selling words
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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Elizabeth smiled as she turned over in the sheets beneath the warm rays of sunlight streaming in through the window. She could smell a hint of pancake batter as the fragrance floated down the hall. He must already be awake. Stripping her legs of the white down comforter, she rose and slipped her lightly tanned feet into a pair of flip flops. Suddenly two beautifully strong arms wrapped around her as the ever so familiar delicate nose tickled her ear. She smiled.
'Good morning,' he grinned. 'Did you sleep well?'
'What time is it?'
'Five minutes until breakfast, and a quarter 'till a stroll on the beach.'
'Excellent,' she whispered. She turned to him.
His hazel eyes were mesmerising.
Her hand tingled as it ran through his short brown hair and rested on his shoulder. Their heads turned ever so slightly. Noses brushing, their lips inched closer and closer and closer . . .
Elizabeth sat up straight from her bed as a cloud of thunder shook the windows. She was sweating.
'It was just a dream,' she thought. 'Nothing more than a memory.' She paused.
'Like the mail my newly discovered neighbor so kindly incarcerated for me. No worries.'
Smiling, she allowed her feet to lead her to the small dining table with patience in each carefully placed step. The walls seemed to be falling away in her mind. Beside the laptop, a small leather-bound notebook lay open, with the name George Bernard Shaw scribed at the bottom of the page, and above "The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time."
And so she opened a new document and began to type.
Kurt Tucholsky once said, "Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire." As I sit before my evolutionary pen and paper, it is clear that my current state is a conjunction of completing deeds of necessity and returning to myself. Returning to the individual I used to be before I met the infamous Malcolm Gainnes. From the moment I met him I felt a looming presence surround me, like the sensation of a stranger looking over one's shoulder. It isn't necessary to look. The presence is known. This consciousness suddenly disappeared after I remembered my roots and faced him. At first it surprised me — the idea that a weight had been lifted from my mind. But then the thought is provoked - what caused this weight to exist in the first place? I will tell you now it is nothing more or less than having the deepest desire for what you wished in your heart to be true, knowing all along that it was utterly and completely fallacious.
Three hours later Elizabeth grabbed her coat and headed out the door. She needed something to get the crick out of her neck and relieve her pounding headache. The story was finally there. She had finally grasped the right entrance. Though it seemed to present a new and alarming problem - her fingers weren't able to endure the speed at which the story flowed through her mind. They were throbbing.
The sun hadn't risen when she reached the side walk, and she didn't care. She found she preferred the total darkness and the cool gusty wind and gloomy sky which accompanied it. That is, unless it includes the presence of a questionable figure in the shadows. She stopped and turned towards the corner. A man wearing a trench coat and hat carried a briefcase. He looked like he was on the run. But what was he running from? Or to ....
Elizabeth looked to the ground. It was there again. Maybe it wasn't Malcolm who'd caused it that night, maybe it was ....
"Do I know you?" she asked.
"Did you take care of him?" he asked.
Elizabeth paused. 'Him?' What was she thinking? There has only been one 'him' in her life. "Knocked him senseless was all."
"Then it's done." And he disappeared.
Elizabeth turned away from the corner. 'I really need some coffee,' she thought.
The rain felt good against Mrs. Flogsbottom skin. Since she had stepped out onto the street ready for an adventure it had lightened considerably. She knew she was taking a risk- walking about outside with her wet shirt sticking to her round curves, but she had to get out. The wind wiped viciously against her dress and pulled the fabric tighter around her body. Thank goodness most people were still inside, she didn't feel like keeping off hordes of wanna be lovers; she longed for one. But he was probably cleaning some vegetables or restocking cans... But her love was stronger than that, it could wait.
As she continued her walk, she noticed Fil, the newspaper boy who lived in the tree. His glasses clouded the view to his eyes, but he was blind, or so she thought. How romantic would it be, to be blind and touch the person you love and just know you were meant to be. Mrs. Flogsbottom would have been jealous if she hadn't already found her true love... maybe she was still a little jealous, but she wouldn't take it out on him, he was short.
