Roommates
he's a good one. does the dishes, cleans up after himself, leaves quietly in the mornings and comes back in the afternoons. he sleeps on the same mattress he did the last time. doesn't snore. i get us food in the evenings, kicking dirty clothes out of the way to clear space for bowls on the floor, and among the things he saved from the fire is an old cd collection, his dad's jewelry, pictures.
he's clean, expectedly. you'd have to be clean, careful, to get away with it. he recounts me the story the first night, over soup and rice, how he already had everything at home, and all it took was the decision. unscrewed a panel tucked away in a forgotten corridor on the 7th floor, cut a wire, cameras off. went back up to his room, got the cans out of a messy storage room, took the stairs because no one takes the stairs. started it up in the same 7th floor corridor, then just walked out of the front entrance, sitting on the curb, waiting. no drops spilled on the staircase, no empty cans of accelerant left in his apartment. same old stuff, the kind of stuff we would do together.
he's away a lot. gets up at 8, does something somewhere, does other things somewhere, comes back. a rotating calendar of errands, activities, things to buy, animals to bury. sometimes i follow along, but i'm asleep half the time he walks out. at night he tells me about the work he's done, and i nod along. he looks at me more than usual. i notice but i don't bring it up. i don't bring a lot up. i don't talk about the roaches or why i was there to see him watch his house (a house stacked on top of other houses, between other houses, among and above other houses, all of those houses burning down the same way), but i ask - why'd you do it? and he'd say the same thing every time, because he just needed to.
i'm not sure how i can do this. i'm not sure how i'm not breaking apart at the seams. sometimes he undresses in our room, and i'm not sure how i don't vomit and shake every time he does. i don't know how i'm managing this. there was no other option, of course. he had nowhere else, and i couldn't have said no. but the bugs are gone now that he's here and i thought there would be more of them. that they'd build nests in the corners, in the sink, behind the mirrors. but there aren't any here anymore. sometimes i would open these old drawers in the living room, these drawers no one's opened in maybe 5 or 7 years, and beneath all the junk, the wires, spare batteries, remotes, old wrappers, there would be this fine layer of brown dust at the bottom, like hard pellets, chocolate sprinkles, almost. and then i'd shift some more stuff around and these cockroach nymphs, half the size of my fingernail would tumble out of the mess, it would just be one at first, then another would come out, and then another. and then ten or eleven all told would be swarming, jittering around the drawer, like moths caught in stadium lights. i'd crush them with my hands, they're small enough to do that with, and their corpses would cling to my thumbs, brown blood leaking out onto my fingernails. then i'd wash up with soap. but the first day he was here, absentmindedly he'd open the same drawers, and the egg casings at the bottom would be gone, no nymphs coming out, no nothing. and then he'd shut the drawer as soon as he'd opened it, having found nothing, which was okay, because he wasn't looking for anything to begin with.
you wanna look at this with me?
what is it?
old photos of me and my dad.
ooh.
he's got the photo album on the ground. the printing on the hardcover's faded. the plastic pockets you put the photos in are tearing at the corners. he opens it up and coughs at all the dust flying out.
this is one of the things you saved?
yeah.
look at you. ever so sentimental.
if your dad died when you were ten you'd do the same. here's us in that boat.
his father looks young, around 30. tall, eyes looking somehow beyond the camera. he barely fits in the canoe. jet black hair, wiry thin. no glasses. two fingers missing on his left hand. [JAN 02 2008] printed in black on the corners. the angle looks like it was taken low to the ground. the colors in the photo are washed out, light, heavenly, from the faded ink and the old lenses. it gives the dead grass, the green river, the quiet sun, all the environment, everything is given this beautiful ethereal glow it's too ugly to deserve. it is dreary, cold, pathetic up close when you're out there in the fields. it shouldn't look so beautiful here.
are you in this photo?
mm, no. here's another from that same day. it's just me in this one.
him, at 6 years old or so, standing by the river, sun directly overhead. two fingers stuck out in a peace sign near his eye. lime overalls. short hair. slightly dirty, wet shorts. [JAN 02 2008] still. cute.
aww. look at you.
i'm still just as cute.
