The Collection

across the living room, plopping down on the floor in front of the tele­vision.

Ray waited a moment, but the small man remained un-moving, mesmerized by the commercial that was on.

'Do you have cable?' he asked.

'The apartment's been rented,' Ray said in as an author­itarian voice he could muster. He didn't like lying, but this was just getting too damn weird.

The little man stood up and faced Ray. His lower lip was trembling and tears were forming in his eyes. His small white hands began clasping and unclasping.

'I'm sorry,' Ray said, softening. 'But I rented the place out yesterday—'

With a loud wail, the man streaked past Ray and out the door. By the time Ray turned around, he was gone, the hall­way outside empty.

'I'm sorry,' Ray called out, but there was no answer, no sound outside, and he closed the door.

He walked back into the living room and sat down tiredly on the couch. What the hell was he going to do? The month was almost over, and if things continued the way they were going, he was not going to find a roommate. There was no way he could afford another month by himself—

The front door opened.

Ray jumped to his feet. The man who stood in the door­way must have weighed four hundred pounds. He was bearded and bespectacled, wearing a faded Star Wars T-shirt, which bunched in folds around his gut. Next to him on the stoop were two suitcases and a huge piece of sheet metal. 'You saved my life,' he said, picking up the suitcases by their handles and clamping the sheet metal beneath his arm. He walked into the apartment, looking around. 'Nice place.'

'W-What...'

'I saw your invitation at the university.'

'That wasn't an invitation. It was an advertisement. I'm just interviewing applicants—'

'Well, you can stop interviewing. I'm here.' The man put his suitcases down on the floor. He leaned the sheet metal against the wall next to the dining room table and opened one of the suitcases, taking out a hammer and some nails.

He began nailing the sheet metal to the wall.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'This here's for my war game.'

Ray ran across the room. 'You're not putting that on my wall.'

A cloud passed over the man's face, and his smile faded.

He pushed roughly past Ray and strode into the kitchen, pulling open drawers until he found the one he wanted. picked up two carving knives, one in each hand, and advanced on Ray, the expression on his face one of furious rage. 'What's all this talk of knives, boy?' He drew out the) word knives, stretching it into several syllables.

'I—' Ray began.

One of the knives whizzed by his head as the man threw it.

'What's all this talk of knives?'

Ray ducked. 'I don't know what you're—'

Another knife flew past his head, embedding itself in the wall above the couch.

'I'm calling the police!' Ray ran toward the phone.

The fat man stood there for a moment, frowned, blinked his eyes, then smiled. He picked up his hammer and began nailing the sheet metal to the wall. 'I put game pieces on here,' he explained. 'They're attached with magnets.'

Breathing heavily, angered adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ray turned toward the man, dropping the phone. 'Get out!' he yelled. He pulled one of the knives from the wall and advanced on the fat man.

'What'd I do?'

'Get out!' Ray rushed forward, and the man, panicking, dropped his hammer and ran out the door. Ray picked up first one suitcase, then the other, throwing them out the door. Comic books tumbled out. And pewter fantasy figures. And game pieces.

'My board!' the man cried.

Ray picked up the sheet metal and tossed it out the door.

Fury swept over the huge man's face once again. 'Knives!' he said.

Ray closed the door just as the man started to run. He turned the lock, drew the dead bolt. There was a loud roar and a monstrous thump as the man rammed into the door, but the door miraculously held.

'I'm calling the police!' Ray said again.

But there was no answer, and he knew the man was gone.

'Hello. My name's Tiffany, and I'm calling in regard to the roommate-wanted ad in the paper.' The woman's voice was lilting, almost musical, possessed of a thick southern accent.

Ray said nothing, only sighed tiredly.

'I'm getting desperate. I really need to find a place.'

He took off his tie, throwing it on the couch. Cradling the receiver between his neck and shoulder, he started taking off his shoes. 'Look, Miss—'

'Tiffany. Tiffany Scarlett. I'm a nurse at St. Jude's.' She paused. 'Look, if you haven't found a roommate yet, I'd like to come over and look at the place. I don't know what you're looking for, but I'm very quiet, and although my hours are sometimes a little weird because I work the second shift, I can assure you I would not disturb you. You proba­bly wouldn't even notice I was there.'

Ray was silent. This was sounding good. Too good. This was exactly what he wanted to hear, and he tried to read be­tween the lines, searching for a catch.

'Just let me come over and take a peek. It's only five thirty. You haven't found a roommate yet, have you?'

'No,' he admitted.

'Well then.'

'Okay,' he said. 'Come by at seven.'

'Seven it is.'

'Do you know how to get here?'

'I have a map.'

'See you at seven, then.' 'Okay. Bye-bye.'

'Bye.' He hung up the phone, closed his eyes. Please God, he thought, let her be normal.

The knock came at seven sharp. He stood for a moment unmoving, then opened the door.

He immediately stepped back, gagging. The smell was familiar, that unmistakable compound odor of putrescent filth and bodily waste which had permeated Ira's living quarters. He stared at the young woman who stood before him. If she had been clean, she would have been a knockout. She possessed the thin graceful body of a model or a dancer, and her face was absolutely stunning. But she was wearing a man's coveralls stained with food and mud and God knew what, and her face and hands were brown with grime. Her hair stuck out from the sides of her head in greasy matted clumps.

In her hands she held two metal pails filled with dirt.

'This'll do nicely,' she said in her thick southern accent. 'This'll do fine.' She stepped into the apartment and imme­diately dumped both pails of dirt onto the rug.

'What do you think you're doing?' Ray demanded.

'The rest of it's out in the truck,' she said. She walked straight into the kitchen and began filling up one of the pails with water.

'You have to leave,' Ray said flatly.

Tiffany laughed. 'Oh, don't be silly.' She walked back into the living room, poured the water on top of the dirt, and dropped to her knees, mixing the dirt and water into mud and spreading it over the carpet.

'That's it!' he roared. He picked her up around the waist and carried her to the door.

'But—' she sputtered.