The Life and Times of Lola Fontaine: Out and About in Washington Heights
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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Mrs. Flogsbottom slid her key back into her door. The paint peeled slightly, but it was shaped romantically, like 2 blobs finding each other and knowing they were perfect for one another so she didn't complain. Quickly opening then closing her door, she looked around the room questioningly. "Achilles," she whispered, setting her filled grocery bag on the table. Taking out her ice cream, she opened the container, putting a dollup on a smiling cat face plate. Closing the container she opened her orange freezer and put it inside. Orange was a romantic color. The perfect mix of red and yellow. Red for love, yellow for friendship, the perfect relationship in a perfect color.
From the bathroom, Mrs. Flogsbottom watched an orange tabby waddle toward her. "Achilles! The windows are not covered!" She hissed, nearly toppling over her chair to pull the shades over the small window that showed their bleak neighborhood. "What if someone saw you?" Mrs. Flogsbottom tittered to herself. She thought cats were not allowed in the building, but she didn't care. She was a rebel. If someone reported her, she knew what she had to do. Seducing the supervisor was her only option, but she was up for it, she loved Achilles the cat almost as much as Achilles the grocery man. She had even shaved the top of the cat's head to match his namesake. She put the plate of ice cream on the floor because Achilles had grown too fat and could no longer jump on the table. He loved food and she had no right to keep him from his beloved.
She looked around her kitchen helplessly. Everything reminded her of Achilles. The candy bar she munched on, he had touched, the frozen entrees in her freezer, he had got her to buy because he was having a sale. She didn't like meatloaf, but his caring suggestion made the soggy meat worth it. Well, the cat liked it anyways. She had to escape her prison of love. "Achilles, I'm going out, you understand," she put her hand to her face dramatically. "To be in love!" And she slammed the door shut behind her. Going to the elevator, she hit the button over and over. It seemed hours she stood waiting and its doors. "Oh cruel fate!" She said, throwing her back against the wall. The lumbering elevator stopped and opened on the second floor 20 seconds after she had pushed the button. Pressing the ground level button a dozen times she felt trapped in the cramped space.
Falling out of the elevator she nearly collided with Victoria Lampshade. "I'm so sorry my dear girl," Mrs. Flogsbottom said, patting Victoria on the head like a kitten. She knew the girl looked up to her as a mother figure, once demented but now over her... issues, or so Mrs. Flogsbottom thought. Victoria mumbled something under her breath. "Did you get rid of that dreadful stuffed vulture you had? Such a silly toy to give a child, I hope you listened to me, a vulture is not romantic in the least! Unless there is another vulture and they can make beautiful bird love in their nest for the rest of their lives!" Mrs. Flogsbottom didn't notice Victoria's glower or see her storm away. "Yes, much too busy to chatter now dear, that taxi business must take much of your time!" Mrs. Flogsbottom did not know what a taxidermist was, but it only made sense Victoria was trying to impress her with her job. Taxi driving was reputable but owning a grocery store was even better!
Mrs. Flogsbottom watched Lola walk into the building. Mrs. Flogsbottom was excited, someone to share her woes with! "Lola! Oh Lola, is that you?" Lola looked at her quizzically, then smiled, she always smiled. But then why wouldn't she smile? Her secret admirer was addressing her- too bad Mrs. Flogsbottom could not return her feelings. That day they had run into each other on the elevator, Lola had fallen for her. "Lola how sad I am, my love who does not know I am his love, cannot love me today!"
"Oh... that's not very lovely..." She replied.
"Yes, for this is chapter three, and I cannot speak to him today. No, I must be strong. As we must all be strong when we learn we cannot see our loves, or for some, to learn their loves love another," Mrs. Flogsbottom added that part purely for Lola. It must be a hard hit for her, knowing Mrs. Flogsbottom loved another, but Lola had to go on with her life. Though Mrs. Flogsbottom was the best "fish" she was not the only one.
"Oh... Isn't this bag lovely?" She asked, holding up her new purple purse.
"Of course it is dear, of course it is," Mrs. Flogsbottom replied, patting her hand. "Now I must wander, perhaps I will go to the bookstore, anywhere to not think of him." Without a goodbye, she walked out of Washington Heights. Chapter three was almost over, and then she could see him again. If his 30 minutes of longing were as hard for him as they were for her, he would probably propose to her the next time he saw her. What a lovely present for her anguish!
