five oh five.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Delilah Plunk's five fat fingers gently clenched the fifth orange juice carton back. The cold air from Manny's refrigerator encircled her slouched frame before falling in broken tendrils at her feet. She laid the Tropicana at the bottom of her rusting silver cart next to the transparent bag of five apples. Red. She gripped the handle of the cart gingerly and went on shopping, watching her feet to avoid the cracks in the dirty tile. These tiles were small – her gait was a clumsy square dance.
The coffee tins were on display, a pyramid of stunted growth and yellow teeth. Displays were always more difficult than the shelved goods – no distinct starting point. Delilah stood with her legs slightly farther apart than was natural and pondered. She chose the tip of the pyramid and worked her way down. One. Two. Three. Four.
She reached for the fifth tin down – not carefully enough. It slid out of her fingers and toppled the rest of the display like metallic bowling pins. Delilah's hands flew to her ears to muffle the cacophony of cheap metal on dirty tile. As ringing gradually faded, she welcomed the sleazy R&B that Manny's always played over the PA system. Delilah's face grew hot. She squatted and began gathering the fallen tins.
The cashier walked over. Her steps were not as careful. Sixteen cracks, Delilah counted. The young woman looked down at Delilah with her hands on her hips, annoyed and smacking her blue chewing gum. Looking up, still squatting, Delilah felt like a lap dog about to be punished. She attempted to apologize, but the words, as always, lodged in her throat, freeing themselves only in painful, repetitive spurts. Her blush deepened, and she quickly stood up and walked away, but not fast enough to miss the cashier mutter, "Bitch" under her breath as she began rebuilding the pyramid alone.
Delilah went without coffee.
The walk back to Washington Heights was short. Five plastic grocery bags hung sorrowfully from her hands as the threat of winter whipped down the gray street. Delilah's coat was nice, a gift from her parents (as everything was), but no coat could repel the oppressive chill that Delilah always felt on the B-block – B for Bucher, Baker, Barton, and broken. The place was a crap shoot, she knew. She could've lived anywhere she wanted, her parents said. Anywhere. But she chose here.
She stopped in front of her building, Washington Heights. The one apartment building in all of Baltimore with the fifth room on the fifth floor available. Go figure. She turned her key and jiggled the door knob five times before stepping inside, thinking,
I hate the grocery store.
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The streets were chilly as Mrs. Flogsbottom stepped onto the cracked pavement. Her orange plaid coat wasn't enough- if only she had also brought her hand knitted neon green mittens and matching hat- she pulled her coat tighter around her body as she walked quickly up the street to Manny's Grocery- her not yet declared lover's work. The wind whipped at Mrs. Flogsbottom's skirt and it flew up, revealing her plump knees. Looking casually around, she spotted an onlooker, beguiled by her beauty. Oscar, the butcher, watched her curiously from the comfort of one of the chairs behind an outside table. He wasn't wearing a coat, but his huge form didn't require one. Mrs. Flogsbottom looked away, she wouldn't condone his sexual advances, she loved Achilles, besides, he was big enough to squash her entirely and not even notice until he scrapped her orange plaid blob off the floor.
The rundown exterior of Manny's Grocery made her heart flutter. From the grimy windows, covered with everyday sludge and foggy from the chill, she could see Achilles. His strong jaw, his warm mocha brown eyes, and his shining head. She did not see his receding hair line, fused with gray streaks, or his growing gut. His glasses were thick as a bread slices, but they added an allure- the green rim matched her own glasses stunningly. Sure she changed the color of her glasses to match his, but it was all for the price of love.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door with chipped paint, she stepped inside, grabbing a shopping cart for good measure. Achilles turned and smile widely, exposing the wide gap between his two front teeth.
"Well Mrs. Flogsbottom! What a lovely lady to see on such a dreary day!" Achilles said, bowing as he always did, just for her. Mrs. Flogsbottom turned a bright red, shyly looking down, counting in her head for 2 seconds, before looking up to him. It's all in the eyes, she thought, flirtatiously batting her eyelashes.
"If anyone deserves a brighter day, it's my special veggie man!" Mrs. Flogsbottom chortled, trying to laugh lightly, but sounding like a snorting pig.
"That coat looks mighty fine on you, the color is very unique, brighter than any carrot I've ever seen" he replied.
