Even the Ghosts Live Well
by Jonathan Daniel Gardner
April 2nd
The pounding metal woke me, a dull four-on-the-floor beat I first mistook for delivery trucks. The street below was always busy, but this pulse was new. From my kitchen window, I saw the culprit: a construction vehicle driving a piston into the concrete again and again. Carroll Gardens had been quiet before all this. My windows, and my patience, are thin.
While I was stewing, I spotted a young man and woman across the construction pit, two floors down, unpacking boxes in a bright square of window. Their building was all shiny panels with oversized glass cutouts. I wondered if they were a couple or just roommates who hadn’t learned to buy curtains.
I’m experimenting with one meal a day. Dinner feels doable. If I write it down, maybe I’ll keep doing it. The waiting is hard, but it makes the meal feel earned.
Mustard chicken with broccoli and quinoa.
April 13th
I walked to the fence around the construction site and found no sign explaining what was being built. A little online digging also turned up nothing; it’s a mystery. The pounding metal only lasted a week; now it’s clanging hammers, drills, jackhammers, and shouting. Part of me finds the commotion oddly comforting.
I’ve decided the young man and woman are a couple; they share a room and seem affectionate. I call them Henry and June. I keep drifting to the window to watch their domestica. No art or curtains yet, but they’ve acquired furniture: a big mirror, a director’s chair, three oversized floor cushions, and a standing lamp. I suspect they found everything on the street. Henry seems to be the decorator, always rearranging things. June reads magazines in big headphones.
I ran five miles along the water today. It felt good to remember I have a body. I hope I keep it up.
Tofu steak with bell pepper and squash.
May 23rd
They’re laying something like a foundation in the pit from the demolition, though it doesn’t resemble the footprint of a building. It curves in places, snakes outward in others. I’m not convinced it’s a foundation at all. Tom upstairs usually knows everything happening in the neighborhood, but even he had no clue. That unsettled me more than the construction itself.
In this city, the windows are so close you end up learning things about your neighbors whether you want to or not. I’ve always thought of it as part of the deal. If someone leaves a curtain open, they know they’re offering a view. I don’t try to leer, but sometimes I watch. Henry and June have a lot of sex and seem entirely at home in their nakedness. He’s all firm angles; she’s soft geometry. I envy their ease in their bodies, their unselfconsciousness. I don’t think I’ve ever lived like that.
I walked across the Manhattan Bridge and up to Chelsea to drift through some galleries. I took the train back, roughly six miles of decent exercise.
Tilapia with sautéed beets and sweet potato and an arugula salad.
June 6th
Some kind of cylindrical structure is rising in the pit below my window. I’ve stopped trying to look up what it might be; maybe it’ll announce itself in time. It isn’t a perfect cylinder, but close enough that I can’t think of a better word. Sidewalks are going in around it, as if they’re creating a plaza for a statue. Odd location. Curious.
Maybe they’re exhibitionists, or maybe they just live as if no one can see them. June practices naked yoga with absolute effort, every line of her body pulled taut. It’s impressive, almost brave. Henry looks like he’s been doing more cardio; he’s leaned out since spring.
I started a three-day smoothie cleanse today.
July 10th
I tried to give a man sitting on a subway vent outside a bodega a granola bar. He refused and said he needed thirteen thousand dollars instead. A construction worker from the mystery site overheard and said he also needed thirteen thousand dollars. I laughed and tried to ask him about the project, but he kept walking. Still a mystery.
Henry’s been home more lately. He disappears for a few hours around noon, then returns to the couch with his laptop. June still dresses for an office job. They’re less romantic than they used to be, though they curl up on the couch sometimes. June likes to be the big spoon.
Whenever I get up from the fainting couch to go to the bathroom or kitchen, I end up pacing the apartment before sitting back down. Thinking about things. It’s my break from whatever it is I do on the couch. Sometimes I get dizzy when I stand. Frank used to notice and worry, but I’m sure I’m fine.
I had some rice with a banana.
August 14
I walked around the block today and ran into the guy who sweeps the neighborhood. He pushes a garbage can with several brooms sticking out of it. I don’t know his story, but he’s always diligent. His shoes were untied, so I told him. I want to be the kind of person who does that.
Henry’s been spending a lot of time in bed. There was a week when they were both gone almost the whole time. June would come home and sleep alone. She looked tearful, eating cereal straight from the box. Eventually, Henry returned to the couch. I hope they make it. Relationships are hard.
Maybe they’re making a large sculpture. The city is full of art initiatives.
I was inspired and had cereal with honey.
