TWO

“Score!” Paul says to himself as he parked his truck in front of his new apartment on Inman St. in Cambridge, Mass., “I’ll never get a spot like this again. Maybe I’ll leave it here for the year.” He thought as he looked down and realized his cell phone was almost dead. “Shit, why didn’t I plug in? Stupid idiot,” he says aloud as he threw it back into hisbackpack.

Paul loved his truck. “If I left it here, I could always keep an eye on it. Not a bad idea,” he thought as he exited his 2001 green Xterra. This truck meant everything to him: so many memories and so many secrets; he was glad these walls, doors, and seats didn’ttalk.

As he walked towards his new apartment building, 1147C, he hoped his new roommate, Ken, was home. His sublet for the school year was moving a pale-yellow building, a triple-decker like the others on the street. The door was white, matching the trim around the windows, all chipping. It looked good, kept: it was apparent the property owner took care of the place, comparing it to the home next door, which was falling apart. A few of the hones on the street could use some TLC, Paul thought, bushes and lawn out of control, trash barrels overflowing, shingles falling off, and broken windows, and paint chipping on all floors. He could see the many layers of paint, one on top of another; there was no scraping done on these. They seemed to put one layer on top of another, probably holding the last one on. He figured there were probably a few layers of lead paint under there as well. He noticed this stuff ever since he spent a summer painting houses his sophomoreyear.

Paul walked up the brick stairs underneath onto the small porch and pushed the buzzer. He waited. A moment of dread fell over him when there was no answer, no roommate, no key, and no phone. “Shit.” He thought, standing on his toes to look in the windows at the top of the solid brown door. There was no movement or sound; all he could see was more brown paint, trim, and stairs. Feeling a little cold, he realized that his T-shirt and jeans might not have been enough, and he might wait a while for someone to let him in. Just as he turned, returning to the truck to get his sweatshirt, a beep came out from an old crackly speaker next to the door. “Who is it?”

“Ken, it’s me, you asshole; now get down here, let me in, and help meunpack.”

“Hey Paul, what took you so long? Why didn’t you call? I’ll be right down.” His roommate says, clicking the speakeroff.

Paul stood waiting, looking around his new neighborhood, relieved someone was home. “Why didn’t you call…?” he wouldn’t answer that. He