"I'd hoped you'd like it, but don't go and grow a watermelon head you tease!" Mrs. Flogsbottom laughed, delighted to hear Achilles laugh that resembled the sound of a horn blowing. "I suppose I should do my shopping- you know how busy I am, if you asked me out tonight I would have to refuse, that's how busy I am. So much to do, that's me- but how I love going out, especially with other people. It's so lovely. I love it. Oh, I'm dithering so, I'd best get back to shopping!" Mrs. Flogsbottom carefully walked down the first aisle she came to, sure to swing her hips vivaciously so Achilles would see. Needing some milk, she walked to the back section and saw Delilah pondering over the juices, but Mrs. Flogsbottom knew better. Ever since she and Delilah had wanted the same can of lima beans weeks before, she knew Delilah was enthralled with her. That's why she probably spent so much time at the juices just as an excuse to see Mrs. Flogsbottom. Well, if she ever tried to declare her love, Mrs. Flogsbottom knew exactly what to say, she had rehearsed it many times- with as many admirers as her, one always had to be ready.
It's not you dear, really. I think you are a stunning person and beautiful in your own sparkling way, but I cannot love you. I have another I have given my heart to completely and it wouldn't be fair to you to get your hopes up. And I like men. But she would only say the last part if she was talking to a woman, because her charms worked on both sexes. Curse the Gods for making her so irresistible!
With a gallon of milk, 2 candy bars, ice cream, and fettuccine pasta, Mrs. Flogsbottom tried to think of anything else she might need. A sudden crash of cans brought her back to reality as she watched Delilah bring a pyramid down, probably to get her attention. The cashier walked over to clean up, and Achilles quickly took her place at the counter. In break neck speed Mrs. Flogsbottom was in line and smiling coyly at Achilles. "Did you find everything?" Achilles asked, scanning her goods and putting them in paper bags.
"You have everything I need-" She waited a moment, forced a blush, giggled and said, "I mean your store- silly me!" Mrs. Flogsbottom smiled inwardly, she had been working on that line for 2 weeks, and it was even better than she thought it would be.
"I love to see you happy," Achilles replied, winking.
"You Don Juan," Mrs. Flogsbottom replied, "Why if you asked me out, you're so smooth, that I might just have to accept! Even though I'm so very busy and all, but I would probably push everything back, just for you!" Writing a check she handed it to him, making sure he could see her perfectly filed nails. "And my phone number is on there, in case there are any problems. Not that there would be, and even if there was, I live right down the street, Washington Heights, 2nd floor first apartment, so you could find me. How close we are! It's almost like a sign!"
With a final flirtatious wave, she walked out of the store, giddy as a school girl. With all her subtle hints, and his flirtatious responses, they would be together in no time- but now came chapter 3. Not seeing him for a while so he misses her and realizes how much he really loves her. It would be one of the longer chapters for her, but she was ready.
Fey stood in front of the freezers in Manny's Grocery Store. She'd already gotten the dog food, carrots, apples, some beef and beans to make chili, three potatoes, and some sugar cookies. All that was left was to get the milk and tea. She reached out and grabbed the skim milk carton closest to her and placed it in her basket. Walking towards the aisle the tea was on she heard a loud crash. Upon reaching the aisle she saw a woman pushing her cart down the aisle quickly and a young clerk picking up the coffee cans that now littered the floor. She'd recognized that woman. She was the one who always got off on the 5th floor, she remembered because she'd tried to keep her eyes averted from Fey's presence nearly as much as Fey did to hers.
Fey's attention was brought back to the mess in front of her by the mutterings of the clerk.
"I can't believe she just left this for me to pick up. Bitch."
"Here let me help you," Fey said bending down.
"Thanks, they're supposed to be stacked in a pyramid." The pair was finished picking up the mess in a matter of minutes.
"Thank you again, I just don't get why some people feel that they can just leave their own messes to others to clean up."
"I'm sure she has a good reason for rushing off. Maybe she'd left something on the oven." Fey was hoping that by suggesting that she had a good reason to rush off the clerk's aura would lighten and her less than understanding words wouldn't come back to haunt her. No luck.
"Maybe, but more than likely she's just a self-centered cow." With that the clerk walked off.
On her journey home, Fey thought over the clerk and wondered why people could think such mean thoughts about others without knowing the whole story. It was one of the problems of the world. Ever since Fey had decided that most world problems were attributed to people not being understanding, or even trying to be, she had done her best to only think positively of others. Years earlier her psychiatrist had felt that this way of thinking was just a way for Fey to rationalize and excuse what had happened to her. The Dr. had said Fey was incapable of fully blaming one person completely and had therefore transferred some of the blame onto herself by convincing herself it was Karma at work. The Dr. felt her beliefs were irrational, but Fey knew then, as she did now, that there had to be a reason bad things happened, and that Karma did exist. It had to. Just like fate. It was meant to happen. She was meant to continue life and find apartment 81 in Washington Heights and Finicky. Stop it. Stop thinking of it. That part of her life was over, she'd moved on. No more unpleasant thoughts. She was living her life now.