"Hello Fil, how are you today? You know it is raining dear? Soggy wet wet?" Mrs. Flogsbottom said, pointing at the clouds. She laughed at herself- pointing for a blind person, but she wasn't about to stop. Fil looked at her but did not say anything. "Alright, a hug would be lovely, here we go!" Mrs. Flogsbottom said, thinking he needed some Flogsbottom love. Fil flinched slightly, though stealthyly took a few dollars from Mrs. Flogsbottom's purse. He had done it before and she never noticed. Money was nothing in the realm of love, and after she won the romantic lottery 5 years before, money didn't matter to her. He knew better than to take her cat hair made coin purse, made from the hair of Fluffies, her first cat. She would notice something like that missing, and it was too creepy anyway. "Yes dear, you keep selling those papers, that's a very romantic venture you know- standing on the street selling the fruit of your loins- methaphorically speaking of course!" Mrs. Flogsbottom said, blushing at her dirty joke. "Yes, good bye dear! I must be off, you know I'm trying to focus on other things than Achilles. But he is such a wonderful man..." Mrs. Flogsbottom waved to Fil as she continued her way.
"The Wrath," Mrs. Flogsbottom said, looking at the mysterious sign above the door. "How intriging!" She walked inside. "very funky," she said more to herself.
"Hello," Fey said, looking suprised to Mrs. Flogsbottom.
"Hello dear and how are you? You know even though we live in the same building I don't think I have ever been to your shop, but it is such a lovely little shop. Yes, very vibe ish don't you think? I suppose you're busy doing things here all day, dear, I know what that is like. Or I did, I don't work anymore, but love is like a job isn't it? You have to work at it and make your love stronger and better every day- yes, love is a full time job, wouldn't you agree? You look like you love love."
"I uh, didn't realize you were married" Fey began, but Mrs. Flogsbottom quickly cut in.
"My dear? No, not yet, no I am in love with my true love none the less, but I have not told him yet. I know he feels the same way, but I cannot let him know that I love him until chapter 7, and it is only chapter 4- GOODNESS ME! CHAPTER 4!!!!" Mrs. Flogsbottom yelled, her hand flying to her head. Fey ducked down, startled by Mrs. Flogsbottom's sudden screech. "I must go to him, you know what happens in chapter 5, don't you dear?"
Fey shook her head.
"That is when we get in a huge argument and it seems as though our love is doomed, but it is not because our love is the truest of true and nothing can tear us apart. Well I must hurry and get ready, I must look sultry but angry too! You should really read some dear, Connie Mason is food for the soul," With that, Mrs. Flogsbottom said, racing from the store as fast as she could, though it quickly turned to a trout then her normal speed. The wind would not stop pushing Mrs. Flogsbottom- fate was pushing her onward to love! Oh, the excitement, chapter seven was almost in her grasp! Mrs. Flogsbottom squealed in delight, as she entered the crumbling doors of Washington Heights
Brone Barnheart Apt. 223
It was dark. I lit up my watch, 6:20 A.M. Wait, that can't be right…oh I must have slept all day yesterday, sweet. I got up and took a shower, the first one in a long time. I grabbed my stuff and headed out. As I passed the ominous steel door of 226 I heard the light tapping of a keyboard, working as always. It’s truly scary the things he comes up with when he’s bored. I took the stairs one at a time, letting my fingertips slowly glide over the cool black handrail, until I touched something sticky. I quickly wiped my hand on my pants in disgust. Just then, some college kid flew past me taking the steps 3 at a time with an eggo waffle hanging from his mouth. I grinned, “Never again.” My feet lead me to the graveyard. Upon entering I froze. I had never seen it up close but this was the exact graveyard from my dreams. I was standing exactly where I had always been standing. “That means she would be,” I looked for her…no one. I breathed a sigh of relief. I sat on the lawn and spaced out. I felt a cold wind cut across my face but I ignored it. I yawned, “man, I slept to much, it’s time for a nap.” And with that I laid back and passed out.
----------------------------------
I was to soon awoken by my growling stomach. I grimaced and got back up. I looked around and saw a bakery. “That’s convenient,” I said to no one in particular. Upon entering I was greeted by a smile. The woman behind the counter had very, very clean dark hair. “Interesting,” I though. I walked up to the counter, put my hand down, and then raised it again in thought. She stared at the counter. I looked down. There was a smudge where my palm had been. I looked back up. She twitched. I pulled my long sleeve down and tried to wipe it away, but that only made it bigger. She twitched more. I got nervous. Finally, she produced a bottle of hand sanitizer and a napkin, the smudge was gone in milliseconds. “No worries,” she sighed. I put my hands in my pockets. There was something off about her, I liked it. “Got any baguettes?”
