For The Birds, or What It Means To Be Stanley, pt. 16.1

The hardest part about being a landlord is, occasionally someone dies at the place where you work. Maybe it’s a heart attack or a stroke, or half a bottle of Xanax and some wine. Then it’s your job to handle it.

My first time was two weeks after the fumigation. I’m sitting with Edna Graham, in her kitchen, pretending to drink coffee. Really it’s watered down barbecue sauce. I watched her squeeze what was left of a bottle into the paper filter. My first thought was I got to call social services. Then she holds it up to her face and starts drinking, she’s really enjoying it, and I wonder what’s the point.

Edna rents a two-bedroom on the first floor, because of her bad knees. The other bedroom is for in case her dead son drops by for a visit. The reason I’m there is fixing the shower drain.

She asks do I like the coffee.

I raise my mug and smile and then fake another sip. I’m trying not to see all the little clumps of curdled milk floating around inside like marshmallows.

I wonder is her dementia contagious. Like the flu, except without all the fever sweating and diarrhea. Maybe one way to catch mental illness is spending time alone with somebody who can’t tell the difference between coffee and barbecue sauce. Probably it doesn’t happen all at once. Then one day you’re cooking dinner for two and making up an extra bed, saying your dead son will be home any minute. Saying no Barney Fife until he does his homework.

A phone rings. Edna thinks it’s for her. There’s an old rotary phone on the counter, the kind that takes you ten minutes to dial somebody, and the way she goes after it, you’d think she was waiting for an important call. She picks it up and starts a conversation about buttons. I’m not sure it’s plugged in.

Really what’s ringing is my work phone. That means another tenant with another problem. But it’s an excuse to leave. I answer and it’s Mr. Duncan on the other end. He tells me there’s a smell coming through the vents. “It’s like bad Tai food,” he says, “except mixed with old feet.”

I tell him I’ll be right over. I’m trying to be loud enough for Edna to hear, but she’s busy catching up with an imaginary friend. I thank her for the coffee and excuse myself and get the hell out of there.