Back at the building. Fey had deposited the groceries and gotten Finicky. She had planned to go straight to her shop to open after lunch, but decided to take a ride on the elevator first. Going up the elevator another person got on. He was thin, looked under-nourished and tired. He looked at her with such a calculating stare that Fey had to look away. Fey didn't even wait to see which floor he got out on or if he was even going up or down. The next floor that the doors opened on to admit someone into the elevator Fey got off on with Finicky. Deciding she had better go open up, Fey chose to use the stairs. Outside the building Fey turned right and walked past a small fenced in area. When she reached her shop, The Wrath, she paused, as did Finicky, and, before opening the door and going in, looked to both sides, not because she was scared.
Fey would tell her self she wasn't scared as many times as she had to to make it real.
Gifts
Grandmother is the sort of woman whom you can crown with a thousand and one metaphors but never quite capture in type. She is as immense, as ancient as the Appalachian mountains wherein she dwells. She has tree-trunks for legs, boulders for breasts and white wisps of cirrus clouds for hair. Her teeth are jagged stones, her face is an autumn-leaf tracery of wrinkles and veins. Her blind eyes are the sun-starved gray of a snail's underbelly, and yet she sees incalculably more than those with technically perfect vision (which is a good thing, on account of her being somewhat hard of hearing).
The wind was howling, the sun rising and the year 1989 when Grandmother felt it -- the strangest sensation, as if something had reached its hand into her, grabbed a clavicle and started tugging.
Vexed, she stopped her knitting to swat at the thin air and mutter, "Busy, busy now. Leave me, you hands, you little imps' hands!" Then she resumed the project that lay across her lap -- something trying very hard to be an afghan but, in truth, more closely resembling an exploded woolen eggplant.
It was no use. The tugging only grew more insistent. So Grandmother tossed aside the blanket-in-progress/defunct aubergine and with a tormented cry of "Imps! Damned little imps!" reared to her full height (which was as impressive as a mountain's, a redwood's, a bear's, etc). She stormed out the cabin door, through brambles, across creeks and up steep slopes (in her stocking feet, no less) before finally her demons relented. She cupped her hand to her ear and heard something -- a weak wailing, a whimper. She dropped to her knees. Sure enough, there it was at her feet -- a mewling infant, black curls just beginning to sprout on its out-sized head.
The blood drained from Grandmother's wrinkled face and her voice dropped to a whisper. "It has begun."
. . .
Victoria ponders the question for a second, tops, and then shakes her head no. "He's not for sale." The man heaves an alcohol-reeking sigh, but Victoria only strokes the vulture's unfeeling head and offers the man a squirrel instead. "Little guy makes an excellent paperweight."
"I'll take him," the man says amiably before shifting to a more conspiratorial tone of voice. "You, uh, know of any good gambling around here?"
She glares at him. "I don't hold with gambling, Mister."
He shrugs. "I'll take that as a no."
She turns back to the vulture as the sinful man leaves with his squirrel. "That was a close one," she hisses. "I've just plucked you from the very fingers of perdition, you know."
She nods at the fat woman who has just now passed by, with grocery bags in her hands and an elegantly cut coat on her back. "Look at her," Victoria adds. "Where did she get a coat like that, I ask you, in a place like this? She's a harlot if ever a harlot I saw. This is a wicked place, and only me between you and it. You'd best remember that, and try doing your job -- next opportunity you get, that is."
Then she smiles, believing her feathered associate sufficiently chastened. "Oh, I could never part with you. You're downright important, you know! Why, I'm not quite sure . . . but Grandmother said it was so."
. . .
"I will give you three things before you go, Victoria," Grandmother said. "And they're all of them downright important."
First was the opossum, and next to it a bottle of whiskey. "Give this one a drink, and he speaks the truth," Grandmother said. "Just don't spoil him with fine liquor. Whiskey will do."
Next came the vulture. "This one will scream when danger is near -- and you'd best take heed of such warnings when they come."
Finally, the box. Grandmother did not explain the box. She said only, "Do not open this. It will open when the time comes."
death & taxes.
The buses passing splashed water onto the sidewalk, making more puddles for Chloe to carefully avoid. Her shoes were drenched from the long walk, but she refused to ride public transportation. Think of all the germs! Her father used to tell her.
She quickly crossed the street, her hair falling into her eyes spilling out from underneath her hat. When she finally reached Washington Heights she was soaked and shivering in the cold October air. As she shook out her umbrella in the lobby of the complex, she noticed someone checking their mail, delicately sorting it into piles. Chloe walked over to the mailboxes and unlocked 1256. Nothing. There was never anything.
As she closed her mailbox she looked over at the woman who was now walking down the hallway, her steps oddly spaced. Just as she was turning the corner Chloe noticed a button in front of the mailboxes.
"Wait!" She called after the woman, but she was already in the stairwell. Chloe went over to the button, picked it up, and but it on top of the mailbosxes. Delilah Plunk she thought her name was. She'd been living there for over a year but hardly knew anyone.
