Crickets, pt. 2

Eventually you get used to the crickets. They’re everywhere, invisible, but everywhere. You wake up to the sound of crickets, you go to sleep to the sound of crickets, you work all day to the sound of cricket, and when you finally get home, the sound of crickets bounces off every wall. I hate the word “cricket”. I hate the sound. Even though I barely notice them these days, sometimes they drive me crazy.

The crickets aren’t as bad as Them, though. Crickets don’t change much, always playing the same tune. They sometimes sound like opera, sometimes like machine guns, sometimes like a woman breathing into your ear.

The little man in the mirror can talk to the crickets and to Them. He tells me what they’re thinking, what they’re saying. I often think this is rather strange, but the little man in the mirror is a strange fellow. He has a dog’s head and can do things I can’t. Maybe I’m too big or too human something. He only appears on that side of the mirror, never this side. He tells me its too cold over here, even though he is covered in fur. But he still talks to me through the mirror, keeps me company when I’m shaving.

“Have you thought of a name for me yet?” he asks as I am cleaning stubble out of the sink. / “No,” I reply, as if this is obvious. “Why do you need a name?” / The little man shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “They say I need one.” / They. “Who are they?” / He frowns. “I told you yesterday-” / “I didn’t see you yesterday,” I interrupt. “You were gone.” / “The day before yesterday,” he tells me. “I told you the day before yesterday.” / “I don’t remember. Tell me again.” / “You have a very bad memory.” I don’t, of course. I just want to hear him say it again; sometimes I lie to see if he’ll say the same thing twice. I’m not entirely sure I can trust the little man in the mirror. When he smiles, it’s feral, like a German Shepherd. / “Them,” he replies, sighing, as if telling me these things again is a great burden he must bear. “They tell me that I need a name. They tell me that you’ll give me one.” / I think about this for a moment, while putting away my razor. “What will happen if I don’t?” / The little man in the mirror shrugs again. “Do you want to find out?” / “I suppose not,” I reply. “It’s not a big thing, giving you a name.” / “It is to me,” he says, shortly. Then he walks off to the side of the mirror. I wait for a few seconds, but he doesn’t come back.

I flip the light switch and the bulb begins to power down, buzzing. It flickers and goes out.

There’s a knock on my apartment door, which of course means the bun lady is here. When I swing the door wide open the crickets let out a burst of noise as if annoyed. It echoes in my head as I say, “Hello,” to the bun lady. / Hello, she replies in her own way. Would you like some buns? / “Of course,” I say, accepting the basket. “Would you like some money?” / For you, she says, smiling kindly, no charge. Her teeth are very sharp; I can see them gleam as her mouth stretches out wide. Her mouth seems to go from ear to ear. / “Thank you,” I reply. The bun lady makes the best buns in the world and never charges me. “Would you like to come in?” / No, she says. Perhaps someday, but not now. She is looking at me with that thing in her eyes, that thing I sometimes think is desire. / “Oh.” Sadly. I would very much like to talk to her someday, and make her a meal. / You will make a good one, the bun lady says. I do not know what she means, but she has stopped smiling and is looking down the hall. I must go.

Edith walks past after the bun lady leaves. “Talking to the bun lady?” she asks, looking at me sympathetically. Edith has an odd way about her, always looking at things as if they are to be pitied. / “Yes,” I say, nodding. “She gave me more buns.” / Edith gazes down at my hand holding the basket of buns, and says, “Of course she did, honey, of course she did.” / But I do not like Edith, so I turn and walk back into my apartment. I close the door, and when I look through the tiny telescope, she has moved on.

Later, I eat the buns without butter — where can you get butter these days? — and they are, as always, delicious. I begin to feel drowsy off with the food in my stomach, and I crawl into bed. I doze off to the sound of crickets. In my last moments of consciousness, I know I will wake to them as well.

I dream of a world without sound.

A woman is smiling at me, a woman I know instantly as my wife, putting on a jacket. She mouths I love you, see you at six. When she leaves the house, opening and closing the door behind her, I catch a glimpse of the sprinkler watering the lawn. It moves in beautiful silent precision, thwack thwack thwack, until it reaches the end of its orbit and reverses rapidly to begin again where it started. A calm spring day. I see this in under a second. When I feel my son grab my leg, I am somehow not surprised. He is in the habit of grabbing my leg, because he is too short to grab my arm. I ruffle his dark hair without looking, careful not to get tangled in the curls. I am immensely happy in this moment, though I am aware that I do not have a job, and need to get one. But first, breakfast.

The crickets begin humming as I get out of bed, wiping the grit from my eyes. There is nothing to eat here, though I am ravenous. I think about all the food in that other kitchen, that place I can only go when I am elsewhere in dreams.

I stop by the cafe, walking from my apartment in the half-light of morning. Julie serves me with her usual silence; she is unlike anything else in the world, and I love her more than I should, I know. But I can hardly help it. She is good coffee and good food and an unusual lack of noise.

When I have stirred a bit of powdered cream into my coffee I ask, “What would you name a little man with a dog’s head?” / She blinks at me, as if I have said something odd. “I – I – I -” she says, her lips moving as if there are more words in there. / “You must have multiple personalities,” I say, making a joke. / She turns her head away, and her body follows, the void where she was standing suddenly filled with noise. They are laughing at me, not at my joke, but at something else. I am not sure.

I take the crickets home with me, it seems. As I reach my apartment building and push open the doors, they reach a crescendo, and I become annoyed with them as I haven’t in a long while. I enter quickly, padding my way over scuffed carpet to the elevator. Inside, the fan clicks and clicks and clicks as it spins, pushing more dirty air into the dirty air.

The bun lady is standing in front of my apartment. I approach, and she reads the question in my eyes. / I know, she tells me, the faint smell of embarrassment about her. I don’t usually come here this early. / I unlock my apartment door, nodding. “Yes,” I say, still nodding. I am not sure what to say. “Yes.” / I need a favour. She smells of embarrassment still, but in her eyes is that something I call desire. A little something. / “You want some dinner finally?” I ask her, knowing full well I have nothing to give her. / Yes. No! she replies. Just a little something. A finger. / Confused, I say, “A finger?” / Whichever one you like the least. / “Second from the middle on my left hand,” I tell her, pointing with my other hand. “I’ve never cared for that one.” Later, I cannot recall why I chose that one. / I may have it? she asks, grinning her sharp-toothed grin. I may have it? / “I suppose,” I say, not quite sure what she means. / She is very quick, lifting my hand and biting the finger off. Perhaps I scream as she does this, perhaps I do not scream because of the shock. I can see my finger tucked into the corner of her mouth. Thank you, she says. She begins to run off, and almost as an afterthought drops a basket of buns on my floor like an offering.

The door across from mine opens and Jessica looks out, chewing on a pencil. “What’s going on?” she says, looking up and down the hall. I am staring in blunt horror at my hand, where a finger is missing, the stump where it was cauterised as if an iron had been pressed against it. “Are you all right?”

“My finger!” I squeal. I almost scream it out. Jessica, I realise, is wearing very little, just a slight robe, a funny sort of thing to notice when you’re in excruciating pain.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, laying a hand on my arm. “You’ll be fine.”

The pain abates for a moment. Jessica has dulled it, has made it go away. “I’ll be fine,” I repeat, nodding idiotically.

I close the door as the pain roars back. I lay down in bed and beg Them to make it stop. But They are apparently busy doing something else. When I think about them, I can almost hear a bowling alley. I have not thought of bowling alleys for a long time.

Much later that night I lapse into some sort of delirium, and dream of a world without pain.