December22011
Nice to See You Again, Brendan
When Brendan came home last week, he noticed that Devorah had a somewhat tense look on her face, which was different than her usual annoyed look. As any good boyfriend would, Brendan worried that he’d done something she didn’t like. Whenever he had done something she didn’t like in the past, it was usually something he didn’t think twice about—putting damp work-out clothes in the hamper, drinking all the milk, slurping his bowl of ramen—small things, at least he thought they were. But as it turned out, Devorah wasn’t upset with him. “No, it’s Mrs. Rappaport,” she said. “She started yelling at me today. Awful shit,” Devorah added in an ear-defying whisper.
Brendan thought this was odd, completely unlike the old woman he saw every day on his way to work. That old woman was always asking how he was doing. “Hello, Brendan. You’re doing ok? Oh, good. So nice to see you.” Mrs. Rappaport was just one of those people who said typically polite BS-things but actually seemed to mean them, which is why Brendan couldn’t believe that she would say anything awful let alone, shit. Which is also why he had to ask Devorah to give up details, which she did: “Well, she was cursing and ranting about fucking and whores.” “She called you a whore?” Brendan asked. “I’m not sure if she was talking to me, but I think so.” “What did she say—exactly?” “She said, ‘stop your fucking, you whore. Stop fucking, you fucking whore!’” Devorah giggled as she told this to Brendan, who, in turn, was pleasantly surprised since she didn’t do that so often now that they lived together and she was always having to pick wet clothes out of the hamper. “So what’s your plan?” “Plan?” Brendan asked. “Yeah, what are you going to do?” “I don’t know. I guess I’ll talk to her when I see her. You’re sure she was yelling at you?” “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. No definitely. She was.”
The next night, right as Brendan was coming home from work, Mrs. Rappaport was carrying her laundry into the lobby. Devorah had called him again at work that day and again, accused Mrs. Rapaport of yelling at her. But Devorah, Brendan thought, was mistaken—she had to be. This sweet old lady in her housedress and slippers was just that: sweet. Brendan looked at her smile and how grateful she was when he offered to help her with her clothes. Even when they reached her door and she adamantly refused to let him carry her stuff into her apartment, even then, she was a sweetheart about it.
He went up to his apartment, ready to tell Devorah that she was wrong, but she was waiting for him. “Did you talk to her?” Devorah was so intense that it kind of scared Brendan, and as a result, he laughed a little and said that she must’ve gotten it wrong.
“Why do you always do that? Don’t dismiss me. Ou always think you’re right about everything.” “I don’t always think that,” Brendan said. “In fact, I know you know more than I do. It’s just this time I’m wondering if you might be a little off—that’s all.” “I know when someone’s yelling shit at me,” again, Devorah whispered the word as she said it.
So Devorah went to sleep quite angry that night and didn’t give Brendan a kiss in the morning. But she did call him at work and told him that there was no doubt about it—that the old bitch was crazy and that he should go speak with her or else not come home. Again, Brendan thought Devorah had to be mistaken but didn’t say anything this time. Devorah had pulled out the big guns, which meant that even if she were wrong, she believed she was right, and that meant that Brendan, good boyfriend that he tried to be, had to give her the benefit of the doubt.
As a result, he came home early that afternoon and took the elevator up to Mrs. Rappaport’s apartment. Almost as soon as the elevator doors opened, Brendan heard Mrs. Rappaport’s voice. It was muffled at first, but as he got closer to her apartment, he could make out what she was saying and to Brendan’s surprise, she was saying exactly what Devorah had told him. At the top of her lungs, she was yelling at someone to stop fucking, and from what Brendan could tell, this person was, in Mrs. Rappaport’s estimation, a whore—a “dirty whore” to be exact.
It was an odd thing, but the more he listened to the voice, the more it changed from surreal to sad and then to disturbing. After about five minutes, Brendan couldn’t take it any longer. He knocked on the door, tepidly at first and then, more forcefully. He called her name out, asked her if she was ok, but Mrs. Rappaport just kept screaming at someone she thought was a whore.
After another five minutes, Brendan started thinking the old lady was stroking out—or maybe it was a Turrets thing. So he yelled louder and when that didn’t stop her yelling, he began to pound on the door until to his surprise, the door opened. He walked in, assuming that Mrs. Rappaport would be on the ground, writhing or foaming at the mouth. He did not think there would actually be a whore there fucking because that would be a little too odd—even for New York. But when he entered Mrs. Rappaport’s tiny apartment, he saw what he never would’ve expected. Mrs. Rappaport was seated on her sofa, smoking a Dunhill and yelling at Devorah and a naked man on top of her. Brendan’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know what to say, so Mrs. Rappaport, as politely as ever, stopped her yelling and turned toward him: “Hello, Brendan. You’re doing ok? Oh good. So nice to see you.”
Tags: /sex /new york /relationships /lit /literature
