TENANTS
Architect, n. One who drafts a plan of your house and plans a draft of your money.
— Ambrose Bierce. The Devil’s Dictionary, New York: Bantam, 1991, p. 9 (orig. publ. 1911)
House, n. A hollow edifice erected for the habitation of man, rat, mouse, beetle, cockroach, fly, mosquito, flea, bacillus and microbe.
— op. cit., 73
I’m on location at 25 Main Street. A few days ago, while the homeowners were on vacation, their housekeeper went missing.
My name is Joe Flyday. I’m the chief investigator at Fly-on-the-Wall Surveillance, Inc. I’m a private eye—technically, private eyes, since I have 10,000 of them—and there’s not much that escapes my compound vision. My job is to interview the tenants of the house. All I want are the facts.
“No idea where she is. Who cares? We won’t miss her. There we were, a few weeks back, minding our own business, just scampering around in the attic. It’s nice and warm up here since the new R60 insulation went in. Then, bang! Just like that! Grabbed by a pair of rough leather gloves. Stuffed like rodents into tiny cages. Dumped into a van. Shipped off to some god-forsaken forest. Thanks to that rat-fink rotten housekeeper. The kids were a mess. Took us all week to find our way back and chew a new entry in the soffit. If those chirpy birds would just pipe down. We need some rest. It’s been a tough week.”
SKYROCKET “ROCKY” SQUIRREL, in the attic.
CHRISTOPHER M. ROBIN, under the porch ceiling.
“We relocate at least twice a year. Come winter, you’ll usually find us at our little place in West Palm. In the spring, we fly north and check out the market. We like to summer here. Naturally, we gravitate toward upscale neighbourhoods. Quieter people. Nicer houses. We like this place. It’s got a big porch, so we stay nice and dry. Things were fine until for some reason, the housekeeper went berserk, poking at our nest with a broom. So, I can't say we miss her. Tomorrow our kids start their flying lessons, then we’re empty-nesters again, free as the proverbial birds. But that hungry-looking housecat worries us.”
GREGOR SAMSA COCKROACH, in the bookcase in the Den.
“Go ahead and ask. Everybody does. It is an odd name for an arthropod. Evidently, my mother was eating her way through a novel by Franz Kafka—as you know, we cockroaches love, love books—anyway, there was this character in the story that reminded her of our family. Personally, I devour as much good literature as possible, which is one reason why I love this house: lots of bookcases. As I was chewing a science book the other day, I noticed an essay about cockroaches surviving a nuclear war. Great. Just us and several million plastic bags. Anyway, last week, I was eating a book by Don Marquis called Archy and Mehitabel. It’s about a cockroach and a cat and I was wondering if maybe the housecat and I could team up and do something about that fastidious housekeeper who keeps rearranging the books and dusting away my carefully placed egg cases. She’s missing? Wie schade.”
VINNIE THE CAT, everywhere, especially in the family room looking out the window.
“I’m chill so long as I get the run of the house. Some days there’s a nice patch of sun in the living room, where I can stretch out. Mostly, I like to stare out the back door. Life is good. But lately, there’s this cockroach that won’t stop bugging me. What is his damage, anyway? I would squash him and eat him if roaches didn’t taste so terrible. Which is another thing. My family left for vacation—said they’d be back on Sunday—and that lazy housekeeper was supposed to feed me. Now she’s missing? Great. No way I'm foraging and hunting at my age! The mice are staying out of sight, but those fledglings out on the porch are looking tasty.”
E. J. HOOVER MOUSE, Behind the dining room china cabinet.
“Housekeeper? Is that what she calls herself? The only thing she uses the broom for is swiping at small defenseless creatures. If it weren’t for us, the floor would be covered in crumbs. Now that lazy cat, is starting to worry us as well. Our family has lived in this house for generations. There used to be thick partition walls and lots of dusty alcoves. Our family always had a nicely chewed arched doorway, like in the comics. Then the place got renovated, so now we’re stuck with this “modernized home,” with drywall, steel studs and plastic mouldings. We’re lucky we found this cramped niche, behind a missing piece of PVC baseboard. Still . . . it beats living outside.”
CHIPPER TERMITE, basement floor joists.
“Please. Keep your voice down. [Whispering] Look, our family has been around since before the dinosaurs. And we're still here. And look at the architecture we’ve created. Cousin Gregor—one of those horrible cockroaches—showed me a book that had pictures of high-rise termites mounds in Africa—cathedrals made from living trees—meanwhile, here we are, reduced to munching slowly through milled softwood lumber, creating tunnels which, by the way, that philistine housekeeper seems determined to destroy.”
OCTAVIAN FILLIGREE SPIDER, Under the basement stairs.
“People are forever talking about ‘the web,’ like they invented it. Check out this web, which I just finished—while it's still here. That housekeeper has no eye for structural form. A few days back, she took one look at my masterpiece and scurried off to find her broom. She could be back any minute. Look, excuse my manners. Why don’t you hop into my dining room. Make yourself at home and stick around for a while. Just give me a few minutes to clear away the remains of my last dinner guests.”
ANONYMOUS BOGEYPERSON, downstairs storage room.
“In the good old days, we had the run of the house. But our preference was to stay in the cellar. Nobody bothered us there, except when they had to stoke the furnace or retrieve some root vegetables. Nowadays, alas, we’re relegated to left-over spaces – underneath beds, crammed into tiny closets and jumbled storage rooms. It’s not like it used to be. Now everybody has nightlights, nursery monitors, CCTV cameras, motion detectors and the like. Sneakiness is a thing of the past. Scaring kids is getting harder every day.
“But we’ve kept up with the times. We’re bogeypersons now, not bogeymen (We’ll never accept being called boogeymen), in recognition of the many women and members of the queer community that have always swelled our ranks.
“So, you’re looking for the housekeeper? Strangest thing: Last Wednesday, that frightening woman barged into this very storage room, looking for a broom, mumbling something about spiders and mice and birds and ‘freeloading tenants.’ All I said was “Excuse me?” and she went all pallid and stiff as a board, eyes popping out, mouth agape. Is it really possible to scare someone to death? I never thought so, but she’s over there on the floor, hasn’t moved in three days and she’s covered in those horrid flies. Sorry. No offence.”