Paper | Thin
12/04/99
Welcome to Paper | Thin, a weekly serial documenting the passions and tribulations of two eccentric sisters, Aggie and Flo, living in an apartment in San Francisco. No need to place a cup to the wall, it’s paper-thin.
Aggie got a bird. How she acquired this avian friend is unclear, but she won’t stop talking about how smitten she is with it. “I’m smitten,” she says, when the bird chirps. “I’m smitten,” she says when the bird eats, drinks, or flaps his wings.
Flo isn’t a fan of their new feathered roommate, even going as far as to say she hates it. “Filthy animals, birds. Vile creatures. I’m going to let it out the window while you sleep.”
“You won’t touch my bird,” Aggie says. “If you do, I’ll throw your shoes out the window. How about that?”
I laughed louder than I’d intended, and now it’s quiet, with only the occasional terse chirp from Aggie’s bird. After a few moments, Aggie, trying her best to speak softly but having one volume, says, “I’m smitten.”
It’s technically the morning of the 5th now, 3 am, and I’ve got my ear to the wall. I was woken by the sound of crying coming from next door. What I’ve been able to figure out so far is that the bird’s foot is stuck between the cage bars, and they don’t know how to help it.
“Put that butter away, Flo! You’re scaring him!”
“You need to grease its leg!”
“If he panics, he’ll break his leg! Put the butter away!”
I pour myself a cup of cold coffee and sit on the floor with my back against our wall, listening to the drama unfold and writing a grocery list. I write down, “Butter.”
“He’s out!” shouts Aggie. “His foot is free! Oh, good boy—good boy. I’m smitten. I’m smitten!”
Like Flo, I don’t care much for birds, but I’m happy its foot is out.
“I think we should leave the cage door open from now on,” Aggie says.
“Fine. Give Lawrence the run of the joint—what’s it to me?”
Lawrence—quite the name for a bird. Let the bubbles fly; it’s time to say goodnight; we all go back to bed.
I dream of the sisters: they’re turned away from me, looking at their bird, Lawrence, who chirps anxiously in his cage. Flo is wearing her tap shoes and a long black gown, while her sister Aggie is wearing a robe of yellow and blue feathers extending to just above her calves, where a bone protrudes from between twin varicose veins. Lawrence comically squeezes through his cage, flies over my head, and darts out an open window. I laugh—the sisters turn toward me, but they don’t have faces, just mounds of flesh and wrinkles. I’m ashamed, apologizing profusely for being in their apartment, but then I notice that it’s my apartment; I see my art on the walls, my comfy red reading chair, and my collection of M.U.S.C.L.E. men.
Then I see them: men, women, children, families!—lazying on unfamiliar couches, licking their buttery popcorn fingers from unfashionable chairs where they leer at glowing boxes—I scream, “Get out of my apartment!” But they only turn up their T.V.s or speak over the chaos while on their phones or talking to their mothers, roommates, pets, or lovers.
I wake up hyperventilating, drenched in sweat.
Aggie is laughing in her sleep again.
Chirp.
If you enjoyed this, you might also like Sentences. Give it a read and let me know what you think!
This is brilliantly surreal. It flipped from a very normal dynamic to a slightly crazy one wonderfully well and very seamlessly. Thoroughly enjoyed!
Splendid and as Nicole said - surreal. Though having lived in old apartment buildings in nyc I met ladies like this. Every apartment a different dimension. I love this.