George Jefferson - The Battle
Jefferson stood on the rooftop of Washington Heights. It was raining heavily. Lightening flashed in the distance. Jefferson had been watching Oscar's for about a week now-it hadn't stopped raining since then. It had paid off though. It seemed like every criminal in the city hung out there, to join in on the illegal gambling that took place in the back. Tonight, Jefferson thought, he would strike at the heart of this criminal enterprise. Tonight he would announce officially to the criminal underworld that he was here. He surveyed the area. Clio Ford was closing up her flower shop and walking across the street, obviously quite irritated by the rain. Jefferson waited until she had entered the building. He climbed down the fire escape. More lightening in the distance; it was getting closer.
Jefferson pulled his mask over his head and shivered - the rain was very cold. He looked across the street. It was deserted. He darted out into the open and ran behind Oscar's shop. He could barely hear the sound of the activity inside over the pounding rain. Jefferson climbed on top of a dilapidated dumpster, then pulled himself up on the roof of the building. There was a little skylight in the middle of the roof - a nice touch, thought Jefferson. A little too nice for a butcher's shop. He peered down into the illegal casino. It was full of people. He recognized a few. There was Machelli, of course, surrounded by his goons. Jefferson would have to take him out first; fortunately he was just below the skylight. There was Marcus Manuel, the small time drug dealer; there was Grandma Pearl; Elizabeth Farraday was there, yelling at some guy; Lola Fontaine, dressed like a stripper; Oscar himself, of course; and others from around the neighborhood. Jefferson had unsheathed his sword and was prepared to strike, when he felt something cold and sharp on his neck.
Jefferson turned around abruptly and held up his sword. Lightening flashed, and the figure of Holger Vollsunger appeared. "I know you," Jefferson said. "You're the guy who owns that gas station down the street."
"I know you as well," Holger said. "I know that fighting you is the only way I can gain the honor of my ancestors and clean up this dirthole of a town."
"We both want the same thing," Jefferson said. "We should be working together. We shouldn't be fighting!"
"No," said Holger, ominously. "this is the only way. Defend yourself, George Jefferson, and defend your honor!"
Holger slashed at Jefferson with his huge, serrated sword. Jefferson knew if that thing hit him it would hurt, a lot. Jefferson blocked with his own sword; the two swords collided with a loud clang as lightening flashed and thunder rumbled across the city. Maybe my sword is real after all, thought Jefferson. The two sparred and parried across Oscar's roof. Jefferson had been practicing in his spare time, but Holger was still more skilled and larger. Jefferson was on the defensive as Holger swung wildly. The pounding rain only made his job more difficult. Jefferson was blocking every one of Holger's massive blows, but he was being pushed to the edge of the roof. It's time to change the game, thought Jefferson. He ducked Holger's blade and tackled him to the ground. The two warriors rolled across the roof. Holger got up a split-second faster than Jefferson, and Jefferson only had enough time to just barely block his blow; neither of them had noticed that Oscar's skylight was just behind them. They both lost their balance and fell through.
They landed on a roulette table, breaking it in two and sending chips everywhere. Lola Fontaine screamed. Jefferson stood up with a groan, and picked up his sword. Suddenly, Holger came out of nowhere and swung at Jefferson, narrowly missing him and cleaving another table in two. People began running and screaming. Jefferson was dodging Holger's massive blade. It missed him again and almost became stuck in one unlucky soul, who Jefferson only knew as "Lowride." "What is it with these freaks with swords? Kill them!" yelled Machelli. Gunshots filled the air as Jefferson leaped behind an overturned table. I've got to get out of here, he thought. He picked up a roullette ball on the floor and threw it at a light switch. The lights went out and more people screamed and ran out of the building. Jefferson kicked down the back door and fled into the night.
He ran across the street, breathing heavily. The police had just arrived, thankfully. Maybe some good would come from this after all. Still, Jefferson thought, he would once again have to be more careful. Basic criminals he could deal with, but he hadn't expected anything like Holger. Fortunately, Holger at least had a sense of honor, sort of; Jefferson wouldn't have to worry about him killing him in his sleep, or anything like that. Of course, he would probably have to face him again. Next time, though, Jefferson would be more prepared. He sheathed his sword and climbed up the fire escape.
The rain continued to fall.
I leaned haphazardly across the sidewalk so that I could reach the door of the bakery. As I knocked urgently, the glass panes in the window rattled and shook. My umbrella was out of my purse this time, attempting to shield me from the torential rains that were currently falling from the sky. The water flowing into a nearby drain was up to my ankles as I stood on the edge of the road, avoiding the dreaded sidewalks. Some things just had to be given up for safety. However, I didn't like how my feet felt as they squished around in my soggy shoes. It reminded me of stepping on slugs in the summer, of stepping on slug after slug after slug after slug. Squishy slugs. Juicy slugs. I shuddered.
