The Tilers
They were living downstairs when I moved in above, two men with a variety of vehicles that seem to come and go. I quickly discovered they were tile layers. Their door was often open and it was hard not to peek inside as I walked past to the stairs. Boxes of tile lined one wall; new boxes; partially used boxes; stacks of mismatched leftovers. A trail of powdered grout and cement led from their curbside parking spot, across the sidewalk and into the apartment. You couldn’t see deeper into the apartment than the first few feet. They kept the blinds down.
Jeff warned me early on.
“I know you Canadians like to smile at people and be friendly but don’t talk to these guys. You don’t need to know them and they don’t need to know you.”
“I’m from Maine, not Canada,” I reminded him in a now familiar and expected exchange concerning anything north of Amarillo being Canada.
“Same thing,” he said dryly with just a hint of a smile. But this was serious business.
“You’re in a city now and these guys already creep out Emily and Jessica so just pay attention and keep to yourself and you’ll be fine.”
***
Those first few weeks the tilers were often home in the afternoons and evenings. It was hard not to bump into them at the foot of the stairs. They were both Hispanic, in their early fifties. They conversed with eachother in Spanish. I learned from Della, the property manager, one was named David. He tried to be charming but in that way that makes your skin crawl and makes you double check your door lock. Our studio apartments were at the far end of the complex and a high fence blocked views into the parking lot from the street save for the opening into the lot. Strategically speaking, it was a vulnerable spot for a woman on her own. I was polite, not wanting to encourage and yet not wanting to be seen as “that bitch upstairs” by not interacting at all thus inviting disdain and maybe trouble.
The other man never spoke to me, just looked on as I came and went. One side of his face was badly scarred as if by fire or perhaps he’d been dragged across tar and gravel. It was dramatic and gruesome the first time we were in close proximity. He was sullen and stepped around me and the bag of groceries I had stopped to reposition in my arm before climbing the stairs. I never lost the feeling that it was painful mask and there was great anger beneath it.
***
Even when their vehicle was not in the lot there always seemed to be someone downstairs. People came and went, day and night. Doors slamming. Music. Lots of women. Partying. Boisterous sex. My internet connection went down. After re-setting the modem several times, I gave up trying to get it to work and called the cable company. The technician on the other end checked what he could but had no quick fix. He put in a service order for me and said someone would be by between ten and noon tomorrow. I went to bed, turning on the air unit’s fan to drown out the noise below. A tv was blaring over it all.
***
I was up early, moving stuff around so the cable guy would be able to reach the connection point and modem easily. People were stirring downstairs. On my way back from getting the mail at the boxes, the tilers’ door opened and a handful of young people stumbled out of the apartment leaving the door open. There was a plasma tv set up on boxes of tile. One of the girls looked at me and smiled smugly as I passed to the stairs. I heard laughter behind me as I unlocked my door.
The technician arrived near noon. He checked the modem and looked at the cable coming through the wall.
“You’re not getting any juice at all. I’ll go check the box outside.” He tromped down the stairs and returned a few minutes later.
“I found the problem. Your line has been disconnected,” he said. “Come down and have a look.”
I followed him to the corner of the building where he pointed up to an innocuous gray box on the wall. He hoisted himself up on a water pipe and opened the door to the box.
“The cable has been pulled out and left hanging.”
“So it didn’t just come loose from the box?” I asked.
“No mam. Someone pried the door open and unplugged you. I’m guessing it was one of your neighbors and they used your line. Then they unplugged it so it wouldn’t be connected to their place when you discovered your cable was out and called us in.”
I stood there dumbstuck as he plugged the line back in and shut the box.
“I”ll put a lock on the box and that should keep this from happening again.”
As he was jumping down from the water pipe, the tilers’ door opened. David looked at me and then at the cable guy.
“Hey,” he said. “I want to get cable. Can you hook me up?” The tech told him he needed to call the office and set up an installation time. David thanked him and went back inside.
***
Jeff looked coolly at me when I told him about the morning’s revelations.
“It was them,” he said matter of fact, referring to the tilers. “Jessica and Emily certainly didn’t do it. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“There’s nothing to take care of,” I said. “It’s fixed and the cable guy put a lock on the box. I can’t prove that they did it but it is quite a coincidence that there’s a new television and they just happen to need cable now.” Jeff just looked at me.
“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”
***
I was trying to transcribe Jeff’s sprawling scrawl into the poetry it was when he came home from an appointment at the VA.
“Uh, by the way. I had a little visit with your neighbors last night.” I stopped typing.
“What did you do?” I asked, feeling suddenly sick.
“I banged on their door around 1 am and got them out of bed. I had my tattoos showing and my slippers on so they knew I didn’t give a shit about what might happen.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“They’ve seen me around. And I kept it cool. It’s spooky when a crazy guy talks real quiet. I told them I knew there was a lot of shit going on at this end of the lot. I said I was personally looking after the girls they were living near and if they even looked sideways at you three I would fucking deal with it and they would never hear it coming.”
I didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him.
“Oh man, I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said. “I’m the one that has to live above them, not you.”
The look he gave me was pure Kung Fu master.
“They are no longer your problem, grasshopper.”
***
Della stood by the landlord’s truck watching the boys hoist the big couch into the back. The blinds were up in the downstairs apartment, flooding it with light. It was completely empty.
“Did they move out?” I asked cautiously.
“Sort of,” she said. “They were behind on the rent. Gary was getting ready to evict them but they took off. We’re keeping the couch. Everything else went in the dumpster. ” She smiled at me.
“It’s a nice couch.”
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