It looked like an ordinary apartment complex; was it about seven stories high? Not bad for my first living space. The landlord’s feet shuffled along the floor; his head was tilted forward, and he didn’t seem all that interested in my questions. The metal doors opened up to a staircase. The landlord looked over to me.
“Come on,” he muttered, “fifth floor”.
“No elevator?”
He slowly turned back to face the stairs.
“Under maintenance, you won’t be needing it anyway”.
“Right”.
It was your average concrete fire escape staircase, aside from the chipped paint on the yellow rails; it looked to be in good shape. Each step fills the silence as we carry on climbing the stairs.
“What’s the story with-”
“Food?” he interrupted. “You won’t need it.”
“But what if I get-”
“Hungry?” he interrupted again. “You won’t”.
I didn’t really understand what he meant by it. When I tried to quicken my pace by walking by his side, the old man would speed up to take the lead.
“Do you mind?” he said.
“I’d be more comfortable talking to your face at least”.
The old man stopped where he was. We were one more flight away from the fifth floor, and he turned around to me.
“Yeah, you’re comfortable, too comfortable. That’s why you’re here”. He scoffed before carrying on.
The room was a studio apartment; there was a single bed, a couch facing a table, and a small kitchen with a stove top. Something was missing in the room, making it feel oddly claustrophobic.
“No bathroom?” I asked.
“Well, you can’t eat or drink, so why would you need it?”
This is ridiculous.
“Why would there be a stove then?”
He shrugged before making his way to the door.
“Because it’s funny”. He continued, “Now, I best be off. I’ll drop off letters every now and then.”
“Letters?”
He pointed to a small letter slot at the centre of the door, “I’ll slip’em into here. If you want to write to anyone, use the paper on the table and drop’em off through the slot.”
“Who would I even write to-”
He closed the door. The front door didn’t have a handle; its hinges weren’t even visible. The letter slot jiggled whenever I budged my hands against the door. When I opened the slot, I could make out the hallway of the apartment and the wall opposite the door.
Sprawled out on the bed, the room felt like it was shrinking. There wasn’t even a TV. My room back home was different; there was a large TV, my games console, and plenty of books to keep me occupied. I almost never left the room. Was that what the old man meant by being too comfortable?
Outside the window, a river divided the apartment building from a grand house. It was a modern, rectangular home with long windows, allowing everyone and anyone to see the open kitchen floor plan. Outside the house was a large pool, where a fat man was floating on a yellow pool ring. It was hard to distinguish his face from his hairy chest, taking up most of the view, but he had a glass of champagne in his hand. When the ring moved in the direction of my window, he looked up and raised his glass at me. He looked to be in his late 50s. Who was he? I wondered as I gave him a nod. When I lay back on the bed, I thought of the house. Was something like that possible to achieve? What is it like being him?
Moments later, a letter came through the slot:
I see you fawning over me from your little window. It’s okay, you don’t have to admit it. I can see jealousy from miles away, or in this case, from up high. I moved here a while ago. I know about you people, and why you’re holed up in your little rooms. I moved here in front of you, because I think it’s funny. My Morning routine begins with drinking a cup of coffee and watching you people look at my home longingly.
Let me put you onto a little secret, I can read minds, more specifically, I can read yours. And the answer is yes, this house, this life. It’s possible, you can have all this, you just need to do as everyone tells you and follow every rule. Sounds easy, I know, but I have one more thing to tell you. You might feel entertained with fantasies about living my life, but guess what, I feel far more entertained by watching idiots fuck up their life by ignoring what I have to say.
Are you feeling like one of those idiots? Then write me a letter, just title it “The Fat Man”, since you love referring to me by that name.
-The Fat Man
Who was he to talk to me like that? Or is that a thought that he’s already aware of? Finishing the letter, I wondered if I should make a mental note to never look out the window again for the duration of my stay. The white stack of paper stood out against the earthy-coloured walls of the room. When I picked up the paper, I wrote, “The Fat Man” at the top, and when the tip of my pen hit the paper, I contemplated where to begin.
Chapter Two
I woke up at sunset, my back against the wall. My neck was in an awful strain from the position I was sitting in. In between stretches, I took in how the warm sunset light filled the room with an orange hue. What especially complemented this lighting was the sound of a piano being played from an upstairs tenant. I haven’t seen or heard from any tenants since I got here. The tune doesn’t sound too complicated, but it was missing something. Before they could reach a consistent flow, they would make a mistake. Sometimes the tempo was wrong. They were inconsistent. I got a sweeping brush from the supply closet and stood atop the couch. When she stopped playing, I began poking the ceiling with the end of the brush. I tried to keep a steady sixty-pokes per minute, and the piano player followed suit.
