zzz, static noise
The fluorescent tube hummed, buzzed as if it was late on rent. The ceiling was ten, maybe twelve feet of bolted steel.
The apartment was a leftover slice of the paper factory floor,—ten paces to the windows— its bones still stamped with mill dust. Light from the high, grimy windows climbed the brick walls and died halfway up, leaving the upper reaches in perpetual twilight. One felt the height in your shoulders, a slight hunch against all that empty air pressing down on the poorly lit room below. The air smelled of old pulp and the chill of unused volume. A galley kitchenette clung to the south wall: single hot‑plate, half‑sized fridge, enamel sink no wider than B’s shoulders. Opposite, the futon crouched beneath drifts of half‑folded laundry. Between them, a blond‑wood desk listed under twin monitors, seven—maybe eight—espresso cups ringed an old MacBook whose keyboard glowed only on the right; the A and W keys stood bare, letters long since thumbed to ghosts. The cast‑iron radiator squatted beside it like a rust‑scarred bulldog, knocking Morse into the planks.
one, two, three,…, seventeen. B counted between the flickers.
Page sixty-three again. Vereinbarung. The cursor has stopped moving twenty minutes ago.
Then page sixty-seven. Ausführungsbestimmungen became “executive provisions”. Then “executive decisions”, then just “decisions”. B deleted the line and move on.
It was Tuesday, which meant he should have been at the coffee shop four hours ago. Or is it Thursday? The radiator’s midnight clang unfurled through the half-finished living room, though morning light had bled through the old factory windows. Morning light, Afternoon, maybe. He stood and his knees buckled. When had he last stood? The translation folder counted forty-seven pages complete. He reached for the chipped Carrara‑white mug. The espresso had grown a skin. His chapped lips, split at the seam, parted just enough to rupture the coagulated surface, tasting yesterday. The tremor started in his jaw, followed by those shaky hands. He was jonesing for half a bar1.
The couple across the hall had drawn their curtains halfway — In their 30s, no kids, with a pair of Dalmatians. The woman was pressed against the wall beside the industrial windows, her blouse half-done. Afternoon light caught the curve of the exposed skin, her head tilted back against the bricks. Every other afternoon was often their time. Sometimes, B wondered if they were doing it on purpose. He looked away, then back. The man’s hands braced the wall on either side of her, his face buried in her neck. The woman’s face turned towards the window — her mouthing a silent aperture suspended within the glass pane. The dimmed light caught the sweat on her collarbone, turned it into gold.
B touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The chalky residue was now gone. He’d need another half soon.
His phone buzzed. Sixteen missed calls, three from K at Cima’s, ten from the coffee shop, one from Ma, the rest from an unknown “(415)” that he didn’t recognize, but knew it was S’s. He deleted the voicemail without listening
The German blurred again. “Vereinbarung”. Agreement. Arrangement. Understanding. In English, everything had too many meanings. B typed “contract”.
Somebody knocked. B didn’t answer per say. People has been knocking all week — HOA, Gas inspection, vent maintenance, the property manager about plants dying on the escape hatch. Or is it last week?
The Turkish cezve sat cold on the hot plate nearby. He watched the ground bubble and foam. S’s had bought it at the Berkeley flea market, “For our mornings,” she’d said.
Now it was always morning, or never morning. The time on the blade2 said 3:47 PM Tuesday. His watch said 8:15. B’d forgotten about daylight savings. Or forgotten to change it back.
The knock came again. Harder.
“B? It’s T. From the shop.” … “I know you’re in there man. I can smell the coffee.” But the apartment has always smelled like coffee
Several identical white bags from the shop, half torn open, half-finished. Grounds spilled on the counter like topsoil.
“I’m sick”, responded with his raspy voice. B’s voice cracked from disuse.
“Yeah, okay. Just — M wants to know if you’re coming back. Ever.”
There were a bar left in his left pockets. He couldn’t remember the hours of the pharmacy across the street.
“Tell him Thursday.”
“It is Thursday.”
B’s looked at the screen, noticing the same sections has been translated over and over again.
“NEXT THURSDAY!”
“Okay, just making sure. You ok bud?”
“yes”, B’s murmured.
He heard footsteps disappearing from the distance, retreated down the hall. B saved the documents as “FINAL_FINAL_V7”, and opened his notebook: “Translation as a disappearing act.” Half-written thoughts for an upcoming essay. In a separate tab, he opened another assignment, an email from the senders “ktiindustries@kti.de”, with one comment: “Standard rate, due upon completion.”
He dry-swallowed the other half and felt his thoughts organized into a transactional rows. The coffee felt bitter, thick. Outside, the light started to fallen through each crevice of the rising tree in the spring weather B began typing. In three hours, he’d run to the harbor and back. In four, he’d shower. In five, he’d walk to Cima’s and K would pour him his favorite Scotch, that would make one’s edge soft again. But for now, there are only words required translations, shifted through the conversion as if it doesn’t want to be processed.
His phone rang. San Francisco again. This time he recognized the number. — Dr. M’s office. The appointment that he missed, probably
The radiator knocked. A brown leaf abandoned the last living plant and spun once before settling on the sill. Tomorrow he would water them. Or Thursday. Whichever arrived with kinder light.