veil | W. Axl Rose

ⅩⅤⅠ

15.02.1986

-I cannot believe you youngsters.-Mr. Halvorsen from three doors down was rambling on—socks with sandals, face red with fury, hands shaking like he was about to deliver a sermon or have a stroke or both.-Just because you can screw around on the back lot of some bar doesn't mean you can bring that filth here. This isn't Skid Row. This is a respectable neighborhood. People live here. We pay taxes. We have jobs.

For the last twenty minutes, Anastasiya had been standing in the doorway like a defendant at a public flogging, bearing the full brunt of her neighbors' complaints—about the scarecrow-looking junkies littering the street, about the riffraff blasting Metallica at top volume late at night, about the general collapse of decency ever since "those people" moved in.

-And kids.-Mrs. Kimball hissed, like that clinched it.-There are children, Miss McKagan.

No there weren't, not within a ten-house radius. But sure, okay, maybe someone's niece visited on weekends.

-I know. I'm so sorry.-Anastasiya said, monotone. Her throat was sore from apologies. Her arms hung limp at her sides.-Again.

Mrs. Kimball, arms folded under her knitted shawl like a frail vulture, her mouth pursed so tight it looked like she'd sucked a lemon dry. And behind them, barely bothering to pretend he wasn't just there to snoop, was Becker from the duplex on the corner, lighting a cigarette like it was a war trench and he'd been drafted in. There were also a few hanger-ons—people Anastasiya didn't recognize, probably didn't even live here, just nosy enough to hover and soak up the drama.

Mrs. Kimball was a retired nurse who had just married her third husband—the other two died in curious circumstances—and she spent an inordinate amount of time peering from behind the starched white curtains of her windows. Months ago, she'd exchanged stiff pleasantries with Anastasiya's mother, who'd barely tolerated her, but somehow Kimball had still managed to dig up her number and use it. Once, to report that Anastasiya had been sitting on the porch for a full hour smoking pot, and once to say that Anastasiya had better pull the blinds down in her room, because she had seen her half-naked getting ready for bed one night when she happened to be out walking her Scotch terrier.

Halvorsen took a step forward, like proximity gave his words more weight.

-You should be sorry. My wife can't sleep. I had to get up at three in the damn morning because your tenants were doing god-knows-what out front. One of them was pissing in my hydrangeas.

That tracked. Probably Izzy. He had no sense of aim or shame.

-I'm sorry.-Anastasiya said. That made a hundred and two.

-One of them was dragging a mattress across the lawn yesterday.-Becker chimed in, jabbed his cigarette in the air like a lawyer presenting evidence.-A whole damn mattress. Left it out there like it was a goddamn art piece. I almost tripped over it walking my dog.

-We'll try to be quieter from now on.-Anastasiya said, the words coming out of her mouth like stale bread—dry, crumbling, utterly unconvincing. She was just glad she was still riding high off the heroin, because if she hadn't been floating somewhere just shy of heaven, she would've spat in their faces and told them to go to hell—or better yet, go buy a place in Beverly Hills where nothing ever happened and everything smelled like chlorine and dead money. Sure, they had every right to be pissed—anyone would, stepping out their front door into a sideshow. But Anastasiya had a lifelong allergy to grumbling, wrinkled old hags, no matter how tragic or miserable their little lives had turned out. Something about the way they carried their bitterness like a badge just made her want to light a match.

The trio of elders exchanged glances. Someone muttered something about "city permits," another about "calling someone," and all of them drifted away in a cloud of cigarette smoke, cologne, and pure disgust.