THE FELL-ALL THIGHS
by Stewart Berg
The story of a young man made mad by that which is below his floorboards, a spiritual sequel to Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart."
Do not—do not for even a moment think of doing it—dismiss me as lustful. Do not, I warn, do it; that is my one condition, and I will have my ways of knowing whether you comply. Weak, perhaps, or whatever synonym suits you, is far more fair; however, even that implies some neglected avenue, some spilled antidote, some way in which I am at fault—but this is not so! Really, it is not. Rather, I am one who has been put under siege, outmaneuvered outright then left cowering as the final walls cave in about me. I can hardly breathe; all is lost!
I sit here watching them move out my things—come and go, come and go, come and go—and they do not think that I am paying attention, but I am. I see them, and I know what is happening. I know what they think of me, too. They think that I could not take the pressure and thus cracked, that I, so near my degree, became burned out by the heights, that I overexerted myself in my studies. O what I would give to be such a successful failure!
My things are almost moved out, but there is, I suppose, enough time to remember my way through them once more. For your sake, I shall do so. Remember, though, that I do not have to and that I can stop at any time. Remember, too, my condition made above, and remember that I have my ways of knowing.
My mind, in throwing itself backward, feels the need to make for itself an unnecessary introduction, as there would seem to be, for you, little use in my going all the way back to a recounting of the many instances of ill luck that were required to place me where I am. Wallowing in what could have been had I chosen any other apartment, or had I chosen any other university, or had I been different altogether becomes a mere exercise in distraction—I still do it, of course! There, I tell you, is where my mind first goes; however, it has become my belief that this downfall of mine would have occurred no matter where I lived, no matter where I went to college, and no matter what I might have done. It helps, I think, to think so, and at the very least, it offers an answer, even if it may be nothing more.
Already, I see, I am taking too long in relating nothing, and if I do not hurry, they may come to move me before I am able to tell you why. The things around me continue to disappear, and this means that I must hasten to tell of the apartment that has done so much to me. Do you actually blame the place itself? This, I know, you are asking. As much as anything else, I say in reply, and it is a sufficient answer.
I moved into this apartment—this den of my undoing—during the summer before my senior year at a university which I will not name. The apartment consists of one bedroom, and it is worthwhile to note that this was to be my first time living alone; my freshman and sophomore years were lived in on-campus dorms, and I rented a house with a few friends for my junior year. My senior year, however, I wanted to be different, and I rented the solo living space, which was only a short walk from campus, with an excitement for the solitude. I remember moving in my things while saying within myself: “Here, my dissertation shall be done.”
I had been right, one might say, during the first few weeks in the new apartment. As the building’s manager had promised would happen, the morning sun streamed through the living room’s large windows, and the whole area—to the kitchen, even—would radiate with nurturing warmth. Here, I would sit with my unending cups of coffee and make extraordinary progress in my work.
Did I, at that time, hear the music? The question is a fair one, and I can, in full truth, answer that I cannot remember. Perhaps, in those first weeks, that faint noise came across my ears, but I was not yet under the knowledge of its source and the spell of its fact, so it had yet no effect on me. It is rather interesting to think that I spent several weeks with the corrupting influence all about me, never noticing and remaining, all the while, unaffected. What other disease, I wonder, attacks its awareness? O the bliss of ignorance!
As it happened, a friend came to visit my new place roughly one month after my moving in, and to him is owed my ultimate recognition of my position. As a result, of course, I have never invited this friend back to my apartment, and I no longer so much as consider him to be a friend—friends do not doom each other, after all.
“What is that sound?” he asked while standing in my kitchen.
“What sound?” I asked.
“Listen.”
I did as bid, and then, for the first time, I heard that hypnotic drone which comes up through my floor. Ever at a constant volume, the music seems to always be the same while, somehow, never being so, and its words, if any, can never be discerned. A faint sense of melody is all it is, and with it, as if its underlying essence, comes a feeling of softness and warmth.
“Have you never noticed it?” my friend—as of then—asked.
“I guess not,” I said.
“It must be coming from that yoga studio on the corner. Your apartment is right above it.”
My confused look showed that I was not so much as aware of this establishment, much less its relation to me.
“Have you never walked that direction down the street?” my former friend continued. “You would know it, if you had. You can see the place right now, with your own eyes, if you want. You can read its name, see the curtains in its windows, think of—”
“Curtains in the windows?” I asked.
“Yeah, curtains. All the windows are covered so that you can’t see in from the street.”
“Why?”
My guest gave a laugh, and he savored the humor before explaining.
“Well,” he said, “think about it. Unless its name is lying, it’s an all-women’s studio. And you know what that means, right?”
