Along with a record player there was a CD player, and a huge stack of CDs.  

“Are these all yours?” I asked in wonder, staring at the mountain of music. 

“Do you see anyone else living here?” she asked sharply.  

I glanced at her. “N-no ma’am.” This seemed to appease her, and she took a glass down from the cabinet. “I just…me and brother thought a boy lived here. A man.” 

“You should mind your own business,” she informed me. “But as you can see, I most certainly am not a man.” 

“Oh,” I said, inwardly depressed that the tenant wasn’t nearly as cool as we’d assumed.

“What’s your name?” she asked, pulling a carton of milk from the refrigerator.  

“David,” I answered, then winced inwardly as I remembered rule number three about strangers. After “Don’t Go Into a Stranger’s House”, and “Always Take Three Steps Backward After Knocking on a Stranger’s Door”, there was “Never Tell Strangers Your Name”. Oops, I thought.  

“Well, David, my name is Mrs. Robinson. Here. Have some milk.” She pushed the glass in front of me, and, although I was also not supposed to take food or drink from strangers, I thought that it would be rude not to, so I picked it up to drink. Before I could swallow the first sip, however, the front door was flung open so hard that it hit the wall, and I jumped, spilling a little of the milk onto the carpet. Hastily, I placed my foot over the stain, hoping Mrs. Robinson hadn’t seen.  

“Davey?” came a frantic voice. I looked up and saw Robby standing in the doorway. He was wearing only boxers and a white tank top that he called a ‘wife-beater’, and his hair was sticking up in all different directions. He also looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. “Get away from him,” he demanded, advancing toward Mrs. Robinson.  

“Don’t use that tone of voice with me, boy,” she said, taking a puff on her cigarette. “I ain’t hurting him.” 

“This is Mrs. Robinson, Robby. She gave me some milk,” I said.  

Robby took hold of my arm and began pulling me away. I handed off my glass of milk to Mrs. Robinson as we passed her. “I guess I have to go…” I said apologetically.  

The woman raised an eyebrow and watched us leave. Robby shut the door firmly behind us before dragging me back up the stairs and into our own apartment.  

Once inside, Robby locked the door and pulled the chain before turning to me and cursing. My eyes widened because Mom got mad when he used bad words, but I didn’t say anything because Robby still looked furious. All of a sudden, he crouched down so that we were at eye-level, and he hugged me. Confused, I patted his back, not sure why he was touching me. Usually he stayed as far away from me as possible. The hug ended, however, and it turned into Robby grabbing my arms and shaking me. “What on earth were you thinking?” he yelled. 

I couldn’t answer, he was shaking me so hard. A second later, though, he dropped his hands and had collapsed onto the floor. “R-robby?” I asked tentatively, unsure of whether he was finished being mean or not.  

He pulled himself into a sitting position and patted the floor next to him, indicating that I should sit down. I did, but was careful to keep some distance between myself and my brother. “Are you mad at me?” I asked carefully. 

“Yes. No. I don’t…” he shook his head. “Davey, look at me. Why did you leave?” 

“You wouldn’t get up,” I answered simply. “I had to find something interesting for you.” 

“So you left the apartment without telling anyone, knocked on some old lady’s door, and went into a stranger’s house?” 

“She wasn’t really a stranger, Robby,” I said earnestly. “She was the one with the music.” 

“The music?” he asked, staring at me. 

“Yeah.” He gave me a blank look. I rolled my eyes. “You know. Every morning…the music that plays?” 

Robby’s shoulders drooped and he covered his face with his hands. Slowly, his shoulders began to shake. 

“Robby?” I asked, afraid that he was crying. “What’s wrong?” 

Robby looked up, and I could see that he was laughing, not crying. “What?” I asked, wanting to be let in on the joke.  

“She was the one with the music? Her? Seriously?” 

I nodded solemnly. “Yes. Sorry she’s not cooler.” 

Robby stopped laughing and he looked at me. “Geez, Davey, it’s not your fault that she’s old and, you know, a girl.” 

“But…I needed to find something cool. So you’d like me again.” 

“Davey,” he said seriously, “you don’t need to find something cool for me to like you. You need to let me sleep and not go wandering off into strangers’ houses.” 

I scowled. “Nuh-uh. If I’d had something cool, you would’ve gotten up.” 

Robby sighed, exasperated. “Fine. How about this? From now on, I’ll wake up, and you won’t leave the apartment.” 

I shrugged. “Fine. But…you’re not going to tell Mom about this, are you?” 

Robby’s eyes widened. “Of course not. I was supposed to be watching you.”  

I was about to reply when the music began blaring again. It was a song I’d never heard before, so I asked Robby what it was. He listened for a moment, then groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. I listened too, and I could make out a few of the lyrics. And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson/ heaven holds a place for those who pray/ hey, hey, hey/ 

“It’s Simon & Garfunkle.”

The End...

 

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