THE HOUSE

Mrs. Lubbock is - regarding the rental situation - the youngest in this house despite her old age. She shares her small attic establishment with two, sometimes three, white mice which, from time to time (mostly though quite irregularly), appear before her eyes only to disappear again just as irregularly as if they'd never been in the room.

Of course, only Mrs. Lubbock knows of the white mice. She'd never dare to tell any of the other tenants of her mice - that she'd never do. The keeping of pets is strictly prohibited by the rental agreement! Not keeping up with this rule will lead to immediate dismissal. And that, of course, scares Mrs. Lubbock so much more. Sometimes she can't sleep when these critters crawl about on her bed or scratch the paint off the expensive chest of drawers; one, for fear of the animals themselves, and too because of the terrible fear of being thrown out by the strict super, Mr. Kull.

Erwin Kull with two "l," who deserves a rank in the world literature of radical housing rules, shares his ground floor apartment on the right with two fully grown Rottweilers of a size that they can stand before Mrs. Lubbock at eye level. Two monumental Rottweilers are, according to the house rules, explicitly allowed. After all, it's a matter of tenants' safety. Times are bad enough. Robberies and murders are a daily occurrence; therefor the purchase of these blood-thirsty biests makes absolute sense.

Even the Plaschewski family who seems to be made up entirely of male Polish field workers and whose make-up (presumably a seasonal matter), changes constantly, are thrilled about these exceptional animals in this house. The Plaschewskis, however many of them there may be, live to the left of Kull.

Let us now head on up to the second floor.

Already halfway up the stairs to this apparently completely different plain, the attentive observer sees himself surrounded by oriental flair. Terrible masks lit from the inside hang on these walls; the sword of a wild Samurai, stained with blood (or not cleaned after the last time the hallway was painted); a beautiful flower vase as well as a highly interesting color lithograph of an oriental orphan who has six arms growing out of his body at once. The combination of these treasures will allow even the most average citizen to forget about Europe.

Either way, the people from the second floor come from far away. So where do these people come from? How many are there? Do they occupy only one apartment on the second floor? Or even two? Questions upon questions.

One would like to know more about these foreign people but in the hallways of the house, according to house rules, there is an absolute rule of silence which one dutifully sticks to since living space is rare and therefore expensive. I would still like to tell you who these peculiar people are who decorate the hallway of their level so distinctly different from, for example, our Erwin Kull with two "l", whose beer crate collection in the hallway - despite the rule of silence - has often lead to chaotic scenes. (Chaotic scenes are, according to house rules, exempt from the rule of silence.)

The Moh-Han family, who will continue to be the object of my observations, are from North Korea, a crisis-rattled spot in the world that lacks all democracy.

The wife is a born Moh-Hin. Her name used to be Moh-Hin-Han, since she once had married Han. But she not only married this man, no; she also got herself a divorce after five years of marriage. Now her name is back to Moh-Hin. So Moh-Hin and Moh-Han live on one level. Once intertwined in passion, they now thoroughly observe the rule of silence in the hallway. Of course they now live separated again. Moh-Hin occupies the left side apartment on the second floor, while Moh-Han populates the right one.

One occupant … well, that one we have forgotten so far. That would be the jazz musician Herbert Schmoll, who, sadly, succumbed to a heart attack three months ago and who, since then, rarely makes his presence in this house known.

Schmoll lived - while he still lived - next to Mrs. Lubbock. Now he's been lying in his bed, cold and halfway decomposed, for months. So the absolute rule of silence takes roots. It "takes on" as the professional says.

Of course the house also has a cellar. Numerous moist, cold and drafty rooms invite for short-term stays. In the catacombs of this common rental unit, Mr. Schmoll would keep forever. Unluckily though, nobody in the house is aware of a corpse by the name of Schmoll which undoubtedly would find a more befitting home in the cellar. Up here, directly under the roof, it is mostly hot during the summer. The air stands attention in the room. One would love to just cut it.