A man, the baker, came to the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me as I stood in the pouring rain before stepping aside. I hurried inside, quickly hopping from the street to the doorstep and into the relative safety of the bakery. The rain followed me, making a puddle on the floor and dripping down the window panes. The man stared at me, seeming perpetually angry. I felt awkward as I realized that he was taking in my darker skin, assuming immediately that I was an immigrant, or worse. "I'm here for the job," I said, skipping all pleasantries, not that he seemed the kind of person accustomed to such niceties. He continued to stare, so I glanced around the little room. It was relatively clean except for a powdering of flour, but what bothered me most, and immediately, was the lack of organization. The loaves of bread were crooked in their racks and the counter had fingerprints all over it. I itched to pull out my hand sanitizer and remove them. I stepped sideways towards the counter while saying, "I saw your sign." I took another step towards those annoying smudges.
"Do you have any German in you?" he asked.
He himself was obviously so, tall, blond, blue eyes. Very Aryan. I shrugged. "Sure, can I have the job?" He didn't answer, so I spoke again. "Your sign fell while I was outside but I didn't pick it up." He continued to glare in my general direction, but I prefered to think that that was his normal expression as opposed to a response to me.
"Damn commies," he muttered.
Not that he would understand, but I felt the need to explain why I hadn't picked up the sign, so I continued, "Your sign was on the sidewalk. I don't like sidewalks." He didn't seem to be listening, so I turned around, took out my hand sanitizer, and began to clean the counter with a spare napkin I had. The fingerprints began to disappear nicely as I worked. I had cleaned my own mirror the same way just this morning. The whole apartment was old and dingy, but at least now the mirror was shiny, well, shiny-er at least.
"Yes, you get the job," he said suddenly. "You start today. There's an apron on the hook behind the counter. I make the dough, you bake it, you sell it, yes?" He waited for me to nod, then turned around and stomped into the back room and out of sight. I stared after him, just another weird fanatic in this crazy upside-down town. I wondered how it was possible for so many oddities to end up in the same place.
I stepped behind the slightly cleaner counter and put on the apron I'd been assigned. I ran my hands down the rough fabric, brushing off the flour, but my hands didn't slide smoothly at all. They were sticky. It was sticky. My breathing began to quicken and I looked around in fright. "I hate sticky," I said aloud, trying to contain myself. I took a deep breath and leaned up against the counter. "Calm down, Maria, you really can't freak out now." The counter was sticky. I looked around and saw the cash register was sticky, the floor was sticky, the walls were sticky. Everything was sticky.
I looked around me hurredly for the freezer. The sticky was beginning to overwhelm me, and I needed that freezer. I stumbled into the back room and spun around, searching. "There," I muttered, as I ran towards it. My fingers were sticky and stuck together. To be sticky forever. Stuck together, no fingers, no toes, no arms, no legs, no eyes, no mouth. Killed by the very food that sustained me. Sticky bread! "Sticky, everything is sticky, sticky," I murmered over and over again. I wrenched the freezer door open and plunged my hands into the icebox, pulling back with a handfull of frozen cubes. I leaned against the wall and cupped the icecubes in my fingers, concentrating on how cold they were.
"Cold, cold, cold, cold," I repeated to myself slowly. "Cold and not sticky. Cold and concentrating, cold and breathing, cold and steady, cold and calm." I stood there until the ice had melted in my hands and created yet another puddle on the floor. I sighed. Just another diverted crisis.
Just then the bell on the door jingled as someone entered the bakery. I hurried out to greet the young woman who smiled at me so happy and carefree. She told me that she adored me long luxurious hair, bought a loaf of white bread, commented on how absolutely fresh it seemed, smiled brightly at me once more, and departed. She was soon followed by Kevin, who slipped in asking for a croissant, then a blueberry muffin, then a plain bagel as I denied each of his requests for a lack of anything but bread in the bakery. He smiled his quiet smile as I handed him his slightly stale bagel.
As he walked out of the bakery, wrapping himself in an oversized raincoat, I wondered why such a dark and dreary day suddenly seemed a little bit brighter.
Several mornings had passed since the revolution. So many, in fact, that a layer of dust had begun to accumulate over Elizabeth's laptop. She hadn't touched the keys to success quite yet. She needed something — something that made it worthwhile to return to the story in which she despised her every move.
