The Monster in the Apartment

Nobody seems to care that, for almost a month now, the door of apartment 1013 has stood ajar.

In the four years since my husband bought 1014 and we moved in, I have run into Mr. Gastelum two dozen times or so. I have yet to see him sober. Many a night, he lalls and yells in front of the building when he forgets his keys, which happens often: we are then treated to his rambling sidewalk serenade, in which he damns the entire world to heck while trying not to keel over into the potted hydrangeas. I have stopped looking out the window, unlike my husband, who occasionally still insists, even after four years, on helping him. “Have the police take him away,” I tell him, “that’ll be plenty of help.”

I do confess that I have often wished him out of existence, this hobo-neighbor of ours. His presence in our building besmirches its otherwise upright and amiable atmosphere, while doing nothing for property values. I have talked with Martha from 1012 several times, trying to figure out a solution to our common problem, without any success. Mr. Gastelum has a mysterious benefactor who sees to it that all maintenance fees are promptly paid, and as long as he does not loiter in the building’s public areas (the sidewalk does not count), there is nothing I can do, except hate him in silence.

But now he vanished and his door is ajar. Nobody has seen him, not even the closed circuit cameras in the lobby. We, Martha and I, talked with the building management company, to inquire as to his whereabouts… to no avail. “He’ll come back when he comes back”, is what we get told over the phone by the friendly yet hopelessly stupid girl that handles homeowners’ concerns. As if Mr. Gastelum's disappearance was nothing graver than a leaky faucet.

Well, then. He’ll come back when he comes back. If he does. I secretly hope that he doesn’t. I imagine him lying behind some dumpster deep in a dimly lit alley, bloated and drowned in a pool of dirty rainwater and his own, putrid vomit. I mean, something like that is bound to happen! His eternal drunkenness, his foul-smelling, greasy raincoat, his caked hair, his vacant eyes… of course he’ll eventually meet his deserved end!

Martha tells me over tea that “the entire building knows” Mr. Gastelum used to be a rent-boy. Just hearing her explanation of what that means disgusts me. According to Martha, that is how he met his secretive mentor, who set him up in one of his properties, gigolo-style. That was a long time ago, to be sure, for he is well past the age suitable for that… er… line of work.

That may be true (and if it is, may the Lord have mercy on both their wretched souls!) but, as depraved as that arrangement might have been, it does not explain why Mr. Gastelum still lives in his… what did Martha call it?... “sugardaddy’s” apartment. Surely, no fag —not even a rat!— would find him appealing, looking and smelling the way he does.

Of course, the easiest way to solve the mystery surrounding Mr. Gastelum would be to take advantage of his unlocked door and have a look around. But my husband is afraid that we might get sued for trespassing. My husband. The Lord knows I love him, but sometimes… sometimes he is just… dense.

I’ll just have to do it without him finding out.

So: on Sunday, as we walk home from church, I develop a sudden hankering for Mexican and ask my husband, doe-eyed and all, if he would go over to Pancho Villa’s on 81st and get me a Zesty Chicken Tostada Platter. He looks at me, half in disbelief and half amused at my unexpected craving. I know it’s not at all like me to want spicy food, let alone the stuff that immigrants eat, but he loves Pancho Villa’s and I need to get him all the way up to 81st so I can have a good undisturbed half hour.

“We can uber it in,” he says, to which I give my prepared answer:

“Honey, you know what those people are like, they'll mix things up, and I don’t want to be stuck with a greasy chachamanga or whatever…”

“Chimichanga,” he represses a chortle. It does the trick: he nods and smiles. “Go on home, I’ll get you your tostada platter.”

He turns around and walks away, all knight-in-shining-armor-y. He is adorable when he thinks he’s on top of things, bless his soul.

I scurry past the Czech neighbors whose names I can never remember, much less pronounce. They hold the door for me as they exit the building, I barely smile in passing. As nonchalantly as I can, I press the button and wait for the elevator: I don’t want the cameras to see my nervousness.

No, not nervousness. Exhilaration. This is how St. George must have felt on his way to slay the dragon, I think, remembering today’s beautiful sermon on faith and courage, as I ascend to the tenth floor.

Our hallway is empty, as it always is. For the first time, I am glad that my proposal to install cameras on every floor was voted down at the homeowner’s meeting last year. I tiptoe past Martha’s door and stop in front of 1013. In the elevator, I had briefly thought of having her join me, but I wouldn’t want her claiming credit for my idea. I mean, she’s nice and all, but you never know.

The door barely squeaks as I push it open. A foul stench hits me in the face.

