Something Walks Whistling Past My House Every Morning
I found the whistler and it nearly destroyed me.
It had been six days since I first moved into my new apartment. The nut-brown walls reeked of bleach-stains to cover black mold corners. The fluorescent lights flickered over crumb covered countertops, burn marks in the shape of cigarette butts, the linoleum floors raised and warped with water bumps.
At night I heard the mice between the walls.
They scurried back and forth with a staccato pitter-patter as if to say, "You belong. You belong in the filth and the muck-made dregs of what we leave behind."
Two blocks away, at the metro, smoke belched from howling, hooting railcars. The faint yellow smog coated me in a faint diesel perfume that permeated the thick of my leather jockstrap. It was mesmerizing. Delicious. And through the rattling walls, as the traincar rushed by, underneath the white-plaster rain of cracked wallpaper, I found belonging.
I was home.
But every morning I heard a different tune. A melody that raised me from my lumpy mattress as it raised the hair on the nape of my neck. This sound was melodic, layered, something ancient and powerful and unquestionably oriental. A whistle.
"La-da-de. La-de-do. Tra-la-la."
My apartment checklist on move-in day had a list of seven rules.
- Quiet hours are from 10:00 PM to 8:00 AM on Weekdays
- Quiet hours are from 12:00 PM to 8:00 AM on Weekends.
- Pets are strictly forbidden (Capybaras Exempt)
- The refrigerator may make a small belching noise. DO NOT OPEN THE REFRIGERATOR if you hear this. Wait for two hours. Make peace with your gods. Open the refrigerator and close it slowly.
- Fire extinguishers shall be inspected on a bi-monthly basis.
- All permanent fixtures shall receive prior approval from management before installation
- If you hear whistling in the morning. IGNORE IT. Do not look for it. Do not think about it. Do not check the window. If you do check the window, don't look across the street. If you do look across the street, don't hold your breath. If you do hold your breath, for the love of God, don't think about kung-pao chicken!!
For the first week, I followed the instructions dutifully. My pet Capybara, Shep, was overjoyed to finally find a welcoming home in the inner city. I rubbed the nape of his neck and hand-fed him a fresh clipping of grass.
Shep was always there for me. I remember when I found him in the sewer drainage pipe. I was nauseous and shaking. Needle marks socketed my arms like black freckles. I was lonely. Afraid. Cold. I saw his plump cheeks and heard his frightened yelps as he pressed his flea-covered fur into the drainage pipe and whimpered.
He was young, fragile, helpless. I think we both were.
I coaxed him from his hiding place and together he spent the night in the folds of my threadbare jacket, huddled for warmth. In the morning, he licked my ace and grazed the weeds growing in the muck. I ran my hands through the thick of his fluffy brown fur and looked deep into the opal pools of his eyes and fell immediately and irrevocably in love with this small, simple creature.
I had gone that night to end it all, to take one last dose as I slipped into quiet oblivion, but for some strange reason, Shep gave me a reason to crush the black-bag underfoot and walk back to the unemployment line. Shep kept me going.
Two years later, and Shep has grown into a fine large rodent. He rubs his bearded muzzle against me on hard days, after long nights, to make me feel worthwhile. But I can see the fear in his eyes. When the train rumbles, he yelps, and hides beneath the futon. I try to coo him to sleep.
When the walls shake, I held him close.
"Everything will be all right, for us," I said.
It was a lie we both needed to hear.
But still, the strange whispers haunt my waking dreams, every morning.
"La-da-de. La-de-do. Tra-la-la."
Shep runs and cowers near the belching refrigerator.
"La-da-de."
I rock in my bed with my head with my knees tucked to my chest.
"The voices aren't real," I tell myself. "No voices. No voices!"
"La-de-do"
My eyes flit to the blackout-tape on the window and through the starlight gaps, I smell something sizzling. I cover my ears. Still, I hear the gentle melody in my mind, undiminished.
"Tra-la-la."
I ball my fists and pound the side of my skull, screaming, "You aren't real. YOU ARENT REAL!"
Shep barks and rushes towards me, forcing his head against mine, his muzzle blocking my ears and interceding. I pause. My fists are shaking but I can't keep hitting. I can't. I can't hurt Shep. I love him too much to hurt him so I stop punching my ears and wrap my arms around him, bury my head in his fur and sob.
