An orange eviction notice sutures the aorta. Vena Cava has four days to re-chamber vessels, veins, arteries and valves from Wessex Estates: Senior Citizen Living Grounds. Tenants filed complaints against Ms. Cava who lives on the 21st floor—the second tallest architectural point that glass elevators open to. Cerebellum, the pent suite, undergoes necessary renovation to be remodeled with Calcutta marble. Though each organ was wrapped in egg cartons for soundproofing, Wessex’s walls are vellum paper thin. Gastronomical nocturnes symphony throughout the quarters.
Cirrhosis is a WASP with skin that’s the paleness of a scar-tissued croissant. He tooters on an elephant carved ivory cane and deplores any gluttonous self-indulgence—especially Ms. Cava’s constant, arrhythmical fucking. Her mahogany headboard beats against drywall and rattles bedsprings. Claw foot legs dig into stone floors. All hours. Nonstop. Sun to moon.
Fallopia reported to the landlord of Ms. Cava’s deviations. Privy, the landlord lifted and struck Ms. Cava’s crimson clapper.
“Ms. Cava,” he called, knocking. “Hello, Ms. Cava. It’s Larynx, your lord. Open the door.” Ms. Cava palpitated faster. No one came. Two weeks later, after Larynx made numerous attempts, he requested that municipal authorities pin the eviction notice.
To be frank, Wessex was turning to shit. Gold-trimmed balustrades and Elizabethan tinned ceilings possessed the ambience of rigor mortis. Due to ‘renovations,’ medical procedures graffitied incision cuts from outside the complex. Sometimes, unnoticed, a scalpel silently sliced down a tenant’s 17th century Queen Anne Victorian artichoke wallpaper. Sometimes, eyes peered through these incision cuts like windows. Hazel, scientific eyes often mumbled incomprehensibilities into a mouth mask while snapping latex gloves at the wrist.
In intervals much more frequent, Bladder didn’t properly shut off her sink faucet. Somewhere something was loose, in need of tighter lugnutting. Once, her sink ran for 14 hours and flooded Bladder’s apartment whose kitchen floor caved in to Ovary’s residence below which eventually molded Ovary’s shag carpet. Roto Rooter took one week to repaint Ovary’s walls that warped due to water damage. She requested the paint to resemble sockeye salmon tinted pantone. Industrial fans blew inside her unit 24 hours a day. Eventually, Bladder’s pipes were replaced with copper. A putty knife splotched her hole with wet cement. It dried and was sanded with paper.
That wasn’t all. Putrid odored from the Liver unit. Kidney contacted the police department when the smell began embalming visitors, stairwells, cutlery, curtains. Tenants feared the Liver died on her French Colonial chaise lounge. She had no family, who would know? She rarely spoke and was rarely spoken to. Now that the tenants convened, no one had seen her for months. Regarding Liver’s disappearance, Police asked questions: any unusual sounds? Guest visitors? Last time seen? Describe the smell: more chemical or savory? Smoke emitted from under her doorstep? Any ailments from the odor? Headaches? Nausea? Diaherria? Dizziness? When police busted in, Liver was smoking Havana cigarillos and deep-frying gizzards. She slapped her spatula into the spitting Crisco. “What?” she said. “Can’t you Popo just let me alone?”
There was more. Ovary had a two-bedroom suite. Two-bedroom suites weren’t not to exceed three inhabitants. Ovary had 78. Where the children slept, no one knew. She tried her damndest to keep a down low status. To let only a few children jungle gym and teeter tooter at a time. Someone (Cirrhosis) must have snitched.
There was Belly. Tenants accused her of being a squatter. She kept all possessions (Lazy Boy, Brittanicas, Plasma, tricycles, Organic mattresses, Tiffany lamps, etc.) in the middle of Wessex’s hallway throughout the day. Some tenants were blocked off from entering their residences. At night, Belly removed her barricade and brought all possessions back indoors. Come morning, the hallway was barricaded again. All day, every day, this is what Belly did: nothing. Ultimately, she was fined $2,000 for damages. Her mosaic, tiled walls were destroyed due to constant, digestive movement. Arugula and oyster mushrooms littered her floor.
The city noticed. Wessex wasn’t the marvel it was 70 years ago. It became known that Wessex attracted a particular clientele of a particular demographic that earned a specifically particular wage. When there are particulars with a specific particular, the governor governs. He ordained a wrecking ball but there was no need. Just before the 12,000 pounds of forged steel began its destructive swing, Ms. Cava walked down the stairwell, carrying a Vitamix.
Image Credit: Rest (Marie-Therese Walter), Pablo Picasso (1939)