WHAT GOD WANTS PRINT

HIS HEAD IS sore. There is a constant tapping coming through the wall; it began the night the hot weather arrived. At first it was an occasional tap but now it has become a steady rhythm. He puts his ear against the wall and listens—but he cannot tell whether it is coming from the apartment next door or from something, somewhere else in the building, tapping on a water pipe.

In the living room a voice on the television says, “to remove the husk from a piece of corn try microwaving it for thirty seconds first.”

He is sweating badly. He holds a thick clump of tissue paper to his forehead and wipes the moisture away, then drops it to the floor. The ceiling fan broke a week ago and the repairman has not yet come to fix it. He has tried to repair it himself, surprising himself with his own nerve. He climbed up upon a rickety wooden stool while holding his soldering iron, but he did not understand the wiring of the fan’s circuitry.

The apartment has no insulation. The walls are concrete. And with each day of sun it has become hotter and hotter inside, unbearably so. He opens the windows in each room to allow cool air in, but there is no breeze, only more heat. It brings out the old smells of the previous tenants: burnt cooking and corporate-sex come oozing out in the warmth like olfactory-shadows of the dead.

Blowflies come in through the window, circling around the pile of grease-coated dishes in the sink and the leftover food in the garbage can and then disappear under the aluminium saucepans where they lay their eggs.

But it is the apartment children that he worries about.

They climb down the fire escape outside his bedroom window and steal things. They have taken, among other items, his wristwatch, clock radio, and bedside lamp. If he closes the window, they prize it open with their insect-like fingers. Late at night, he can see their shadows moving about in the dark, their small eyes roving over the curves of fat on his stomach, while they quietly sort through his belongings, deciding what to take.

Sometimes when he is watching the evening game shows on television he can hear them rustling about in his kitchen, taking cutlery or food. It’s always during the bonus round, and by the time he makes it to the door, they have already gone, leaving only a trail of rotting fried rice from the garbage can to the window.

He thinks of the things he wants to buy: toning cream, a microwave wok set, a portable lint remover.

The old Italian couple a floor above begin to argue. The husband sips grappa all day while watching European football on television. He can hear the clink of the glass as the man pours himself another cup. He has seen dozens of empty grappa bottles, covered in large amounts of leftover pasta, lying amongst their trash every week, and he wonders why the apartment children don’t take this food.

He stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room listening to their muffled argument above the din of the streets below: the pedestrian crossing, the cars. They shout in Italian at one another, which he cannot understand. He looks across the living room in the weak light, the walls pale and faded except for where pictures once hung—now hoarded away in the night by the children; the carpet ripped up revealing a concrete floor; the room furnished with a single wooden chair and a television set. He sits, feeling his fat squeeze in around the rungs on the back of the chair and watches The Price Is Right.

HE THINKS OF the things he wants to buy: anti-wrinkle cream, an abdominal stretching device.

During a commercial break he orders Chinese from The Golden Duck. They deliver direct to the door, which he likes because he hates carrying food wrapped in supermarket bags up seven flights of stairs if the elevator is out of order—and it invariably is. Vandals kick the switch box, short-circuiting the fuses or bend the doors so they won’t close. The apartment children also take the fluorescent light bulbs in the hallway and the stairwell, so it is always dark down there, even during the day. He shivers at the thought of tripping over the soiled baby nappies that lie discarded on the stairs.

He orders from the pink menu card, calling out the numbers of the dishes as he does so, because he cannot pronounce the names of the exotic foods, and if he says their English translations, the voice on the end of the line, unable to understand, asks him to repeat.

He orders six steamed marbled eggs for an appetizer and an extra large side of fried rice, because he loves the taste of spring onion and soy mixed together; a dozen deep-fried wontons and a container of thick egg noodles; a Szechwan-style roast duck soaked in extra marinade. He also orders an upsized helping of braised fish and prawn rolls and an extra large bowl of Hai Yook Dahn Gung crab and egg soup, with yam mash. And instead of his usual sweet and sow pork dish, he decides to order the Cold Chicken in Oyster Sauce, because he prefers cold meat to hot food in this heat. For dessert, he settles upon Mandarin Pancakes with extra citrus syrup and whipped cream.

He hangs up, happy that food is on the way and shuffles quickly through the kitchen to the bedroom, where he draws the dirty calico curtains. He hears someone on the street yelling “Rhonda, Rhonda” up to an apartment window, but he concentrates on the task at hand, peering around, making sure no one is looking (especially the apartment children), before going down on all fours upon the floor.

He places his head onto the carpet so he can see under the bed. It is dark and he finds himself in another world. Lint. Dirt. Cockroaches scurry away into the depths as he stretches his hand out. He pulls out a raggedy shoebox—size fourteen—and takes the lid off.

