Grandma Pearl, Penthouse
While I was playing Mahjong last monday like I do every week, I received a distubring phone call from my grandson, Alexander. He said he just couldn't take living with his mother anymore. I understand, considering Lisa moved out of the house when she was 16, moving in with her 24-year-old boyfriend... she wasn't exactly an honor student. Alexander told me he wanted to move in with me. I love him very much so of course I obliged.
Oh, what a mistake. I am one of those people that enjoys stressing over nothing... such as a wedding 7 months in a advance or losing the two of spades... but now with Alexander living here I don't have time to stress about nothing. From sunrise to sunset I'm cooking for him, doing his laundry, giving him money, or constantly being conned into giving him my car. I'm a nervous wreck and know that in my old age a lady like me can be driven to death by kids like Alexander.
I have started to go to these stress relief meetings everyday, Alexander's mother told me I should go to them so I won't hate my life so much. The meetings aren't too bad, the food is crappy but I should probably be watching my weight anyways.
I don't really feel like cooking tonight... I think I'll take Alexander to Ming Ming's and just get some supper there. I hope he doesn't make me buy two entrees like he did last time. He had said that night that he was far too hungry to share with me. Alexander didn't even eat but half of his entree. He assured me we could get it to-go and put it in the fridge. "How am I supposed to fit these boxes in my fridge," I said. Of course he tells me to not worry about it, but that is what I do.
I just can't stand living in the penthouse by myself. It's just too big and too much to handle by myself. I can't tell any of my kids that or they'll surely put me in some old folks home to die. I'd rather be dead then rot in the Jewish Homes. Well nobody should worry about it too much because I'll be dead soon. sigh.
8 comments:
‘Malcolm Gainnes was the kind of guy that would make you crazy in high school. If you were too far away, you’d do anything to get closer—either to admire his manipulation of power or his own appearance. But as soon as you stepped in too deep, you’d do anything to get away. If it was possible to combine Mr. Wickham’s attraction and Mr. Darcy’s high sense of propriety you would find Malcolm Gainnes in an instant. No one knew what made him so fascinating, just that his locker was on the third floor next to the language lab, his favorite band was The Verve Pipe, and he spoke French—minimally. Elizabeth was fortunate enough, some would say, to have met him after his heyday. Instead he ran into her in the Atlanta airport about a year and a half ago. The two were running towards each other in the terminal. Elizabeth — as not to miss her flight — and Malcolm— to catch the game — collided. She was knocked to the ground unconscious, as he continued to watch the television in the sports bar. The Seattle Seahawks had just scored after the opening kick off, and in a moment Malcolm realized he had lost a hundred bucks to his buddy back in Sacramento. The terminal swirled as Elizabeth began to gain consciousness. She looked from the focused medic to a man squatting beside her, who was the spitting image of Indiana Jones—somewhere between the Boy Scout and the professor in age. It was the hat that gave it away, not to mention the same brown hair and yearning for adventure in his eyes.’
“Writing a novel, are you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, meeting the waiter’s gaze. “Yes, I am.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“A diet Coke and some water would be great.”
“How about a diet Pepsi instead?” the waiter inquired.
“How about just a glass of water?”
“I’ll have that out in just a minute," he replied.
Elizabeth forced a smile before she returned to her laptop.
‘What kind of weirdo reads over a stranger’s shoulder anyways?’ she thought.
Shaking her head she began to type:
“Hold on,” he had said. “Everything’s going to be ok.”
As she woke up in a hospital room a while later, she found her Dr. Jones sitting with his socked feet propped up on the bed, leaning back in the chair, snoozing. Blinking hard, she looked around the room. The Emory Hospital clock read two in the morning.
Scott was going to kill her, not to mention Kaylee.
“Ah, you’re awake.” The nurse smiled as she entered the room.
Dr. Jones stirred.
“Here’s some pain medication,” she said, walking past him.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, suddenly realizing the sensation of a jackhammer drilling into her skull.
The nurse began to leave.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth called.
The nurse turned.
“Is there a phone I could use?”
“Yes,” Dr. Jones replied.
His voice was light and pleasing to her ears.
“I have my cell phone if you would like to use it.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth repeated, dismissing the nurse.
“You should really rest." He said, rising from his seat. "Who is it you need to call?”
“Parents,” Elizabeth said softly, dialing the number.
“Alright,” he smiled.