hmmm. maybe.
him riding a bike. helmet too big for his head. on a plain road far away from the city, like the ones we drive down all the time. [MAY 03 2008].
wow, no training wheels.
that's big boy shit.
indeed you were.
i actually needed training wheels. about an hour after that photo i fell and ate utter shit. cut my leg up pretty bad. my dad had to bandage me up.
a hand missing two fingers holding alex's hand. you can see the weathered, roughed-up hands, nails bitten to the beds. how they're bigger, more abrasive than alex's hands. [JUNE 02 2008].
what happened to his fingers?
ah. hmm. well.
he did it to himself?
yeah. i was 9, walked in on him doing it in his room. he was using a rock. just kept bashing it against his hands.
did you try and stop him?
you just can't when that happens, when they get like that. you just wait to take care of them after.
i guess.
because if you interrupt they use it on you, you know? so it's for your own sake. and i was young and i couldn't do much even if i tried. so first i just called out, asked what he was doing, he didn't respond. it was late at night and i could hear him scream from my room. and that's something i was used to by that point, right? but it was a different kind of scream, more like, i don't know. it was like ripping at his own voice wasn't enough so he had to do something else. and i just had to check what was going on. it was dark blue in his bedroom and i could really only see the outlines of his body and his hands, and he just kept going at it, even after he must've heard me open the door and call out for him. kept going and going. after he took two fingers off he passed out, but i didn't really want to call anyone. i just thought it wouldn't've been right. so i just stood there making sure he was alright as he slept. that his chest fell and rose.
at any point i could've asked about the dream, or probed further into why he set his house on fire, and at any point he could've asked me any sorts of questions. but we never did.
have you ever done this before?
nope. that's why i didn't want to go all the way.
this is a lot of faith that you're putting in me.
mm. i trust you.
he's sat down, crosslegged on the bathroom tile. i take a handful of his fine, brown hair, soft to the touch, catching a little fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture, curling limply to my touch like a tamed snake. i take my gloved hand, dip it in the plastic tub, and gently work the mix through his hair.
i didn't expect you to be the type to do this.
mm. you get bored staring at the same old head all the time.
you've got five of the same jacket.
jackets aren't heads.
it's biting at my eyes. it's too cramped and ugly in this room, and the chemical smell is infecting every corner it can. i ask him if it hurts yet, it doesn't.
why not do it all, though?
i trust you, but i trust you the correct amount.
that's fair. just the one? or do you another?
just the one.
not sure how good it's gonna look if it's just the one.
mm. i don't mind if it looks good or not. i just wanted to do it.
i'm crouched down, working my fingers through his one strand of hair as gracefully as i can, careful not to tug too hard, i don't want to hurt him. we're close together. the hair crests like waves to my breathing, rhythmic like the tide. he's sitting still, tapping fingers on the tile, absent minded, plain white shirt i lent him just for this. his back is hunched slightly. he coughs a little, tears up a bit from the bleach. it's stinging like shit, but it's working, brown hair turning gold as i work and work. he doesn't notice but i take the left glove off for a second, take a lock in my hands, feel a thousand grains run across my palm like winnowing wheat, feel him, then put the glove back on and continue.
this is an ugly fucking color.
really?
i mean it's temporary, but it's so ugly. neon yellow.
is it already lightened?
yeah, it's getting there. i'll rinse it out later and then i'll put the shit on.
the shit.
the shit. does it hurt or anything?
no, not yet. my eyes feel like they're being stabbed.
it'll do that. oh well.
the minutes pass, and it's done. the single yellow lock stands out in his brown hair, cuts a stream through his scalp like a river. it'll look beautiful, i think. i wait outside the bathroom as he showers to wash the bleach off. he gets out of the shower and then we do the same thing again, assume the same positions, same fingers, same hair.
why red?
i just thought it'd look good.
i'd have thought you'd have wanted.. i dunno. nevermind.
i didn't put much thought into it. it was more of a heat of the moment type thing.
as these usually are.