There is a small bundle of deteriorating photographs on the top of the box; photos in which he is a chubby child, a teenager playing lacrosse, a student drinking beer at a fraternity party, a newlywed cutting a wedding cake. He looks, slowly, at each photograph—the flash of light followed by the exposure—trying to remember the moment when it was taken.

He cannot remember, not even cutting the cake.

A hissing cockroach scuttles out from behind a photograph onto his hand before dropping onto the floor.

“Rhonda, Rhonda.”

He slaps his palm down crushing the cockroach and wipes the carcass from off his hand onto the bedspread before placing the remaining bundle of photographs aside. With the curtains pulled shut, it has become hot and stuffy in the bedroom. Beads of sweat form on his forehead again. Wiping the sweat away with a bare arm, he dips his other hand back into the box and pulls out a small wad of old twenty-dollar bills. He takes three and places the rest, carefully, back into the box before pushing it under the bed.

He returns to the living room, sits in front of the television, and watches the final elimination round of The Price Is Right, thinking of the things he wants to buy: an electrolysis kit, a buckwheat thermo pillow with matching trim doilies.

“Rhonda, Rhonda.”

WHEN THE DOORBELL rings during Wheel of Fortune, he opens the door and finds a small Chinese delivery boy, malnourished and runt-like, standing in front of him. The smell of the Oriental food is overwhelming. The boy holds two large bags—each filled with plastic containers and parcels wrapped in foil—in both arms and a penlight torch in his mouth. The aroma makes his mouth water in anticipation. He hurries the boy inside in case the hungry apartment children smell the food and come looking for its source.

Inside, the Chinese boy sets the bags down in front of him and takes a pink paper slip from his pocket offering it up to him. Taking it, his eyes scan over each item of the paper slip, written solely in Chinese, and then to the corresponding price. He does not know which item is which, so he tries to make a joke out of it by comparing the contents of each plastic bag with the Chinese characters on the bill. The boy’s face is blank. He rubs his thumb and forefingers together trying to indicate money. The delivery boy points to the bill. At the bottom the slip is totaled sixty-three dollars.

As he offers the notes to the boy, he realizes he does not have enough money. He thinks of giving an item back but cannot bear the thought of losing one single dish from his meal. He turns back into the kitchen and looks around. He stands on tiptoes, reaching above the cupboard. Cockroaches fall down onto the floor and scatter on the linoleum surface before disappearing under the stove and fridge. The delivery boy looks on, silent.

He pulls down a glass jar and stirs his finger around in it before emptying it onto his palm. He counts out one dollar seventy among the dust and gives it to the boy. He anxiously flips over a plate on the kitchen bench. The smell of leftover food, rotting in the heat, surrounds him as he reaches for an old honey jar above the kitchen sink. Disorientated blowflies—fat with eggs—land on his head and the welts on his shoulders. He takes the jar, flicking the flies away, and finds four fifty-cent pieces inside. He gives the coins to the delivery boy. The boy stands for a moment, his face calm and expressionless, before turning back through the doorway.

He grabs the bags and moves into the living room.

A contestant on Wheel of Fortune buys a vowel.

He unpacks the food, holding up each item, sniffing its aroma, before tearing open the wrapping and placing the containers in a large semi-circle upon the floor.

HE BEGINS EATING the marbled eggs first, popping them one-by-one into his mouth, one after another. He scoops handfuls of fried rice and shovels it onto his tongue. With a plastic fork, he ladles the egg noodles and braised fish and prawn rolls into helpings and stuffs them into his mouth, alternating with the fried rice and wontons. The food is ecstasy.

He takes the roast duck from its styrofoam tray and, holding it with both hands, bites into the soft flesh, the yellow marinade smearing across his face. Trails of juice drip off his chin and hands onto his trousers and singlet. Placing the half-eaten duck back into its tray, he wipes his hands on the paper napkins provided with the meal and selects the cold chicken in oyster sauce. He rips a drumstick off with one hand and a wing off with the other and begins chewing on them as soon as he has swallowed the last mouthful of duck.

The winning contestant on Wheel of Fortune—amid cheers from the audience—decides to come back for another night.

When he has finished picking the chicken and duck clean, he drinks the egg and crab soup directly from its plastic container. He spills little down his chest as he gulps the thick liquid.

He sits on the floor surveying the empty containers lying around his body and waits. When the belch comes, it brings the full zest of the meal back into his mouth—oyster, chicken, duck, egg, and fried rice made into one sumptuous flavor.

