My Life Among the Apes Read Online Free PDF Page A

to keep in time, make the changes cleaner. When I finally go to bed the tune goes round and round in my head.
    SATURDAY MORNING AND I AM standing on the steps of the townhouse, wearing a jacket and tie with my jeans and running shoes. It is a stunning day, the sun bright and buds opening on the spindly trees that have been planted and those still with their roots bundled in burlap. Two blocks down I can see a moving van backed up and two men hefting out a box-spring mattress. The truth is, I wanted to stand here holding a bouquet of flowers, something modest like daisies, but didn’t have the nerve. Empty-handed, I watch as Shanti Bhaskar, the real estate agent, pulls up in her Ford Escort and waves to me as she gets out. To my surprise, she isn’t wearing her real estate agent’s outfit, but jeans and Converse runners, and she looks really great. “Hi, Mitch,” she says, like we’re friends, “I’m really glad you called. This whole section is selling out much faster than we anticipated. I know there’s another agent in my office showing this one today. Shall we go in?”
    â€œSure,” I say as she comes up. “Of course, I’m not quite ready to decide.”
    â€œI understand,” she says, touching my arm. “It’s a problem. You see something you like, you want to take some time over it, but if you do you’ll lose it. You need to accelerate the whole internal process.”
    Well, I couldn’t decelerate any more than I already have. She opens the door and ushers me in. “So,” I say, “Any chance you’re thinking of buying one around here for yourself?”
    â€œI already bought last year,” she laughs. “In the subdivision just south. I wasn’t sure that I was ready either but my husband really pushed it. A good thing too, they’re already reselling at ten percent higher.”
    Only now do I see the ring on her hand. Stupidly, I hadn’t looked. Inside the house, the toilet is gone from the dining room and the plastic has been removed from the rails. Shanti turns and smiles gently as she looks at me with her brown eyes, as if she knows my disappointment, as if my own skin is as transparent as Saran Wrap.
    â€œI have tried to be free in my way,” I say quietly.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œIt’s from a Leonard Cohen song.”
    â€œOh, right. ‘Bird on the Wire.’ Great song.”
    MONDAY. OPEN MIC TONIGHT. I pull into my gravel spot, throw myself out of the car, fumble with the key to open the motel room, yank the guitar out of its case, and start to practise. I fuck up totally. Calm down, calm down. I put the guitar onto the spongy armchair, take off my suit, and step into the shower. I decide not to shave again and dress in jeans, untucked lumberjack shirt, sneakers. I heat up a can of Campbell’s chunky beef soup and, taking the pot, perch on the bed and look out the window to the townhouses across the way. The streetlights are working now, casting overlapping circles on the street and the little front lawns. I eat a few spoonfuls before putting down the pot and taking up the guitar again. And now the time is already gone and I put the guitar in its case, wondering why I don’t chicken out. But I go out the door and walk along the highway holding my guitar case, like the figure on the cover of some pathetic folk record.
    The parking lot of Bob’s Place has half the usual number of motorcycles parked out front, Monday not being the most popular night of the week. Inside, I have to let my eyes adjust to see three young guys already setting up their Fenders and a small drum kit. I make my way to the bar where the bartender is filling ketchup bottles.
    â€œHey there,” she says. “Number eight on the list, right?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œYou want a Blue?”
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    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI remember what everybody drinks. It’s just a memory thing