“no,” she replied not turning around to look.
“Muffins?”
“no.”
“Vienna bread?”
“nope”
“…what do you suggest?” I finally asked.
“Bagels,” she said instantly.
“Ok, I'll take two.”
She grabbed the two closest and placed them neatly in a bag. I looked in my wallet. There was a crumpled 5 and a crisp ten, so I gave her the ten. She handed me my change and I let the coins fall into the tip jar.
“See you around,” I said turning to leave.
I left the quant little bakery and went past a warehouse. Then I froze, mid bite. Way across the way there were two eyes, in a tree, watching me. “Creepy,” I thought and wandered on.
The Paper
The weather remained cloudy leaving Lulu feeling quite gloomy. The constant gray sky did not help her feelings of utter despair and failure to earn some sort of living. Flower sales had not picked up in the last couple of days and Lulu would have to look for some other means of income. It was time to pull out the classifieds and search. Lulu sat down at the table with her cup of coffee and pulled out the paper. Sinclair as usual was by her side and she slowly patted his head as she read the descriptions of different jobs in the city. So far nothing sounded all that promising. Most of the jobs required higher education or did not pay well enough. Lulu came across a job as a checkout clerk at the local grocery. It could be promising and at least it would be some sort of constant pay but Sinclair would have to wait at home for her to come home everyday. Lulu would hate to leave her best friend and only friend at home all day. They are so close and she did not know if she could part with him for such a long time. She did not know if he could part with her. They had been together every second of the day since she adopted him six years ago. They were never apart and lived off each other's company. Still Lulu needed the money desperately so she decided to check out the job. She would drop by an application later that day, after she had finished selling flowers by the park. Lulu folded the paper and put her empty mug in the sink. She then grabbed the flowers for today and called to Sinclair. As she was heading out the door, she remembered the boy that she had seen in the park the day before. He seemed to be homeless and all alone. Even though money was tight, Lulu could spare a loaf of bread for the boy. She walked back to the pantry and pulled out the loaf then headed toward the door to start th gloomy day. Nothing seemed to be looking up for Lulu.
Leroy woke up on the sofa. The T.V. was on and half his pork rinds were on his chest with the bag- the others on the floor. He blindly reached for the remote on the table and knocked over his empty beer cans from the night before. Cullen came in after hearing all the racket from the cans. "Well, 'mornin sleepin beauty! Couldn't even make it to the bed last night could ya... don't blame ya much. That match sure wasa good one. I was watchin it myself!" Cullen said of the WWF wresling match that was on the night before.
"Nah, Cullen. It was just the concert. Wore me out. Man, sure was a thrill though. I think the crowd liked me just fine! They just, ya know need some more of Leroy before they can really get wild. They dont know all the words yet. They will. They will." Leroy said. "You know what, Ima go look for a paper and eat me some REAL breakfast at the diner. Wanna come Cul?"
"Nah, I've got things to do. You go right on. But hey... bring me back some grits and a biscuit, hear?"
Leroy stood up from the couch and brushed off his pork rinds. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his hand over his face before he put on his hat. He walked out the door and headed down the empty elevator out the front door of Washington Heights. He looked to the left and to the right down the street in search of a paper machine as he reached in his pocket for a quarter. He was looking for one like they had by the corner store in Paintlick. There wasn't one in sight. He looked ahead and saw a measley guy with a can and a stack of papers accross the street. He walked over to the guy and asked him what they need machines for when they've got great guys like him sellin papers. "An its for a NICKEL, not a quarter!" Leroy exclaimed as he dropped him a nickel into the can. The guy just glared back at Leroy. "What a deal, thank ya sir!" Leroy tipped his hat and walked in the street with his nose in the paper. He was well on his way to a hearty breakfast to get him ready for his show that night. He was ready to just sit back and read his 5 cent paper, either. He couldn't wait to see what was going on in Paintlick. Too bad Paintlick isn't often mentioned in the papers there.
Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
George Jefferson - A Week Off
George Jefferson hurt. A lot. He opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself out of bed. He stared into space for a few seconds, then looked at his right arm. The bandage was so itchy. He hadn't noticed the shard of glass wedged in his arm after he had fallen through the skylight at Oscar's until he got back to his apartment that night. He had rushed straight to the hospital (after changing out of his costume, of course), where the doctors where able to remove the shard. Unfortunately, they also said that, in order to heal completely, Jefferson would have to avoid lifting heavy objects with that arm; heavy objects like his sword.
So Jefferson had decided to take a week off. He had hid his sword and costume underneath some floorboards in his apartment and done nothing for the past few days. This morning he felt terrible. He was bored and tired, and couldn't shake a feeling of uselessness. However, he knew that if he took to the streets to fight crime too soon, he would risk injuring himself permanently. He decided to take a walk to get some fresh air.
He left the building. It was cool and overcast. A strong breeze blew past as soon as he stepped on to the sidewalk. Not the best day for a walk, he thought, but then again it had been this way all week. He walked down to the park. He passed a young woman walking her dog. She smiled awkwardly at him. Jefferson smiled back. There was a paperboy at the end of the street. The boy was probably homeless, thought Jefferson. He walked up to the boy and bought a newspaper. He gave the boy a twenty. "Keep the change." said George. He was feeling generous. "Gee, thanks mister!" said the boy. Jefferson just smiled at him. He walked away and opened the paper. There was a story about the incident at Oscar's last week. Police were investigating Machelli for opening fire in a public place, and Oscar for the illegal gambling. George smiled even more. Taking a walk was definitely a good idea. Then another cold when blew through and chilled Jefferson to the bone.
He heard the paperboy yell "Hey!" Jefferson turned around. An angry, bitter-looking homeless man was running the opposite way down the street. "He took my money!" yelled the paperboy. Jefferson didn't even blink. He dashed down the street and clocked the homeless man in his face - with his left hand, of course. The man fell to his knees, cursing and screaming something about rich people. Jefferson twisted the man's arm around to his back and plucked the bag of money out of his hand. Jefferson couldn't tell what the homeless man was saying - it was all expletives and rage. Just then a slightly pimped Cadillac pulled up. Its back door opened, and Dominic Roberto Machelli stepped out.
"Is there a problem here?" Machelli asked threateningly. Jefferson stood up to his full height; he was slightly taller than Machelli. "This man stole that boy's money."
"You seem familiar. I don't suppose you do this vigilante stuff regularly?" said Machelli, eyeing Jefferson's bandaged arm.
"No, I'm just an honest citizen doing his duty." said Jefferson, sternly. The homeless man had slowly snuck away as the young paperboy ran up.
"Here you go, son," said Jefferson, handing the boy his bag of change. "Hold on to that now."
"Good," said Machelli. "We don't need any more vigilantes in this city. Quite frankly, I think one is too many. It's dangerous work. someone could get hurt." Machelli had emphasized that last bit. He turned and climbed back into his car. Jefferson could feel his hand slowly reaching for the sword he didn't have. He stayed his hand, and just stood there, glaring as Machelli's car drove off. "Uh, thanks mister," the boy said, and he hurried away. Jefferson watched as the boy ran back to his street corner. He thought about the boy and the homeless man. Both were products of their environment, an environment created by the rich and greedy - rich and greedy people like Machelli. Something would have to be done. Machelli couldn't rule this city forever. Maybe it was time George Jefferson became less like Batman and more like Robin Hood.
IV
Naublus felt empowered. His grey sun shone once again. His psyche was illuminated. His tread was sure and strong, and he stepped up into the United States of America.
"Oh, America the Beautiful!" Naublus exclaimed in a whisper. Ming Ming's: the immigrant builds a better life for himself. Washington Heights Apartments: Industry heralds an era of enlightened understanding. Oh, and the cars, the cars! America, speeding on its racetrack of glory.
"I love America," Naublus said, frowning. A gust carried the smell of fermented ginger mixed with gas. Naublus tipped over on his side, giving him a chigger's view of Washington Heights -- it looked majestic, grand, and surreal. Or was this all in Naublus' head. He scratched it find out, eventually ripping his scalp off.
"Naublus, Naublus, Naublus!" Lady Liberty, Naublus' precious ho. "What have you done to yourself? She sucked each jut of her crown like a popsicle, at which 55 crimson demon-fairies fluttered in. Each carried a hair, which they planted in Naublus boily, pimply scalp. As if baptized by Miracle-Gro, Naublus' crown of cell phone-black hair grew.
