Mise-en-scène
—
Dodge Zelko
THE HOUSE WOULDN’T BE THE SAME to her after tonight. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window, the fire escape, sensing her date behind her, frozen in the doorway. He was doubting his sanity perhaps, or fending off a lethal dose of déjà vu. From the dark street he hadn’t recognized the house. He let out a moan, a guffaw, a strange hybrid of both. She heard him retreat and jangle the keys in his jacket pocket. She heard the door of her unit open and slam shut.
The unit was one of four in a converted Tudor. The manager lived on the property and had warned all the tenants, her especially , about a documentary set to premiere at a local festival, even going so far as to post a flyer by the vestibule cautioning never to buzz in strangers. A few crazies had already come by, cupping their faces to the glass, breathing fog and pigging their noses. They took selfies on the sidewalk. Souvenir shots. After the festival, the manager said, their macabre behavior would only escalate.
One day she’d been collecting mail in the unlocked vestibule. Luckily the manager was there too, because a man barged in and cornered her, asking repeatedly whether she lived in unit four. The manager swatted him with a rolled-up Tribune. A fatherly figure, he promised to keep an extra close watch on her door. “In case any of those jackals ever manage to sneak in.” He would’ve permitted her to paint the walls—a happy raspberry, she had in mind—only it went against her lease. “You see, dear, I’m just a glorified caretaker.” And so her bedroom remained gray, with a pale perfect rectangle on the wall where for years a movie poster had hung. The Big Sleep, she now knew.
Another time, while she lay reading in bed, a photographic flash cut through the window. She’d run to the sill as someone scrambled down the fire escape, upsetting a water glass on her way over, stubbing her toe on the old iron radiator. Overtaken by fear, she hurled profanities into the street. The echoes didn’t belong to her. She drew the curtains and softly cried.
She was on the apps, as they say, where she’d found a handsome postgraduate who agreed the documentary sounded interesting, albeit grim for a first date. They met at the theater, sat center-left in the darkened auditorium, and when she recognized her building, with its turret and gables, its verdigris and ivy, she hitched a breath.
The killer had recorded and posted his crime. Early viewers, even authorities, initially doubted its authenticity. It all took place in a gray room: first the intercourse, then the woman seated on the bed, facing the window, the fire escape, as a naked man gripping a hatchet sidled up from behind. The film contained a harrowing freeze frame of this moment, with certain anatomy blurred out. Floating between the figures, unblurred, were Bogie and Bacall.
She never invited men up on a first date. However, tonight, she couldn’t bear to be alone. •
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Dodge Zelko is a mailman and a Midwest lifer. When he’s not jamming bills in your box, he’s hard at work on his novel.
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The unit was one of four in a converted Tudor. The manager lived on the property and had warned all the tenants, her especially , about a documentary set to premiere at a local festival, even going so far as to post a flyer by the vestibule cautioning never to buzz in strangers. A few crazies had already come by, cupping their faces to the glass, breathing fog and pigging their noses. They took selfies on the sidewalk. Souvenir shots. After the festival, the manager said, their macabre behavior would only escalate.
One day she’d been collecting mail in the unlocked vestibule. Luckily the manager was there too, because a man barged in and cornered her, asking repeatedly whether she lived in unit four. The manager swatted him with a rolled-up Tribune. A fatherly figure, he promised to keep an extra close watch on her door. “In case any of those jackals ever manage to sneak in.” He would’ve permitted her to paint the walls—a happy raspberry, she had in mind—only it went against her lease. “You see, dear, I’m just a glorified caretaker.” And so her bedroom remained gray, with a pale perfect rectangle on the wall where for years a movie poster had hung. The Big Sleep, she now knew.
Another time, while she lay reading in bed, a photographic flash cut through the window. She’d run to the sill as someone scrambled down the fire escape, upsetting a water glass on her way over, stubbing her toe on the old iron radiator. Overtaken by fear, she hurled profanities into the street. The echoes didn’t belong to her. She drew the curtains and softly cried.
She was on the apps, as they say, where she’d found a handsome postgraduate who agreed the documentary sounded interesting, albeit grim for a first date. They met at the theater, sat center-left in the darkened auditorium, and when she recognized her building, with its turret and gables, its verdigris and ivy, she hitched a breath.
The killer had recorded and posted his crime. Early viewers, even authorities, initially doubted its authenticity. It all took place in a gray room: first the intercourse, then the woman seated on the bed, facing the window, the fire escape, as a naked man gripping a hatchet sidled up from behind. The film contained a harrowing freeze frame of this moment, with certain anatomy blurred out. Floating between the figures, unblurred, were Bogie and Bacall.
She never invited men up on a first date. However, tonight, she couldn’t bear to be alone. •
Dodge Zelko is a mailman and a Midwest lifer. When he’s not jamming bills in your box, he’s hard at work on his novel.