Fruit of the Month Read Online Free Page B

volume up until the room hums with static, with an otherworldly sound like an intergalactic message. For the first time his nakedness begins to get on his nerves, and he goes into the bedroom and puts some blue jeans on, and some boots, and his leather bracelet, and then he flops down on the bed and falls asleep. He is wakened by Good Morning America in his kitchen. He has left the set on full volume. The noise is enough to blast the cockroaches out of the walls. Sure enough, a door slams below and the new neighbor comes charging up the steps and starts banging, on the door. Tom doesn’t get up right away. He will wait until the yelling begins, so he will know what to expect, a man or a woman. It’s a woman. He goes into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of orange juice, and then he carries the orange juice into the living room and opens the door. Before him stands the neighbor he has never seen. She has dark hair parted on the side and pinned carelessly in back like a flower. She would be pretty if she were smiling.
    â€œIt’s seven o’clock in the morning,” she says. “Could you turn that down please?” Tom admires her control. He can see that she is on the verge of some kind of collapse. She could be the lady in the Anacin-3 commercial, except that under her robe she is naked. He knows she is naked because otherwise she would never have buttoned her robe so meticulously; it has tiny pearl buttons from bottom to top, like those of a bridal gown. “Please,” she begs. Someone on Good Morning America is yelling about bed-wetting. Tom has to think fast. He puts his finger to his ear, smiles, shakes his head, puts the finger on his neck, shakes his head some more, and opens his mouth wide. The neighbor squints. Her confusion is charming. She peers into his open mouth as if searching for a clue. Tom can see the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She is twenty-eight perhaps, older than Susan and smaller, naturally. Her face suddenly brightens. “Oh,” she says. “That’s loud. Loud.” She accompanies the word “loud” with a grandiose gesture toward the kitchen, and then she claps both hands over her ears and says it again. “Loud.”
    Tom fakes a look of surprise and recognition. He hands her the glass of orange juice and dashes for the television, switching it off. The silence is heavenly. In the living room his neighbor is nodding and gulping the orange juice. She hands him the glass, emptied. She points at her chest and yells, “Carmen.” What a beautiful name. Tom has never heard such a sad and lovely name. It suits her. She repeats it. “Carmen.” He grins and bows. When she is gone, when she has navigated the steps past the smelly black lump that is her dog’s fault, he slams the door mightily.
    This is what Tom does at work. He sits at a small table inside a small office in the topmost floor of a decaying building at the university. The building is called January. The office was originally intended to be a darkroom, and in fact was a darkroom for several years a long time ago. Black paint covers the windows. When Tom is inside with the door closed, a tiny red light blinks on in the hallway, assuring the world of his presence. He has to work at the table because the counter space is occupied by two large flat sinks and a collection of vials, glass platters, and obscure photographic equipment. On a shelf above the counter are some chemicals in squat brown bottles. Some of the bottles are marked “Poison,” with a tiny skull and crossbones on the label. There is a box of measuring spoons, a ladle, and a half empty jar of Pond’s Cold Cream. For this reason Tom suspects that the photographer was a woman. The presence of the ladle mystified him until he found, in a cabinet under the sinks, a hot plate and an envelope of instant soup. A white lab coat hangs from a hook on the door on the inside. In the pocket of