"I can't resist the whistling, Shep. I can't."
He can't understand me. But he can understand a soft touch, a rub between the ears, the meaning of companionship. In the wild, capybaras live in herds of ten to twenty. They crave affection. They crave a family. Maybe If I had listened to the words of my mother, my aunt, listened to the intervention and cut the dredgeline "friends" from my circle—maybe I could still have a family too.
I think we understand eachother, me, and Shep. Both of us want a life of significance, but that is impossible. Nothing can fix what was mauled unmendably. Nothing can bring it back.
I stare at the pinpricks of light like stars against the blackout cloth and feel pulled to the light.
The whistling calls me from my bed.
"La-da-de"
I stand and walk, entranced, towards the window. Shep sits on the bed and wrinkles his whiskered muzzle and does not understand. How could he understand?
"La-de-do"
The blackout cloth is rough in my hands as I tip it from the window. Light floods with the static hum of streetlight fluorescents; dawnlight blazes through smog-shattered horizons. I feel the lights embrace and bask in the warmth. Yellow tickles the pale of my skin and finds the creases of the bags underneath my eyes. I drink the light and adjust my eyes.
"Tra-la-la."
I swallow hard and take one last look back at the Capybara who has been there through everything.
"I'm sorry, Shep," I say. "I'm sorry."
I hold my breath and look out the window. I look across the street. And I consciously, willingly, submit to the thought of kung-pao chicken.
He is there.
I see him in a straw brimmed hat, with sesame oil burning cast-iron, with a well-trimmed mustache as he whistles.
He is there.
He stands behind his food-cart, underneath the straw-latticed roof as he works his wok, frying, selling street bowls filled with kung-pao chicken.
He is there, and he sees me, and he stares at me and gazes into my soul.
"This could be you," he says. "You could be greater."
He smiles and cocks his head and I see the hunger in his eyes. He needs meat. He requires meat. He shall find it for the hungry mouths to feed. He mouths the words, "You could be greater."
A chill of terror rushes through me, the trance broken, and I throw myself screaming on the carpet.
One day passes.
I re-apply the blackout cloth to the window and vow never again to gaze out at the man who woks whistling. But I fear in my heart it is too late. The changes are already beginning. I see in the mirror the faint black outline of a mustache; through I shave, it returns within hours.
When I work in the kitchen my hands are drawn inexorably to the chef's knife. I wanted to reheat a tv-tray dinner, sit on the futon and watch "Friends" with Shep but my hand seems to move on its own. The refrigerator belches. I open it immediately, reach inside and find a raw chicken breast.
Whimpering, I begin to chop.
"No, please!" I mumble, but my hand seems to move on Its own accord. I slice. I chop. I dice. I can't stop. "Please, don't do this, plea—"
I cock my head and smile at the stove. "Tra-la—NO!"
I snap out of the trance, but it might be too late for me. Sesame oil sizzles on the cat-iron frying pan. From the fry, the smell of kung-pao chicken. I recoil and drop the knife, clattering on the linoleum.
From underneath the futon, Shep whimpers.
I crouch in the corner and punch the floor until my fists are raw and my knuckles trickle blood to stain the brown walls. Shep is too scared to intervene.
Another day passes.
I find a letter in my mailbox. It is from the Health Department. They have approved my application for a food-truck and are pleased to inform me it has received an "A" rating.
I burn the letter; I don't own a food truck.
Another day passes.
My mustache is thick and curled on the edges. I'm growing fond of it. I open the refrigerator when it belches and savor a fresh bottle of Yuengling. I cannot avoid this anymore. Maybe I don't want to.
I stutter the whistle through sobs, "Tra-ladee."
I rise the morning of the third day with a smug grin on my face. My movements are mechanical, planned carefully am becoming something greater, something with purpose, and for the first time in many long years, I embrace who I am. And I am not afraid.
But Shep is terrified.
I walk in the kitchen, knife trembling in hand. I know my purpose. I stare down at my capybara friend and know what I must do. I will be greater. I must cut free the chains that bind my past and embrace the light. I must be greater!
"I'm so sorry, Shep," I whisper. "But there are hungry mouths to feed."
And I start to whistle as I work. "La-da-de. La-de-do. Tra-la-la."
Credited to BLT_WITH_RANCH
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