"My little sister put the sign up," said Jim Kennedy, lolling in a chair to catch the first vibrations of Bob Dylan on a borrowed stereo. "My mother would never come in here."
Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed...
He said he and Danny were going to move out next year, to a new apartment near Terri's place, where the rent is $180 for two. He said they'd have to paint some houses to hack the difference. "The hassle," said Kennedy, "is getting your deposit back. Forty bucks. They always hassle you about the deposit."
"If we don't get it, I'm going to leave a few more holes for them to remember us by."
"Yeah, man, make it worthwhile," said Kennedy. They joined in cheering noises, relishing the specter of busting up the place in the name of justice.
Over Bob Dylan, the shower hissed.
"I'd play my favorite Beach Boys album for you, but somebody stole it," said Kennedy.
"What they stole was my $1,000 stereo," said Van Rheen. "Your album just happened to be on the turntable."
"It's all in how you look at it. Your stereo happened to be on the bottom of the album."
"That's the first time we've been ripped off. One guy down the hall got hit twice this year. They just bust the door down and walk in while you're away. Nobody seems to hear anything. Nobody has eyes. They took my stereo, two TV sets, the watch I got from playing in the Commissioners Tournament last year and Jim's Missouri watch. All the expensive stuff."