The Tenant

Who lives in the apartment next to mine? Who the hell lives next door?

He goes out late every night and comes back early in the morning. He moved into the apartment next to mine about two years ago, and in all that time, I’ve only managed to catch a glimpse of him from behind at the building’s entrance. He was wearing a transparent raincoat with a hood made of a thick nylon. What kind of job requires you to work at night in such an outfit? A chill ran down my spine. He’s out at night but never leaves the apartment during the day. His TV is always on, blasting the loudest volume. You can hear TV-shop commercials all day. What is he buying, or is he even buying anything? Maybe he turns up the TV to drown out some other noise? He often hammers nails into wood—so frequently it sounds like he's building something in there.

Who lives next to me? Who in God's name lives in that apartment?

Old Phyllis, a retired schoolteacher, says she once received a letter meant for him due to a mistake by the mailman. Old Phyllis knows everything about everyone; she’s the best of us. She claims he has a wife and children somewhere. She’s nearly blind, so she couldn’t see the rest. When she returned the letter to his mailbox, she saw the magazines he subscribes to. She says they were about surgical instruments, toxic substances like formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, and dead bodies. But then again, she isn’t sure what she read because of her poor eyesight.

Who lives next to me? Who, in good grief, lives there?

Old veteran James, decorated for bravery, knocked on his door once, pretending he needed some sugar. While the man went to fetch the sugar, veteran James bravely entered the apartment. He says there was no furniture at all—just a small table and chair by the window, a mattress on the floor, a TV, a pile of perfectly arranged magazines, and a small kitchen like the rest of our apartments. But there were also boxes full of soap, razors, glue, wires, thread, and makeup. James says when the man returned with the sugar and caught him inside, he grabbed James by the throat, squeezed tightly, and threw him out. But we can’t be sure if this really happened because James suffers from dementia.

Who lives next to me? Jesus Christ, who on earth lives there?

Drunk Davy says he once asked the man in the hallway what he does for a living, what his job is. The man got up in Davy’s face and stared into his eyes like the devil before walking away without saying a word. Davy says he wet himself from fear, but Drunk Davy is always wetting himself, so we’re not sure if the man really looked that terrifying.

Who lives next to me? Damn him, who lives there?

Young Billy Joe says he beat the man up once. He claims the man insulted him in front of the building, so Billy left him beaten on the sidewalk while the man just laughed. Young Billy says he doesn’t remember what insulted him, which isn’t surprising, as Billy Joe easily gets offended and fights people for no reason. So we’re not sure if the man even insulted him at all.

Who lives next to me? Who is he?

The Millers’ teenage daughter, Ann Miller, complained that the man offered her money for sex. For days, we stirred the building with gossip until the Millers finally apologized, explaining that Ann is regularly taken to a psychiatrist because she’s becoming a pathological liar. Thank God someone realized it. A few years ago, she accused me of grabbing her behind. The tenants almost killed me until I grabbed her phone and threatened to show everyone the pictures inside, even though I had no idea what was in the phone. I’ve always been a good profiler. The girl retracted everything, and I was welcomed back into the community. Even now, we can’t be sure if the man really sexually harassed her or if Ann Miller is lying again.

Who lives next to me? Who, cursed be, lives there?

Firefighter Bud lives on the other side of the man’s apartment. He says a strange chalky residue has started to appear on the wall between their apartments, something Bud had only ever seen in crematoriums. He also mentioned hearing the man on the phone, using words like “remains” and “final preparations,” but with the TV-shop commercials blaring, Bud couldn’t swear that those were the exact words.

Who lives next to me? Bloody hell, who lives in that apartment?

We’d spent enough time trying to find out something, anything about his life, and still, we knew nothing—let alone everything. “We have the right to know,” we all agreed. So we decided, as we had in similar situations before, to gather and go to his apartment. We have the right to know everything about him. We’ll knock, and he won’t be able to stop us if we all go together. We’ll sit him down and ask him everything we want because we have the right to know. We’ll tell him that if he wants to be a tenant in our building, he must tell us everything about himself—because we have the right to know.

That Sunday morning, we knocked on his door, and when he opened it, we all rushed inside, grabbing him and trying to force him to sit down. He resisted, so Old Phyllis, who brought a rolling pin out of fear, started hitting him with it, but because of her poor eyesight, she hit some of us as well, telling him to calm down because we have the right to know everything about him. But he pushed her away. Then Old Veteran James ran to help the lady and knocked him out with the pistol he had brought just in case. The man fell. Veteran James said we have the right to enter his life. The man cursed at us terribly, louder than the TV-shop commercials, and we don’t like cursing, so I punched him, Drunk Davy hit him with a bottle, Little Ann Miller spat on him while her parents held his hands, and then Billy Joe jumped on him and finished him off.

“We have the right to know,” someone said. We scattered around the apartment, confirming some of the stories we had heard, and then we pulled a business card out of his pocket. It read: “Easy Death Funeral Services.” Finally, we were satisfied. Justice had once again been served. The secret was revealed, and the case was closed.

With a great sense of relief, we left the apartment peacefully, agreeing that we had the right to know.

Our faith in that right to know gave us peace of mind, and once again, we all slept in tranquility.

Inspired by the title of a song from Tom Waits