After the belching subsides, he opens the pancakes and pours the citrus syrup over them. He ladles the cream in large dollops over the syrup and forks the cakes into his mouth, writhing in pleasure as each pancake enters his mouth—the combined flavor of cream and mandarin so sweet on his tongue.

He gathers the empty containers, along with the chicken and duck carcasses, and places them back into the plastic bags in front of him. A black cockroach has already climbed into one of the containers and feeds on a small piece of crab. He picks the cockroach up and holds it by its wings. Its antennae twitch as it tries to free itself. It emits a small, frightened, clicking noise. He crushes it between his thumb and forefinger, examining the pus that surges from its abdomen.

He places the dead cockroach into his mouth and swallows it.

***

IT IS 4:30 a.m. and not yet light. The tapping in the wall continues and it keeps him awake. He tries lying on his side with his head and back to the wall, but his arm and then his whole left side goes numb, so he lies on his back—making it hard for him to breathe. It is also stifling hot inside—he closed the windows before he went to bed—and now, naked, he keeps only one sheet covering his body out of habit.

He itches the welts on his back. He stares at the small blots of fly droppings on the ceiling, and thinks of the things he wants to buy: a porta-home gym, a leatherette handbag, an organizer set.

The baby next-door starts crying, a muffled sob through the thin concrete wall. It hasn’t cried all night, which is unusual, especially in the heat. He thinks it is not being feed. When he has seen its mother, she is always sickly looking, too thin.

Someone on the floor below is knocking on the ceiling of their apartment with a broom. He can hear it going, thud, thud, thud—but the baby continues crying regardless.

He gets out of bed, throwing the sweat-drenched sheet from his body, and stumbles into the kitchen. Cockroaches mating on the linoleum tiles scatter awkwardly under the stove and fridge or into the cupboards. He searches for an empty container to pour water into. Fumbling in the dark, he locates a cup in the sink. Looking into it, he thinks he can see something move, but he cannot be sure. He tips the cup upside down above the pile of dishes, bump, bump, bump, and fills it with water.

The water is warm because the pipes run along the black bitumen roof atop the apartment building, but right now he doesn’t mind as long as it quenches his thirst. He drinks, gulping the liquid down, pours himself another cupful and opens the kitchen window.

A pre-dawn breeze blows onto his naked body.

He stares out the window at the apartment buildings opposite—the Titan, the Lincoln Heights—old and crumbling like his own, the King Edward. All the windows are open, but there are no lights on—it is still early. He looks down onto the street. An all-night street cleaner empties a garbage can and a few taxis sit parked in a queue.

He shuffles into the living room and switches on the television. He gulps down the last of the water and stands watching an infomercial for an economizer tie rack. It can fit 36 ties onto a circular clipping system. He watches the infomercial, silently reciting the words in time with the blond hostess, a former model. He has seen this one many times and enjoys the choice of the Bahamas location.

He switches the television off and turns back toward the kitchen. In the gray light, he notices that the room is empty except for the television set.

The wooden chair is gone.

HE ORDERS LUNCH from the Malaysian Satay Noodle House. But they will only deliver to the apartment building entrance. The last time he was down in the entrance it was spring, but now the heat of autumn has arrived.

He orders Roti bread and deep-fried tofu because he wants to eat healthily. He also orders a large-sized bowl of Tom Yum soup, four spring rolls, Beef Rendang with coconut rice, Bandung chicken curry with a potato soup side dish, and Nasi Lemak with extra eggs and peanuts.

He stands in front of the mirror, his left hand digging into his neck while trying to do the top button of his shirt with his right hand. He cannot; his neck is too big, and if he could get it, he is sure he would not be able to breathe. He stands back, his arms pressing into his stomach, and smiles weakly. Each button on the shirt is stressed, accentuating his chest and rotund belly.

Sweat marks have already formed—spreading like ink stains—under the armpits. He is wearing slippers because he cannot tie his own shoelaces, and his trousers are supported by a pair of brown suspenders. He brushes the hair on his head over the rapidly-forming bald spot, attempting to provide the illusion of a full head of hair.

He wonders, as he flicks the tortoiseshell comb through the long strands, what it would be like to go shopping at a supermarket.

HIS BODY DRIPS in sweat, but he attempts to look calm. Groups of people pass him speaking in foreign languages to one another. Laughing. He does not understand what they are saying but is certain that they are talking about him. His fatness. His thinning hair. His fluffy slippers. His un-ironed shirt. They look at him and he glances away, down at the next step or to his shaking hand clasping, weakly, at the handrail.

His legs are sore. The flights of stairs seem endless. It is like a science fiction movie—the stairs going down in a never-ending spiral. The heat is overpowering, as is the smell of urine and feces on warm concrete, and only the spectrum windows above each flight shed any light upon the steps of the stairwell.

