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Fishing his keys from his jeans, he was about to stick them in the lock of the security door when it opened suddenly. Standing there, all four feet of her, was his mean next-door neighbor. Weston didn't know her name. She probably didn't know his either. She simply called him "Loud Man. " Every twenty minutes she would bang on the wall between their apartments, screaming about him making noise. If he turned on the TV, she'd bang - even when it was at its lowest setting. If the phone rang, she'd bang. When the microwave beeped, she'd bang. She even banged while he was brushing his teeth.
He'd called the landlord about her, three times. On each occasion, Weston got the brush-off.
"She's eccentric," he was told. "No family. You should ignore her. "
Easy for the landlord to say. How do you ignore someone who won't let you into your own door?
Weston tried to step around her, but the old woman folded her arms and didn't budge. She had light brown skin, and some sort of fabric tied to the top of her head. Weston couldn't help staring at her ears, which had distinctive, gypsy-like gold hoops dangling from them. The ears themselves were huge, probably larger than Weston's hands. Maybe if his ears were that big, he'd complain all the time about noise, too.
Her dog, some sort of tiny toy breed with long fur and a mean disposition, saw Weston and began to yap at him, straining against his leash. It had a large gold tag on his collar that read ROMI.
"Excuse me," Weston said, trying to get by.
The old woman stayed put. So did Romi.
"I said, excuse me. "
She pointed a crooked old finger at him.
"Loud Man! You keep noise down!"
"They have these things called earplugs," Weston said. "I think they come in extra large. "
She began to scream at him in a high-pitched native tongue that sounded a lot like "BLAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAA-LEEEE-LAAAA-BLAAA!" Romi matched her, yipping right along. Weston took it for about ten seconds, and then pushed past, heading for his apartment. The chorus followed him inside.
Though it was early, Weston yawned, then yawned again. He hung his keys on a hook next to the door, switched the TV on to one setting above MUTE, and sat on the sofa. There was dog hair on the carpet, which made no sense, because Weston had no dog.
But the crazy old lady
had a dog.
Could she be getting in my apartment somehow?
Panicked, Weston did a quick tour, looking for anything missing or out of place. He came up empty, but to his shame he realized he was picking up everything smaller than a matchbook and sticking it in his pockets. He took these items and placed them in a junk drawer in the kitchen.
For some reason, this act drained him of his last drop of energy, and the sun had barely even gone down. He sat back down on the couch, switched to the SciFi Channel, and closed his eyes for just a few seconds.
A ringing sound woke Weston up. He was naked on the kitchen floor, the sun streaming in through the windows. Weston automatically smacked his lips, checking to see if he could taste anything odd. Then he got to his knees and reached for the phone on the counter.
"Mr. Smith? This is Dr. Waggoner's office calling. Please hold for the doctor. "
Weston scratched his chest, listening to Neil Diamond singing to a chair who apparently didn't hear him.
"Weston? This is Dr. Waggoner. How did you sleep last night?"
"Not well," he said, noting his nude body.
"Remember to keep your appointment with the psychiatrist today. And also, it wouldn't hurt to see a dentist as well. We got the lab report from your stool sample. It contained three molars. "
"Teeth?"
"Yes. Your teeth. There was also a shoelace, and a silver cross on a necklace. The lab is sending the cross over to my office later, in case you'd like to pick it up. It will be cleaned first, of course. "
"Doctor, I . . . "
Dr. Waggoner hung up before Weston could finish, " . . . don't own a silver cross. "
He got to his feet and padded over to the bathroom, opening wide for the mirror. Weston wasn't missing any molars. Each of his teeth was in its proper place.