'It's like reading Jane Eyre the second time through,' she thought. 'As I watched her celebrate the life she had, I only wanted to rip my hair out for the despair I knew she was about to encounter, provoked by her companions.'
"But it makes the ending that much better," she said, reaching for her coat.
Elizabeth hadn't taken five steps from her apartment when she seemed to run into a wall — a tall and narrow wall apparently exiting from apartment 707.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Elizabeth smiled. She looked up at the man's gaunt face. He looked to be in the later half of middle age, or older. She couldn't tell. "Have we met before?" she inquired.
The man was silent.
"I'm Elizabeth Farraday," she said, extending her hand despite the chills running down her back. "It's nice to meet you."
"No," the towering man said, sternly and very matter of fact. "I'm sorry."
Elizabeth kept her smile long enough to escape the gentleman's presence, and hurried down the stairs.
Soon enough she was in the diner, and on her way to relieving a growling stomach. She'd skipped breakfast for pacing, and the night before, dinner was traded for a walk around the town. She was starving.
Sitting down, her leg began to fidget like it was dancing to Ain't That Just Like a Woman. She looked at the menu.
The waiter approached and asked if she'd seen the diner's specials. As she looked to the white board, it wasn't the specials that caught her eye — it was the quotation beneath it.
"Could you give me a minute?" Elizabeth inquired, extracting a pen from her pocket.
The waiter left.
"The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time," she read, copying the words onto a napkin. "George Bernard Shaw."
"Oh, you want the Shaw special?" The waiter asked, returning with a glass of water.
"No — a short stack of pancakes and a side of sausage would be great."
"Anything else to drink?"
"Tea."
The waiter began to walk away.
"Oh," Elizabeth began.
"Yes?" He returned.
"And I'd like to get a Shaw special to go."
"I'll have it ready with the check." He said, before departing.
Elizabeth had heard about Alex's encounter with some homeless guy. She knew it was bad, but she was sympathetic towards the hobo. There'd been a rumor going around that he lived in the train station. After breakfast, Elizabeth strolled over to the SMARTA station with the bag of hot breakfast in her hand and occasional raindrops falling on her head. As she viewed the station it looked to be empty ... almost.
"Hello," she called.
A man exited a train car in smoke and shadow. He appeared alone, as did the car - seemingly shoved off to the side.
"Did you have Mongolian Beef yesterday?" Elizabeth asked.
The man nodded and smiled.
"Then here," she said, handing over the Shaw special.
The man took the bag of food — astonished. He looked from Elizabeth to the bag, and then back to Elizabeth.
"Everyone deserves to eat." Elizabeth smiled, before she returned to the stairs.
As she looked down the street to her next destination, she groaned. She needed english muffins. That was it. She didn't need butter or bacon, soup or salad ingredients, or even coffee beans! No. Just english muffins - her staple breakfast food. To reach the grocery she would have to walk past Victoria Lampshade's stand - the most perturbing business with the most revolting products she had ever encountered. Elizabeth would be the first to admit she was the kind of Girl Scout who nursed wounded birds back to health. She was proud of it, too. Though the similarities between the animals she had helped and the ones ending up on Ms. Lampshade's stand were a tad too apparent. Just the thought of it made her shiver. Accordingly, Elizabeth sprinted down the sidewalk after crossing Baker Street.
She sighed as she entered the grocery store, and almost ran into a shiny show girl aiming to leave.
'Why,' Elizabeth objected in silence, as she viewed the woman's colorful attire. She paused. 'There's not even a show in Washington Heights!'
She turned away from the door.
'Today I'm writing,' she thought, 'while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, drinking mugs upon mugs of hot tea, and maybe even watching Casablanca on the couch.' The weather made it so, not to mention her desperate need for rest.
"Mom! This is so beatiful! I LOVE it!"
"Well sweetie you deserve nothing less. Goodness, I can't believe you are sixteen! It was just yesterday when you were running around the house naked, singing barney songs." She began to tear up. "Before I know it you'll be walking down the aisle, getting married."
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Mandi rolled over in her twin bed, eyes closed, gliding her hand accross the bedside table to put the beeping off for another 10 minutes. She tried so hard to return to her dream, but couldn't.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! This time Mandi slowly sat up and quited the beeping for good. She fumbled in the dark to find her red button-up diner shirt and black pants. The lack of lighting in the appartment was really getting old for Mandi. "Ugh," she exlaimed as she tilted over, one leg stuck in those stiff pants. Mandi then walked over to the mirror leaning against the wall, sqautted down, and checked her face for bruises; making sure there wasn't any need to pile on extra make up to hide her dad's marks. But today the mark was barely present, nothing big enough for her to worry about. She glanced back at her alarm clock as she left her room. 8:09. Just enough time to run to the grocery store before work. Today was a late work day, she didn't hav to be there until nine.
