Crime Scene

I open my door to stagnant air infused with mildew, a dankness inevitable when the window, a mere pane of glass offering an unparalleled view of the back wall of Chuck-E-Cheese, does not open. Resigning myself to the impossibility of fresh air, I address the next requisite: lighting. But every lamp fluoresces with a dim yet garish bulb, illumination so deficient and ghastly that there is no scenario—neither broom closet nor cellar, outhouse nor vestibule—where it would be the appropriate choice.

With expectations rapidly lowering, I pull back the sheets (palpably damp and smelling of bleach) and reach in my bag for a consoling bottle of beer. I find a paper cup, wrapped in plastic, on a cracked plastic tray.

It is only now that I discover two flies are already in residence in the room—rather unexpected given that it is hermetically sealed. One is a bristly black housefly, the other is smaller, light brown and more diffuse, possibly a fruit fly. By way of making me feel welcome the housefly keeps alighting on the pillow next to me, perhaps misinterpreting my arm gesture, each time it zags by, as a salutation. The fruit fly, meanwhile, pirouettes in a friendly way around my head, then lands on the rim of my cup each time I put it on the bedside table, as if we have agreed upon this arrangement.

At least there is a bedside table (which is, oddly, not always the case). There is also an armchair, wedged into a corner with a floor lamp, its shade askew. Above them a print hangs aslant (impressionistic trees, psychedelic palette) as if the threesome have been caught up to no good.