"There, there, Naublus my dear." Out of the grey, a huge, tornado-looking shape dropped from the sky, covering Lady Liberty. Up into the heavens she was sucked. Naublus breathed easier. Lady Liberty confirmed his love for America. Suddenly a flabbergasted tourist, he went sightseeing.
A grizzly bear of a man sold newspapers on the curb. Entrepreneurship, gotta love it. All-American.
Ahead of him, on the sidewalk, a Red Mustang jammed in a light post. The aftermath of a car crash. The diamonds on the driver especially caught Naublus attention. The high life, Mustangs and diamonds. God bless America.
Naublus could breathe again, the smog scrubbing his lungs of SMARTA air, which is really dust mixed with air.
It had been several days since Henry had seen the pink umbrella and the lady with the fabulous outfit, and he couldn't get his mind off it. He wanted to get Dorothy a new outfit to wear - something as wonderful as the unforgettable flamboyant costume. There was only one problem: the clothing store wasn't open at night, when Dorothy always appeared. It was only open during the day, and Henry would look like a fool trying to buy women's clothes. He'd faced this dilemma a few times before, and he decided to risk it - Dorothy would emerge during the day.
So Henry got ready to go out. First, he picked out the outfit. Then he carefully did his makeup - eyelashes and all - before carefully adjusting the wig on his head. He dressed himself and made sure the accessories matched everything. Since it was daytime, he added a floppy sunhat and a pair of groovy shades to complete the look. When he finished preparing himself, he looked in the mirror. He knew that no one would recognize the relationship between him and Dorothy, who today donned a calf-length autumn orange skirt, a brown blouse and a brown sweater, brown pumps, and a matching orange, brown and green headband.
On her way out the door, Dorothy grabbed an off-white scarf to tie around her neck. As soon as she walked outside, though, she wished she'd worn a coat. She was greeted by a sharp gust of wind that nearly picked her up off of the ground. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the wind stopped, and all was calm. Dorothy turned and headed down the street towards the clothing shop. As she walked brisquely, placing one foot in front of the other, another gust of wind came up behind her and blew her sunhat right off the top of her head. It tumbled down the sidewalk towards the bus stop.
Dorothy took off running after her hat. She ran in a ladylike fashion, keeping her strides short and placing a hand on her chest as she ran. She approached the bus stop, where the hat had come to rest, and saw a man sitting there. He had a stack of newspapers and a little cup next to him. As she bent to pick up her hat, the man said, "Would you like a paper for a nickel?" Normally, Dorothy didn't randomly buy things from people on the street. But something about the man's appearance made her feel sorry for him, and she felt inclined to oblige him. Opening her clutch, she fished out a dime - she had no nickels - and placed it in his cup. "Keep the paper," she said, in a perfectly feminine voice. Then, sunhat in hand, she turned and walked away.
As she approached the clothing store, she couldn't help thinking about the man she'd just encountered. "I should have brought him shopping with me," she thought. "He needed a new coat. The one he had on was just too big!"
Delilah awoke slowly. Sundays demanded a change in pace, even though, without a job or schedule of any kind, Sunday was really no different from any other day. But there was just something.
Delilah sat cross-legged in her bed and looked out the small window. Her bleak world was, as usual, suffocated by blanketed gray clouds. She counted the pigeons as they flew by. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five.
Satisfied, she looked around her small, well-decorated bedroom. Across from her her majestic vanity loomed, a seemingly worthy ruler of its domain. However, on closer inspection, the dresser felt dismembered, maimed. Delilah recalled the hopeless afternoon in January soon after she had arrived in Washington Heights, prying the mirror off with various kitchen utensils and basic tools. The day itself was enough to face first thing in the morning, she'd thought. She'd put the mirror out on the street that night.
The next morning, it was gone.
Delilah's eyes, slowly adjusting to the Sunday, fell upon the heaping pile of dirty laundry by the closet door. The day began to take shape.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Delilah turned her bedside lamp on and off, on and off. The red lampshade cast an awkwardly warm light on the whole room. With most of her clothes in a formidable mound on the floor, Delilah's dresser drawers seemed eerily deserted. With few options, she dressed herself, taking her time. The quiet apartment and quiet streets demanded nothing of her. Especially not on Sunday.
