recycling.
Chloe got up early. It was not an staggered awakening like most, laying in bed for a while before deciding whether to actually wake up or just go back to sleep. She sat upright quickly, pulled back the covers, and got in the shower. She scrubbed at her dull, dry skin, lathering it with thick, rich soap over and over again.
As she walked down Baker Street she thought of the old Gerry Rafferty song, and smiled. She was unobservant of passerbys. She walked without a purpose for hours until her feet hurt and she needed a cigarette. When she got back to her apartment she almost ran into a girl with take out food under her arm. The girl had a bruises on her face which only reminded Chloe of what a dump Washington Heights was.
Chloe apologized, but the girl seemed unconcerned:
"No problem. Taking the elevator?" She said putting her hand on the door.
"Eh, no, the stairs actually. Thanks though." Chloe walked up to her apartment and began to clean her kitchen, pausing periodically to lit her cigarettes in the gas stove.
In her cabinets she found more expensive glassware, this time from her grandmother's wedding gifts. It was a glass shoe that looked like the elves and the shoemaker could have possibly made it. She found a whole box full of them mixed in with her silverware. Hideous she thought. She took the box and placed it outside her room door, far enough that someone could take it without feeling guilty, but close enough so that they would know it belonged to her.
After her sudden spurt of cleaning, Chloe uncorked a bottle of wine and sat silently by the window. The sun was setting, and the sun was blinding. Chloe shut the window and pulled the shades down. She crawled back into bed and laid there for hours in a contented thoughtfulness. She knew she didn't like the way she lived, but she didn't know how to change it, so instead she stared at the fan blades and pulled the covers up over her chin like she was a little kid.
3 comments:
Door of Hope
Mandi Mac was carrying a big sack of to-go orders as she was walking back towards Washington Heights. One box was her BLT for later, and the other was a medium-rare burger for her dad. She was walking with a quick pace towards the building to try to get out of the misty rain, when she accedently bumped into and startled a woman.
"Oh sorry!" Mandi appologized.
"No problem. Taking the elevator?" She said putting her hand on the door.
"Eh, no, the stairs actually. Thanks though." Mandi replied back.
Mandi walked up the seven flights, down the gloomy hall, and into the wrecked room. "Huh," she let out as she opened the door to smashed chips on the ground next to a few beer cans, all in front of the TV on a channel that was fuzzy with white noise. At least he isn't home, she thought to herself. She walked over, turned of the TV, and settled down at the kitchen counter to eat her BLT, one of her all time diner favorites! Mandi crammed down the first half and then put the other half in the refrigerator for dinner. She settled into her room, locked her bedroom door, closed the shades, and snuggled up in the cold, dark room for a long afternoon nap.
"Come with me."
"But, I can't..."
"Mac, please come with me! We would have so much fun, it would be like the old days! I'll take you shopping and we can go out to lunch..."
"Mom you don't under-"
"Honey, please, I'm begging you we both-"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mandi shot straight up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Now what'd I do? She asked herself.
"Why the hell is the livin' room lookin' like such a shit hole? What have you been doin' all afternoon, huh? I give you a place to sleep and there is nothin' in it for me obviously..."
Mandi stayed quite and chose not to respond.
"Plus... plus... my burgers not done right damnit. Is it that hard to do stuff right around here?" He continued to bang on the door and yell at it, as if with every word he said it was getting closer and closer to falling down.
"Damnit! I know you're in there girl! Don't think I'm some stupid fool!"
Mandi used her hands to push herself back against the wall. She sat there bundeled up with her arms around her folded up knees, just listening to what he was saying.
"Open the damn door!" He continued to slur.
How pathetic Mandi thought. It's only 5 and he's wasted.
"Did you hear me? What the hell are you doing?" He jiggled the door handle. Mandi squeezed her eyes tighter with every band on the door, waiting for the door to bust open at any second, and for her fathers sweaty hands to grab a hold of her neck, and for the spit from his screamed curse words to fall on her cheeks.
"Ahhughhh!!" He screamed throwing something into a wall, breaking it.
Five minutes later the front door to the aparment slammed shut, and Mandi could finally breath. She stayed in her ball squeezing herself as tight as possible, rocking back and forth. Only 13 more days she thought to herself. Only 13 more. She was ready to stop being scared to death every time she stepped a foot into the Washington Heights building. Mandi rocked her self to sleep in her dark cold room.
"Come on hun, grab my hand, I promise it will be ok."
"I'm comin' mama, I'm comin'."
The repetitive tune of the ice cream truck continued playing in his head as he walked into Washington Heights. The only things on his mind were the tune playing over and over and the magical image of the lovely lady at the bar. He couldn't figure out how to get either out of his head. As the door shut behind him, he looked a few yards ahead to see a young and beat up girl and another woman come very close to a collision. He watched them go their separate ways- the woman to the stairs and the girl to the elevator. How did the woman not take the time to talk to the poor bruised girl? He felt so sorry for the girl even though he didn't know her one bit. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to make sure she was alright and to see if she needed help. As the elevator door dinged, he started to walk faster to try and catch up to her. He got there as the doors were closing and even tried to stick his arm in the door to stop it. It closed anyway. Maybe he's see her another time. He just hoped she'd be ok.