When the music stopped, I left a few gentle taps on the ceiling as a “well done”. My arm was tired, but the pain had subsided when the letter slot screeched.
“Somebody's popular,” the landlord muttered from the other side.
It was from the tenant upstairs:
Good evening,
My name is The Pianist. I live upstairs. I’m writing to say thank you for your help. Tempo is something I struggle with, but because of you, I’m improving slowly. It’s also nice to communicate with the other tenants. I assume you’re well-versed in music? You know, I hope to be a professional piano player someday, which is why I’ve been practising. I haven’t given up yet, just you wait, you’ll see. Piano is also a nice distraction from The Fat Man and his harsh views. He’s not the only one who bothers me; that landlord of yours is quite the ignorant man. He’s not my landlord, I should note, but he roams the building collecting the letters. I own my studio; I don’t see the value in a lavish house when all I need is my piano.
Moving on, I once again thank you for the help. If you have any song requests, please write to me using ‘The Pianist’ as the title. I would love to discuss how you came about learning music.
Yours sincerely,
The Pianist.
It was definitely a much nicer letter than the last one I got. The idea of becoming a professional pianist was interesting. Nowadays, I hear people speak about becoming professional actors or famous writers. But a pianist? It feels too niche now, but it was intriguing. Taking up the pen once again, I wrote back.
Hello yourself,
I’m glad to talk to another voice from this building, too. I have to agree that your piano is a much-needed distraction from The Fat Man, too. When I was told I had to leave home and come here, I was curious about the other people.
I took lessons when I was younger, so I’m a little bit familiar with tempo and rhythm. A professional piano player sounds exciting. I was curious about how one becomes a professional pianist.
As for requests, the most obvious song that comes to mind is Clair de Lune. So let’s hear it.
Kindest regards,
I had forgotten my own name. I didn’t know what to sign myself off as. If her original letter reached my room, then I could probably make do without one. Her next letter arrived quickly after I sent it through the slot. It read:
Clair de Lune is quite advanced. Could you pick an easier song, perhaps ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, or ‘Bridal Chorus’? Thank you.
The Pianist.
She must have a while away before becoming a “professional”. I wrote back.
Bridal chorus then, I suppose.
As soon as I put the letter through the slot, ‘Bridal Chorus’ began playing upstairs. Although it didn’t have the same magic as the song would have during a real wedding. She never mentioned how she’d become a professional pianist. I imagined myself at the altar, holding hands with a bride cloaked in white cloth. I had no way of knowing who might be under that cloth, what was under there. What our future together might look like. Would it be anything at all similar to the life of The Fat Man?
Waking up without a routine is a tough one to get used to. I didn’t feel hungry, so there was no reason to think about breakfast. I only have the clothes on my back, so I never worry about what to wear. When the clock hits seven in the morning. I just wake up. The only thing left to do. Is think, and write. A letter arrived:
So you’re in kahoots with that wench upstairs.
Nobody sours my afternoon margherita more than seeing her stare at me from the window. I’d steer clear of her if I were you. Wanna know why? Because just like you were thinking last night, after your little ‘conversation.’ Your future won’t look like mine in the slightest if you follow her words.
I’ll save you the time of writing about how ‘passion triumphs money’ because everybody wants my life. I get to be arrogant because I have it, and you get to listen because you want it. Here’s a suggestion: talk to me instead. Write to me, at least I have something valuable to say.
-The Fat Man
Taking a peek from the window, I saw him making stretches by the pool before settling down onto a sun chair. The sky was overcast, but when I looked at his house, it felt brighter, sunnier.
Good morning, Mr Fat Man.
If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your morning routine like?
Kindest regards,
I slipped the letter through the slot, and it swiped from my fingers instantly. Was the landlord just waiting outside this whole time? Immediately, I felt another letter placed into my hand. When I pulled it out of the letter slot, it was a reply. How do they write so fast?
Well, look who’s curious now.
The ordinary life told me to wake up at 7 a.m. every morning, so I did. When you continue this for another forty years, your body remembers and doesn’t forget.