A moment later he was in the hall.
“Hello, Mrs. Farraday?” Elizabeth heard through the cracked door. “This is Malcolm Gainnes, I’m a friend of Elizabeth’s.” He paused. “Yes, I understand she was supposed to fly home tonight, but she’s currently in a hospital in Atlanta. She had a concussion and a minor head wound. The doctor said there’s nothing to worry about, she should be out in a day or two. He'd just like to monitor her to make sure she’s ok.” He paused. “Oh, he’s in town? Great, I’ll let Elizabeth know.”
Upon returning to the room he approached the side of Elizabeth’s bed. Resting his hand upon hers, he leaned over. Their cheeks touched.
“Your father’s on his way,” he whispered.
She smiled.
Elizabeth looked up from her laptop as the waiter returned with her beverage.
“She thinks they should kiss,” he commented.
“Who?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mrs. Flogsbottom,” the waiter explained. “She’s the curly red-headed woman behind you. That is, unless you're not past chapter six.”
“I’m only on the first page.”
“Well, then. I suppose you don’t need to worry about it.”
Elizabeth sighed as reached for the water glass.
'I am moving things a little fast, though, aren't I?' she pondered.
As she raised the glass to her lips she paused, distracted by the view of a most interesting relationship. As Grandma Pearl passed the diner carrying a bag of food from Ming Ming's, Alex was lazily treaded behind her reading up on the latest baseball hotshot in Sports Illustrated.
'I could never have the patience to deal with him.' She thought. 'What some women are able to endure is simply amazing.'
“Now where was I?” she asked, returning to her laptop. “Ah, yes. The narrative of a most substantial regret.”
Michael Seebach Apt. 236
Wasting Time
THIS SHALL BE EDITED FOR PERSONAL CHARACTER FORMAT, AND UNDER INFLUENCE OF OTHER CHARACTER POSTS.
Nope...nothing here.
I thought not, the slim chance this elderly woman was connected with that man hardly made sense. I suppose I shall update my employee---Hm? Oh. Her meeting should not be over for some time...This is troublesome.
Michael Seebach was not in his apartment. He was not even in an apartment of a friend of his. His head was stuck underneath the quilted sheets adorned over the side of the bed of a Mrs. Pearl. He was studying every little inch of the penthouse home, which seemed to house two, knowing that the owner in question attended daily meetings. And now the front door was opening a little early.
"Terrible, there's no point to it..." Mrs. Pearl seemed to be indignant. "Just thinking about these meetings causes stress, even less time to prepare for that boy..." She slowly walked inward and placed her purse on the counter. "I'll make my own food for those meetings from now on."
Hm. A slight southern drawl, I had guessed correctly. I suppose she grew frustrated with the stress relief meeting, she is home far too early. How should I deal with this...Perhaps it is best to sneak out of the front door when she is preoccupied. I'm fairly sure that an elderly woman will not take well to finding a stranger underneath her---"WHO'S THERE!?" Oops.
Grandma Pearl was staring at the two naked feet jutting from underneath her bed with a fierce glare mixed between fear and confusion. "...You're not Alex. Come out from there!" Michael slowly crawled on all fours out from under the bed, as if he were trying to scale a wall using his palms. He slowly stood up and stared at the old woman, who had decided to brandish a firewood poker, and began biting his thumb.
I might as well confirm some things...
"What are you doing in my apartment? You're not a maid or something..."
"Hello madame, I was just wasting time."
"What?!"
"Perhaps not. I was cleaning."
"What are you saying?"
"No good. I was investigating, I am a detective. My clients hired me to search your home for evidence."
"What on earth are you talking about, what do I have to investigate!?"
"Ok, no one hired me. I actually am wasting time. I would have kept lying, but it's rather annoying to keep changing my alibi."
Michael decided it was best to voice out all of his options as a complete stranger, it didn't really matter anyways. Mrs. Pearl was looking absolutely furious from participating in this unbelievably esoteric conversation. She was slowly tiptoeing towards the phone with the poker held firmly in the direction of Michael's eyes. Michael decided it was better to crouch down. Might as well feel comfortable while trying to think of something to say.
"Stay right there, i'm dialing the police."
"Naturally."
"..............!?"
"Oh wait. I disconnected the phone, the ringing distracted me. Sorry."
