Hollis Amaya · The Notebook

Cass ran the delayed sound through the north room and made everybody stop treating the pipe like a pipe. The answer came back late enough that I kept looking at the wall before it arrived. I know what a surface does when you put enough material on it. I had not thought much about what it does after you leave it alone.

I took the south-wall sketch down to the floor and changed the red passage. It is not a hand exactly. It is the space after a hand has come off something, with one edge held in gold leaf the way my grandmother used to hold a letter alive in a shop window. From the sidewalk it reads as a figure turning away. Up close it is all seams, masked edges, and places I stopped because I could not get the roller higher without my shoulder talking back.

Cass moved the crates again without making a show of it. I showed him the space under the west stairs and said they would fit there. He said they would. That was all. I still have not made the appointment. Tomorrow I start at the shoulder and work down.

I read Cass’s note about the wall after lunch. He wrote that the openings let the house breathe, then said he wanted to build something that interrupts instead of fills. I stood there longer than the note required. The wall is mine, but he had found the part I was trying not to explain. I nearly went to the lift room to tell him he had it right. Instead I checked the aerosol crates. All three are still in the alcove, square to the freight controls and out of the walking line. My hand behaved today. That is not the same as being better. I did not make the appointment, and I did not thank Cass. Tomorrow I start at the shoulder and work down.

At 6:40 my right hand opened on the aerosol crate and the crate hit the concrete hard enough to make the old freight controls ring. Nothing broke. I stood there looking at it, then got it upright with my left hand and my knee, which is a stupid way to move a crate and not a way I intend to repeat.

Ondine wrote that the figures made the warehouse look like a body trying not to flinch. She did not take the photograph she wanted. I am grateful for that, though I do not like being grateful for people leaving things alone.

There is a tendon unit working the trade routes today, same-day scans for people who spend their lives above their heads. I read the notice twice while sitting on the crate. Then I put the crate back on its wheels and measured under the west stairs again. It fits there. All three fit there. I have to ask, which is different from not having a place.

I painted the hands too large for the doors beneath them. That was not planned. It looks better from the street than it does from up there. It always does.

The lift would not go past the fourth floor, so I painted what I could reach.

It began with the day's news: Rent notices go under every door. The building manager pushed the quarterly notices under the doors sometime before dawn — the same figure as last quarter, which was itself a surprise, and a line about the district being reassessed in the fall.

Nobody in this house has asked me what any of it is about, and I have not noticed until now that I could not answer.

I called the piece "Study for the house of single enormous figures." It will look better from the street than it does from up there. It always does.

I did not make the clinic appointment. I had the number open and the Tuesday slot written on my wrist, then put the phone face down when the shoulder started its small clicking. I spent the useful part of the afternoon measuring the boiler wall again. Three aerosol crates fit there if the first one sits tight to the pipe, but the extinguisher cabinet route is still blocked. Wren came through and looked at the chalk, and I said nothing because there was nothing new to say. Ondine saw me rubbing my arm and did not ask. That was probably kinder than asking. I still need the corner made proper before somebody calls the crates a reason.

I carried the third aerosol crate six feet toward the boiler wall and put it back. The shoulder clicked before I got it clear of the extinguisher cabinet, so I marked the floor again instead of pretending the space was bigger. Wren came through with a bucket and stepped over the chalk. I said, “Careful,” and nothing about needing the corner. That was all that passed between us. I spent the afternoon scraping old tape from the wall where the crates could go, though the plaster came off with it in two flat pieces. The route is still blocked. My arm went numb while I was sitting on the floor, and I waited for it to stop before I stood up. I did not make the appointment.

The chalk lines were still on the loading-door floor this morning, two short marks where the third crate reaches the extinguisher cabinet. I stood over them with the padlock in my hand and did not move anything. The space looked worse empty than it did with the crates in it. I checked the boiler wall, checked the lift button out of habit, and carried a loose strap back to the hook. My shoulder clicked when I reached up. I waited for the arm to go numb, then called it the cold and got on with sweeping around the crates. I did not ask Wren about the corner. I did not make the appointment. Nothing broke, which is not the same as being fine.

I went back to the loading door with the short ruler and looked at the space beside the extinguisher cabinet. The third aerosol crate would fit if I turned it across the path, but then nobody could get a hand on the cabinet without moving it. I put two chalk marks on the floor and left the crate where it was. My shoulder clicked once reaching for the cabinet latch, so I stopped there. Wren came through with the basket and stepped around me. I nearly asked whether she knew another corner, then let her pass. The lift still stops past the fourth floor. Nothing moved, but I know the bad place more exactly now.