Now I wake up at 7, and I enjoy the silence of the morning. That Pianist sure as shit isn’t awake at that hour. My next concern is breakfast, that’s right, I have food here. It doesn’t matter what I have; it’s always delicious, and sometimes I even brew my coffee in my underwear. I know you can all see me, but I don’t care. I’m retired now; I’ve earned it.
Come over if you want to understand what the breeze feels like when it glides over your crotch.
The offer itself wasn’t all that interesting. Back home, breakfast and meals everyday was expected, so The Fat Man boasting about this being the norm wasn’t particularly exciting.
In the afternoon, The Pianist seemed to be struggling with a new song she was practising. It wasn’t complicated. She made several more attempts at the song, each one ending in what sounded like hands slamming down on the keys in frustration. She resumed playing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and “Bridal Chorus” before a long silence took its place.
The Pianist,
Please keep playing the original song; there’s no point in giving up now.
You can play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ perfectly by now. You should consider practising more often rather than in the late afternoon.
Kindest Regards,
A note returned quickly.
Good afternoon,
I’ll practice whatever I feel like. You can’t control what I want to do.
If I want to keep playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, then I will. Maybe you should go back to thinking about where you’re gonna go.
-The Pianist.
Moments later, The Pianist replied again.
Dear _____
I’d like to apologise for my outburst earlier. You must realise that I must follow through with the fact that Piano is currently everything for me.
When I realised this was the direction I wanted to go, many people I cherished blocked my path, saying my expectations were “unrealistic” and that the future would be incredibly tough.
In some ways, I know the future will be tough. But I have a purpose that I believe in, and that makes me excited to carry on. I might not know how to play Clair de Lune yet, but I will someday. Please come visit me, you’ll live a life with meaning and reason. It might not be the most comfortable, but it’ll be worth your while.
-The Pianist.
There was something ridiculous about what I had just read. Why boast about having a goal and desire when you’re terrible at achieving it? I wondered how the Fat Man achieved his goal. So I asked him.
You still don’t understand,
All I did was what I was asked to do. Nothing I’ve done was on my own accord, if you do as you say. You will be like me. Sure, I loved drawing. I used to spend hours sketching away as a kid; it was a nice escape. But dreams like that are unrealistic; I needed to succeed first.
What I live in now is a world of comfort. I don’t worry about my next meal or stress over achieving goals. I’ve got everything I need, maybe not everything I want. Do you think The Pianist wench has ever appreciated the feeling of a breeze on her crotch? No. Ask her, she’ll probably say she just wants to play piano.
-The Fat Man
Well i couldn’t possibly ask her that. I’ve never had dreams of my own; in fact, I’m unsure if I’ve ever done anything remarkable with my life. Growing up, I heard stories and read news articles about people making scientific breakthroughs, setting world records, and actors winning prestigious awards. When I’d speak to friends or family about it, they’d never consider themselves as one of those people. They were unknowingly becoming more like The Fat Man in some ways.
Chapter Three
When nightfall arrives in this apartment complex, you don’t feel tired. Spending the whole day cooped up in a small apartment room, without the need to eat or go to the bathroom, you also forget the need to sleep. Most nights are spent staying up in the dark for hours until your body feels ready to sleep. The Fat Man’s house has lights lit up, showing off his back garden and the walkway leading up to the door; even in his sleep, he wants us to be aware of what he has. But the previous letter reinforced my feelings. What life had he lived? All he could talk about was the life he has now; he was comfortable, but why didn’t he keep drawing?
On the other hand, I admired The Pianist’s ambition, maybe it’s the ambition of it. But she has no talent. She said she’s excited by her purpose. But that kind of life will be hard.
The shuffling of feet echoed outside my door. Enough so that their steps caused the letter slot to shake slightly. Peering through the letter slot, there wasn’t any sign of somebody walking about, but I couldn’t let go of the faint sound of exhales. Somebody was hiding from door.
“Is somebody there?” I asked, my mouth pressed against the letter slot.
My question was met with a “shush” sound.
Among the lack of hunger and sleep was also a lack of any sexual feelings, but when I unzipped the same clothes I’d worn the last few days, putting it through the letter slot made sense. Not knowing what was behind the door made it easy, as the person on the other side got to work, they owed me a favour after all this. What was more enticing to imagine, the comfort of The Fat Man’s luxuries, or the ambition and passion of The Pianist? Both raced through my mind for the brief few minutes with the mystery person behind the door. The uncertainty reminded me of home; it was the least of my worries back then. When it was done, the breathing disappeared.