The elderly woman was looking particularly stressed at this moment. She obviously couldn't comprehend what in the world this psycho wanted. Mrs. Pearl moved away from the phone while keeping her eyes on Michael, who was staring up from his crouched position, and slowly lowered herself into a large chair.
She does seem to be highly stressed, perhaps she should have stayed to finish her meeting...Or perhaps i'm just feeling guilty about being caught? Hm.
"If you want money or valuables, you are free to take them, but please leave my home."
"I'm sorry for intruding madame, I was just wasting time, as I mentioned earlier."
"...How, did you get in here?"
"A simple lock is easy enough to open. It's even simpler when you tell the Super you're with the police."
"You're with the police, you mean you really are an official detective?"
"Mmm...yes, except the 'with the police' part."
"........"
This grandmother had lived long enough to see alot of things. It wasn't hard for her to notice that the person in front of her was absolutely insane. Perhaps not very dangerous, but she didn't want him in her house all the same.
"...Pardon?"
"Hm?"
"I must excuse myself to the restroom."
"Of course, it is your home."
Michael watched as the woman walked deftly towards the hallway, not so discretely placing her cellphone to her hip. Ah. Perhaps he should...No, he could get some reading done.
Mrs. Pearl returned a few short minutes later, a flushed look on her face. Michael released the copy of "The Catcher in the Rye" from his thumb and pointer finger, and placed it beside him on a coffee table.
"Welcome back. Just making small talk, but your bathroom does not have a signal. How strange. Bye the way, you forgot to flush madame."
"..."
"Well, before I leave I wonder if I may make an enquiry."
"...Yes, what do you want?"
"Do you know a Marcus Manuel?"
"? No, I don't recall that name..."
"Perhaps a Mr.Dominic Machelli?"
"...Doesn't he live above that rotten bar?"
"Are you certain you are not lying?"
"I don't have any reason to-"
"A Mr. Marcus Manuel is a drug pusher in this city."
"What are you?-"
"I am quite certain you are partaking of some illegal drug activities."
Mrs. Pearl stood up slowly and pointed a finger at the tool for justice, the detective who broke into people's homes for no reason.
"YOU BREAK INTO MY HOME. AND ACCUSE ME OF USING ILLEGAL DRUGS!? YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE A MENTAL DISORDER, I WOULD LIKE IT IF YOU WOULD LEAVE!"
"I have proof."
"!? WHAT IN THE WORLD-"
Michael stood up and walked slowly over to the kitchen. Placing his hand on a plate, he undid plastic wrap revealing...
"...My cookies."
"Yes madame."
"...What in the world is wrong with you?"
"Madame, upon tasting these cookies my body has become severely addicted. I cannot stop with just one, I suspect a small dosage of morphine or perhaps cocaine has been added to the mix."
Michael delicately picked up a cookie in two fingers and chewed on the chocolately goodness.
"..."
"..."
The aged woman was trying her best to keep her face steady and stare directly into this deranged man's eyes, but he didn't seem to have a way to express his emotions on his face. She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, but that didn't really matter.
"...You came here to eat my cookies."
"That deduction is of a high possiblity."
"Please leave, I shall be calling the police."
"Of course, I wouldn't suspect any less. I am guessing it would be futile to mention that the police station across the street has no credibilty, and would be of no use to you without a top class forensic team..."
"..."
Michael moved towards the doorway, and did a sidestep as a teenage boy walked up.
"Thank your grandmother for these cookies, and perhaps talk to her a bit more, she seems quite stressed. By the way, have you seen a number #6 anywhere?"
George Jefferson - The End of the First Night
The night had gone well in the beginning. He had stopped two small time robberies and scared the living daylights out of a crack dealer. With his deep voice he would bellow something awe-inspiring, then he would leap out with his sword and whack their weapons right out of their hands. He would then proceed to work them over with his sword and his fists, and he would top it off by handcuffing them to a nearby object. There they would stay until the police came, if they were lucky. He knew he had struck a fear of the night into at least four criminals, and they would not be returning to crime anytime soon. Except, of course, for that last one.
In his wandering he had come upon what seemed like a classic crime: a man was holding a gun to another man's head in a dark alley. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, but he didn't care - they were obviously criminals. Jefferson leaped from the shadows and yelled, "Criminals never prosper, motherf---er!" in his most menacing voice. He sliced the sword down on the first man's hand, sending his gun flying, and possibly breaking his wrist. Jefferson then clocked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The second man fled. Jefferson chased after him, assuming he was also involved in the crime. It was his first mistake.
