“Besides the pleasure of your company? How about the never-ending saga that is taking down this impossible wall?”
“Well, we could take it down faster, but I’m trying to avoid kicking around lead-paint dust. Or asbestos.”
“What?”
Jack smirks.
“Why aren’t we wearing masks or something?” I cry.
“Relax. There’s no lead paint or asbestos. Probably.” He ducks the pillow I wing at him and laughs out loud. Then he retrieves his trusty vacuum and begins methodically tackling every inch of my apartment.
“Was the thing you said about vacuuming real? About your job?”
“Yes.”
“Why? How does it help?”
“The people I work with just want to make their lives better, want to stay here to do it. Sometimes the system isn’t fair to them. The vacuuming… Cleaning soothes me, I guess. I like ticking one item off my to-do list. When I was sixteen, my dad fell ill and a lot rested on me, so I needed an outlet.”
The confession feels real. It thaws something inside me, releasing a twinge of contrition and embarrassment along with other things I don’t want to examine. I cover it by wiping my end tables with a rag. I’d always assumed his vacuuming was about me. How vain. And here I’ve been trying to strip him of something that brought order to the chaos of his day. I can understand the impulse.
“I garden for the same reason. It’s a de-stressor.”
“De-stressor because some dick is vacuuming all the time?”
“Not everything is about you,” I say, smiling up at him. “Besides, it’s you soundtracking my life that’s more annoying than anything.”
“So I shouldn’t play ‘In Dust We Trust’ tonight on repeat?” he asks.
“I don’t know that song.”
“Chemical Brothers. It doesn’t really have lyrics, though. Maybe ‘Dusty’ by Soundgarden—”
“Play whatever crap you want. I bought noise-canceling headphones, baby.”
“I play my music for myself, 5A, not to torment you.”
I make a sound that expresses my disbelief about his claim and bend to pick up a nonexistent speck on my rug.
He wraps the cord around the vacuum and squints at me, clearly debating something.
I’m shocked by what it is.
“I was thinking of ordering pizza.”
My eyes are Jupiter-large. I remain silent.
So does he.
“If you want to join.”
I want to say no. This feels dangerous. This is uncharted territory. This is… My stomach rumbles. Two tiny tacos clearly weren’t enough for dinner.
11
In the end, Jack vacuums in his apartment and then orders the pie—plain cheese and not some weird fruit-and-meat-combo topping, blessedly—and I run off to shower before it arrives. I don’t examine too closely why I put on makeup at ten o’clock at night. But when I take the seat Jack indicates, I swear I detect the intoxicating scents of woodsy cologne and mint mouthwash.
We eat. Jack puts on the Mets game and swears at it every once in a while.
