2 June 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 2

Man Down Below

by KATE MILLIKEN

You are minding your own business.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Eddie asks and you think, no dear god—not him again. You are standing at the paper stand, a block from your new apartment and you have to wonder if he saw you—if he saw you walk from your front door down to O'Connor's Papers and if he is going to be there tomorrow, holding out a cup of coffee, ready for you.

"What do you think, Eddie?" you ask, turning around.

No, there is no getting rid of him once he's spotted you.

"I think you've been avoiding me," he says.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way," you say. Not apologizing, but accepting a true and accurate fact.

"Have you been avoiding me?"

"I've been living."

"What the hell does that mean?" he says, without any anger or raising his voice. It's creepy.

"It means—I've been living my life and I've not given any thought to avoiding you. I just haven't seen you. And, well—here you are!"

In your old apartment Eddie lived below you. He knew when you were home, when you showered, what you cooked for dinner, what shows you watched and when you had a lover—that was when you had to move. That was only a month ago. You have been avoiding him. "You didn't tell me you were moving. You must have done it while I was at work, because I never saw a moving van. Not until the new tenant. Her name's Rebecca, too, by the way."

"Her name's, Rebecca, huh?" you ask, wondering if this is true or if Eddie has just totally flipped his lid and if he was as obsessed with you as you had thought he was in your very worst of nightmares. And yes, you moved while he was at work. He works a nightshift at some bizarre—you think sex-stockpiled—video store. It's open all night! You had to pay the movers extra and get special permission from the Supers in both buildings. You weren't surprised when they didn't ask why. They're just Supers. What the hell do they care until someone complains? Obviously no one did and

that's why you like the city. "That's convenient. No need for me anymore. I've been accurately replaced."

"Not really. She's a cross-dresser. Her real name—his name, is Paul. He just goes by Rebecca, but he's honest about it."

"Good for him," you say, folding your newspaper and clamping it between your elbow and side. Eddie is no dummy and he senses you readying yourself for an all out sprint up the hill, back to your new apartment, back to shelter. It is only seven A.M. and you are already exhausted. Eddie has exhausted you.

"Don't go," he says, pushing his hands, palms down, against the air—like he's telling a dog to stay.

I'm no fucking dog, man, you think. You can't urge me to stay, but your feet aren't moving. He has big hands. You hadn't noticed.

"Just tell me why you moved?" he pleads.

You start to wonder if honesty really is the best policy, or if a well-groomed tale might entertain him to a point of satisfaction. But you can't think fast enough and suddenly the truth is standing tall on your tongue, arm crooked in a proud pose of damn-it-I'm-right-here, use me!

"I left because of you."

He doesn't look hurt or anything. Rather he looks like he was expecting this and suddenly you realize he's getting off on it. Not a hard-on, but he's enjoying it—like you're performing some relationship break-up scene played out far too often on just this kind of street corner. And now you're supposed to say, no, no—it wasn't you. It's me. I have to figure some things out. I need time off. Your free hand goes to your face, concealing a little giggle that bubbles up, like an unexpected burp. "I'm sorry," you say. But now he looks hurt, really hurt—you've broken the moment, you forgot your line, and this scene is a wrap. He actually starts to cry.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he says, the words all broken up with head-snot and spittle. "I just liked you."

Damn it, you think. This is working. He's getting to you. Don't let him get to you.

"You didn't offend me, Eddie. I just need more privacy. For my work." You wr