Crawl Space

I heard a creaking from below the floorboards of my Silverlake sublet. My roommate, Josie, told me that it could be the gardener, Mike. He lives in the crawl space. He’s only supposed to come by twice a month. But apparently she sees him almost every day. He has white hair and a permanently red nose. She tells me she often sees him pacing on the side of the house wearing his Carhartt overalls and ratty old t-shirt. She says he doesn’t even have gardening tools.

Per the landlord's orders, he had to remove the truckloads of items he was storing in the crawl space. The landlord assured us that he was not actually living there but just storing a few items. But, I guess he’s a very talented gardener because he was not fired for this discretion. He has been working for my landlord, Ha-Joon, for over thirty years. More years than I’ve even been alive.

My roommate is convinced that he still lives in the crawl space. She has the citizen app downloaded and frequently scrolls through it. She once called out my name when I was trying to quietly sneak back in after a night out. She told me she had grabbed a knife when she heard the door creak. I let the privacy film peel off the windows and never bothered to replace them.

I live in girl squalor in my Silverlake sublet. Girl squalor is different from boy squalor. I have a simple mattress that lays upon the tan carpeted floor. I have one dresser with a knob missing. I use a flimsy shoe rack as my bedside table. On my bedside table I have empty off-brand La Croix cans, Le Labo perfume with “TO: BABY” from my ex and a book about breaking the cycle of codependency. I also have wires for my various electronic devices including: my iPhone charger, my laptop charger, my Hitachi wand, my switch, all sprawled out around the single outlet in my room. The switch is also from my ex, but now I use it to play Fortnite with incels I met on Twitter.

I have no plans to buy any more furniture. After the breakup, I realized there were only a few trinkets and books to my name. Buying more furniture would solidify my existence in this sublet which makes me uncomfortable now that I understand how precarious life could be.

Since my break up, I have had the same meal every single day: black coffee, canned tuna, and a spoonful of peanut butter. If I get above 115 pounds I will just have a spoonful of peanut butter. My teeth are stained yellow and I have been losing chunks of hair.

Despite my grotesque appearance, I have hundreds of Hinge matches from hot singles in my area. My first match was a guy who told me he was suicidal. He messaged me to update that he would be moving to Kentucky to apply for divinity school and join the Jesuit order. I think I am in love with him. But I can’t compete with God.

I’m also in love with the gardener. I haven’t told my roommate this. She’s really stressed out about her pilates instructor moving to Colorado, I don’t want to overwhelm her.

It began one night three months ago when I had first moved in. It was around 7:45 pm, I had come home from work and was changing into my pajamas. I slid off my work-appropriate sexless frock and turned around. The silhouette of a stocky body appeared before me. But when I looked back the figure had disappeared.

At first, I had convinced myself that it was an apparition, a trick of the eye. But every night the same figure would appear. I began turning on my main light as I undressed. I began to undress more slowly, intentionally, seductively. The figure watched. I think I always knew it was the gardener.

“Ugh there he is again,” Josie scoffed while looking out the kitchen windows, “plants don’t even need to be watered that much.” She took an angry sip of the water in her reusable Erewhon jar.

“Very strange,” I agreed. “How old do you think he is?”

“Who cares?” She sneered, “I’m texting Ha-Joon about this.”

Me and the gardener made brief eye contact as he fumbled with the hose. I put my thumb on my lip and let my bottom lip fold over. I let my thumb trace down my flat chest and make its way down to my navel.

“Anyways,” my roommate said, abruptly ending my performance, “I’ll let you know what he says.”

That night I wore lingerie underneath my sexless frock that I wear three days out of the week to work. My coworker once pointed this out and I responded with “Hey, ever heard of a washing machine?” But I never actually washed it. I took a minute unbuttoning each button on my frock. I slipped the straps off each shoulder before I let it slowly drop to the tan carpeted floor. This time I saw his face. His pathetic, stupid face gazing upon my body. I began to remove the lace bralette and turned around to shimmy off the matching lace thong. I turned to face him once more. A sudden wave of shame rushed over me. What are you doing? I scolded myself. I shut off the lights and ducked behind the window sill.

