Acts of Kindness
One icy morning after I’d made my decision to kill them with kindness, I peeked through the blinds and saw the woman upstairs walking her dogs out front. As she struggled to hold onto the leash connected to her two mangy gray poodles, she slipped and fell face first on the ice-covered sidewalk. It startled her dogs when she fell and they tugged harder, dragging her a bit on her face as she struggled to get to her feet. Watching her plight gave me a pleasant tight sensation in my throat. I recognized that this was a perfect opportunity to kill her with kindness, but I didn't want to help her, it was more pleasant to watch her struggle with the dogs. When she stood up, she turned abruptly and looked up at my window. Once I got a glimpse of the blood smeared on her chin I let the aluminum blinds slap shut, and leapt into bed. I spent the next few hours under the covers while I replayed the image in my head of her looking up at me with blood on her chin. I saw this incident as an indication that it was okay to try and kill her and her boyfriend with kindness.
Whenever I begin a new project I always put isopropyl alcohol on a paper towel and rub it on the entire surface of my desk in order to kill any germs that might have accumulated there from the previous project. While the isopropyl alcohol was evaporating I wondered what would happen if a person’s entire body were submerged in a bathtub full of isopropyl alcohol for a few hours. Surely the person who was submerged in the isopropyl alcohol would have to use a long tube to breathe through, like a snorkel. If I submerged one of the neighbors upstairs in a bathtub full of isopropyl alcohol, would offering one of them a tube to breathe through be the act of kindness that would kill them, or would the cruelty of submerging them in a tub of isopropyl alcohol be the agent of death? Would the neighbor’s skin eventually be dried off? Would their head and body become shrunken? Part of isopropyl alcohol’s sensation of coldness on the skin is its rapid process of evaporation. And what about the eyes? Surely the isopropyl alcohol would cause enormous pain as it seeped its way into the eyes. What about the rectum? The vagina? The penis? Or any open wounds, cuts or scrapes that my upstairs neighbors had? Surely there would be enormous stinging pain in the individual submerged in the isopropyl alcohol, which would definitely outweigh any act of kindness I could offer the person submerged in the bathtub full of isopropyl alcohol. Eventually I discarded this idea and credited myself with being much more rational than I thought I was.
A few weeks ago, when I was walking home, I thought about going directly upstairs and telling the neighbors to go ahead and stomp around and let their dogs bark as much as they wanted because I’m planning to buy a set of earplugs that are designed to block out almost any noise that they could make. I had a certain bounce in my step as I walked home because I felt victorious about my new ability to block them out. It’s not a good idea to get caught in the loop of hate with them, which is why I decided to tell them outright that I didn’t want to get caught in the loop of hate with them, which is also why I was going to buy the earplugs in the first place. If I think about them too much it gets me in the loop of hate with them, and then all I can think about is them. If I’m in the loop of hate with them, then I can’t think about observing them as they leave the building with their dogs. When I got home I found my big red marker and wrote "AVOID THE LOOP OF HATE" on a piece of typing paper and tacked it to the wall in front of my desk as a reminder. I decided not to tell the people upstairs about my plans to buy the earplugs because I was afraid I hadn’t yet rehearsed exactly how I was going to phrase my announcement. I wanted them to understand without a doubt that I knew all about the loop of hate and I was doing everything in my power, and then some, to avoid getting into the loop with them. I would try to make it as clear as possible that once I purchased the earplugs, they would no longer have any power over me with their various noises. I knew that if I’d gone up there without feeling perfectly calm and self-confident about what I was going to say, then there was the distinct possibility that they would hear the stress in my voice and not take me seriously, or take me too seriously and freak out. I didn’t want to be the butt of their jokes, or the agent of their fear, I simply wanted to kill them with kindness.
I thought what better way to flatter the people upstairs than by telling them that I’m writing a book about my experiences while living downstairs from them. I thought I‘d tell them that they are such fascinating subjects that they have become the central characters in my novel, which means the plot revolves around them and when it’s published I will personally sign a copy for each of them. I thought I’d tell them to go ahead and do anything they want, because I’m writing down everything they do, which is why it’s critically important that they act as naturally as possible with the knowledge that I am writing about them. I didn’t want them to become too self-conscious about being observed because then I wouldn’t be able to witness and document their genuine behavior.