Jefferson caught up to the second man and grabbed him by his collar, but he fainted in terror. Then Jefferson heard the cocking of a gun that saved his life. He turned just in time to see the first man, his nose bleeding profusely, aiming the gun directly at his chest. Jefferson dived headlong into a nearby window just as the first man fired. He could've sworn he felt the bullet narrowly miss his hand. He climbed out of the window with a few cuts and bruises but unscathed overall. That leather jacket was a lifesaver. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Jefferson dragged the fainted man's body over to a nearby lamppost and handcuffed his hand to it. An elderly woman walked by, who Jefferson recognized as Mrs. Pearl, one of the tenants of his building. "Someone should call the police" Jefferson said, and fled into the night. He hoped she would not recognize him under his mask.
Jefferson ran through the back alleys of his neighborhood, shaken. That man was obviously a part of some sort of organized crime. Small-time druggies and messed-up kids could be scared straight, but crime bosses and their followers were something else. He stopped in the vacant lot next to Washington Heights. If he kept this up, he could be dead within a week. Then he remembered why he had started this crusade in the first place. This was one of the most crime-ridden parts of the city; it was also the neighborhood he grew up in. This was where he had first decided to become a police officer. He had done it with the hope that he could clean up the city. That plan had failed, so he moved on to another plan - the sword.
Jefferson stood up. Within a week he could be dead, but, he asked himself, how would that be different from any other week? He would have to change his tactics. He would deal with crime from the top down., instead of just scaring the bottomfeeders straight. This neighbor was where his first crusade had began, so this neighborhood was where his second crusade would begin, as well. Jefferson looked across the street. He could see the owner of Oscar's Meat setting up shop, and also discreetly taking down a sign that read "New York Strip." Something illegal was going on over there, but he would have to wait to investigate. The sun was just beginning to rise over the skyline, and Jefferson was still in costume. Also, he was tired. Jefferson climbed the fire escape, but he paused and looked out over the city. He would focus his efforts here, until Washington Heights was a beacon of hope for the rest of the city. Or he would die trying.
Oscar Alcazar
The place was packed. Without the back room, his butchery wouldn't be in business. But was it worth the drama? The fights, the arguments, the deals, the tension ... Oscar chuckled. He knew the answer. Yes. It was worth every penny.
He thought back to that afternoon, when little Slick had popped in. Oscar had slipped him a few bills for something or other. It didn't really matter. Slick was a good guy. That's how things worked to Oscar. The key word was reputation. If you did good, and didn't do nothing stupid, Oscar had your back, as long as you drop in every now and then. You do Oscar a favor, he does you one. Simple, really.
He stepped out front for some fresh air, catching Mrs. Floggsbottom's eye as she trundled past. He liked her. She was quirky. Amusing. Coming the other direction was Grandma Pearl, "or Miss Pearlie to you," she would tell him. Pearl bought a week's supply of kosher meat every weekend. She was one of his most loyal customers. She even gambled a bit, "when she was feelin' frisky."
As Oscar turned to squeeze back through the door, he glanced at his shattered window. The glass itself was no biggie. He'd have Alexander fix it up. The boy needed a job. The story behind it was the real problem. It was another threat from Manuel, the pitiful crack dealer across the street. He thought his Columbian heritage earned him status in the community. Oscar knew the real meaning of status. Status was being a man, being honest, being forthright. Status meant no severed fingers on doorsteps. Manuel had a lot to learn. Oh well, Oscar thought. He wished their Columbian connection could make them brothers, not enemies. But if Manuel wanted a war, he'd get one. Oscar had Machelli on his side. They'd been exchanging favors for years.
Back inside, Oscar's grubby fingers tossed a few slices of roast beef back into the fridge. Damn, that was from Marissa's morning sandwich. He had to stop leaving food out. He chucked the slices out onto the sidewalk. A bird would get them.
The freezer's chill nursed his grimy skin as he brushed past a dangling pig carcass. There was commotion in the back room. Nothing new there. Not too long ago a bounty hunter had chased his man out the front door. And before that, a nice woman by the name of Elizabeth had completely decked a guy. The fun just didn't stop.
At 3:30 Oscar closed up shop, courteously moving his guests toward the door. He'd count their money in the morning. A big guy needs his shuteye. The Kosher Carriers truck was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning.