The next morning, I felt hungover. Almost guilty, what am I prolonging myself for? A letter arrived from The Fat Man soon after:
I think I owe you an explanation.
I can’t actually read minds. You’re not the first resident of the apartment complex I’ve written to, and you certainly won’t be the last. I’ve met hundreds upon thousands of confused people just like you. What you’re going through, where you are, it’s nothing new. The reason I know exactly what you’re thinking is that I’ve had the same conversations thousands of times before you arrived.
Some have followed me to my home; you can’t see them, but they’re here with me. Do you know how they’re feeling? They’re relieved. You don’t owe this life some grand ambition of changing, and they’re relieved to know they don’t need to reciprocate.
Last night only tells me that you’re still lost. Just come over, you’re loved here, nobody will get in your way, and you will come to appreciate the breeze.
-The Fat Man
Last night? How many others experienced what happened last night? The comfort of The Fat Man’s home was, admittedly, enticing. I wrote to The Pianist about this letter.
Good morning,
I see I wasn’t the only one who found themselves in a dilemma last night.
I’ve been thinking about this passion and ambition I’ve been talking about. I think The Fat Man is right. When we live our lives in his comfortable home, eating the food we want, sleeping when we want.
However, it will eventually come to an end. When his tenants reach their deathbeds, they won’t be satisfied, or relieved, as he said. The first thing they’ll feel is regret. Regret that they accomplished nothing, or even came close to accomplishing anything. Pursuing your passion in “your own time” while you work is nothing, barely a fraction of what it truly means to try. I’ve been in this apartment a while, and I don’t feel an ounce of regret. If you want to understand the curse of ambition, then come over. Please.
-The Pianist.
The letters stopped coming. When I wrote to them, they never replied. But music upstairs continued, and the Fat Man still remained in his pool. All I could do was lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The light in the room fluctuated as the sun moved. There wasn’t any point in getting up or in sleeping, so I never fell asleep. There was no right answer or a wrong answer. I simply chose what I felt best represented me. My mind was only sure of an answer for a brief second, but immediately the door knocked and opened up. The landlord walked in.
“Alright”, he said, looking at my body on the floor, “time to go”.
I got up on my feet for the first time in days. Looking out the window, I saw The Fat Man, floating in the pool, his backside facing the sky, and his legs sunk in the water.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“For you, yes”, the landlord replied, “he’s gone from your life”.
Envelopes and letters covered the walls and floor of the hallways. One side had the Title “The Fat Man,” and the other had the title “The Pianist”.
“Did they write all these letters?”
The landlord turned to the walls.
“They’ve written thousands of letters to previous tenants. As the Fat Man said, they’ve had the same conversations thousands of times. They don’t even write to anyone anymore. I just read your letters and picked the appropriate envelope to reply with”.
“Are they aware that I even exist?”
“Yes, they are, but their job is finished the moment you set foot in the apartment. If The Fat Man doesn’t see you at his doorstep, then he just waits for the next tenant”.
When we reached the door of The Pianist, the landlord stood by the side.
“Go inside”, he said.
“I’ve basically never spoken to her.” I paused. “Why would I go inside?”
The landlord twisted the knob and gently swung the door open.
“It’s okay, I’ll come with you”.
The inside was the same size as my downstairs room; a large piano took up the space where the couch had been, its shiny black varnish reflecting the light. Stacks of beginner guides to learning the piano and sheet music are stacked upon the walls and shelves of the room. The Pianist wasn’t here.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“She’s writing to the next tenant, of course”.
“Then why am I here?”
The landlord pointed to the piano. As I got closer, I could make out my reflection against the varnish. I had tired eyes and long, straw-like hair. When I looked at myself, my body was normal; only my reflection showed this tired woman.
“Is this The Pianist?”
He nodded.
“You chose her, did you not?”
“What will you do?”
“I’m gonna be here with you, you won’t always see me. But just like that one night with the letter slot, I will be here to remind you of the decision you made. It’s up to you, how you want to view it”.
We stared at each other for a moment,
“Now go learn the piano”, he said.
“I don’t know how anymore”.
“Maybe start with ‘Bridal Chorus’, ‘or Twinkle Twinkle Little star”
I let out a small laugh. What has become of me, I wondered.
I picked up one of the beginner guides, marked which chapter had ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, and opened up the piano and sat down.