October 20th
I felt nostalgic today. I remembered how Frank and I used to sit under trees trying to feel something on purpose. Reading lines from books, trading song lyrics that wrecked us in the right ways. Feeling anything had been hard for me. Frank chipped at that placidity without ever meaning to. Now I can feel nostalgia, even tears, when those old songs come on.
June has been wearing scrubs a lot. When I picture a nurse, I still imagine the old white outfit with the hat, but that’s outdated. Younger people probably only picture scrubs. Present-day nurse fetishes must involve them, I guess. I’m not sure if the appeal is being cared for or just the look. Henry might be into nurses, but I haven’t seen any sex. I did watch him attempt pushups, but his arms gave out immediately. June fussed, and he waved her off and returned to the couch.
The scaffolding hides almost everything now. All I can see is something big and geometric catching the light in ways that don’t make sense yet.
I’ve been eating ice cream a lot.
November 11th
You’re supposed to delete old sex tapes after a breakup, out of respect, decency, basic adulthood. I know all that, but I haven’t deleted anything. I’ve been watching them lately. Not for sexual reasons, unfortunately. They’re the only videos I have of Frank and me; we were too camera-shy for real life. They remind me of what it felt like to be loved without hesitation. We look practically cherubic, embarrassingly gentle. I like seeing us that way.
Couldn’t drag myself out of the apartment today and will have sleep for dinner.
December 14th
Frank has moved in for a bit. She says it’s to help me, though I suspect she also missed me. We slip into our old rhythm immediately. It’s strange: we’re good together in every way except the one that matters. One-sided breakups do that. I missed her more, obviously. Still, it’s comforting to talk the way we always talked, covering whole continents of thought in an evening. She dotes on me, she dotes on most people, and I used to read too much into that. She still loves me, in her way. I can live with that.
I told her about the situation across the way. She’s equally drawn to it. Henry’s been holed up in the bedroom most days, curtains closed, and June either disappears or watches TV alone. Maybe that’s just how relationships settle.
The construction keeps grinding forward. I’ve decided it must be an art piece. Nothing that loud could be ordinary. Shiny, geometric, swelling into coherence.
Frank made some lentil soup today, and it was pretty good.
January 7th
Turns out it’s a fountain. The news explained everything except why. Residents are furious; crime is up, and the city has chosen spectacle. I’ve enjoyed the construction more than I should admit. The cylinder is almost finished, waiting for water to fall over it like laundry. Maybe people will throw coins. Maybe that’s the point.
I’ve been tired lately and spend most days on the fainting couch. We watch films, usually ones we’ve already seen. It’s easy to talk through them, finding new little wrinkles in scenes we know by heart. Frank reads poetry, and sometimes I ask her to read aloud. She’s self-conscious about it, though she’s always been good at it.
There have been a lot of visitors to Henry and June’s place. They sit in the living room for a while, then disappear into the bedroom. The curtains stay closed, so I have no idea what happens. June waits in the living room the whole time, staring at the TV even when it’s off.
I didn’t have an appetite today.
February 4th
I used to imagine Frank and me growing old and discovering that our shared kink was yard work, just eight hours of trimming rose thorns until we couldn’t stand anymore. That was my version of domestic bliss. Instead, we play Uno.
For a few days, a guy circled the neighborhood blasting “Freebird.” Then he vanished. I guess he’d completed whatever ritual he was performing.
A tooth fell out. A couple more feel loose.
March 23rd
The fountain turned on today, humming with a kind of white noise that feels louder than it should.
I couldn’t find Frank today.
June came home early and didn’t turn on a light. She sat on the couch for a long time with her coat still on. Henry hasn’t been around. Maybe they broke up. Maybe they’re on some kind of schedule I don’t understand.
Then she went outside and stepped into the fountain the way you’d step into your house. I assumed she was checking the temperature, but she kept wading until she slipped her dress off her shoulders. It drifted beside her like a jellyfish. When she tilted her head back, the falling water washed her face out entirely.
I waited for Henry to appear behind the glass, but the windows stayed dark. After a while, she sat down in the water. She didn’t look happy or sad. It felt wrong to watch and wrong to look away.
She climbed out without her clothes and walked down the street barefoot, a wet trail spreading behind her. People stepped around her, unbothered.
The fountain kept going, louder.
Jonathan Daniel Gardner is originally from Asheville, North Carolina, and currently lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared in Change Seven Magazine, with pieces forthcoming in Maudlin House, Avalon Literature and Arts Magazine, and Beyond Words. He holds a degree in Creative Writing from The New School and works at a cocktail bar.