He pants, out of breath, and as he approaches the foyer door hesitates, deciding how best to gather his nerves. A black cleaner stands hunched with a mop and bucket by the lift, which has a sign posted above the floor numbers: out of order. The foyer is filled with dehydrated, mini palm trees and wilting indoor plants. He shuffles across the black-and-white checkered floor toward his mailbox, which he has not emptied in six weeks.

Mr. Felix A. Tuck, apartment 7a. The box is overflowing with brightly-colored catalogs from mail-order companies, the Reader’s Digest annual lottery, and bills from the gas and telephone companies. He empties the box, neatly gathering up the catalogs and bills in his arms.

It is not yet noon, but the ceiling fan is whirring around at full speed. He wants to stay inside in the cool air, but he knows the delivery boys will now only come to the steps; if he is not there, they will leave straight away.

It was only a month ago that a Mexican delivery boy was found lying in a pool of his own blood, having been stabbed several times in the back. It was in a corridor of an apartment building just his. Empty Taco Box taco and burrito wrappers were found lying around the corpse. They showed a picture of the dead body on the evening television news, and he was fascinated by the way the khaki top the boy was wearing went a deep purple where it was touched by blood. Other food deliverers have also been badly beaten, and it seems like there’s a new attack on the news every night. In all the incidents, no money was taken; only food. He blames this apparent surge in crime on the apartment children: filthy and always hungry.

He pushes into the revolving door as a short, stern-faced woman enters from the foyer. He says hello, smiling nervously during their few seconds in the spinning compartment together before being spewed out onto the steps. She says nothing and walks away across the street.

The heat is oppressive and the sun glares bright in his eyes. This is the first time he has left the building in three months or, maybe, longer. He cannot remember. And it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight before he can see properly again.

He sits on the steps, hot from the morning sun. The pavement is crowded with pedestrians, and he finds that at street level the noise of the city is more immediate and threatening than from his apartment. A humidity that wasn’t apparent in the fan-cooled foyer engulfs the street between the high-rise buildings. He wants to go back inside—the heat, the noise. The green vein in his neck bulges, and he cannot stop sweating.

He thinks of the things he wants to buy: a rapid-teeth-whitening treatment kit, gel-based athletic shoe inner soles.

Across the pavement, a food vendor serves two women a large hotdog each. They cover their buns in thick streaks of ketchup and mustard. The smoke from the rotisserie envelops the street, carrying with it the heavy smell of fried onion and grease in its hazy cloud.

People seem to be coming, passing by, in every direction. They crowd in, avoiding each other’s eyes. The heat. He feels nauseated, so he tries to place his head between his knees—like an imminent-plane-crash maneuver he’s seen on television. He wants to vomit. The people crowd in closer, pressing at his feet. He needs to get back inside. If he could just get back inside he’d feel all right. He feels a sharp pain and then a contraction in his throat and stomach. He tries standing, feeling groggy, and turns back up the steps, the moist feeling in his mouth before the first retch comes. He trips, missing a step—the catalogs scattering—and lies, beached, upon the stairs with his belly pressing hard against the concrete. A trace of blood appears from his forehead. Dried pigeon droppings stick to his shirt. He gropes for the handkerchief in his pocket. The people walk by steely-eyed. They do not stop. He wants to be back inside and in front of the television again. He wants to give the questions on Jeopardy. His stomach contracts for a second time, and he dry retches again, a small amount of spittle dribbling from his mouth onto the cloth. Placing his hands upon the steps, he tries to heave himself up, but he cannot.

He thinks of the things he wants to buy: an electronic spell-checker, latex breast enlargers.

He places one hand in front of him and tries crawling up one step at a time. Slowly, he makes his way up the stairs. The city continues around him. People laugh and click in strange tongues as he crawls along the hot concrete toward the revolving doors.

His trousers wear on the coarse concrete, shredding at the knees. He pushes into the revolving door, turning it gradually as he inches forward. He collapses, finally exhausted, the door halfway through a turn. A sharp pain surges into his chest.

People come to the door from both sides and try to push it around. They want to get into or leave the building. His body wedges the door so it cannot rotate. People yell at him from both sides in various languages. They press against the glass, smudging it with their dirty faces. They push to turn the door, but he is stuck in one of the compartments. They want to get into or leave the building.

As the pain surges through his chest, he thinks of the things he wants to buy: a solar meat thawer, a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle of Antarctica.

The people gather, crowding around him, wanting to get into or leave the building.

Tim Croft is from North Canterbury, New Zealand. He holds an MA in Creative Writing from Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand and an MFA from the University of Alabama.