Mandi pulled her hood up over her head as the exited Washington Heights. It was only drizzling, but she preffered not to spend the rest of her work day soggy. She walked quickly down Baker Street.
"Hey Maggy," she said as she walked past the little food stand.
"Hey there darlin'," she winked back.
Mandi continued on to Manny's and hurried in to grab enough food for two more days; a box of cereal, a half gallon of milk, 2 frozen fish falet dinners (for her dad), a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter.
"Alrighty, that'll be nineteen-oh-seven." The cashier said.
Mandi handid him nineteen ones from her tip money, "Hold on I have seven pennies," she told him.
After Mandi put the nineteen dollars worth of groceries up, she poured herself a bowl of cereal to eat before she headed off for work. Crunch. Crunch. She stood over the counter, shovelling the cheerios into her mouth with a glance at her watch. 8:47. The uneven footsteps from the other room startled her. Thump. Thump thump. She threw her dished in the sink, grabbed her bag and headed out the door. Every time she could avoid her dad it was worth it.
31 hamburgers, 56 wet customers, 9 screaming children, 1 wrong order, and fourteen hours later, Mandi walked the 30 second stretch back down Bucher Drive to Washington Heights. As she turned the corner she collided with a lady and dropped her grilled ham and cheese sandwhich to-go box.
"Oh, sorry Elizabeth! My bad. How are you?" Mandi said as she knelt down to pick up her box.
"Oh... um... no worries." Elizabeth responded abnormally as continued walking quickly, looking around as if she was being chased.
'Hm... that was odd,' Mandi thought as she continued up to her appartment.
She opened the door to room 704. Nothing new. Her dad was lounged out on the recliner, a spilt beer on the floor, TV flickering. As she walked by she grabbed the remote from the side of the recliner to turn off the TV, and as she did so, notice three yellow feathers hanging on his black shirt. Mandi tucked herself in for the night, hoping to return to sweet dreams of her and her mother.
Henry DuPont woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. He hated headaches. As he stumbled out of bed towards the bathroom, he thought back to the night before: had he had too much to drink? No, he'd left the bar before he'd finished his first cosmo. It'd been that country boy's fault. Leroy Pickler didn't belong up here, Henry thought. Who the hell listens to country music in the middle of Maryland? Not him, you'd be sure.
Henry hadn't stayed out late last night. After he left The Bar, he headed to Diner Royale before sitting himself on the park bench next to the synagogue and surveying the sights. Becoming Dorothy thrilled him. He loved the makeup, the clothes, the hair, the shoes, the act. And best of all, no one knew that he wasn't legit. No one knew that Henry was also Dorothy – who could ever guess? They were polar opposites of each other; despite the obvious differences, Dorothy was an extrovert. She enjoyed going out, drinking, socializing, shopping. Henry, on the other hand, would never carry on a long conversation. He went out as himself only a few times a week, including his weekly Monday night trip to Ming Ming's for a solo dinner. The rest of the time he left Washington Heights apartments, he was Dorothy. And he never tried to pick up any other guys – he wasn't like that. He just dressed up for the thrill of it.
His head throbbing, Henry opened the medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of Ibuprofen. He popped two of them, swallowed, turned on the sink, filled his cupped hands with water, and drank from them. He made his way back into his bedroom, wondering what had given him such a monumental headache.
Then he saw the rain. It was pouring down, dripping from the ledge above his window, smacking against the glass. He walked over to the window and looked down over the town. On days like this, Washington Heights looked gloomier than ever. He saw a couple umbrellas here and there, making their way down either Baker or Bucher street. The umbrellas were all black except for one – a bright pink one that stood out fascinatingly among the bleakness of the town. Henry watched the pink umbrella intently – what a fantastic color! He'd have to get a new dress like that, he decided. Some ways up the street, the pink umbrella stopped in front of Diner Royale, and a figure dressed in a frilly pink and white showgirl-like dress emerged from underneath before stepping into the diner. Henry couldn't see much of the lady, but he knew that Dorothy would just have to meet her – and, of course, find out where she'd purchased that fabulous ensemble. It was time for a new wardrobe.
Delilah's five fat fingers clutched the edge of the immaculate bathroom sink. With the door open, she could hear the rain pelting the window as if it wanted to shatter the glass and take the place of the tears that would not fall, that had not fallen. Her head hung helplessly, hopelessly towards her chest. Her long brown hair barely grazed the snowy porcelain as she tried to avoid choking on the unforgiving smell of Clorox. Her knees were shaking.