It was Wednesday. I had not walked out of my apartment building since Saturday. My trip out into the cold, bitter air was not one that I had wanted to take, but I was officially out of booze and cigarettes, and I had finally gotten the energy to look around for some change. Plus, I was beginning to smell like shit- my clothes hadn't been washed in God knows how long, and I was running out of long-sleeved shirts.
As I stepped into the gray, hazy atmosphere of Baker Street, I quickly pulled the hood of my hoodie onto my head, tucking my long, dark brown hair into it.
The only other person who I saw was an old lady who was coming out of Oscar's Butchery holding a white, paper bag. She looked a little disturbed, and kept pulling at her scarf that was loosely tied around her neck.
"Poor old lady," I thought to myself. I averted my eyes and focused back to the ground quickly making my way down the street.
The sticky aroma of steam mixed with the sweet scent of laundry detergent greeted me as I pushed open the heavy door to the Laundro-Mat.
Good- the room was completely empty.
The washing machines were so small in this laundro-mat.
I hated it.
It took me more time to stuff my clothes into the machine than it took to actually wash them.
After about ten minutes of arranging and rearranging, I finally managed to get every single article of clothing in and successfully close the door.
It was time for my favorite part- sitting and watching my clothes swirl around and around, turning the clear liquid into brown water.
The soft "swooshing" sound that the washer made calmed my over-anxious nerves, putting my into a semi-calm state of being.
A state of being that I rarely felt.
I watched the water begin to slowly turn the color brown- my eyes started to droop. Even though I tried desperately to keep them open, I failed.
At once, a picture of his face overwhelmed me.
He was clearer this time. I could make out his defined features: his square jaw, his high cheek bones, his piercing blue eyes. Oh my God......those eyes.
After I finished drying my laundry, I scurried back to my apartment- room 901- and went straight to my knife drawer.
It took me several minutes to decide which knife I wanted to use- I ended up choosing my favorite, the one with the sharpest blade.
I walked slowly down the hall, letting the adrenaline seep into my pores. The handle of the knife felt like heaven in my hands. My mouth began to water, my head began to swirl.
I pushed the sleeves of my shirt up so that they were just above my elbows, my skinny, scarred arm completely visible.
I ran the hot water in the sink and watched as the knife drew a beautiful ruby red line across my wrist. The blood began to quickly decorate my arm, falling into the sink like tears, turning the swirling, clear water into brown.
As the kife passed over my skin, I instantly felt relieved. Exaustion quickly took over. I stopped the water and went over to the medicine cabinet to pull out tape and gauze.
After I wrapped up my wrist, I went into the kitchen to pull out a bottle of wine that I had bought at Manny's grocery while waiting for my laundry to dry. I managed to pop the cork and make it over to my couch.
I collapsed.
The wine was bitter, but it tasted so sweet.
A heavy dizziness quickly embraced me, encouraging sleep.
I thought about how I didn't actually buy any food at the grocery store today.
I thought about how I hadn't eaten in three days.
I thought about all of the things that I needed to do, but I didn't feel like doing them.
When had I become so incredibly unraveled? When had I lost it?
And then I remember him.
A tear slowly dribbled down my cheek and once again I fell into darkness with his face
staring at me.
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
"Cuuulllllllen!" Leroy hollered over the blaring NASCAR race as he walked into the unlocked room 808.
"Leroy?" Cullen said in disbelief as he peered out of his bedroom door in his underwear with . "Well, I'd recognize that voice anywhere! What in god's name are you doin' here?" He gave him a big hug with three firm pats on the back.
"Well, I knew you'd like some company in this uh.... place.. and I needed to hurry up and try and catch my big break. Paintlick just wasn't the place to do it. That bar down the street sounded like a right nice place for me. What do ya think Cullen?"
Cullen chuckled as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Well, I don't know if I'd call it right nice but hey! You gotta start somewhere. I'd say thats an idea. Hell, if noone else'll watch ya, I will. I need somethin to do at night besides sittin in this dump! I don't know how much money I got to tip ya though, yer on ya own with that! But hey, I'll give the manager a ring and let him know yer comin to play at nights. We got pretty close since I been in there so much. I know he'd be open to mucha anything. You should be set there buddy!