A sweet smell spreads through the entire house. Actually, it is such a stink that even the most grounded garbage man would not be able to take it for long. Therefore, necessarily, the entire plumbing of the house is being checked for leaks by noted professionals, with the result that no leaks of the incoming or outgoing sanitation routes are found. The idea to check if everything is well with Mr. Schmoll, never occurs.

Kull says Schmoll is on vacation. There's nothing he likes better than tenants on vacation as long as the rent is being paid on time. He can even croak, for all I care, Kull thinks, and laughs.

A bank draft, like Schmoll has arranged for the automatic coverage of his rent debts, saves the decent tenant many troubles; after all, time is money, and money takes time, factors that have notably marked the postmodern ages.

In the neighboring house lives the nerve doctor, Professor Doctor Salm, who is employed as a forensic at the University Clinic. He's been talking about a scent of decay here on Valley Road for weeks now, but nobody believes his comments, although all of them have this peculiar smell around their noses, minute for minute, hour for hour, week for week … well, for months now.

Dr. Salm is viewed as a strangling. Whoever spends eight hours a day dissecting dead people and even views that as a sort of calling, can not be right in the head anymore himself after a while, or so the general consent. However, someone who spends eight hours a day selling just-as-dead pigs to living people is called a butcher, and can follow his calling without ever being looked at strangely. The pig, however, lacks knowledge of words like moral or ethics, which may also be the reason why pigs don't eat human flesh. Lucky for our species.

Saturday, December 27, 1997

Outside said house of Valley Road 21, a hearse has been blocking the garage entry since 8 a.m.

Two skinny amateurs in black suits and top hats float from the vehicle and ring the tenants out of bed. Thank goodness, due to the rule of silence in this house, the majority of the bells have been turned off so it takes hours until the two men, rather by coincidence, finally get some response. Around noon, Moh-Han is the first of the tenants who notices that a vehicle is blocking the garage. Moh-Han is an acupuncturer, and urgently needs to get to his late shift. What does he care if someone in this house died? It's been smelling like decay for weeks now in here. Why do these people have to show up now, when he urgently needs to get to work?

Sunday, December 28, 1997

It's 11 a.m. - the men just found entry into the house and ask their way through to the dead man. "The dead man is on vacation" seems to be the general word because people are afraid. A parking spot happens to vacate at noon. One of the amateurs juggles the hearse into the free spot so that Moh-Han can finally start his late shift with a 24-hour delay.

At 11:44 a.m. Mr. Kull with two "l" also awakens. Hollering in the hallway as well as the loud barking from his biests put a sudden end to his drunkenness and brutally threw him back into the reality of his world of work. The fact that there's no more beer in the refrigerator bothers him to no end. Now he has to go outside to get beer and see what's going on. Even the dead Schmoll briefly awakens from his rigor mortis and thinks I'm standing at the gate of the eternal flames - when is there finally going to be some peace?

In the hallway Kull runs into two highly intellectual people in black tuxedos who have claimed for the past 30 hours continuously that they are looking to bury a corpse by the name of Erna Lubbock, but oh dear, the old Lubbock is alive. Despite all that, a corpse needs to be found, no matter how. It says so in the order book; they also have brought along a blank death certificate, which would be filled out quickly and without complications, if only a corpse were found.

Well all right; admittedly one could have just clobbered Mrs. Lubbock, but these people in tuxedos don't do that because, basically, they have deep respect for living human beings; to give the death of a loved one or a dear friend an unforgettable ceremony, that is their job; killing is not a thing they have done up until now.

"Funerals are like weddings," the smaller undertaker dares to say. "With only one difference", he continues, "that one fully experiences the wedding; the death, however, one experiences only briefly or not at all. Who, after all, could tell us about it - at least as far as the experience of one's own death is concerned?"

"Some weddings are like funerals", a sparrow shamelessly whistles from up in a tree and the bird is not completely wrong, which is why I also shamelessly mention it's comment here.