I went to the loading door before breakfast and looked at the third aerosol crate. It is still where it was, beside the extinguisher cabinet, with just enough room for someone to turn sideways. I measured the boiler wall again anyway. Two crates fit there without trouble. My shoulder clicked when I lifted the tape, so I put it down and used the short ruler from the paint tin. Wren crossed the hall with a basket. I nearly asked whether she knew a better corner, then did not. The lift stopped at the fourth floor. Nothing else asked to be fixed today.

I measured the strip beside the boiler wall with a length of cord, then measured the three crates. The first two fit there with six inches to spare. The third would leave the old extinguisher cabinet pinned shut, so I put the cord away and left it by the loading door. The wall was warm through my sleeve. I saw Wren come down with a basket, but she was carrying enough and I did not stop her to ask about the wall. My shoulder clicked when I reached for the tape on the top shelf. I waited until the arm settled, then used the lower shelf instead. Nothing else came in. I did not make the appointment.

I swept the west stair corner before bringing the crates back to it. Dust came out in gray ropes, and the old extinguisher cabinet left a rust-colored rectangle on the wall where it has been rubbing for years. I put two crates in with their labels turned toward the stairs and left the third by the loading door. Crosswise would fit, but only if the cabinet stays shut, and I am not making a storage plan that depends on nobody needing an extinguisher. My shoulder clicked once reaching for the broom hook. I waited for the numbness to pass, then put the broom down. Nobody asked what I was doing. I did not explain.

The wind got into the kitchen before I did. Ondine was at the sink with red dust on her thumb and Cass had his cable all over the tile. I understood enough from the way he picked it up that there had been money talked about by the wrong person.

I have been thinking a proper corner is something a person earns by staying put. That is not true, but it is useful if I need to keep moving the crates myself. I measured the dead space under the west stairs after lunch. Two crates fit with the labels facing in, and the third can go crosswise if nobody needs the old extinguisher cabinet. I did not ask whose space it was. I just put a strip of tape down and stood inside it.

My arm went numb while I was reaching for the tape measure. I shook it out and called it the wind, which was stupid because I was indoors. There is a clinic two stops south with an open board tomorrow afternoon. I know because I looked. Looking is not making an appointment.

I drew a back on the long roll of primer paper, big enough to need the whole east wall if it were brick. The shoulder is turned away. One strip of cobalt sits at the collar, bright enough to pull a person across the street. From close up it is only overspray and a brush edge trying to hold its line. That is about as much as I know tonight.

Tomorrow I start at the shoulder and work down.

I took the aerosol crates out again this morning and tried the space beside the old shelving. The first one fit, then my shoulder started clicking before I got the second clear. I put them back by the loading door, six inches from where they were yesterday, which is not a solution but gives me a measurement. Wren came through carrying laundry and had to turn sideways around me. I said, “Sorry,” though the crates were not in her way until I made them so. She said it was fine. The boiler wall was warm enough to feel through my sleeve. I stood there with my hand on it longer than I meant to. No appointment. No proper corner. I did not see the whole thing today either.

I spent the afternoon with the three aerosol crates and a tape measure. The corner by the loading door is too narrow if the door has to open all the way, and the wall beside the boiler is warm enough that I do not trust it. I shifted the crates six inches, then shifted them back when the labels faced the room instead of the door. Dust came off the floor in a pale line. Wren crossed the hall carrying a cup, and I nearly asked if the strip of wall was spoken for. I did not. My shoulder clicked reaching for the tape. It stopped hurting before dinner.

I spent most of the morning moving the aerosol crates six inches at a time, then put them back. The draft comes under the loading door and lifts the labels, so I can never tell whether they are facing the room or the wall. My shoulder clicked twice reaching for the top crate. Nobody saw it. Wren crossed the hall while I was standing there with my hand on the lid, and I almost asked if the strip beside the door belonged to anyone. I did not. It was not a question I wanted answered yet. By evening the crates were still where I left them, only straighter.

I spent the morning looking for a place the crates could stay without becoming a barricade. The strip beside the loading door is still the only honest answer, though the draft comes under it and turns the cardboard soft at the corners. I moved one crate twice, then put it back where I had measured it yesterday. The right shoulder clicked reaching for the top latch. I stopped before it could turn into pain and stood there with my hand hanging. Nobody came through while I was working. That is not the same as having privacy. By evening the crates were in a row, and I had done no painting.

The lift would not go past the fourth floor, so I carried the respirators up two at a time and left the ladders in the van. The warehouse has a smell like wet cardboard under the dust. I found a strip of wall beside the loading door where the aerosol crates will fit if nobody parks anything there. I measured it twice, then wrote 1.8 metres on the back of a delivery receipt. Wren passed through while I was doing that. We nodded. I nearly asked where people keep their things here, but the question sounded larger than the answer. My shoulder clicked putting the tape away. I called it the cold.