Not Carter House
June 24 2020

Slather hated his apartment complex. Let’s start with that. Every day at Raven Acres Deluxe Gardens, he could smell what all the neighbors were cooking. And they could smell his. Cooking. Family ruckus? Everyone knew about it. Everyone knew which mom yelled the loudest at her kids. Everyone knew which teenagers were trouble. The upstairs family, up early with clumping and pounding – pets and kids racing about and up late with band practice and clumping and pounding – kids and pets racing about.

Have you ever lived in low-income housing? Raven Acres was designed to house 150 families, most of whom qualified for Section 8 housing assistance. The rest were simply poor or frugal or both.

The songs if you could call them songs that came from the upstairs at night were awful. Menacing screaming driving shrill intense. Not music. You’d have to agree there was nothing musical about it. Slather couldn’t make out the lyrics though one night he’d tried. Hog is mad. Dog is fried. God is dead. AAAAHHHHHHGGGRRRRAAAAA.

Mysta wore her headphones at night and drank whiskey sours. She played a game – something online that involved taking care of an animated farm or village. She settled down to that in the evenings, after they’d come home from work and fed on random bits of this or that. Hot Pockets or Taco Bell or the $10 takeout from a bar that used to be their favorite bar.

Used to be. Now closed, like all the bars in the time of the Covid. That’s how they’d sheltered in place for the first few months, with bottles delivered from BevMo. He tipped the Instacart drivers generously.

So many families, though, sheltering in place right next to them, their kids all playing together all day long and their parents chatting through doors and windows. Most of the folks who lived at Raven Acres were essential workers. The pool and playground was closed but that wasn’t keeping everyone six feet apart.

Everyone was home and home was there and everyone was cooking and the band upstairs was still practicing. Power to the people. Hog is mad. Dog is fried. God is dead. AAAAHHHHHHGGGRRRRAAAAA.

Slather tried to read. He tried to watch TV. Hell, he tried to exercise, buying an indoor trainer for his bicycle. He could ride it for hours without having to leave the living room. “Yeah, I got a new field!” shouted Mysta from the kitchen. “I can grow alfalfa!” She sat at the kitchen table with a tablet. And headphones. He could say whatever he wanted and she wouldn’t hear him. “Mere volcanos and Amsterdam,” he replied and she smiled at this affirmation.

Hog is mad. Dog is fried. God is dead. AAAAHHHHHHGGGRRRRAAAAA.

Then the lights went out. Just like that. The lights went out and the music stopped. No thunderstorm. No warning. It was not as if they hadn’t paid PG&E. Sudden complete darkness punctuated only by the solar powered streetlamps in the courtyard.

Some buzz of conversation. Some shouting from Building C across the complex from his unit.

Upstairs, all quiet.

“Damn,” said his wife. “The Internet’s out.”

“Yeah, power. Internet. Lights. Refrigerator. TV. Indoor bike trainer thing. Nothing nothing nothing to do.”

Great, just great. Sitting out the pandemic at home and now this. No power.

He stared at her. She stared at him. He looked away. So did she.

He walked to the frig and grabbed a beer. Flipped the cap off with his keyring. Stood at the kitchen sink and took a swig.

Mysta took a deep breath. “Shouldn’t open the refrigerator,” she said. “Everything will get warm.”

“it’s the end of the world,” he said. “And so this is my last cold beer.”

Then a bass guitar solo. Acoustic. Thum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum.

Slather turned his head back to Mysta. She was looking at him, too, with the start of a smile.

Thum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum.

Mysta belted out lyrics at the same time as a voice upstairs.

Just a small-town girl
Livin’ in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere

Slather chimed in.

Just a city boy
Born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train goin’ anywhere

They could hear others from upstairs and next door. A few people were walking out into the courtyard. The bass guitar was playing off the balcony and a few older guys were flicking lighters into the air. Pungent smell of weed, passed around.

He opened the door for her. She walked outside.

Were they all standing six feet apart? Maybe. Probably. But they were all sharing the same air, the same smells, the same soundscape.

A singer in a smoky room
The smell of wine and cheap perfume

Folks didn’t seem to care if they were singing off key or even if they’d lost their place in the song altogether. When it came time for the refrain, the crowd was going wild.

She was grinning. His chest was tight and his eyes burned with nostalgia drops. He wiped his cheeks. And by then, everyone was shouting cheeseball lyrics and those with charged phones were holding up the flame apps alongside parents with actual flames.

You know how the song goes. You don’t need me to reprint the lyrics here, right? We’re better than that, way more sophisticated than plagiarizing Journey’s top hit of the 1970s.

The movie never ends, it goes on and on and on and on.

Then done and on to the next song in the acoustic set, yet another crowd pleaser.

Hands were touching hands, reaching out, touching him, touching her.

Sweet Caroline.

“Bah-bah-bam,” everyone shouted, right on time.

Good times never seemed so good.