Friday, June 27, 1997:
I have to move.
My rent is going up and I have to move.
So I tried looking on my own and it was too frustrating, so I called one. One of them.
And I'm regretting it. She had an apartment to show me. I had no choice but to trust her.
That was my first mistake.
She promised to protect me from the evils of this world. She told me she'd keep me safe, sheltered. She looked right at me and she lied.
And I am a desperate woman and I wanted to believe her, so I did.
And that's when she knew she had me. She showed me an apartment.
It was in the basement, so it got no sun, but that doesn't bother her kind. There were plenty of closets (in fact I thought I caught a glimpse of a skeleton in one).
She came up behind me as I checked out the bathroom. I didn't know she was there until I heard her voice. The mirror didn't hold her reflection.
"There's a stiff co-op board,"
she told me and smiled, white fangs dripping with the blood of the previous tenant,
"but I'm sure you'd have no problem getting passed. Well, are you interested?"
Her cold hand came down on my shoulder.
"It won't last long...it's not a good time to look...this is the best I've got..."
"I'm just not sure," I whisper.
"If you don't want it, I'll get someone who will."
She licked her lips. Her commission is my blood. But once I've made her realize that she can't have her way with me (and that I won't pay her fee), she resets her trap, with a misleading ad in the New York Times as her bait, and waits for another unsuspecting waif whose panic and desperation will keep The Broker alive...at least until next Sunday's open house.
Saturday, June 28:
My parents went away for a few days and asked me to watch their dog. The family dog. My father teases it. My mother protects it. My sister tries to discipline it. And I write about it. The family dog. He was rescued from a kennel only to find himself caught in a Sisyphean hell. He's eager to please, but we all want different things. My father wants him to be rowdy. My mother wants him to be gentle. My sister wants him to be obedient. And I want him to understand. The family dog. Unable to understand, he is immobilized by the variety of our expectations. He can't tell us what he wants. He can't express his feelings. He can't write poetry. He's just a dog. But my father wants the dog to love him best. My mother wants him to love everyone. My sister wants him to sit, sit, stay. Good dog! And I want him to get out while he can. The family dog.
Sunday, June 29:
Invited a bunch of friends over to my parents' place tonight. I made a cake. I didn't even know I could make a cake. All right for me! Anyway, after he eats dinner, my parents' dog likes to, um, have some fun. Fun with a stuffed animal he has. It's either a bunny or a dog. He "plays" with it after dinner. He goes back into my parents' bedroom and humps the bunny. So I invited everyone back to watch him go at it. He was not intimidated by the crowd that had gathered. He humped. We applauded. We went to have dessert and he fell blissfully asleep on his inanimate partner. Lucky dog.
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