As he waited for the elevator to come back again, his mind wandered back to this lady from the bar. He wondered what her name was, what her story was, but most of all: what floor she lived on. He imagined coming to her door and her jumping into his arms. He imagined them sitting close on a couch- him with his guitar in hand of course. He'd sing her a song or two and then he'd write her a song. He knew he could make a swell song about her. They'd be perfect together. She could come on tour with him- come to see him sing and know all the words to all his songs. He'd never felt this way before. He quietly said to himself, "She's the one!" As he snapped out of his day dream, still smiling to himself, he realized he'd missed the elevator again. The little button wasn't lit up anymore. He pressed it again and waited, still grinning. The ice cream truck began to sing it's tune outside and Leroy ran out- holding his hat to his head- to get himself a snow cone.
Posted by cheesecakechick at 12:05 AM 0 comments
Delilah lay in the garden. She felt the soil dirtying her wind-whispered white dress as she watched the stars exploding in the black sky. She reached her five fat fingers out beside her, eager for the feel of fresh earth on her palm. Instead she felt hair. Piles and piles and piles of hair. And something alive. Somethings. Somethings tickling up her forearm, between her toes, gliding soundlessly across her scalp. She looked down to find her body engulfed in tiny caterpillars, their millions of feet trespassing upon her freckled skin. She tried to scream but couldn't. She tried to move but couldn't. She could only lie beneath the vast sky, feeling the caterpillars overtake her ribcage, her chest, her throat –
One by one they began to slither into her helpless, gaping mouth. Her breaths quickened and then died away as hundreds of caterpillars inched down her dry esophagus. Delilah felt them congregate around her vocal chords, spinning miles of cold, lifeless silk string, wrapping it again and again and again and again. A soundless sarcophagus.
Delilah awoke coughing and sputtering. She stumbled to the bathroom almost carelessly as she tried to breathe normally. She leaned her head into the immaculate sink and shut her eyes to avoid watching her saliva splay itself across the porcelain. Her hacking finally subsided as her knees gave way and she collapsed to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and lay still. Her eyes fluttered sleepily as she found surprising comfort in the sound, her own sound, as it ricocheted off the tile and held her in an invisible cocoon.
Her head banged the tile as Delilah violently started from the floor. No telling how many cracks she had just so haphazardly splayed herself across. As she scanned her body for tell-tale imprints, her eyes fell upon her hands.
Black with dirt.
Horrified, she jumped in the shower and let the icy water pierce its way through her pajamas. She took the bottle of sanitizing soap and squeezed five large globs into her hand. She rubbed until her fat fingers were raw. But they were still black.
Out, out.
She took her nails to the opposite palms until she nearly broke the skin. The water had exhausted to a light drizzle to match the atmosphere right outside her window. But her palms remained tainted with earth.
It's not...real. It's not real.
I need to get out.
Delilah, embarrassed in her own skin, got out of the shower, her clothes dripping icy pellets onto the unforgiving tile. She grabbed the closest towel and began drying herself. She tricked herself into believing that she didn't check the towel for signs of dirt.
But she did.
Delilah grabbed her elegant coat and, today, her red leather gloves. As she walked out of her apartment, she glanced back at the unopened letter on her kitchen counter. Tempted to just hold it once more, she resisted.
One more day.
Like a new mother reluctant to leave her child, Delilah turned her back on the envelope and stepped out into the hall.
The lobby was bustling for early afternoon. It was Saturday after all. Delilah stayed focused on the cracks in the hideous tile beneath her feet, so much so that she plowed into a woman from the ninth floor. She was about Delilah's age, and when Delilah looked up apologetically, she, for once, got the feeling that the woman understood. Understood why she was not looking before, understood why she would not explain herself now. For Delilah, such an encounter was rare and comforting.
The weather reminded Delilah of her uncomfortable situation. The drizzle had become so commonplace that the children continued playing basketball at the park as though it was sunny and 75. Delilah walked around the court, admiring the long, slender, black fingers of the four players as they bounded up and down the asphalt. She longed for one more player to join the game.
As she strolled aimlessly, Delilah begged the neighborhood surrounding her building to provide her with some distraction. Something was changing. She tired of counting the number of cracks careless pedestrians tread upon. She tired of counting pigeons in intervals of fives. Delilah could no longer find peace and contentment within the confines of her own mind.
She began to cough.
When even her well made coat could not deter the rain enough to make it remotely bearable, Delilah began her short trek back home. She kept her eyes on the ground until she neared the building. An unfamiliar sound drifted stealthily towards her. She raised her head and tilted her ear to the wind, trying to identify the soft tinkling. Something was taking her back to Annapolis. Summer in suburbia. Barefoot children running down the road, dodging sprinklers, wrinkled bills in their hands.
It can't be.
Delilah began to think she was imagining things again when a decrepit ice cream truck rounded the corner. The corners of her mouth had just begun to twitch slightly when two strong hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her backwards. Struck motionless from fear and outrage, she nearly choked on both as the half full wine glass shattered right in front of her. She hopped gingerly backwards to avoid to blood red liquid slithering along the pavement. Delilah looked up just in time to see a slender white hand drop a cigarette butt and slide nonchalantly back through the window. The butt sizzled and coughed in the pool of wine and began to deteriorate. Grateful to her savior, Delilah turned back to thank him as best she could, but the tall black man was already a good twenty paces in front of her.
Delilah entered her building as the ice cream bells faded out of earshot, and she thought of the beautiful future that lay right below an envelope flap – a future without falling goblets or the mournful song of a forgotten ice cream truck.
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