Room Zero
I do, quite literally, do my best work with a mouth full of words.
While writing this proposal, I realized I needed to know whether I was actually capable of building these rooms. One afternoon, bored while working customer service from home, I decided to try building a room. Not Inheritance. Just... something.
With my wireless headset on, I answered calls while taping pages to the wall, rearranging objects, changing the room, and waiting for the next person to come through the line.
I began printing instructions from the proposal and earlier projects alongside instruction manuals, textbooks, newspapers, magazines, and whatever else I had lying around. I changed the Hue light bulb in my bedroom, brought in a chair, a red telephone, my old customer service headset, and a clay-cutting wire, and started taping paper to the walls.
This was the first time I'd tried to build a room. I wasn't trying to make Inheritance yet. Just a picture of the boredom that had been building.
It was torn down that evening.
But I took photos.
It needed to be better.
Much better.
I studied the failures.
Then I began to build Inheritance.
Again.
And again.
And again.
One afternoon I drove to the Valley to use my father's table saw.
I usually avoid going there.
I showed up unannounced.
To be fair, it had been a while.
I opened the door and immediately started tearing through the cabinets.
I remembered there were more materials here than I'd come for.
I already knew what they’d say before I arrived.
I was right.
Oh boy.
Here we go again.
…
What's it this time?
Where do you think you're moving today?
…
We haven't heard from you in a while.
Where've you been?
…
Hello?
Fingers snapping.
Anyone home?
…
Why is she wearing those clothes again?
She looks like a construction worker.
…
Kylie!
You're an absolute mess!
Have you been sleeping?
Socializing?
How's Chase?
...
Are you two still having sex?
...
Not in that outfit, that's for certain.
You can't even see your body under there.
…
Oh great.
She's making stuff again.
…
Didn't painting only last a few weeks last time?
And the sculpting?
Remember ballet?
Oh God.
Poor kids.
…
What is she doing in that cabinet?
…
KYLIE!
…
What the hell are you looking for?
…
You’re making a mess!
…
HELLO!
…
Barely listening, I grabbed a trash bag, threw everything I'd taken from the cabinets into it.
The speakers gave a quiet pop.
That was enough.
His game had begun.
I started grabbing things faster and walked toward the garage.
…
"Is all that hoarder crap still in there, Kylie?"
"You better take it with you this time."
…
My father sighed.
"We won’t be seeing her for a while."
“Please use safety goggles!” he called after me.
“And watch the kickback! ”
…
The house erupted.
Morbid Saint ripped through the speakers.
Cabinet doors slammed.
Her voice shriller than ever.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
“YOU IDIOT!”
“YOU’RE NOT 20 ANYMORE!”
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT WITH YOUR BAD NECK!"
“GET DOWN FROM THERE!”
“I’M SO FUCKING DONE WITH THIS SHIT!”
"TURN IT DOWN!"
“TOO FUCKING LOUD!”
"IT’S EVERY TIME SHE COMES OVER..."
“I CAN’T STAND YOU TWO!”
By the time I reached the garage, I couldn't tell which shouts were coming from the stereo and which were coming from them.
It all sounded like metal.
…
The door closed behind me.
…
I stood in front of the saw.
It screamed to life.
The house disappeared beneath the whine.
…
A vibration rose from the ground.
In through the soles of my feet.
Up my spine.
To the nape of my neck.
My head rolled back.
My jaw unclenched.
My eyes fell shut.
A slow breath in.
Held it.
The sigh escaped before I could stop it.
…
Silence.
I could hear my mind.
…
I set the saw down for a moment.
…
Smiled.
…
They weren't wrong.
I'd driven two hours for sawdust.
…
Now I find it difficult to answer the phone without continuing to build. Most workdays are spent sitting in a growing pile of papers, power tools, and extension cords, editing recordings and writing emails while I wait for the next call, taping another page to the wall when it comes, then deciding where it belongs while listening to someone I've never met.
Once 5:00 hits, I open the door and lock it behind me.
I either walk or write.
In the morning I come back, use the key, enter the room, and begin again.
Now the project has spread beyond the bedroom. Every room in the apartment has become contaminated. There's sawdust in the bed. I've painted the walls white three separate times, only to cover them again.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped building a model of the room.
I looked around and realized I was already inside.