Gina’s often late with the rent. She’ll call me to say when she’ll be able to mail it. Sometimes it comes in two chunks—often with passes for the movie theater where she works. I thank her for letting me know. I always emphasize how helpful it is to know.
It’s already past the tenth and there’s no rent or phone call. I’ve left her messages. I sent her a note to call me. I mailed again, telling her I’ll have to come into the apartment. The cut-off date was yesterday.
I wander around the building, looking at the unclaimed mail. No letter from me. I walk around back, through the gate and down the few steps to the basement entry.
I begin my noise-making: knocking; ringing; calling; and waiting. I push crime scene images out of my head. But my brain abhors a vacuum. I avert my eyes from the worst of my imagination to the blood-spattered walls. I construct a cheerier scene: the boyfriend hopping into plaid boxers, furious at my intrusion. I hope he doesn’t hit me.
But enough—I can’t stand in this damp basement entry forever. I put the keys in the locks noisily and go through my knocking, announcing, and ringing ritual again.
I’ve never entered a tenant’s apartment without permission. I babble my script of rights and necessity. My hip pushes in.
Inside, the gruesome scenes reload in the gray-filtered light. I walk in slow motion. I’ll give her a chance to hear me, stop me. At each threshold I brace myself, scanning first for the blood, then for the body. In the small galley kitchen, each cabinet door stands open. Dirty dishes, chunks of food and pots and pans cover the counters and the sink. The dining table is lost under papers and filthy dishes. Worn clothing pins the couch to the floor and swamps the book case and the TV shelf, where dirty dishes anchor the messy fabrics. Magazines and papers cover the floor, leaving me a few stepping-stones of carpet. Filmy lingerie and underwear drip from the unmade bed to the floor and the chair, adorned with smudgy half-filled glasses. Cosmetics and sundries are strewn across the bathroom counter.
The surfaces couldn’t be dressed this perfectly by accident, could they? The place looks like a movie set for the starlet-off-the-wagon or a sadly faded beauty. The crew would have worked for hours to create this perfect crust.
No body, no blood, no sign of struggle. A struggle would have cleared things off a bit. But I’m not here to be the housekeeping police.
In my note I remind her: “Please call me. Please get me your rent check as soon as possible.”
She calls me a couple days later. “Oh, is it the 15th already?” She doesn’t mention my entry. I’m still shocked silent by my invasion. The check comes by the 20th with movie passes.