But what do the undertakers want to do now? They have a job order. They're looking for a corpse that isn't there, block the forensic Salm's driveway and, over the course of hours, get Kull's beer crate collection quite messed up. Besides that, the Mister Undertakers suggest to Mrs. Lubbock that a refusal of her scheduled passing is completely senseless. Mrs. Lubbock must die immediately, and that means right on the spot, or else there soon won't be anymore work for the undertakers, either. Mrs. Lubbock would have been much obliged to see that point, if her own life wasn't the subject.

CHAPTER 2

SOME NOTES TO EXPLAIN THE PRESENT SITUATION AND ASSURE THE DEAR READER:

Schmoll is dead and stinks up the neighborhood, not Mrs. Lubbock. That much is clear. Mrs. Lubbock is obviously alive, that is even more clear. In the meantime, she argues with the undertakers about the cost of the cremation. After all, she doesn't have that many years left, so any advice from the professionals is appreciated.

Schmoll, since he can be smelled so easily, is the only true corpse around the house and with that, since concerned with anonymity, again proves to be a master of silence, lying cold and stiff in his bed.

If one observes the two undertakers at this point, one could consider the one of them as the type without any future career (with the exception of funerals that is). The other one is small, handsome and of fine stature, and I really don't know why he is presently making a living as an undertaker, since he easily could be a model.

Peculiar about the whole thing is only that nobody in this house is pointing out the existing corpse of Mr. Schmoll. Everyone knows that Mr. Schmoll has not shown himself in the hallways for months now, although the forensic has been suspicious for quite some time, and everybody should be aware that Schmoll's remains now really can't catch anyone's attention by themselves anymore, except of course by their penetrating smell.

The terrible isolation of the postmodern human brings out impressive blossoms in this house: Mrs. Lubbock is supposed to die because she officially is already declared dead and Mr. Schmoll is not authorized to be dead, even though he passed away 3 months ago. Therefor it is understandable that the dead, bureaucratically seen, often live longer than for example Mrs. Lubbock, who, in her present situation, can actually be considered dead by now since, after a quick phone call to the social security office, she has officially been declared free for the taking.

Schmoll the corps continues to receive a monthly government payment of $2,500 which he collects, for the event of a re-birth, with good interest in a savings account. Schmoll is hoping for a long, dreamless death and an awakening in riches and fullness. In the meantime, he frequently checks his watch.

CHAPTER 3

HOW THE EVENTS START TO BECOME CHAOTIC

When the two undertakers find out about Mrs. Lubbock being officially tagged, they get a little sick to the stomach. Frightened and pale, they look at each other. As the last, unimportant wheel in a giant, bureaucratic machine they now must act, whether they want to or not. Of course they don't want to - their conscience prohibits them to kill.

The seemingly unbearable confusion of this pressure to take action against their own conscience drives, like a heavy, hard-hitting ax, a deep canyon into the brains of both the men who immediately start to display symptoms of a psychosomatic illness such as constant blinking, nodding, a stiff neck or temporary paralysis of one half of the face.

As if paralyzed, the two undertakers stare at each other - one of them blinking his eye, the other nodding his head as if in agreement, while Mrs. Lubbock complains about a sudden stiffness of the neck which, however, has nothing to do with current events, but is simply age-related.

After 3 hours of intensive workouts of the facial muscles the men finally manage to stammer some incomprehensible words. But only after a torturous night of standing can they agree on a defined, common process of dealing with the situation.

Friday, the 1st of February, 1998

11:15 a.m. - that a torturous night must not have to go hand in hand with complete apathy, but is entirely capable of bearing fruit, is shown to us by the two gentlemen:

Although the nightly attempt of reaching a verbal agreement based on a seriously progressed facial paralysis around 4 a.m. can be considered failed, the two men still don't embarrass themselves but counter by developing a sign language which, except for the punctuation, is completely developed by morning.

There are signs that want to be placed, and so they should be. Others want to be "placed," truly placed.

Placed correctly, that means, of course. Right or wrong, however, only exist in mathematics. I don't know why I am saying this, but maybe only few people know that.