July 18, 2008

UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

I think it'd been going on for a good half hour before I woke all the way up. The exact point where I realized it was a domestic and not the creepy people on the corner w. the M.I.A Bring Them Home Now Flag who are always fighting, was when she started using the door for punctuation:
Get (slam)
Out (slam)
Of (slam)
My (slam)
House (slam)
then the refrain:
GETOFMYFUCKINGHOUSENOW (slam slam slam)

The building shuddered with each slam. She kept going. It was a conversation in noise. Her screaming and slamming, the other party, no longer yelling back, responding what sounded like the lobbing of glass objects at the wall. One by one. A house quaking thud, a screamed demand, a shattering, repeat. The shattering had a lightness, crystalline quality. I wondered what kind of thing was getting broken. Not plates. Were they ripping pictures off the wall? Collectible Christmas figurines, cut glass candy dishes strewing Werthers Originals as they hurled? It was 4:27 a.m. when I rang up the cops. I laid back in bed, looking at dawn on the tin siding of the Trump Tower. I heard the cruiser arrive; cop cars have that particular high idle. Like all Chicago Police Cars do, they drove the wrong way down our one way at top speed, bumper scraping the speed bump. The breaking stopped. The cats returned to bed. The morning came.

Posted by Jessica at July 18, 2008 09:25 AM | TrackBack