The Cage

He moved every piece of the 23-piece drum kit in by himself. His friends just watched, they weren’t allowed to touch. I saw this through the tiny peephole. I thought it’d be a problem, but all I ever heard was the occasional cymbal crash, even when I pressed my ear up to the paper-thin wall.

I did finally go to a party next door, found out the cymbal was to accentuate the conversations. What up? crash He’d even hear the whispers in corners: He’s all grown up now, fronts his own band, I’d love to see more of his front. crash The real problem was the bingo ball cage he always had on his lap. He turned the handle and pulled out a numbered ball before speaking, then answered in that many words. I heard that rattling all the time, but never what he said. I did know that his every punchline fell flat because he wouldn’t let anyone touch the drum sticks either, no cymbal crashes for his jokes.

He was a funny guy. At the party he hit on me, adapting every typical line to the allotted words. The real wit was in deletion, how he got the point across: Have a mirror? I see myself in pants. And it was a good kind of waiting in between come-ons, waiting for the next number pulled. I tried to use his number of words too. Rock star? Do you have mirrors on ceilings? I hated when he pulled a 1. You couldn’t say all you meant, or mean all you said in a single word. Fish. Christmas. Butterfly. And there were so many words I thought were just one, but were really two: light bulb, punch line. Hyphens were hard to think of in split-seconds. Besides how would they count? Is one word merged with another really only one?

Sometimes when I’d listen to music too loud, he’d knock on the wall, different numbers of knocks each time, as careful with his gestures and actions as he was with words. I’d get up and dance when he knocked, swing my hips back and forth as many times as his knuckles banged.

I only did that once. I danced with the wall: stuck my thumb in the waistband of my jeans and sauntered up to the plaster, hooked one arm as if I was grabbing his ass, and instead of pulling him closer, I slammed my body against the wall. That one slam was met with three knocks and words I could finally hear: I don’t exist.

He doesn’t exist as I’ve explained. But saying that hasn’t helped me decide what to do with contractions. One loses something in that merging.

The knowing glances from his friends on move-in day were because at least one woman in every apartment building falls for him. I’m the one with the cage. 14: His face, his face, lips full like tulle on my prom-dress ten years ago.

What, you ask.

8: Yes, I fell in love at first sight. There was a party. He did play drums, but I was just another groupie. He thought my balls were hip, some crazy purse, not my lifeline, blood-jet. Lyrics always fade before their time. Stumbles, and ums, and stutters count. I’ve lost the ends of many sentences like that.

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