They both laughed and kept talking like they did when they were kids. After he settled in and a couple hours went by, Leroy wandered out the door and into the hall. Every time he got a second to look around he took it. This place-Baltimore-this apartment-these people he saw around- were all nothing like he'd ever seen in his life. He walked to the elevator and mashed the button. He jumped when he heard the "ding" and looked to see a lit up arrow pointing upwards. The door opened and he just stared at the old woman holding a load of groceries and the boy in the elevator reading a magazine, and they stared back at him. After an awkward pause due to the two wondering why he wasn't getting on... the boy said "Going UP cowboy?" in an irritated tone.
Leroy didn't know where he was going. As the elevator let out an annoyed zzzzzzzzzzz for Leroy to hurry up and get on. He said, "Seems so! Up sounds like a right nice place to be headed. Don't wanna be goin down. Not with the big break I'm tryina catch! Ma'am you look like you've got yer hands full!" He reached and grabbed her bags. "Here ya go son. Help out yer granny!" he handed the boy half of the bag. The old woman and the boy just looked at him with confusion and disbelief. The old woman said uncomfortably, "Th-thank you sir, that sure is nice of you. I wish Alexander here were half the gentleman!"
He put the bags on their counter, shook their hands and tipped his hat. "Now yall take care, ya hear?" He wondered why they were so uncomfortable with him. He was only trying to help, that's just what you do...help folks right? He wandered down the street to the diner. All he was some sweet tea. He took off his hat and glanced around to find everyone staring at him. "How yall doin this fine afternoon?" No response. He had a seat and the waitress, named "Mandi" according to her tag asked him what he wanted. "Sweet tea and an extra bowl of lemons, thank ya ma'am." As somebody at the next table overheard and turned around and laughed- she informed that they didn't have it "up here."
Leroy sat and wondered what was going on with this place.
Shattered perceptions
4:00AM
"SHIT!!!!"
As if jerked from a trance, Robert is jolted out of sleep. A moment later the sound of glass shattering reaches his ears. Followed by the sound of loud music being turned louder.
Getting up, Robert slowly looks around trying to remember where he is. As the pale moon lights the room, his memories of who and where he is sink back in. Remembering the sound that awoke him, he crosses the room to the the window. Opening the window, Rober cautiously pokes his head out.
Looking down he notices a broken wine glass, an expensive one. Realizing that glasses don't throw themselves out of windows anymore, Robert looks to the left hoping to catch the thrower. What he sees is a lot more than he bargained...
A woman is leaning out of her window- naked.
Her hair whips around her face as she exhales another cloud of smoke. With the moon reflecting off of her pale skin, she looks almost angelic. The drink that she takes from the wine bottle (Also expensive, Robert noticed), reveals a carnal hunger in her. A hunger for something better wine and cigarettes...
As suddenly as she appears, she is gone again. Realizing that there is no chance of him getting back to sleep, Robert takes out a single cigarette from his pack. Lighting it slowly, he turns his attentions down to the lower ends of Washington Heights.
One advantage of living on the 12th floor is that everything that happens around you can be seen.
Below, Robert observes a few people walking around. But something doesn't appear right...
There appeared to be three people walking. But the man in the middle's head is lolling forward...He's passed out. The two guys on either side don't appear to be taking this into consideration cause they're draggin him along. Behind them, a third guy is talking to the butcher, Oscar. Oscar is a big guy. His massive "physique" fills the frame of the door. But...
It's not the fact that the man Oscar is talking to is the heart of this town- Domonic Roberto Machelli that bothered Robert. It's not even the fact that the two are laughing as they pass a cig back and forth. It's the fact that there is a man being dragged away, bloodied, into a car, while these two chew the fat at 4:00 in the morning.
Not that Robert and his noisy neighbor (who has a shirt on now...when did she get back?) are supposed to be awake. Well Robert's condition allows for it but as for Chloe...
How did he know her name was Chloe? Did he hear it earlier that day? No...Only thing that he heard earlier were the screams of someone in the penthouse followed by the sound of feet running down the stairs.
Was her name really Chloe? Robert sighed... Looking down he noticed his cigarette had reached the filter. Pulling out a second, he reflected over everything that happened that day; more specifically in the last 10 minutes. Pulling a chair up to the window, he let the gentle breeze caress his face as he rested his head against the window.
This town had too much to offer and Robert knew that this was just the beginning of the ride; whether he would survive to the very end is what bothered him to most.
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