When she reached her apartment there was a note slid underneath with familiar handwriting. Came by to see you, but I guess you're not around. Lawyer wants to see you. - Luke
Chloe quickly lit another cigarette and opened up a beer from the fridge. She turned on the tv but there was nothing worth watching. The phone rang and she jumped. I thought I unplugged that. She thought. She went over to the wall and pulled the cord out forcefully. Chloe finished the beer and decided to call Luke. She pulled out her cell phone from her purse and dialed the familar numbers.
"It's me," she said softly, uncomfortably, tapping her foot against her coffee table.
"I was worried. The lawyers said you never came, and you haven't been answering." He paused anxiously. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine, I just got nervous. I don't wanna deal with--"
"God! Not this again! You don't have to deal with anything!" Luke spat, interrupting her. "All you have to do is just show up, they'll read you a will and write you a check! It's that simple!"
There was silence.
"It's not that simple." Chloe said finally, breaking the silence. She lit another cigarette. "I have to go."
"Okay, will you need a ride there? I know you still haven't bought a car..."
"Luke, you know I can't have a car down here, there isn't parking. Stop bothering me about it."
"Why do you live in that shithole anyway? You can afford something much nicer. I'll help you find a place if you like."
"I like it here thanks, and I'll go to the layer tomorrow. Have a good night."
"You too. Are you sure you're okay then? I get worried, you never talk to me anymore. Are you still working.. I could help you get a job."
"I'm so sick of everyone trying to help me, I'm perfectly fine. I have an apartment, I have a job, I have money, I'm fine!" She slammed her phone shut and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and the battery flew off the back. She swore loudly, grabbed her coat, and stormed out of the apartment.
As she reached the lobby, Delilah was there searching on her hands and knees. Chloe wanted to tell her about the button, but before she could Delilah got up and scrambled away. Chloe flung the front door open and let the cold, bitter rain pelt her face.
She slid the shiny, smooth stockings over her long, lean legs. She shivered as she felt the satin of her corseted bodice hug her curves. She gasped for air as each closing inch of the zipper forced what breath she had left in her frail, shaking body outward. The yellow toe-pinching pumps stared at her from the corner. The fluffy feather boa rested on her chair like a python awaiting its next victim, and the elaborate head dress onto which she had painstakingly sewn four thousand twenty two shimmering sequins sat waiting in its garish oppression. She had waited for this moment, but this was not how she had pictured her debut at all. She had wanted the luxurious dressing room of Hollywood starlets with the multi-bulbed lighted vanity mirror and sumptuous costumes draped around the room. Instead, she was in the sketchy bathroom of the bar down the street from the looming Washington Heights apartment building. Faucet-dripping, light-flickering, dirty, smelly, gray insanity was closing in around her. She opened the creaking door into the rancid bar smelling of spilled beer and wasted hope. The lurid light flooded into the bathroom and she slammed the door closed strangled with anxiety.
Lola snapped out of her dreamy flashback as the imitation rain shower began to drip brown, cloudy water on the fruits and vegetables in the produce aisle of Manny’s Grocery. She was picking yellow pears, or at least what was supposed to be yellow pears, and she watched curiously as a woman she knew from her apartment building, Delilah Plunk, delicately selected five and only five red apples. Lola had never heard this woman speak, but she seemed so lovely. To Lola, everyone seemed lovely. Lola marveled at her adorably plump fingers as they caressed each red apple before gingerly placing them into the bag. Delilah glanced Lola’s way, but Lola quickly averted her eyes, batting her long lashes. Lola grabbed her grimy pears, and scampered away to pay for them.
Lola made the short trek from the Manny’s back to Washington Heights avoiding the strange and disturbing stand housing a stuffed tabby cat. She waited on the uncertain elevator, optimistic that today it would not stall in between two floors. The doors opened, already this was a good sign. Standing there in the elevator was another lovely person. Lola was speechless. This woman was breathtaking. Her bright red lips, full and pouty, matched perfectly her beautiful red pumps. Lola had to know this woman’s name... and perhaps where she had purchased such gorgeous shoes.
"Hello there... um my name is Lola," she said sheepishly."
"Lemme guess. Are you a showgirl?" the woman said with a smirk as a flood of wine-scented fragrance filled the elevator.
"Oh my goodness gracious, however did you know?" Lola giggled.
"Lucky guess, I suppose," the woman said rolling her eyes. "Anyway, my name is Nicole Lee Carmine," she slurred.
"What an absolutely lovely name," said Lola as she clapped giddily.
The elevator screeched and lurched to Lola’s floor, and as she bounced off with her yellow pears in one hand, she excitedly waved goodbye to Nicole. "Wow." Lola thought. "What an interesting woman, and she seems ever so friendly. I bet she’s a movie star. Oh fiddledede, I forgot to ask her where her shoes were from."
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