Not a Snitch

If walls could talk, so many people would be in prison now.

I’m not a snitch, though. In the early 80s, a snitch painted his name on me with a spray can before letting his friend take the fall. I watched as the other humans in blue shirts and pants dragged him away.

I was still shiny then. The person I came to know as the apartment manager was proud of the money she had paid to build homes for new tenants in the college town. She was incredibly proud of the location.

“Right next to campus and a club! I can charge whatever the hell I want for rent!”

But that was over 40 years ago. The roof I support has been patched a few times since then. I’ve seen college students, families, and even prison workers eat, sleep, and drink. It’s not all bad. I guess I should be happy I’m not in a bathroom.

Plus, I can watch people swim outside the unit in the summer when I don’t feel like watching the tenant. It’s winter, though, and the pool is closed. I don’t have that luxury.

I’m watching as a freckled youth takes a deep drag of a joint. He’s passing it to his friend.

He does this a lot. It’s better than the cigarettes they used to use. At least weed doesn’t leave tar stains. Anyway, the other walls and I have decided that we like it better when he’s high. When he’s not, he’s just angry. I’ve watched him punch holes in my brothers and sisters without remorse. On a particularly bad day, he threw a broom through Bob.

I don’t think I like humans very much. They seem to take us for granted. On their bright screens, I can see walls with crown molding and beautiful murals painted on their outsides. But not me. My worn red brick exterior and faded white interior have seen nothing but abuse.

Poor Bob still hasn’t been seen to by maintenance. We watched as the kid assured his patient roommate that he’d patch it up himself and there was no need to call for help. I wonder if the kid would be more apt to do it if he knew the history behind the wall…or that he even has a name.

But then, how could the human know about the dog named Bob who peed on this unit’s walls 5 years before he moved in? Short little lives with no perspective. That was what it means to be human.

The kid speaks, looking up at the ceiling with a wry smile that seems to impress his friend.

“Fuck college, man.”

His friend nods as if this is some kind of profound existential truth and not just the musings of a kid who dropped out two weeks ago.

“It’s like a total scam.” He adds, taking the joint between his fingers and inhaling.

It’s illegal to smoke. The roommate doesn’t like it, but he’s not here most of the time.

Bored, I shift my perspective to the walkway outside. A young woman stands on the edge of the pool, staring into it. How’d she get in there? She must have climbed over while I was watching the kid.

“Total scam.” Comes the drone of the other boy, leaning his head back. “You coming back to class next week?”

“Fuck no.”

The girl stands over the pool unmoving, for a moment, and I realize that she is crying.

“No?” Says the friend, sitting up to get a better look at his friend. “But what about your loans?”

The boy gives a non-committal shrug and grabs a controller from the table. “Wanna play some Halo?”

She is rolling the tarp back now, revealing the mildewy water underneath.

I have never seen this before. Humans play in the pool, they laugh in the pool, and they scream in the pool. They even piss in the pool. But in the winter they abandon the pool. I saw two men in grey cover its surface with a tarp. They didn’t drain it. I don’t know why.

At least I’m not a pool wall. It must suck to look at dirty pool water and human legs all day.

I wonder what is so sad. What is so important to her in that pool? One of her tears drops into its surface, causing it to ripple.

Inside there is a sudden noise. The boys laugh loudly as the freckled youth curses a teenager in another house surrounded by different walls.

Why am I suddenly filled with dread? Something about how the girl is withdrawing a rope from her backpack—something about the heaviness of the bag.

After 40 years, I’ve seen a lot of strange things. I’ve watched fashion change and families grow and move. I’ve watched the new apartment manager get screamed at by a tenant because he hadn’t replaced their air conditioner, and mold had begun crawling up my interior.

I’ve watched TVs become bigger, flatter, and lighter, and couches become softer. Homework moved from notes and textbooks to laptops and cellphones. But I have remained the same. Same wires, same insulation. The only thing that’s changed is my interior paint. Layer after layer after layer - I feel bloated with it.

But nothing I’ve seen, from the screaming matches to the physical altercations between residents, made me as uneasy as this sobbing girl with her backpack.

So I’ve decided I’m going to do something really, really dumb.

Walls aren’t supposed to shift. We’re not supposed to change or move. We have three jobs:

Keep out the cold.

Hold up the roof.

Don’t fall.

That’s it.

And as I focused all my will on the little loose brick outside the freckled boy’s door, I know I’m breaking the rules. I feel the little piece of me wiggle. It is not a comfortable sensation.

Inside there’s a loud “OOOOOOH!” accompanied by a “THAT’S SUCH CRAP!”.

I have to time it right, or they won’t hear it.

The girl finishes tying the backpack to her leg. It’s full of stones. I think I’m panicking as much as she is. I see her sobbing.

I continue trying to loosen the brick.

“DUDE, WHAT THE HELL!” Comes the cry from inside, drowning out the splash as a dark head of curls disappeared beneath the dingy water surface.

That’s not how you’re supposed to swim, little human. I think to myself. It is not the first time I’ve had that thought.

I remember a little girl walking into the water while her mother was distracted. I remember her mother’s screams and sobs when the humans wearing bright yellow finally arrived too late. The little pink baubles in her hair bounced as they carried her away.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

That was the only time I saw a human fall.

SMASH.

“What the fuck was that?”

The friend peeks through the blinds. He frowns. “There’s nobody out there.”

The freckled youth opens the door and picks up my smashed brick. He looks at it and looks at me. “This place is a dump.” He says bitterly, but he doesn’t go back inside. He places the brick back in my side before turning. He still doesn’t go back inside.

“Yo, the pool looks gross.” Says his friend with a little laugh in his voice.

The youth turns. “Why is it open?” He walks over to the wall and the tall iron gate surrounding it. He waves angrily at his friend to shut the door.

I do not pray as humans pray. But I will it. With all that I am, I will that the boy looks in the green water.

And the boy pulls himself over the fence as his friend hangs back and calls.

“Dude, you’re gonna get evicted.”

The freckled youth does not answer. He walks over to the pool, looks into its depths, and throws himself into the water without a second thought.

Moments later, he surfaces with the unconscious girl.

The angry freckled youth knows CPR.

He had bragged to a pretty girl weeks ago that he’d been a camp counselor. The pretty girl didn’t come back.

I thought he was lying. Exaggerating to show off. I’d seen humans do it enough times. But now I realized that he hadn’t been. Water spouts out of her mouth, and she rolls onto her stomach, coughing. The boy snaps his fingers bossily at his friend to get a towel.

He picks her up. He opens the gate. He brings her into the shelter of my walls.

I watch as she sobs and sobs, and the boy, so angry, so dismissive of Bob and my own interior wall, carefully presses a hot cup of tea into her shaking hands. And I think of how carefully he placed the brick back in my side. Humans are strange.

The girl begs the youth and his friend not to tell anyone about what happened. They each assure her they would never and explain that they have made similar attempts. The exchange is surprisingly tender. They offer her some of their weed. She doesn’t smoke. They don’t bombard her with questions or demands, but the freckled youth asks her to stay there tonight. He acknowledges that she doesn’t have to. She agrees.

There is something new in his voice. He tells his friend to look after the girl while he cleans himself off.

The girl closes her eyes and asks the boy if his friend will tell anyone.

The boy assures her that he’s not a snitch.

And if I could grin, I would. Because I’m not a snitch, either.