REMONSTRATE
TO DEMONSTRATE
I can tell you how it is : the fat lady with the big apron
on, she will continue singing over her stove. Three
children will be incessantly running up and down the
stairs in a boisterous form of apartment-hallway indoor
play. No one will notice as Mr. Trenmant stumbles home
again only slightly drunk, with the bottle still in the bag.
He ambles slowly, not so sure, but ably enough, up the
same stairs the kids race down. Second door at left, third
floor. He's dazed enough to notice nothing. This sort of
building has no elevator. The Greek guy, Theopolus, on
the ground level will watch all this carefully, while cleaning
the black and white tiles of the classically-spaced mosaic
flooring he remains so proud of. He did the entryway
himself twelve or so years back. Mr. Theopolus remains
sort of the lobby's, and the building's, in-house mayor
and enforcer of things good. Alone. His wife, Marita, is
dead. His son, only sometimes here, Gerantus or something
like that (hard with the accent to tell) is a machinist at a
shop in the Bronx. Usually, by Sundays at least, he's here
so they can eat together. They get along OK. On second
floor 2C, Mrs. Cruleitsky remains alone, never much to
venture out - though her constant soups seem to scent
the place with something. No one really minds, but the
smells are not always so good. Just sometimes. She
manages a basement laundry room run once or twice
a week, where she idles her time nosing into everyone
else's business and time too - How come? How?
Why? When? Many of the sorts of questions no
one wishes to answer - 'none of her business,
really, not hers at all, the snoop.'