Elevator Fight

There was a fight in the elevator today. I'd gone down to check my mail before breakfast, on the offchance a miracle had happened and one of the many cheques I'm waiting for had arrived. (None had. I wasn't surprised. Once the payment deadline's several months gone, and the art director's stopped answering e-mails, one begins to realize the money's never coming.) In place of anything useful, there was a book of pizza coupons from Domino's, addressed to "Sonar Myles", a statement from the Royal Bank, addressed to "Solar Myles" (I keep meaning to tell them they've got my name wrong, and I keep forgetting), and a glossy flyer for bargain condominiums in Yaletown. According to the flyer, half a million dollars is a great price for what amounts to a two-bedroom flat with a balcony. I looked at the photos of the condos and wished I could afford one. I thought about how I used to call them "condoms" as a kid, and snorted laughter. Then, I binned the flyer.

By the time I'd sorted through my mail, the argument was well underway. There was a man with a box in the elevator, trying to escape upstairs, and a wild-haired woman standing half in and half out, holding everything up. I cleared my throat. The obstructive hag ignored me, but the man shot me a helpless look. I shuffled my feet and rustled my mail and made restless noises. Nothing happened. There are three elevators in my building, but if one's on your floor already, you can't summon another. Thus, I was stuck.

Hag and Boxman seemed to be neighbours. Whatever they were arguing about, it sounded like a long-standing dispute, and entirely unintelligible to the casual bystander (me). It reminded me of an Italian opera, one of the funny ones.

Hag: Chiedo sol tuo rispetto!

Boxman: Hai mio dispetto!

Hag: Senti, senti, per pietà!

Boxman: Taci, taci, per pietà!

Me: Andate, via, per carità!

Hag: Senti!

Boxman: Taci!

Me: Via, via--noiosi voi siete!

Hag: Chiedo rispetto!

Boxman: Mio dispetto!

Me: (Mio cervello!)

...and so on, and so forth. You get the idea.

Eventually, the building manager shooed them both out of the elevator. I squeezed right in and made good my escape before they could start barging in again. In the elevator, I muttered a sarcastic recitativo:

Ah, ah--libera alfine. Ma, che mai questo? Che cosa veggo? Ancora, la Banca Reale del Canada mi chiama...Solar Myles! Or vado--or vado!

With that, I shuffled off home, giggling in a silly sort of way. I threw away the bank statement without opening it, and used one of the Domino's coupons to feed myself and Stella for the next few days. We got a big fat pizza and a basket of cheese-infested breadsticks for fifteen bucks. I hate breadsticks, but Stella's mad for 'em. The coupon worked out nicely: with Stella duly breaded, I could order extra olives on the pizza without feeling like a big ol' meanie.

Memo to self, when eating pizza: I have to stop throwing away the crusts. I can eat pizza if I eat the whole slice, and it won't give me heartburn. But if I leave the crusts, the tomatoes have a field day: heartburn, sharp pains under the ribs, the whole bit. Damn tomatoes. They look and taste so innocent, all plump and red and juicy. They're not at all like jalapenos or coffee, which you just know can't be good for you. Someone should invent acid-free tomatoes.

I've listed three drawings on eBay, in hopes of selling them quickly, and eating better next week. It's one thing to stuff myself with tomatoes and grease, but I can't be feeding Stella that garbage. I wasn't using those drawings anyway. They're just sitting in my closet gathering dust.

On another note, I've got to stay awake all night tonight. With the summer weather blowing in, the days have gotten longer and brighter, and it's just killing my eyes trying to work with all that sunlight glaring on my monitor. Time to retreat to the backwards world.