The Biology of Luck by Jacob M. Appel Page B

not to mention overpopulating the world with excess children, cramping them all together in a railroad flat with at least two pit bulls and God knows how many flea-infested cats and a deranged brother-in-law who proselytizes door-to-door, and they have the nerve to complain that she has an occasional houseguest. It really is too much to stomach.
    â€œI’ll take care of it,” Starshine promises. “I didn’t realize they could hear us.”
    â€œGood,” says Bone. “We go up and see.”
    Arguing would serve no purpose. Bone has done this before, has invited himself into her apartment on one pretext or another, although none as compromising as this one, but the visits are shortin duration, more like inspections than social calls, so Starshine has learned to acquiesce to the course of least resistance. After the super’s first visit, an examination of the bathroom grouting in response to a flood on the second floor, Starshine made the mistake of complaining to the management company. A midlevel agent humored her for twenty minutes. Her hot water supply vanished mysteriously for three consecutive days. Although she could substantiate nothing—afterward she couldn’t even document the loss of hot water—Starshine learned her lesson. She is an at-will sojourner in the kingdom of Bone.
    The super leads her into the dimly lit vestibule.
    â€œYou pick up your mail,” he says. “I wait.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou did not pick up your mail yesterday. I wait while you pick it up.”
    Bone folds his arm under the pit of his stump. Starshine, tears of frustration pooling behind her eyes, fumbles for her mailbox key. She feels violated, torn to shreds. It couldn’t be any worse if Bone mounted her forcibly to test the decibel level of the bedsprings. How can the asshole possibly know whether or not she has collected yesterday’s mail? But he does, damn it. She hastily retrieves her allotment of correspondence, mostly bills and late notices, and stuffs the assortment of official-looking envelopes into the waistband of her pants. She will not humiliate herself any further by examining them in his presence.
    They ascend the narrow staircase in tandem, navigating a graveyard of children’s toys, the overhead bulb dancing on its wire, projecting their silhouettes against the warped plaster, consecrating the doll torsos and tanker trucks abandoned to the stairwells. The reaffirming strains of Edith Piaf’s brassy voice float from Starshine’s apartment. She knocks to give Eucalyptus fair warning. Her roommate replies with the rustle of clothes, the sticky patter of bare wet feet on hardwood. The door opens, first a crack, then all the way. Eucalyptus, her long black hair hidden under a lavender bath towel, stands at the threshold.
    â€œHe needs to examine the beds,” explains Starshine. “The loonies downstairs complained.”
    â€œYou mean he needs to examine
your
bed, darling,” says Eucalyptus.
    Bone follows Starshine into the apartment, peeking through each doorway as though on a realtor’s tour. He pauses momentarily at the entrance to Eucalyptus’s room, taking in the wall collage of celebrity obits and the cabinet of tchotchkes and the harpoon mounted over the rosewood bureau, then passes through the common room and, like a rodent drawn by a pheromone, sniffs the musty air before targeting Starshine’s bed. Starshine does not follow him. Bone won’t take anything, she knows, nor does she own anything worthy of pocketing, and she would like to have as little to do with this intrusion as possible. She retreats to the comfort of her wicker chair and sorts through the previous day’s mail.
    â€œVisa bill, jury summons, a friendly letter from our Community Board,” she enumerates. “Here you go, honey. Personal correspondence from the Internal Revenue Service. For Eucalyptus Caroll. Shall I open