It had been so long.
The porch swing creaked, harmonizing with the cicadas hidden in the small garden. His garden. His lips brushed her ear as He sang softly, His hands gently plucking the guitar. His guitar. Her dress shivered in the nighttime breeze. The stars danced.
His hands stopped. The three words. His words. Then no pen. No paper. The three words. Her words. From her lips. They met midair.
The stars exploded.
She ran her fingers through His hair. The kitchen scissors steadied despite her shaking hands. Her tears mingled with the homeless locks as they fell into the dark garden. His garden. She cut His hair.
The next morning she was gone.
Delilah raised her head and found her dry eyes staring back at her. Dry since then. Two years dry.
I am free.
Free from what?
I am free.
He loved you.
I am free.
Who do you have now? The ex-Vegas performer? That creepy girl with the stand? The crack whores and gangsters and hobos and con artists? The murderers and thieves and motherless children?
I am free.
The rain continued to pelt the dark windows. The florescent light above the mirror flickered. The rest of the apartment was dark.
Delilah walked carefully to the shower. She pushed the red shower curtain aside, stepped in and out of the bathtub five times, and then turned the water on. The cold water slid down her spine like winter rain. She lathered her long, brown hair five times. Her fat fingers wrinkled like linen. She got out.
Forgetting her nightly routine, Delilah went shivering in the dark to her small bedroom. Hair dripping like a faucet, she slipped into crisp pajamas and sank into the expensive mattress. She fluffed her pillow five times before dampening it with her sopping head.
She lay awake with her dry eyes open. Her mind wandered to Sunday school in Annapolis.
He had been there.
God grant me the seren–
Enough.
"Ya gettin ready for ya big night there Leroy?" Cullen asked as he walked in on Leroy who'd been tuning his guitar for what seemed like an hour and a half. "Justa let ya know, don't think they'll notice much if yer strings aren't tuned to a T. Ya are playin for a buncha drunks aint ya?" They both laughed.
"You got a point...but hey. May as well practice fer my big concerts. Ya know like when catch my break and stuff... go on tour an all that. Can't be outa tune then!" Leroy continued to tune and practice his guitar until nine when it was time for him to head down to the bar. Along the way he was sure to tell everyone he saw -on the sidewalk, in the elevator- about his "concert" that night. He was sure there'd be a crowd anyway but more folks couldn't hurt! Besides it was already drizzling outside and was only supposed to get worse. Surely folks would need something to do to keep dry.
He walked in and introduced himself to the manager and anyone else he happened to see. The manager pointed him to the stage he was going to be playing on- or rather the old platform with a bar stool and a microphone. Within minutes Leroy had his guitar out strumming a few notes as he talked to the measley two people trying to watch the game at a table and the three seemingly depressed people equally spaced two stools apart at the bar. "How is everybody tonight?" He unnecessarily yelled into the microphone. "My first song isa little something I wrote 'bout my hometown Paintlick. That is the fabulous Paintlick, Kentucky. Home of the best BBQ east otha Mississippi! Yall really gotta try it out if your ever passin through. Well yall. Here it is hope ya like it." He stopped strumming for a second to take off his cowboy hat and place it in front of him upside down for tips. Thats what he'd seen folks do before.
He strummed a couple notes and began to belt out his first of many twangy country songs for the night. The people in the bar couldn't hide the dumbfounded looks on their faces. "Who the hell is this guy? And what is he doing here?" One man leaned to ask his fellow drunk at the bar. Leroy wasn't singing to much of anybody but it didn't stop him from singing his best and loudest. The people went from being in shock, to trying to tune him out, to obviously annoyed. Leroy kept on singing. Half the time his eyes were either squinted or closed because he was so into it...he didn't even notice their reactions. People who came in were more than confused. Poor guy, they thought.
"I'll see ya all tomorrow! Enjoy yer night ya hear. Don't drink too many more fellas!" He said as he pointed to the guys at the bar as he walked out of the smoky bar into the drizzling rain. He counted his change he got in tips and realized it was just enough for a bag of pork rinds. He walked in, passed the produce to the chip stand next to the register. It was obvious nobody else cared much for pork rinds judging by the dust on the package. He stood behind two women waiting to check out. One was buying pears and the other apples. He noticed that her fingers weren't much less plump than the apples she was buying when he saw them as she handed the man a five dollar bill. Looked like he had a lot of fives in her wallet when she dropped them on the floor. He reached to pick them up as some woman who looked like she fell into her daughters dress up trunk got to them first.
