Soundproof

After months of searching, Louise and John settled on one, well off the road, in a former pickle factory. Fully climate controlled and best of all assigned parking.

No lawns to mow, no snow to shovel. No trash barrels out to the curb. There's even Girl's Night and a rec room with ping pong, Louise said, showing off their lonely penthouse patio view. With a coating of snow it looked like the Sahara. Desolate. Quiet.

The living room had been painted dark green. There was an electric fireplace, a thin wall plaque below the flat screen TV. Louise turned it on to demonstrate the flames. Not exactly snuggly, Alice thought. A controlled hearth - sound and warmth but fake flames. Atmosphere without the hassle, under glass like a butterfly specimen. Alice's husband Gerald pretended to burn his hand.

A young wealthy lawyer owned the place before us. He hired a designer to make all of the decisions, Louise said. So don't blame me for his taste in decor.

I do love the twin red leather chairs! Alice said.

We bought them from him. He said make me an offer. He left the plants too. Devil's Ivy and a Snake plant.

Figures a lawyer would own house plants with those names, Alice thought. It's so quiet, for a fully occupied building. No echo, even with lofted ceilings, Alice said, walking in a large circle and gazing upward.

We're completely soundproof! Louise said, scooping Ben and Jerry's vanilla ice cream into four maroon glazed pottery bowls. Indeed, the only sound was the occasional crash of the automatic ice machine. Continuous ice, no more filling trays. It's a game changer! Louise had explained.

Alice and Gerald took seats at the table. My neighbor lives in a renovated former school house. There was a murder-suicide there two years ago. Nobody knew for a few weeks. The neighbors were surprised that they hadn't heard the gunshots. Completely soundproof, Alice said.

Well that's a lovely story, Alice, John said, scooping another helping of ice cream, emptying the container.

We brought you both a housewarming present. A book, Alice said, handing them a small shopping bag.

It's Krishnamurti, explained Gerald.

He's not a Hare Krishna is he? John asked.

No. A philosopher. Amazing. Open anywhere you'll see.

Oh I like books like that, Louise said. I keep Thich Nhat Hanh in the bathroom.

I'm creeped out, Alice said on the way home, driving slow in the snow. She loved how the stop signs appeared black and white, and how the headlights caught the falling flakes. There's only one entrance and the only two windows don't open. It's claustrophobic. It's a gigantic shoe box like those dioramas you make in 3rd grade with one side cut open. And that kitchen and all of those rooms without a  single window, no sense of day or night. It's a submarine! A stage set! 

They drove for a bit in silence. And the kind of books I love are ones she only reads on the toilet! Did you catch that?

I did. It's funny, actually. That's about all she can handle, Gerald said. Hey, it's a start, it's better than nothing.

At home Alice heard her neighbor shoveling. A distant siren. In the morning she heard birds, traffic. Kids waiting at the bus stop.

I need signs of life, Alice said, sipping her coffee. I don't want to live in a padded bubble. We do hear fights, shouting, motorcycles, and loud music. You take the good with the bad but I would not trade it for a padded muffled box. A fucking submarine.

To each his own, Gerald said. Some folks want their asses pampered in old age. It's the big reward for chasing money their whole life.