It had been something of an unspoken conflict between Molly and me that, even though she was
the one who lived alone, we spent most of our time squeezed into my little bedroom with the stereo
at high volume to drown out the constant din that was my many roommates. Most of them had spent somewhere
around a decade not yet being born while I was already roaming the earth learning to use a toilet and
ride a bike and be diplomatic.
Which is to say that they were: pierced, tattooed, dressed in jeans five sizes too big, nihilistic
and optimistic at the same time. The fate of the planet was laughable to them, but they were, biologically,
youths, with all the energy and spirit that being twenty entails. They couldn’t help being enthusiastic
about some things; they believed fervently that Vomit Launch would tour the West Coast; they were perpetually
hopeful about getting drugs for the weekend.
I felt ambivalent at best about the fact that my “lifestyle” needs—cheap rent and
bills—were mirrored mostly by skate punks. People my own age—with real jobs—said things
like, “Sure, we used milk crates for book shelves when we were in college—” I still used
milk crates for bookshelves. I still ripped off silverware from restaurants, I still shopped at Goodwill,
I still lived with five roommates.
Most of the time it was perfectly habitable, more like a rooming house than a commune. But it
was difficult for Molly and me to relish our privacy in what was clearly a war zone.
Finally, Molly invited me to her apartment. I hadn’t pushed the issue because I knew from the
beginning that I would eventually be privy, it was just a matter of time.
That’s how it works for me; at first I’m desperate to get into someone’s hiding place, I can’t
live without lying in their bed, my body fitting into the imprint their body has made there. But once I
know they’re within my grasp, I can wait. It’s settled in a moment, the knowing—in a look or a
word or a touch; something gets lost and something gets found.
She lived on Fifth Street on the second floor of a warehouse that wasn’t zoned for domestic use,
so she had to keep shades on all the windows. I don’t know if there were actual Housing Authority spies
who went around handing out violations based on evidence they had gathered as peeping toms, but her
landlord had suggested stealth.
So it was dead dark, even in the daytime. I pulled aside one of the heavy muslin curtains she
had hung, and looking back in at me was a glazed donut the size of a Cadillac. I remembered seeing this
Winchell’s billboard from the street; the caption was “Go Ahead, You Know You Want To.”
When Molly switched on a lamp, I stood gaping. The apartment was one huge room with a twenty
foot ceiling, and every square inch of it was covered in egg cartons. Some of the cartons were
painted light colors, blues and shades of white, and some were left institutional gray. On the
floor there were layers of blue carpet several inches deep.
The cumulative effect was breathtaking. The colors rose like clouds, creating the optical
illusion that the room was suspended in air, floating. The wavy intrusions of the egg shapes threw
shadows on one another, and the room seemed almost to be breathing, vibrating, readying itself for take-off.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to get a good pair of earplugs?” I asked.
She laughed. “If silence is golden, big silence is even goldener.”
There was almost no furniture in the place, I noticed. A double bed sat squarely in the middle
of the room. There were books and art supplies stacked in piles along one wall—she must do her artwork
on the floor, I thought, judging from the multicolored splatters on the carpet—and lining the opposite
wall were a few minimal kitchen fixtures: a stove, a refrigerator, and a free-standing Formica counter.
“Let me give you the tour,” Molly said, without moving. “There’s the bed, there’s the kitchen.”
“Do you have a bathroom?”
“I share with the guys downstairs. The key’s hanging by the front door there.”
Directly below Molly there was a cabinetmaking workshop, wherein her landlord and his partner
based their furniture design business. They were there only during the day, so at night Molly had
complete privacy. Not that she would be able to hear them anyway, not that she would be able to hear anything.
The place was like a tomb, soundwise—or how I imagine a tomb eats sound. I guess that was the
idea, to keep out the living. I noticed a humidifier set up behind the bed.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“That? Sometimes I run it without water just for the sound.” She switched it on. A
low hiss like steam escaped smoothly and steadily from the machine.
“I don’t get it. I thought complete silence was the only thing that could clear your head.”
“Well, that’s true. But occasionally I like to have a little excitement for my entertainment
dollar. With this on, I see sets of waves crashing with perfect symmetry onto a white-sand beach.
It’s like instant Club Med.”
Molly ambled over to the kitchen counter and tugged at a dark green dishcloth that was draped
over a dictionary-sized square, revealing the blinking red light of a telephone answering machine.
“Ooh, I have a message!” she squeaked, her gathered brow clashing with her giddy tone of voice.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I shrugged. “Should I bother to pretend I’m not listening?”
She ignored the question, staring a hole in the tan plastic box while winding the dishtowel
around her forearm like a tourniquet. Then she pushed a button, and a man’s voice bubbled through
the quiet of the room.
“Hello? Molly? Mol? It’s okay to pick up, it’s me.”
