The Landlord. Kristin Hunter

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      Elgar Enders patted the four new, crisp rent books in his pocket with tender satisfaction. At last he had a business: Real Estate. An occupational title: Landlord. A piece of property, described in a deed with fine legal exactness: Three stories, four units, so many square feet on a lot one hundred by fifty, valuation for tax purposes, twelve thousand dollars.

      Elgar almost crowed, and leaped, and clicked his heels in the air until he remembered that he was out on the street where Mothaw browsed every Monday for bargains in emeralds, the calm, stately street, surrounded by cool, contained people. On a bright, beamy Monday in August, hint of breeze.

      Well, now he would be contained too, for at last he had work, something to do with his continually itchy, troublesome self. There would be locks to replace, drains to unclog, light fixtures to repair. He might, at long last, allow himself the luxury of a few choice gripes, in the fine tradition of all workingmen since the beginning of history. As a hobby, he might even gather a compendium of colorful complaints—the howls of London hod-carriers, the steamy swearings of Roman pasta-makers, the mutterings of hordes hauling stones to the Pyramids.

      —By the sickly lusts of our incestuous Queen, you are a sodomous son of a jackal-faced dog, you Nile-moldered hunk of rock, you.

      Yes, drains were solid problems, the solving of which produced tangible results, unlike those vague, cloudy daily exercises with Borden, his psychoanalyst, or those metallic dialogues with Levin, his stockbroker:

      “Aluminum Alloys, keep, check?”

      “Check. It’s holding steady.”

      “Overseas Pipeline, sell, check?”

      “Check. It’s loosening up now.”

      “Sell Supersoft Mills, too, Levin.”

      “No, don’t sell Supersoft, Elgar. It’s firming up. Check?”

      “Roger, Levin.”

      Never, never, “And how are you today, Elgar, my boy? Loosening, steady, or firming up? Loosening? I know exactly how you feel, man, I have those days too. Firming up? Fine, congratulations.”

      Check. Firming up, thank you, Levin, though you will never ask. With a drain, you knew where you stood. You worked over it long and tenderly, and suddenly there was the satisfying swump, gurgle, swish as it cleared, and you lit up with the holiness of accomplishment, knowing you had done your share in the great work of clearing the drains of the world. Sanitation and sanity. Mens sana et drains sano.

      Mothaw would die if she knew her sensitive youngest, her precious downy blondling, yearned to be a common plumbah. And, oh, then he had another happy, eager thought. Maybe Fathaw would die too.

      He sang as he swung along, so loudly and tonelessly that a mauveytweed matron, one of Mothaw’s Monday-afternoon concert friends, probably, stopped dead and stared.

      “Swump, gurgle, swish, ma’am,” he repeated politely, tipping his hat, and moved on, adding softly, “Go screw. I am happy.”

      Elgar felt the dotted outline of his ever-fluid identity filling in, growing almost solid. Catching sight of his grin in a reflecting store window, he tilted his head slightly and patted his thick, buttery hair.

      Aha, you handsome dog, you.

      Then looked away quickly, superstitiously, lest his image disappear in retribution. He always expected it to, since he was far handsomer than he deserved to be.

      God’s gift to women, no doubt about it. Have to share the wealth, spread it around. Sorry, my dear, but ’tis my mission on earth. Who are you to be so selfish?

      Someday he would have the guts to say that to Sally, blonde Sally-from-Smith, with her pained look of sacrifice every time she granted him her elegant favors, and to Rita, angry-social-worker Rita, with her dark, stony, Talmudic spells of brooding, and to Lanie, with her constant, lilting mockery. —No, not to Lanie, who was nicer to him than she had a right to be.

      “Lanie, are you an octoroon?”

      “No, silly, a macaroon. Want a bite?”

      Of course he did, he was always hungry, no matter how bitter a draught of guilt washed down his dinner. And, no doubt about it, the sight of him curled up next to that golden cornucopia would be just the ticket to send his old man to sudden, apoplectic death. The intensity with which this consummation was desired was probably what tightened the knot in Elgar’s stomach so viciously, doubling him over on the street. There was nothing organically wrong with him.

      “All right, Elgar.” Borden, with the goddamn kindliness in his voice, puff-puffing on the pipe. “Let’s be honest, now.”

      “Certainly, Borden, though if you insist on playing this like a gentleman’s game, a Christly hour of chess or something, it won’t be easy. But

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