found drama

Moving in?  A housing inspection.  Haven’t we been in this house before?  Felt its dangers?  Felt its terrors?  We wander halls that should be familiar as faces that are familiar but neither quite synchronize with memories lost or found.  The carpets beneath our feet are ratty and reek but hold up under a scrutinizing eye.  The wood of the kitchen cabinets seems to have melted.  The tiles and the slats of the hardwood floor are all at odd angles.  The house ascends like a tree, splayed wide the further you go up.  The upper-most floors thin out, following the same pattern; their walls are thin or else rustle like autumn’s weakly clinging leaves.  The inspector doesn’t even see problems here.  Instead he takes us down, down past the kitchen into the basement.  He spares us cliches about the root of the problem but points instead to the washer and dryer.  He points to how their hoses are corroded, how they won’t even turn on and how he dares not to.  Foolishly, we pull the dryer away from the wall, flip its breaker, and try again to turn it on.  The house rumbles around us, quivering with its own misery, warning us.

About Rob Friesel