Ah revenge! Sweet and petty revenge! How lovely it is to take you out of my front pocket and secretly pet your silken fur. Shh, shh, our little secret, my gentle, gentle revenge.
I have not snapped, no, not crazy not crazy! I haven’t nailed any hearts under any floorboards, but sometimes, well, sometimes, it’s the little things that build up, straw upon straw until all you have left is a disabled camel and no oasis water in sight to test out your fresh-bought straws.
No, my revenge is completely justified, the logical next step only. Ah, Mrs. S, you nasty tenant, how fittingly you deserve this, how you slowly wheedled and needled all your little favors you thought were special to you (and not just my job), how your hideous, gauche beehive hair and nasal voice simply added another layer of injustice until…la revanche!
First, it was your way of packing: so many suitcases and bags and food one would have thought you were joining Robert Peary’s next arctic expedition, not going for a weekend on Long Island. On Friday, you’d have me pack the car to the gills, barely even room for your son, who, by the way, deigned not lift a finger as I moved what must have been his entire room from door to trunk. On Sunday, you were polite enough to let me do it again, and nary a tip either way.
Second, it was your charming habit of screeching like a banshee at your husband/son/neighbor in the lobby, putting me in the middle of the fight and oft drawing complaints from other tenants.
Third was when you brought down several boxes of fruit and had me move them from car to storage room, storage room to car as you vacillated over whether or not the fruit would go bad in the car overnight, this being the biggest problem facing your insulated, self-obsessed, sweatpanted existence.
Fourth was when you wanted me to attach something to your car using Velcro adhesive and could not figure out that the newer model of the attachment came with two big pieces of Velcro and not four little pieces, and yelled at me for being so stupid as to not understand that it should have four pieces, my poor troglodyte brain being unable to count past two, nor conceptualize the scientific intricacies of Velcro.
Fifth and final was when you came down at three in the morning and left me your garbage because you didn’t feel like going to the basement, thank you, thank you.
And so, I took my revenge, petty to be sure, a little gesture for me to cackle over on lonely nights in the lobby, no bodily harm involved, no no! I haven’t gone off the deep end, or rather, if this is the deep end, my psyche must be one shallow kiddie pool.
You, you charming, screaming wretch, get your two tabloid newspapers (The New York Post and the Daily News) and reads them daily. Store up the gossip, you must, you must. The worst of yellow journalism, all terrible puns and the words “caper” and “villain” still in ready use. You keep these nasty, pointless stories as scraps in your beehive like a magpie building her hideous nest.
All the juicy headlines are brassily advertised on the cover, while the real articles appear on the second page, your top inanities for the day. As I was delivering the newspapers to your front door, it seemed that the second pages of the newspapers, the best parts, mysteriously crumpled themselves up and found their way to my pocket!
Yes, haha! I am the little imp, the uniformed Gollum thieving away your juiciest stories, the little pan proudly tooting his pipe with his slight mischief, and ah, how soothing is my pettiness.
Enjoy your paper!