when it's done he stands up in front of the mirror to get a good look at it, combing his own fingers through the red piece, tilting his head, moving around, checking it from all the angles he can possibly get. i stand up behind him, trying to read his expression through the reflection, until he settles on a contented little smile, yeah, i like it, you did a good job, thanks nathan. and i tell him thanks, and that i like how it looks too. he rinses it out in the sink instead of showering this time, and i watch him cram his head under the tap as the water runs red with the dye, like he's bleeding from the head, and then i decide to head back into my, our, room and sleep. he follows me 5 minutes later, turns the lights off, good night nathan, crawls into his mattress, and i say good night back.
i think it's time we hit another.
yeah? why now specifically?
i just think it'd be good for me.
tonight? did you buy the stuff?
i bought some yesterday. we can hit it tonight, sure.
where to? still outside the city?
maybe not this time.
hmm. sure, okay. let me finish making you food first. and then we can go.
sure. you know they've figured out it was on purpose, but they haven't figured out it was me.
are they ever gonna figure out it was you?
nope.
because you're too clean with it?
because i'm too clean with it. but it was arson, is what they're saying.
you're not afraid of drawing more suspicion?
i want to keep the momentum going.
i thought you were opposed. that you didn't want to do it like this. like it was more symbolic for you.
i'm a changed man.
what's changed?
we have copycats.
oh?
yeah. another fire down south. this one wasn't me this time.
huh.
when's the last time some shit like this ever happened? so suddenly?
he's lying down on the couch, thumbing through his phone. my back is turned to him, face over a boiling pot, stirring it idly. it's a beautiful afternoon today. tonight will be beautiful too. i'm making him soup.
and that shit with the fountain too. like... i don't know. i feel like we're beginning to mean something here, right? like this is all, what's the word..
unprecedented?
yeah. yeah, that.
right. but what about all the collateral you were worried about?
i don't think i can let myself be worried about that anymore.
the bubbles in the pot are stacking on top of each other, bursting as quick as they form, he walks up from the couch and stands behind me by the stove, pats both my shoulders, goes
so, tonight?
yeah, tonight.
at midnight we take the car and load it with the same old stuff we usually do, metal cans slick to the touch with whatever disgusting shit's in them, smells of oil, bitumen, poison. he gets in through the passenger door as i sit in the driver's and stare at our apartment building through the shattered windowhole. the streetlamps are a hideous white, dots in the rearview mirror. soft orange light fills the interior, and the red streak in his hair glistens in it.
sometime you should let me drive.
of course. i just didn't think you wanted to.
i mean, i don't want to. i just want to once.
maybe not while we have explosives in the trunk though.
i was thinking we had too few explosives in the trunk, actually. you remember where?
around 90% of the buildings in the city are inhabited, the rest are long empty, meaningless stacks of rectangles. it seems he's radicalized, but not radicalized enough. still taking shortcuts, still not fully committing. we drive down barren roads to the outskirts. he pops the cap on a 500ml glass bottle of coke and takes little sips out of it every 10 or so streetlamps we pass.
do you hear that?
hear what?
shit i think i hear something. on the left.
should i take the turn?
take the turn.
i'll take the turn.
at first it's kind of subtle, an easy-to-miss flickering of orange-yellow light off in the distant sky like a firecracker, and then as you get closer and closer there's that glow, that telltale movement, small orange tongues licking the night sky three-fourths the way up this concrete tower, the only color against the dead black midnight, and you get closer and closer approaching it on the drive and then you see it, fire, and it's covering far more of the building than you'd initially thought, a full ten or twenty storeys, and then you hear it, crackling, like a thousand hands clapping in a muted auditorium, gradually faster and faster and more intense, and then you're 10, 20 metres away and you get out of the car and you feel it, the heat on your face and on your chest and for alex it's in his heart now and i park the car on the curb and we get out together and just stare upwards and collect the warmth and light on our faces. i look at him and he's spellbound, unmoving.
you think whoever did this is still there?
no, the.. the fire's too big. they set it an hour ago, maybe.
the trucks would've come by now.
look around you. no one lives here. abandoned quarter. no one's here to report it.
i don't know about that.
it's good work, i think. hard to get it burning this big. good work.
we sit down, and for 30 minutes, an hour, we stare at this manmade sun together.
Drive