6549. REMONSTRATE TO DEMONSTRATE

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.'