March 12, 2011
The baby upstairs was crying again while I tried to think up a fairy tale for Larry DeSantis, who bowled lane three every Monday/Wednesday/Friday, and who was beginning to feel disrespected because for three days I’d come up empty. The crying wouldn’t stop for hours and was making me crazy. I screamed back. I got off the Barca recliner that I’d burst a heart-vessel haggling for at the Army-Navy, took a hammer from my toolbox, and hurled it again and again at the ceiling until my floor was covered in paint chips. Nothing stopped the baby’s wailing. Nothing. I sat down again and bit my thumbnail until the skin ripped and blood formed at the cuticle. More screaming from upstairs. Finally I licked my thumb and went up there to tell the baby’s parents to shut the baby the hell up. It was enough already.