Draped in cottons, polyesters, wool blends, and denims, Delilah left her room, carefully avoiding the cracks in her beautiful floors. In the bathroom she brushed her teeth five times. With so many years of careful hygiene, her smile had the potential to be radiant, but the necessary mechanisms for such an act had long ago grown rusty and immobile.
On her way out the doors of Washington Heights, Delilah made her traditional Sunday stop at the mail room. She'd gotten her week's mail on Sunday since she moved to this building. Delilah's thinking behind the unusual timing of her trip rested in the fact that her timing was indeed unusual, and she was less likely to run into one of her neighbors. She found the small, square, metal cubby labeled 505 and inserted her small, tarnished gold key. She removed the small stack of letters before shutting the tiny door with a metallic plink. Then bag of laundry and collection of envelopes in hand, Delilah stepped onto the streets of her inhospitable neighborhood.
Before her mind became completely focused on her first piece of mail, she spotted the boy at the bus stop, selling papers. This Sunday he stood on the stack so that the pages would not rustle and blow away with the sporadic gusts. She felt so sorry for him. Some days she crossed the road and bought a paper. But not today.
She slowly walked the straight path to the laundromat against the wind. The drawstrings of her dirty laundry bag digging into the crook of her bent arm, Delilah examined the first letter in her stack. It was from the DMV.
Dear Miss Plunk,
We regret to inform you that your request to change the date of birth that appears on your license from January 24 to May 5 has been denied. We at the Department of Motor Vehicles are not at liberty to
Disappointed, Delilah shoved the letter back into the prepaid envelope and moved it to the back of the stack. Next came a post card from her brother. The first in nearly a month. She admired the beautiful turquoise of the Norwegian fjords, the daffodil sunset, the clean air before flipping the card over. Delilah managed a slight smile as she struggled to decode the message hidden in her brother's abysmal penmanship.
After her unexpected lesson in modern hieroglyphics, she eyed the third envelope as she arrived at the laundromat. Something was familiar about the way her name was written. Something comforting. But before she could make out the return address, a violent gust of wind tussled her hair, slammed into her chest like a sack of bricks, and sent the letter flying out of her fat fingers. Dropping her bag of laundry at the door of the laundromat, Delilah chased the letter as it danced across an empty Baker street and made its way for Barton. Still avoiding the cracks in the pavement, Delilah looked like a light-footed child chasing a butterfly.
The graceful envelope finally came to rest. Delilah quickened her pace slightly, worried the wind might pick up again and send the mysterious letter flying once more. Only as she bent her knees to retrieve the mischievous parcel did Delilah notice where she was. The sheer power of the many voices threatened to shatter the beautiful, tall stained glass windows that flanked the side of the otherwise bleak gray chapel. With no better reason than forceful curiosity, Delilah, letter in hand, climbed the wide cement steps to the large wooden doors. Her five plump fingers wrapped themselves around the brass handle and pulled.
Even with the door barely cracked, just enough to see through, the massive chorus accosted Delilah's senses with waves and waves of glorious sound. Their red robes glowed against the black of their skins, the ecstasy of their craft written upon their faces – eyes closed, heads tilted, white teeth glistening like the moon. All of them swaying on the bleachers in unison reminded Delilah of the summer breeze whispering softly to the soft flowers of the garden, His gar–
The door slammed shut as Delilah's attention flew back to the forgotten envelope in her hands. Her mind racing, fat fingers quivering slightly, she eyed the return address.
Oh my God.
I hate the rain...
Dunno how that other fool likes it...It sucks...like havin so many people touchin your body...and you can't stop it... and it makes everything stink...the smell of death and decay just run off of everything...I hate it hate it hate it...
I step outside of my apartment...That stupid kid is still wearing their rain jacket...It's not even raining anymore...I hate that kid...Never met them but they are probably rude and disrespectful...
But I have to say that there is something bothering me, something that is intangible, like the wind that blows through my hands right now, cuttin them, the jagged howls of the low pressure front fillin my mind with images that don't quite work together in my conscious thinking, my eyes dart back and forth trying to register what my mind is registering but I...
Where did this hobo come from? Ain't his name Fil? Some lady's giving food...They shouldn't give him anything...He won't get a job...that just gives him something to beg for..the dude looks like he's been here for eternity...That's some sad stuff...
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