Counting by 7s (23 page)

I
t's the weekend.

I come into the living room. Quang-ha is sprawled out on the sofa, moving from channel to channel as if being paid by the number of programs that he can simultaneously track.

His agitation is some kind of internal struggle.

But it isn't muscular, it's mental. I know the difference.

He doesn't take his eyes off the television, but he says:

“Are you looking for something?”

I want to say that yes, I'm looking for anything that could make a world gone flat return to its original shape, but instead I just mumble:

“No. I'm getting a glass of water. Dehydration is the cause of ninety percent of daytime fatigue.”

Someone is knocking at the door.

It's Saturday and Pattie's at work. Mai is out with friends. Quang-ha and I are both home at the Gardens.

I go open the door and Dell's standing there. He starts to say something, but nothing comes out.

I know how that feels.

This is all weird for so many reasons.

We live in Dell Duke's apartment. And he has to knock to even come inside.

Pattie set down some ground rules on Thursday. She is tough. She actually took away his key because he locked himself in the bathroom the second day for over an hour and he should be using Sadhu's from now on.

But I pull open the door for him, which is welcoming. If we were in the wild, I would part the leaves of the tree and move back on the branch.

He takes a step inside.

Quang-ha shouts over his shoulder:

“Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”

Quang-ha has a real persecution complex, which is no doubt legitimate.

The chubby counselor says:

“I don't have a television down the hall. I'm missing all of my shows.”

Quang-ha answers:

“You can watch with me as long as you don't do anything nasty.”

I see Dell's face soften. I think he likes the word
nasty
.

I'm invisible now, which is fine with me. Dell moves closer to the big-screen TV, asking:

“Do you watch a lot of sports?”

Quang-ha's response doesn't seem like a joke:

“Not if I can help it.”

This is the right answer, because Dell seems relieved as he drops down onto the couch.

It's a real thud and I feel bad for whoever lives underneath us.

I didn't have siblings and my dad never had friends over to hang out on the couch and talk back to the television set.

But that's what's happening now.

So this is all new to me.

Dell takes out a pair of fingernail clippers from his pants pocket, and while Quang-ha flips through the channels, Dell pulls off his socks and clips his toenails.

I don't think you would do that if you hadn't lived here before.

I retreat to the shadows of the kitchen.

Instead of staring off into space or sleeping, I watch.

Since the accident, I feel next to nothing about everything, so it is possible that this surveillance will be beneficial to me from a psychological standpoint.

But probably not.

The teenage boy and the man are as close to wild animal observation as anything I've seen.

I realize that this is a unique opportunity to get insight into both of these people. Not that either of them is very mysterious.

But I'm looking for understanding of bigger things.

Like the human race, as an example.

Right away I notice that Dell and Quang-ha scratch more than girls.

They are slumped down in their seats and appear to be really concentrating on the televised programming.

On three occasions I hear what can only be described as “aggressive laughter.”

After the third outburst, they each make a fist and bump knuckles.

For a nanosecond I'm fearful this signals a fight.

But it's just the opposite.

The knuckle touch is a bond.

I know for a fact that these two people don't even like each other.

Is the television programming bringing them together?

Why would watching a group of out-of-control young women in bathing suits competing in a canoe contest do this?

I conduct my surveillance from the shadows next to the purring refrigerator. It is silent, motionless observation.

They seem to have forgotten that I'm in the apartment. Their behavior appears completely reflexive and natural.

Quang-ha has the television remote, and he moves through the channels in a way that a grandmother might turn the pages of a speedboat catalog featuring water skis.

There is not much stopping for analysis.

Dell and Quang-ha appear to be hunting for two things:

Mostly they are looking for acts of violence. (They watch with great amusement as a man in a cartoon gets stabbed in the eye socket with an ice pick.)

The rest of the time they seem to be stalking the airwaves for appealing females.

When they find either thing, they stop to enjoy the visual stimuli.

They call girls “hot.”

The girls are not untouchable, like truly high-temperature objects.

No.

They mean attractive.

Dell even yells out “Super-hot.”

And I hear Quang-ha say “Smoking!”

It all seems very inappropriate.

There is a whole language to be learned here.

This is an education.

After a while I've had enough and I go downstairs to be outside.

I need fresh air.

Growing up, unless it was raining hard, I was outdoors for part of every day.

Now I want to sit in my old backyard, which was in some ways a jungle.

But of course I can't do that.

Even though this place is called the Gardens of Glenwood, there are nothing but weeds and the dusty pumice rock in the central open area.

I take a seat on the steps and stare at the layers of stone, which look (from a distance) like heaps of red potatoes.

I shut my eyes and as long as I keep them closed, I'm surrounded by greenery. I can feel the plants swaying in the wind and the ground alive below me.

I used to be somewhat of an expert on earthworms because a good garden holds so many kinds of life.

Over the years, I made homemade paper from tree pulp, and I've mashed grapes with my feet (but it was easier to use a blender).

We harvested a lot of what I grew.

Now I listen to the dryer tumbling in the laundry room. And someone's radio. I can't help but hear bits of an advertisement for a place that sells discount tires.

The guy on the radio doesn't know I lost my parents. He's just selling cheap rubber wheels.

The person who put the clothes in the dryer has no idea that I need a foster home.

Overhead I hear the sound of a jet engine, and I open my eyes and look up in time to see the plane pass by high in the sky.

I'm thinking now about the passengers on board.

I'm wondering about them and their lives.

Are they looking down out the windows next to their seats?

Do they see a two-story apartment building that is an unappealing color of pink?

Do they give a thought to the people inside?

Do they feel a girl sitting on the steps trying to make sense of the world?

I seriously doubt it.

Who wants a seat at my pity party?