House number 363 is coming down on me

Sometimes, I feel as if the dark ceiling of my cave is coming down on me, like a heavy winter sky. I inhabit, for now, the illegally converted garage of the house at 363, which also houses twelve people, five on the upper floor, six on the lower, and me, in what I've dubbed the B-side. We are too many zillions, gazillions, trillions, and I'm sick of each and every one despite keeping my distance. It's cold in here, and I’m fed up.

 

So I leave. I’m away for days, sometimes weeks, to get some fresh air. I take care of pets whose owners have gone away. The houses I look after are nice, occasionally grand. Ultimately, they're not that different from the upper-middle-class houses in Latin America, but with better heating and fewer washrooms.

 

My garage is on the outskirts.

 

I get to this borrowed house. The light enters through the windows on each floor magnificently. The owners went to Bali. He, a retired pilot, she, a teacher, as a mug in the kitchen mutters to me. I think about how I would love to own a place like this, but then I remember that inflation is sky-high, that a lemon costs an arm and a leg, and that meat costs the other half. I'm usually walking lame. Lame, damn it.

 

Sometimes, this anxiety about the future suffocates me. It gets into my burning chest and rises like fire up to my throat. I try to make the knot go down again by eating fruit or sweet bites, but all I've managed to do is gain weight, not ease the burning or sleep better. So, I take my bike and ride like crazy through the streets; I go to see running water, the sea, a river, or my majestic tree friends. Sometimes, I feel I am not enough to survive on this side of the world. I'm not that young or skilled; I need to speak the language better, and my accent gives me away. I'm not that good with people; sometimes, I'm terrible. I wouldn't say I like sales, I can't stand some clients, and I can't work around food because of the knot and weight gain.

​​

Today, I travel with people from the outskirts on a bus of fools. I cross the streets on this Stultifera Navis[1], among these long-lost blocks with no owner or hope, where pain abounds, and a smile hits like a sun ray. They don't care if my eyes pop out or they fill up with tears. A beautiful girl is bent in an impossible twist talking to God. It seems He listens and replies with a joke because she pauses and then laughs. She’s pale and has few teeth. I imagine her as a child; I wonder if she was cared for, adored, clean and well-nourished and ever had friends she could hug.

 

They are the outsiders.

 

I’m back. I land in this temporary house and pretend it's mine. I invite my writer friend over for coffee. Once we settle in and place our things, this house becomes ours. He stays to watch the Oscars. We make pizza and drink wine. Then he stays for days. We walk our pets together, are a family, and settle in nicely. He cooks, and I load the dishwasher and vacuum the impossible and endless hair of the dogs that sticks to every surface. The appliances share a common logic as if they were choosing their places. In the end, almost all houses end up looking the same.

 

My cave is different. It has objects in absurd places: balloons in the living room, a sink by the entrance door, pictures hanging from the curtains, shawls on the ceiling, electric blankets in the living room and bedroom, tools in the kitchen, and a flying fish. Here, things fit wherever they please. Yes, my garage is a unique universe, and I love it.

 

I want a partner who inhabits my walls.

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The writer’s done cooking and then feeds me in the mouth. A piece of mango, a slice of pear, a bite of pepper. He orders me to sit down. He’s facing me, and he strokes my lips between each part. I barely bite his fingers. This is how we eat, in pleasure, deliciously. With his tongue, he turns the fruit in my mouth, we crumble the same bite, and we swallow breathlessly to suck in. We go for another portion, and we respire harder until we choke. Then the dogs come rushing for a bite; they bark, excited by the commotion, and cry louder and higher. They shout, and the neighbours, complaining about uncontrolled, disordered, and unrestrained howls, force us to stop. We all go outside and take a breath.

 

Two days later, the writer left, and the lovely house was left alone in silence. Then, it shook off the absence and settled down after the tremor passed. The fireplace was warm, and the oven lit. The dogs are resting, and I, here, write.

 

Days go by, and I long to return to my garage. I yearn for the freedom to take care of myself. I miss my dark cave, the flying fish, and the closed and still air that unsettles my thoughts. I want the overflowing improvised bidet, the greedy rats’ eyes watching from the garden at my slightly open door. I urge the unpleasant smell of curry and cumin from the communal kitchen. How can you miss what disgusts you so much?

 

I am the periphery.

 

I’m back. The A side of the house is complete and dirty, as always. The tenants speak strange languages and smell like pungent spices. Someone is stealing food, they tell me. They complain and talk about missing cheese, eggs, and fruit. How can this be if we're in Canada and there are food banks here? I empathize, "how terrible," I say.

 

Now, in 363, I think about each of us and conclude that we are all outcasts. What do I smell like? Do I make sounds? All of us are fools. And whoever thinks they're sin-free, let them cast the first stone.

 

[1] “The Ship of Fools,” according to the satirical poem from the 15th century by Sebastian Brant, describes a crew of crazy, ridiculous and foolish people sailing on the high seas.