“No men,” I replied.
“Obviously. But, really, think about it. If it’s an all-women yoga studio, what do you think they do?”
“What?”
“I bet you they do their yoga naked.”
The look on my face—it can well be imagined—said enough for reply, and he with me gave another laugh.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It’s a real thing that I’ve heard about. The curtains covering the windows prove it, I’d say. Now, I’m sure that not every woman there does her yoga naked, but they probably have some open policy about it. That’s my guess, and I’d bet on it, too.”
No more, I think, need be shared from these words with he who used to be my friend. One can, of course, well imagine the condition that the conversation left me in, and from soundness, I was, in a moment, transported to unsoundness. No sooner was I again alone than I attempted work on my dissertation—so well is the incident burned in my brain that I can recall the very passage that I was then working on—and I was shocked to find that progress was impossible, that it would not come, whether straining or not. Indeed, so naive was I that, at first, I sat down to work with the thought that my productivity might be benefited by that faraway music from so near, that untouchable tantalization—O was there ever greater fool than I?
Next, I tried to think nothing of the distraction, but it did no good. Not yet, however, was I desperate, and I can recall confidently taking my pen in hand while putting my eyes to page, focusing every fiber that I have, but all to no effect. Then, I first felt the desperation that has become all that I now am, and I thought, as a last extreme, to drown out the noise with greater noise, going so far as to move my stereo to the table beside my desk. Rather easily, of course, I was able to change the sound in my ears, but not in the least, I found, could I force the same displacement in my mind. Even when not present, that soft music and its warm, invisible forms were ever-present. Knowing that they stretch there, how could I work here?
Worst of all was the moment when, finally giving up my resistance, I turned off my stereo—I gave in!—with the thought of welcoming back that which would not leave me—then, at least, I would be merely burdened rather than tormented. O the horror when I realized that the downstairs music was no longer playing, that regular business hours had been broken for lunch! I became maddened, and I threw myself on the floor, imploring my tormentor to come back to me. I begged—I cried aloud!—for the return of what I could not live without. I do not remember how long I remained in this position, but, eventually, sometime in the afternoon, the music was turned back on, and I was able to stand and go about my day, though I did not dare to so much as think of working. Moreover, I was altogether changed.
O the repetition of this most pathetic scene! Each and every day, from the first until today, has seen its playing out—poorly, too, I must say. First, we open with a rigid determination to, this time, make a stand against the teasing yoke, and so determined is each day’s resolve that it decidedly forgets the series of past unfulfilled determinations. A hopeless struggle ensues, and whatever means I happen to employ for ignoring are ineffective and become insipid, passing into ever more ridiculous attempts at the impossible, wherein everything is attempted, then as well as again and again, each ineffectively. I try and try, fail and fail, and then, in the end, accept the failure, only to be failed by it. I can, I accept, work neither with nor without the hint of that which passes below my feet, though it can never be seen by my eyes, which ever works upon me ceaselessly and the same.
Indeed, this very morning, knowing that my parents would be coming to move me out and that this day would be my last, I threw myself on the floor and wildly begged the music to, just this once, start early, since it was to be my final time to hear. Long since, of course, have I learned the studio’s schedule, and thus, senseless, I know this very recent behavior of mine to have been—as I knew in its act and contemplation, too—but I still did it wholeheartedly and, somehow, with the belief that my request might be granted. As with every morning, today’s music started at 7:00, and I was bitter at the rebuff, though when that hymn first drifted up through the floor after a long night away, I wept with joy, as with every morning.
Truly, if man was made in the image of God, the studio below me was fashioned in the form of either Heaven or Hell. Which it is, I can never know, both seeming to have some—
Listen! Do you hear? I became so focused that I forgot the time. The studio is starting up again after lunch. O that first hear! It is as if I have been hugged! Press your ear to the floor, if you must. Just think, women doing yoga so near us—naked, perhaps—and even kissing, too, since I cannot imagine all of them always avoiding the temptation. It must be a simple matter of statistics. Just think of it!
But, no! Cover your ears and run. Get out of here while, for you, there is still hope. Leave me to my fate, if it is the only way to save you from yours. Yes, do it! I can see you wondering what they might be doing, how they might be looking. That is the trap! Already, I can see the glassing of your eyes. Hurry, run! Stand up now, or you shall never be able to do so again. Is it already too late? Are you as lost as I? O curse the infernal stretching of those heavenly thighs!
Mr. Berg grew up split between rural Texas and a Seattle suburb. After graduating from Pacific Lutheran University in 2014, he moved to Austin, where he began publishing his Miscellanea series of eBooks before joining the Press. He lives in Marble Falls, Texas.