"Well ya beat me to it miss, I coulda got that! My name's Leroy... Pickler that is. Leroy Pickler's the name." The two women awkwardly said "I'm Lola" and "I'm Delilah" and turned back around. "Ya know...I had a girlfriend back in Paintlick named Delilah." Neither of them turned around and continued to ignore Leroy. They thought he must be crazy or something. Why was he talking so much?
They left. Leroy paid in change and headed back to his apartment, ready to lay back, get out of his wet boots, pop open a beer, and eat his pork rinds.
Lulu and Sinclair walked out the front door and headed toward their usual corner in front of the park. The air was wet and the clouds hung heavily like wet rags. Cold and gloomy described the feel of the day. The people walking by hung their heads shielding them from the cold blasts of air coming from the incoming storm. Sinclair had curled up in a pile of dry leaves in order to keep warm for his midmorning nap. The red carnations were not selling. Business needed to pick up; there needed to be some sort of income for Lulu soon. She watched as Lola Fontaine quickly walked down the street toward the bar. She was scurrying toward the entrance in high heeled shoes and made it into the building just in time. The sky was getting increasingly darker and the clouds seemed to hang right above her head; she decided to close up for the day. As Lulu was putting her things together to head back to Washington Heights, the sky broke open. Heavy drops fell to the ground splattering as they hit the pavement and she desperately ran across the street with Sinclair by her side. Ming Ming's was the closest entrance so she ran in with Sinclair. A woman came running up from the back of the restaurant moving her mouth in big exaggerated motions. She kept pointing to Sinclair and by reading the woman lips Lulu decided that she and Sinclair should get the hell out. Dogs were not allowed. The two stepped out of the door and the woman closed it behind them. She was shaking her finger as she closed the door. She walked back to the back of the restaurant throwing up her hands, still enraged. The problem was that it was still raining cats and dogs outside. Lulu and Sinclair would have to make a run for the apartment. As they reached the entrance to Washington Heights, Lulu noticed the mysterious man that she had seen last week lurking around the park. He had had a heated private conversation with someone but Lulu had been unable to make out what was being said. The two men were too secretive and had covered their faces to well for Lulu to make out the wording. The only reason she recognized this man was from his unusual style, not many men or people have tangerine sweat pants. The man seemed to be waiting for someone in the lobby but Lulu was too cold and wet to stick around to see who was meeting him. She and Sinclair headed toward the elevator. She pressed to button and waited for the doors to open. It was time for some dry clothes.
It didn’t always use to be like this. There was a time when Molina lived a normal; some would even call a privileged life. Every night as she slid on her boots before leaving for work you could see the grace in her motion. What a waste, someone had spent money on her ballet class and driven her to piano recitals. Such a waste. A year seems like forever when spent in this type of place. It didn’t used to always be like this. She didn’t have to be a stripper at some sorry excuse for a club; she could have been anything she wanted to. Oh well what’s done is done.
Shit! It is too god damn cold in here. I know it is not raining, I just know it aint. Not today, not this one day I get to step the hell outta’ this sorry town. No not today. It isn’t raining on me today. I’m gonna’ need to find some way to get a car.
Damn it I’m bout to be late again. Where is my jacket? I can’t ever find where that damn thing is at. Shit, well he’s just gonna’ have to deal with me being latte. I’m not the one who wanna’ meet all that far away to keep people from seeing us. I don’t have no problem bein’ seen.
Why is the damn elevator taking so long? Finally. Well damn and who is she? She looks new, still happy and cheerful. I guess this hell hole hasn’t broken her down yet. I really aint in no mood to see some happy ass looking little girl. I know if I get on she is goin’ to try and talk to me and I ain’t got shit to say. I guess I ma have to be taking the stairs. Already late, might as wel avoid what I don’t wanna’ deal with.
My hair is going to get messed up.
For khaki shorts? The prices these days...
Alexander came home from work on Saturday at around three... feeling victorious as usual. He was just "so tired" or "utterly exhausted" as he would usually say. He busted in through the front door like he usually does... kicked off his shoes and jumped into a lounging position on the couch painted with 60s style flowers.
"Can I have some cookies and some milk please?" he asked (demanded).
"Well sure, they're in the kitchen Alexander..." I replied, halfway kidding.
"Grandmaaaaaaaa! I'm too tired! I had to wake up at 6:30 this morning and work for like.. eight hours. Can you please just get it for me!?" he said, desperately.
