Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

Surly Rat-Logs wring out the washing rags. Viking, shirtless, is hard at work on the table, spitting on its surface from time to time in lieu of other cleaning liquids.

I close my eyes and ...

A vision. This very dorm, except squeaky clean, like on the first day we entered it. Snow-white walls, sparkling windows. No sleeping bags. No Rats. Not even a single Walkman. In short, Sepulcher. The dear old home. Only without Spiders.

I shake myself out of it, grab the nearest mop, and run to the farthest corner. I scrub and scrub until my head spins. A tiny little light spot appears on the floor. That's all I get for my trouble. And my back is already howling in protest. Got to sit down.

Whitebelly splashes closer, in cutie-baby mode.

“You need help? May I?”

“Sure,” I rasp. “Knock yourself out. I don't seem to be producing much of an effect.”

“There's this clean spot over here,” he assures me and grabs the mop.

Its handle is not much thinner than he is. I look at him laboring, then at the Logs, who quickly assume a busy look, then at the condom floating by. Someone added more water, even though I told them two buckets is the limit, otherwise it would trickle down to the first. It would be one thing if they dried it out quickly, but they just slosh the water from one wall to the other.

Also someone gnawed on the aloe plant again. A minuscule nub is all that's left. I take the pot and look at it, and immediately Hybrid starts cleaning his nails, whistling tunelessly. It's not often you meet a person who can gobble absolutely anything, and only get healthier for it. Hybrid is one. I have this suspicion that he even takes an occasional bite out of us when we're asleep. Carefully, so that we won't notice. The disappearing stocks of toothpaste are definitely him. There aren't any others who'd eat it.

I make it look like I am preparing to toss the pot at him. He shrinks and screeches.

Microbe and Monkey whine, “But Red, but Red! We're cleaning!”

So sincerely that one might even believe it's actually the case. Unless the one is me.

“Right,” I say. “Carry on.”

And go out to grab some fresh air, a quick smoke, and something to eat. Maybe also have a rest somewhere. I know I shouldn’t. Even before the door closes behind me they're going to drop everything and dash to the bathroom to check on their priceless bag, if it's still holding together.

Four homeless Ratlings sitting right outside. Poor orphans on a winter night.

“When is it going to be over?”

“Can we go back now?”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Patience, Red. Patience,” I say under my breath, but loud enough.

That should shut them up for a while. I take advantage of the pause in the action and leg it to the Coffeepot. No guarantees, though. If they have a mind to they can barge in there too. Good thing I'm not their father, or I'd have throttled the whole gang long ago. Nothing but whining and zits. Enough to drive anyone nuts.

It's girls' night in the Coffeepot. Six walkers, crowding the counter, deep in conversation. Three of the maidens are fresh off the cleaning shift. Still bearing the traces of honest working sweat. Judging by the hushed exclamations, the subject is serious business. The shorts-clad bottoms sway like the tails on fretful cats. Apart from them it's a thin crowd. Corpse with his book and Sleepy dozing in his wheelchair.

“Over here!” Corpse screams. “Move your flippers! I’m holding a place for you.”

Places are abundant, so his screaming is more in the nature of a habit. I go over and sit down, and all the girlies immediately turn around and stop talking. I don't like the glint in their eyes. It's as if they've been waiting for my arrival.

Corpse turns his head from side to side, trying to figure out what the deal is. There's a chilly pause, and then the gunshot of a glass slammed against the counter.

“So that's it,” Gaby says loudly. “I'm now damaged forever. Because of that lowlife.”

I was planning to go get a drink, but their stares make me reconsider. There's a real danger of choking on the first sip.

“What's wrong?” I say, because it's somehow clear that the lowlife is in fact me.

“And he's the one asking,” the supporting cast drones helpfully as Long drops down from her stool and hobbles in my direction, miraculously not toppling off her heels.

“You bastard,” she spits through the strata of lipstick. “I’m pregnant, that's what!”

Three-ring circus, that's what it is. Even Sleepy wakes up. And I've got enough of empty hysterics without cause back in the Rat-hole.

“All right, I get it. What's that to do with me?”

“With you?” Gaby repeats sharply. “You maybe mean it wasn't you and your damn Rats that's done it?”

“That's enough. Get lost,” I say, at the same time realizing that it should be me getting lost, and fast. So I start getting up. It's either that, or fighting with her.

“Oh, nooo! You're not getting off that easy!” Gaby screams, jumps closer, and slaps me one across the face.

Heavy as hell, my head almost flies off. I just manage to grab the camouflage glasses. The girls at the counter cheer. I return the smack an instant before it dawns on me that it's that very reaction she wanted.

Gaby throws her head back and squeals, more gratingly than an electric drill biting into a cement wall. The maidens pick up the infernal squealing and unstick themselves from the counter, one after the other, falling off like overripe toadstools. Except the toadstools wouldn't then turn on me.

I jump up and shield myself with the table. A couple of pointy heels crash into it. The girls, huffing and puffing excitedly, try to conquer the obstacle, constantly getting in each other's way.

Sleepy, in the background, quickly steers toward the exit, trying his best to appear invisible. Tongue hanging out from the effort. Echidna climbs up on the table. The rest are pulling her down. And all of this is accompanied by the unceasing squeal bordering on ultrasound. Crazy. Enough to make me feel like an honest-to-goodness rat. One that's about to have its spine crushed by the sharp heels. And then smeared across the floor. Why? No reason. And the worst part is that before it ends, it's going to hurt. A lot.

The table slams into my stomach and drives me backward in the direction of the wall. I'm boxed into the corner. By pushing my back against the wall I manage to stop the advance, but at the same moment my hair is grabbed so viciously that it has a hard time staying attached. Now it's my turn to squeal.

“Are you mental?”

That was Corpse. What an inopportune moment to be joining the discussion. I'm shielded by the table, and he's not. He's immediately shown the error of his ways. I save my scalp at the expense of a handful of hair, while Corpse ineffectually fights back against the kicking feet and the piercing talons until he ends up on the floor.

I jump out of my pen and run to him. In any other circumstances I wouldn't have, because Corpse is not someone who requires outside assistance. His other nick is Scorpio, as his see-through complexion is matched by his overall fuzzy harmlessness, but I'm not sure about anything anymore. And it appears that the girls will more likely kill him than not. There's already a sizable crowd in the Coffeepot, and someone gets to them before me. Which is good, because Echidna sinking her nails into my face hampers my progress.

After that it's no longer clear who's slugging who and for what. A writhing knot of bodies, wheelchairs and tables being overturned, the squeals climbing higher yet, and at the most dramatic moment, Sheriff and Black Ralph come bursting in.

That is to be expected. What's unexpected is that their arrival fails to stop the melee. Probably because the maidens don't give a hoot, to put it mildly, about our counselors. They are afraid somewhat of their own hags, but they've learned that our geezers, one, never would lay a finger on them and, two, have no way of raising a stink later. So the ballet exercises continue. Not for too long, though, because the girl-tamers are not far behind.