(no subject)
3 a.m. I wake up sweating, morning sickness before dawn.
4 a.m. I’m still awake, writing another choppy list pretending to be an entry. I hate this house, the water has been tinted brown lately. There’s lead in the paint, asbestos in the ceiling. I drop my mint tea bag into the steaming cup. There are spots on the cup. As it steeps I go over the main points of our last fight. He thinks I’m having an affair. I know he’s an alcoholic. I’m pregnant after 12 years of marriage. He hides bottles in his sock drawer. It’s all very questionable.
6 a.m. I’m going back to bed. Don’t have enough energy to get through work day. The kindergartners are at their worst on Mondays. The Sunday cartoons have taught them new tricks.
8 a.m. I wake up as my husband is leaving.
“Why are you being so loud? Are you late?” I ask. He’s wearing brown and black together again. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my outrage.
Silence.
“Dave?”
“Taking the day off?” he asks.
“Yes, I didn’t sleep much.” I reply, putting a hand on my stomach.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find some way to occupy your time,” he says, as he fumbles with the sticky wooden door. It slams behind him.
8:30 a.m. I go back to sleep. We need a new bed, and more space for the baby, what kind of house only has one bedroom?
10 a.m. I wake up. Again. Morning sickness in the actual morning this time. I am making more tea to have with my neo-natal vitamins. Green tea this time. I want to wall-paper the livingroom I am sick of the forest green paint- which doesn’t match the new navy recliner anyway. Maybe a floral print would be better. I should make Dave a “to do list” the porch has smelled like rotting fruit for months, rotting boards cause accidents, he can’t just ignore it. Everything is old in this city and rundown, low rent is the only benefit of living in Detroit. This house must have been built before my grandmother was born, everything creeks- the floors sigh with the weight of my pregnancy. I’m going to step right through them, I tiptoe everywhere. Dave is fearless, he clunks around in heavy boots. I hope he falls through.
10:45 a.m. someone is at the door. They’re trying to knock it down.
“I’m coming,” I yell. The door is stuck. “Yes?” I say.
“Plumber,” he says “can you open the door ma’am?”
“No can do, the door is too sticky, and I’m pregnant, the books say I shouldn’t engage in hard labor” I say “besides, I can see you through the peep-hole.”
“Right,” he says.
“Plus I’m in my bath robe” I say pulling the blue terrycloth tighter.
“Oh-kay” he says
“Wait, I didn’t call a plumber.” I say “Sir, can you take a step back so I can see all of you through the peep-hole” I say as I throw my tangled brown hair into a messy bun.
“Plumber,” he says taking a step back, “nonetheless.”
“You’re not a plumber,” I say. “You don’t have any tools.” he was wearing a tight white t-shirt, torn jeans and an empty tool belt.
“Maybe they’re in the truck. We could take a look.” he says,
I squint through the peep-hole. I do not see a truck.
“I don’t think so, you remind me of one of the village people.” I say. I lean my body against the door, my mind racing. “I have a headache. I need to lie down. My blood sugar is low. I think I have turrets. Fuck,” I say.
“What was that?” he asks, playing with the buckle of his tool belt.
“Oh nothing, I’m just sick” I reply. “What do you really do?” I ask.
“So,” he says, putting his hand on his hip. “Are you saying I’m not a plumber?”
I nod carefully. He can’t see me. “I just nodded” I say “but you couldn’t see.” “Ok. So. I have an idea. I’ll pull the door while you push, that way it should open.”
“Sure” he says leaning his shoulder into the door.
The door opens 3 inches and snaps to a stop. “You still have the chain on, ma’am,” he says.
“Well of course I do, I’m home alone, no one leaves the door unchained when they’re home alone. This is Detroit, there is a man who sleeps on the corner, I don’t want to die.” I say.
“Oh-kay,” he say shaking his head in confusion. What an oaf. “Who do you think I am?” he asks.
“You’re clearly a stripper” I say.
“This is a drawback,” he says. “This is a serious drawback.”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “Because the pipes really have been acting strange lately. And I’d like someone to look at the water, it’s brown and takes a long time coming out. Oh And there’s water damage here in the living room, I’d show you but I can’t without unchaining the door, and I don’t know you well enough for that”
“Well then, I’ll just have to return at a later time with my credentials.”he says
“Ok, be sure to bring your tools next time. And just come to the side door, it doesn’t stick so much” I say.
“Well, okay” he says “Until then, ma’am.” “Wait a minute, what’s in this cage?” he asks. “Is it an alligator?”
“In the cage on the porch?”I ask “That’s just my husband’s iguana”
“You know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure that you can’t have an Alligator according to city code.”
“First, it’s an iguana” I say, “and second since when do strippers know city code?”
“Just forget it,” he says, “there’s no way I’m coming back now, not with that alligator guarding the place.” He says fumbling for his keys
“For the last time,” I say, “it’s an iguana”
He walks down the front path and keeps walking. I still don’t see a truck. What a weirdo.
11:30 a.m. my husband is an asshole. Sent stripper over to entice me. Wish he had sent real plumber. House is falling apart as I write. I want a divorce.