The next day I decided I would be normal. A normal girl who dated normal people. Someone who didn’t have two separate “flea incidents” in the past 6 months. Someone who didn’t film themselves crying on Photobooth weekly. I scrolled through Hinge. I responded to a rose from a 29-year-old software engineer. His name was Ryan or Bryan. We had light banter and decided to meet up for drinks.

My cheeks and lips were smeared in a light shade of pink. Wearing a tasteful long sleeve black bodysuit, I was dolled up like a corpse in an open casket.

“I’m a bit of a wine snob,” he smiled.

He took us to a trendy cafe in Los Feliz. His facial hair was patchy and light, which made me question his motivation to let it remain on his face. He had a weak chin and thin lips.

“I feel like I have the taste buds of a dog, I really can’t even tell the difference between white and red,” I replied.

“Are you being serious?” He asked

“No,” I lied

“So, what do you do? Actress? Model? Like everyone else here?”

“Well I’m a writer but I really just want to be asked to model.”

He didn’t laugh.

“Well, you could send some headshots or something. I know a guy who does production in movies, but that’s all the same right?”

“Hmm yeah,” I said, swirling the red wine he ordered for us.

He proceeded to talk about himself for the next twenty minutes. His stupid software job, his stupid dog, his stupid hometown. I imagined being married to him. Our two-bedroom house in Mount Washington. We’d join a dodgeball league together. We would never have sex. He would get us another crusty dog. I would be the only one taking care of the crusty slobbering beast. One day I'd snap and kill the dog Cain and Abel Style with a rock. I felt the urge to begin chewing the glass I was holding to make him go away. I imagined the horror on his face while the blood dripped down my lips as I would continue to menacingly stare him down.

“Which neighborhood were you again?” He asked.

“Oh, uh Silverlake.” I responded. “Just like every other girl that looks like me”

“Oh haha, self-awareness. That’s hot.” He chuckled.

I felt a cold shiver down my spine watching his chapped lips expand into a smile.

“So, what um, do you write?” He asked

“Garbage. Smut. Bad things,” I said, “I actually need to leave.”

I got up from the table abruptly. I reached for my phone on the table to put it in my tote and accidentally grabbed the fork and knife as well. I decided to just roll with it and turned around to walk out of the faux French bistro.

I returned to my dingy room. I turned on the lights and saw a cockroach crawl across the storage bin under my bed. I decided I wouldn't kill him and instead just charge him half the rent.

I looked up and saw the figure once more. This time, I walked up to the window to gaze upon my voyeur. His lifeless, sagging eyes stared back at me. I made out his face, he had a rosy-colored and bloated face. He had what appeared to be a burn scar on the left side of his double chin. This time I knew for certain it was the gardener. He didn’t even appear to blink. I saw the creases around his nose and the wrinkles in his forehead. I saw his sorrow, I saw his despair. I wanted to show him mine.

I began to remove my clothes. I thought about all the times he saw me before I started my performances. He’s seen me weep on the floor, stuff clothes into my closet, he’s seen me sleep with the lights on, he’s seen my filming myself crying on Photobooth and doing multiple takes of it, he’s seen me try to put on cat eyeliner for 40 minutes straight, he’s seen me untangle my headphones, he’s seen me pick out my socks in the morning, he’s seen me laugh on the phone, he’s seen me brush my hair, he’s seen me, he’s seen me, he’s seen me.

I saw him unzip his khaki pants. I saw him take out this pathetic, droopy cock. I stood there and looked back at him. I continued to strip without breaking my eye contact. He began to stroke back and forth.

I felt a sudden sense of euphoria. I no longer had to hide in the shadows, neither did he. We

could be miserable and pathetic together. For the rest of our lives even. I opened up the window and called out to him.

“I love you! I love you!” I yelled.

His lobotomized expression didn’t change. I heard a knock at my door.

“Are you ok?” Josie’s voice called from behind the door. “I heard you screaming.”

“Take me away from here!” I yelled.

He said nothing back.

“I have a knife!” She screamed.

I threw on a rob and opened the door. I looked at Josie’s panicked expression while gripping onto a kitchen butter knife.

“Yea I’m fine, I was doing my affirmations.” I lied.

“Oh thank god. I thought the gardener broke in!”

“Nope, everything is fine” I said hastily while closing the door.

I raced back to the window to meet my lover once more, but he was gone.