“What if he’s dead in here?” I think for a moment. But no, I remember what they say in the shows: a corpse has the smell of rotting flesh and mothballs. This is more like dry mud and stale beer. I step inside, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

There is a lot of dust everywhere, even in the air. I have to cough into my fist a couple of times. My feet feel the soft carpeting and there is an uneasy stickiness to it, as if it doesn’t want to release my shoes.

There is no furniture in the entrance hallway. Nothing. Just the dirty red carpet and a murky chandelier hanging from the ceiling. That’s it. This apartment's layout is apparently a mirror of ours, so I deduce that the kitchen is off to the right, while the powder room is on the left. I cannot tell which one smells worse. When was the last time someone cleaned in here?! Filth like this should be illegal. I am sure that Mr. Gastelum’s mysterious, er… “client”, would promptly kick him out if he knew what state his property was in. This idea brightens my mood and gives me the courage to go on.

Living room: empty but for an ancient, frayed Persian rug that has lost most of its color, some empty whiskey and beer bottles strewn around, the chimney, of course, full of ashes from the Lord knows when, and a dirty heap of pillows, rags, muddy socks, and… shirts? I take out my cell phone and start taking pictures. When the time is right, I will take my evidence to the building management company and force them to take some sort of action.

Finally, after peeking inside the two smaller bedrooms, that look even dingier than the living room, with more heaps of dirty fabrics, some half-petrified pizza crusts, and what looks like either chicken bones or rat skeletons, I reach the master suite.

Here, at last, is the furniture. And I mean, ALL the furniture! Mattresses, tables, chairs, lamps, nightstands, sofas, armoires, commodes, dressers, sculptures and their pedestals, paintings and their frames, even a chaise longue and a hat stand! It has all been stored in here like a strange interlocking puzzle. It looks like, if I were to try and remove one piece, the rest would jump on top of me and bury me alive.

No, I tell myself, Mr. Gastelum does not belong in a building like ours. I take more pictures, making sure that every one of them shows the unbearability of this scandalous situation! Oh, am I glad I didn’t bring Martha with me to steal my thunder!

I don’t need to venture into the walk-in closet or the master bath to imagine what horrible, horrible scenes they offer. In any case, I have enough evidence to have this godless homo evicted. A sense of fulfilled duty fills my lungs. I smile as I go back to the living room and－

There he is. Standing in the middle of the drab rug. Looking at me with his glazed, empty gaze. Wearing the same disgusting clothes he always wears. Mr. Gastelum.

Next to him, an old man. Dressed in a grey pinstripe three piece suit, impeccably white shirt with a stiff collar and black tie. A thin, white mustache and a surprised look in his eyes.

“Who are you?” the old man asks, in a voice as soft as his eyebrows.

I hesitate for an instant. Not that I am afraid: I know I am doing the right thing, I know the Lord is on my side and these two perverts have no right to question my intentions.

“Do you know the state this apartment is in?!” is my answer. Surprisingly, the old man nods.

“Henry, why don’t you place her on the mantelpiece?”

It is then that I notice that the old man is holding something in his hands: a metallic vase, quite heavy-looking. An urn. Mr. Gastelum takes it in his slightly trembling hands and, as if he were a baby that has just learned how to walk, toddles to the fireplace.

“Henry’s mother,” the old man says to me. “My daughter.”

Mr. Gastelum lets out a sniffly sob, like a child that has just seen his puppy get run over by a truck. His sob turns to a wail as he places the urn on the mantelpiece and caresses it with his dirty fingers.

I force myself back to the reality of this place.

“I have evidence of the unspeakable status of this apartment! Either you do something to remedy it, or－

“Henry,” the man interrupts as if I were not speaking to him, “wait here for me.” Then, he turns and nods in the direction of the entrance hall. He walks, I follow.

Behind me, Mr. Gastelum cries and cries and cries.

The old man and I stop right by the door that had been ajar for a month. He faces me.

“You do understand,” he says in a voice so low that it reminds me, for an instant, of my own grandfather, the Lord rest his soul, “that this is private property and you are trespassing?”

“Yes, but－”

“Then you do understand that any… ‘evidence’ you claim to have, is also evidence of you committing a crime?”

I am speechless. He nods.

“Understand this as well: leave Henry alone. If you do not, I will drag you through every court in this city until you have to beg my grandson for mercy. Now, please, leave us to our grief.”

His hand points to the door. I cross it and he quietly closes it behind my back.

I need a minute or two to catch my breath.

I look around: thankfully, nobody saw me. I take out my keys and enter my home before Martha or some other busybody catches me.

As I slam the door shut behind me, I let out a frustrated sigh. That definitely did not go as planned.

Oh well.

Someday, Mr. Gastelum will be found behind the dumpster, drowned in his vomit.

I will pray to the Lord every night for it to happen soon.