"Alright alright Alexander... you just like staying here because I give you everything you want... I'm basically you're slave!" I said.
"That's not true Grandma... I love you," he said... probably with a devilish smirk.
He ate the cookies... and some chips.. and some Reese's... and a bagel... and probably a lot of other stuff that I'll have to go buy more of soon...
He's eating me out of house and home. He's taking at least forty dollars or so every week... My body, my mind, my wallet can't afford this lifestyle.
He left the house around six, after he was all ready to go out on the town... in my car..except while he was leaving he blatantly was carrying a bottle of alcohol. He walked past me with it in his hand as if he thought I was dumb enough to not even know what it was... of course my passive self didn't say anything as he put it into the trunk of the car and kissed me on the cheek, saying goodbye. I told him to be home before 12 but I knew that I wouldn't be seeing him until at least 2 in the morning.
I woke up the next morning and made Alexander French toast. He always told me how bad he wanted in Sunday morning because it was the only day he got to sleep in and relax. He strolled into the kitchen around 11 a.m., with the first words out of his mouth being "Did you make French toast for me Grandma?" I didn't do anything besides sigh and put the two pieces of French toast on the table.
He then said, with a mouthful of food, "Can we go to the mall today? I need some khaki shorts." I obliged of course... how could I deny his wishes ever? I just couldn't for some reason.
He pranced around the store... taking far too long for my liking to pick out some shorts. I saw a girl named Lola skipping around the store too... without a care in the world. She was carrying some pears and offered me one but I don't really care for pears. I remember when I was Lola's age... without a care in the world besides walking around and teasing young men with my beauty. Now, my face was wrinkled and my skin didn't have its softness it once had in a previous life.
Alexander walked up to me and unloaded about 4 or 5 different garments into my arms, which were already carrying an umbrella, an overcoat, and a purse.
"I thought you were just getting khaki shorts?" I asked, knowing beforehand that he would surely get more than that.
"Grandma... I have to get at least two outfits for the Spring time... don't you want me to look nice and impress on the little Jewish girls?" he said, knowing I couldn't say no.
"Alright Alexander alright alright. Get your clothes, but this isn't happening every weekend," I said.
We went up to the cashier and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the total.
"250 dollars!?" I gasped.
"Come on Grandma, that's not too bad... clothes are getting more expensive now," he said, snatching my credit card out of my hand, handing it to the lady and then forging my signature on the receipt.
To make matters worse, it was raining pretty hard when we left the store and my hair was ruined... Alexander said he needed the umbrella because he was wearing new sandals (that I had bought him the week before). I can't drive in the rain but he made me because he said he wanted to look at his new clothes on the way home...
someone, put me out of my misery.
FIl woke early. Water dripped down from a crack in his foliage roof. He got up and patched it with some dirt and leaves.The rain would cake the leaves together. People wanted their news. He rifled through his pile of rags and pulled out a patched up raincoat. It was too big. He had 'borrowed' it from the local store, and he was small for his age. His morning routine. He clambered down the branches and jogged to the edge of the town by the highway. Everyday, he found the newspapers. He didn't know who left them there, but he took advatage of it to make some nickels. He had to walk back under the weight of all the words he carried. He put the news down, stuck the sign back on the bus stop, placed the cup by his feet, and waited. It would be a long day. The constant drizzle was no bother to him. He just sat back and watched another sorry day unfold.
The first sign of life was the swindler, picking up his S.S. money. He had a stain on his shirt. Fil swore the man did it on purpose. Alan was high yet though. Maybe this day would turn around for him. No. there he goes to get his supply of syringes. When he was safely back in the building, the crazy woman came out of the store. She looked both ways and hurried back to her appartment building, oblivious to the rain. Fil felt sorry for her. The showgirl came out. She was wearing a smile, as always. Fil could not see why. When the world helped him out, he would smile, maybe say something, but not 'til then.
Another slow day. No one really bought newspapers, especially soggy on-ow, he thought. Someone had just run into him. People never noticed him. He liked it that way. This woman didn't notice either. Her face was blocked by boxes of flowers, stacked in her arms.
He waited. Now dusk, it was still raining. A woman on her phone crossed the street to Oscar's. She looked tense. The man that had been following her since she came to this town went after her. She came out quickly. She had blood on her hand. FIl was worried. The man didn't come out. Resigned, Fil started packing up for the night. Things were getting strange. Stranger than normal. He wanted to get out, but this was the only place he could remain anonymous, but he felt that was about to change. The town was stirring from its stupor. He didn't like it one bit.
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