No Lease on Life
No Lease on Life
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Author(s): Tillman, Lynne
ISBN No.: 9781935869016
Pages: 230
Year: 202110
Format: Trade Paper
Price: $ 24.77
Dispatch delay: Dispatched between 7 to 15 days
Status: Available

In jail, after she''d murdered the moron, she''d be given one phone call, but only after she''d demanded it. She''s gonna lawyer up, a sleek cop would whisper to his partner, the beer-bellied one. Elizabeth didn''t know who she''d phone from jail. Roy would think it was a joke. She didn''t have a lawyer. I have the right to remain silent. I have the right to remain single. I have the right to live with someone.


I have the right to have a lawyer. I have the right to be sad. I have the right to be stupid. I have the right to be happy when other people are miserable. I have the right to make one telephone call. Silently Elizabeth gave herself a Miranda warning. You aren''t Latin, you aren''t going to wiggle your hips for money and wear fruit on your head, you aren''t going to turn yourself in to the authorities, even though you are guilty. You will try to destroy the authority within.


You are not going to destroy yourself. You will sleep tonight. You are going to quit your job. You are going to tell the fat man off. You are going to tell her to leave you alone. A car alarm shrieked. The block''s wake-up call. Elizabeth flipped over on the couch.


She covered her ears with her hands. The alarm screeched, wailed, pulsated, pounded. It demanded and sounded like inevitability. It was torture. There were fewer car alarms. No one paid attention to them because they cried wolf. The chimes on the church across the street rang dully a few minutes after the hour. 8 A.


M. Her friend used to keep a dozen eggs on his windowsill. When a car alarm went off under his window, especially when he was sick and couldn''t sleep, he was always ready to toss eggs. He was tall and had long arms. She never asked him if he hit a car. It was too late to ask. He was dead. Elizabeth watched the clock tick silently while the car alarm screamed.


If one of her foes saw her throw eggs, and that foe owned the car or knew the person whose car it was, if the young super caught her doing it, it could mean trouble for her on the block. She worried about retaliation. Cops didn''t respond to car alarms. She didn''t want to think about her dead friend. If she phoned the cops, they''d say they were sending a car. They always said that. Being alive was its own reward. Roy was sleeping.


So was Fatboy. The alarm clock rang. Unconscious, Roy reached for it. He had a hard time finding it on the floor. He did and shut it off. He was still in Roy''s underworld. The car alarm stopped. Heavy feet stomped up the stairs.


Doorbells buzzed. Their doorbell. Twice. Rebellious, resigned, Elizabeth grunted and crossed the room. She walked to the broken clothes closet. She was naked. She pulled on her thickest robe. It was the Con Ed man.


The Con Ed man always rang twice. He appeared regularly, once a month. Depending on how eager he was to finish his day, which was the beginning of her day, he woke her at 7, 8, or 9 A.M. She''d put on her robe--he''d be shouting, CON ED CON ED CON ED, buzzing everyone''s doorbell--and she''d let him in. He''d beam his flashlight at the meter, he''d punch in the numbers on his blue electronic notepad. Then he''d leave. Elizabeth wondered how he felt about people in general, what kind of feelings he had about waking everyone, if he did, and how he felt about seeing people in semiconscious states, in their ratty robes, or half-naked, and whether he wanted the job so that he could see people like that.


She wondered if his job made him like people more or less. Elizabeth yelled, OK, wait a second. Her nakedness was covered. She opened the door to Con Ed. It was 8:30 A.M. --You''re late, she said. He grinned and flashed his light at the meter, punched in the numbers.


He appeared sheepish. He bent his head down as he walked out the door. He always lowered his head. He was tall, not as tall as her dead friend. Elizabeth shut the door behind him. In the hospital her dead friend said to his mother, I''m at peace, then he shut his eyes, went to sleep, and left the world in the early morning of an Independence Day. The Con Ed man shouted again, CON ED CON ED. Some tenants never opened their doors to him.


He probably didn''t take it personally, unless he was paranoid. Some tenants figured that the amount of gas and electricity Con Ed estimated was less than what they actually used. Those tenants received an official letter. Con Ed insisted upon reading their meters. Elizabeth switched on the radio--we''ll give you the world, 1010 WINS. She turned the volume low. The radio muttered fitfully. She put a pot of water on the stove.


A thread dangled from the gas pipe. It hung there petulantly. It''d been there for half a century. It was there because if there was a gas leak, you could put a match to the thread and then explode. Roy said she used too much toilet paper. She couldn''t accept his leaving the seat up. After years of living with him, she still didn''t understand him. She once had a boyfriend who didn''t use toilet paper when he pissed, like Roy and other men, but his penis leaked.


It left a wet spot on his pants. He had an operation on his penis, performed by his surgeon father. Later, he went to a therapist for a long time. Elizabeth broke up with him three years before Roy came along. She saw him on the street every once in a while. He looked insane. She switched off the news. She turned on Courtney Love who sang morosely, "I make my bed, I lie in it.


" She had a right to be miserable. Everyone did.


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