Reception
bout a year ago, I lived in a nice little apartment. I was living on
little income while attending college nearby, so it wasn't the nicest of
places, but it sufficed for the interim. I was going to be successful
eventually.
The complex of apartments was very well laid out, despite its dilapidation. Once, it had been a respectable new development. A series of buildings, each containing two flats, ran down either side of a long garden of grass and tropical plants, sliced evenly by thin walkways.
In the afternoons, PBS showed interesting programs about Asian economies and American politics, and the like. This was followed by the News Hour with Jim Lehrer. It was my intellectual staple crop. I needed those two programs to survive.
My only problem was the reception. Its clarity fluctuated at times, unpredictably, causing me the greatest tension. What was most irritating was that I could never know what really caused those fluctuations. They had nothing to do with me; if I sat in the right position, I wouldn't corrupt the signal. Yet the picture would roll, and the picture and sound would disappear into unbearable static. I resigned myself to the fact that my lowly status in life had relegated me to watching this poor quality for the moment.
One day, however, I made a discovery concerning the neighbors. A young couple inhabited the conjoined apartment. They were not loud, but I knew when they were home. I could always hear the door open, see them walk past my windows either to or fro, and with slight accuracy detect their movements around their flat. It was during one such maddening breakdown in communications that I realized they had just returned home. I set out to investigate their relevance to my problems. I made it a point to know for certain whether they were home a two p.m. when my show started. If they were, I got good reception. If they came home during the show, reception scrambled. They were, I concluded on the basis of the Socratic method, the thorns in my side. Now, all I needed was to talk with them, and present my problem in a way they could appreciate. After all, I believed so much in the human capacity to express itself, and draw favorable reaction through a friend's empathy. Things would soon be perfect, I suspected. And I was elated.
"Hello," I said cordially as my neighbor, the husband, opened his door.
"Hi," he replied, wearing something of a perplexed look.
"I live next door," I said.
"Yeah, I've seen you," he answered.
"I have a bit of a problem, and hoped you could help me out." His wife, quite attractive, stood in their living room with her arms folded below her breasts, emphasizing them, and eyeing me distrustfully. Both she and her husband noticed where I was looking. I resumed, "Uh, my reception is going out. Well, I think it's you who's doing it."
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, and I knew my instincts about humanity were true. He was concerned about my problem. Such a thing is instilled in us all, I believe.
I continued, "Yes, and it only happens on PBS, of course. We have an antenna hookup for the other channels." I was becoming more friendly, and he, less, I noticed. "Well, um, between two and four, I watch PBS. When you're here, it ruins my reception." I was relieved to have it out, so I laughed a bit.
"OK," he said, grimacing. "I don't know what we can do about it, though."
I was shocked. He knew what he could do. It seemed pointless for me to inform him, but I did so anyway. "Well, I'd really appreciate it if you could stay away during� I mean, not be home, at those times. I didn't mean you have to 'stay away'. Just take a walk or something."
He was shaking his head. "We'd like to help you, but I just can't agree to that. I'm sorry, but I have to tell you right now that we won't do that. It's not� we have our own place here, and we have the right to move about as we please. Sorry, but no."
Dismayed, I returned home.
The next day, they continued to ruin my viewing pleasure, but there was a significant difference: now, I knew they did it on purpose. They could have their laughs, but I would get revenge.
I had lost my respect for human empathy, and began to plan human vengeance, my new life philosophy.
In order to watch my programs peacefully the next day, I would have to take action ahead of time.
That day arrived, and I knew they were home. It was an hour before the shows. They were closing cabinet doors in their kitchen, so I knew they were in there.
"Hello," I said again, in the same cordial tone as the other visit.
"Hi," he said again, but this time with a smug look on his face.
I removed that look. I swung my hammer around from behind my back, and planted the teeth of it into his skull. I even compensated for his defensive backward movement and his raised hands. I was quite proud of myself.
There was a conspicuous lack of screaming. I thought that the wife would be hysterical by now.
After closing their front door, I looked through the apartment, finally hearing her in the bathroom. I murdered her as she did her business on the toilet.
I had to shuttle back and forth between my and their apartment several times. It took me a while to get their corpses in the right positions to ensure my reception.
Here in the state prison the guys don't like to watch informative shows like they have on PBS. They like the sensational crap. Well, I've forgotten about that stuff, anyway. I get tired of things easily.
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