That night I dreamed that I was cooking one of their dogs on a spit over a fire. I was turning the dog over and over with a lever while it cooked. Once the fur had burned off, the meat of the dog was as shiny and dark as a chunk of black marble. It was tender enough to pull off with my fingers, which is what I did, as I looked up at their window and announced "I’m eating your dog!" When they looked outside I tugged a piece of the dark meat off the dog’s carcass and stuck it in my mouth, letting a little grease dribble down my chin and shimmer by the light of the fire.
Not long ago I bought some cheap cologne called Drakkar Noir from a street vendor. I brought it home and sprinkled it on the doorknob that leads out of the building. I thought it would make the people upstairs furious because there’s no sure way they could ever know who did it, nor could they ever be absolutely certain that it was done intentionally to make them wear the cheap cologne on their hands. I thought it would drive them mad having to smell it on their hands, which would only remind them of me throughout the day. The next morning when I heard the woman come downstairs with her dogs I looked outside through the blinds. She stood about three feet in front of my window, smelled her right hand, curled her lip and spat on the ground between her dogs.
In an effort to take the smell theme one step further I decided to rub my fingers around my rectum and wipe my hand on the doorknob leading out of the building. Knowing that they would have to put their hands on my shit and possibly get it in their mouths made me positively giddy. I saw both of them getting tremendously ill as they jockeyed for position in front of their toilet. I could see them teetering around the apartment with shit and vomit spewing out both ends of their convulsing bodies until they collapsed with a deep thud while flopping around on the bathroom floor like big tuna on the deck of a boat.
What I’d really like to do right now is go up there and have a look around to see what giant piece of furniture they’re moving from one end of the apartment to the other this early on a Sunday morning. I know for a fact that they’ll just keep on stomping and moving things around until I go up there and take a shit on their bed. I’d knock on their door and when they opened it I’d say, "Excuse me, I’m the guy who lives downstairs and I’m going to take a shit on your bed right now." I can see myself wiping my ass with their bedspread and saying, " Don’t worry, it’s all gonna be in the novel."
Before I go up there I’d have to prepare myself mentally for the fact that they might have a gun. Or her boyfriend might be the type of guy who is able to sense when someone is harboring mean ideas about them. He might be waiting for me to come up there and take a shit. He might have known about my plan from the very first time I thought about it and maybe he’s been preparing for me to come up there all this time that I’ve been thinking about it. The thought of me shitting on their bed might turn him on and give him an elaborate excuse to drop the gun and climb up on the bed with me and start fondling my ass in order to make me stop shitting their bed. Whenever I think about shitting on their bed it makes me realize that for once in my goddamn life I’ve come up with a plan that makes me stand out from the crowd for having the courage and tenacity to not only think it but do it.
I know these are obviously not acts of kindness but acts of meanness, and if I keep up with this line of reasoning I’ll be straying from my original goal of killing them with kindness. Yet I find myself pursuing all things mean and harmful in relation to them. I feel compelled to constantly think about all the bad things that I can do to them. Every time I hear them stomping around at 5:30 in the morning I wake up and add another item to the list of things that I can do to them that would cause them great harm. My only fear is that they’re sneaking into my apartment when I’m not around, checking out my list of bad things, or reading the novel I’m writing about them so that they can anticipate certain things from me. That’s why I’ve started hiding these things. I’ve even taken to hiding my toothbrush when I leave my apartment because I don’t want them to do anything to it that would make me sick.
Whenever I don’t think about them they’re quiet, but when I think about them they’re noisy. So I’m trying not to think about them, but even in the midst of trying not to think about them I find myself thinking about them. I’m not sure if they’re thinking about me very much. Right now they’re washing their fifth load of laundry and the spin cycle is off-balance again and it’s making the whole building vibrate with its obscenely grating "thump-thump" noise. I know this is something that they’ve concocted in a most extraordinarily feeble manner simply to bother me. It’s sad that the best plan they’ve come up with to annoy me is making their washing machine go off-balance by washing only one towel at a time. They’re dumber than lint and I have my proof. Perhaps someday I’ll talk to my neighbors about this knowledge I have of them. But one thing is certain: I must not get caught in the loop of hate with them.