Apartment #982: Manholes and Countertops
The frozen dinners in my freezer were surrounded by ice and made me cold just looking at them. The cheese was sticky so I had thrown it out. The broccoli had a brown spot and was no good anymore. With no food in the fridge, I was forced to look elsewhere.
"I hope that the diner isn't sticky," I muttered as I hopped the sidewalk outside of the Washington Heights apartment building and moved quickly across the street. My shoes made an odd hollow sound as I stepped onto the manhole, so I stopped and looked down. The cover was black and shining in the dusk, the streetlights bounced off the melted sleet at strange angles. I shivered, thinking about all of the germs and animals and... gross things... that lived under the cover. It terrified me, and yet I couldn't step away. "Rats, sludge, germs, gross, sticky, bugs, roaches, old food, rats..."
A horn honking suddenly made me look up and jump out of the way of an oncoming van that didn't slow at all for me. I hopped out of the street just in time to watch it skid past, black against the streetlamps. I heard a siren in the distance. "Vans and sirens, great place to choose to live, Maria," I chastised myself, yet again. Sigh.
A man jostled past me, glass bottle in his hand. Although it glistened prettily in the dimming light, I thought he probably had had enough since the smell of alcohol drifted off of him already. I raised my eyebrows realizing it was my neighbor, the man who had given me the crisp ten. "Happy hour's over," I said quietly, glancing away. He paused to look at me for a moment; I wasn't sure if he had heard my words.
"I thought you didn't like sidewalks," he smirked, and walked away.
I looked down and nearly jumped out of my skin. "Ah!" I cried, louder than I had intended. I hopped off the sidewalk and back into the street. "I'd rather be here with the threat of vans then on the dirty sidewalk."
I stepped out of the night and into the fluorescent lighting of the diner, jumping the sidewalk on my way inside. I was pleased to see that it looked rather clean. The table nearest me even sparkled contentedly. A girl at the counter was wiping down the table with a white rag. "That looks clean, too," I commented to no one in particular. But the girl heard me and looked up from her work. "What can we do for you tonight?" she asked pleasantly enough, but something in her look made me think of caution and fear.
"Just here to get some dinner," I muttered, looking up and down the counter for something to distract her attention from me. I hated it when people stared at me. Like I was some freak. Like there was something obviously wrong with me. But i had always thought that my oddities were only visible when actually talking to me... maybe I was wrong?
"Sit anywhere you like," the girl said, and went back to cleaning. I sighed quietly.
That was when I saw him. Seated in the last swivel chair at the counter, hunched over a half-empty plate of relatively edible-looking food. He was engrossed in his dinner, eyes down to his plate, feet propped up on the rail of the stool. The waitress seemed to be avoiding him, but he didn't even seem to notice.
I did, though. I noticed him, much more often than he realized, probably. When sitting in my living room at home I was always conscious of the sounds from across the hall, doors opening and closing, footsteps up and down the hall. I awaited his quiet smiles when we passed in the halls. Hearing him say "Good morning, Maria," whenever he hurried past me, off to school, was often the best part of my day. Even if I was in the middle of freaking out or calming down about something or another, his presence always made me pause.
I took a step across the linoleum and towards him. "What are you doing, Maria?" I asked, almost silently. "What are you doing? He doesn't even notice you. He just smiles to be polite. He doesn't notice you." I was still walking slowly towards him. I slid into the seat next to him, and it was only after a moment that he looked up from his plate. That small smile spread across his face in recognition, and my stomach dropped a few inches. "Hey, Maria," he said quietly, "I wouldn't have taken you for the diner type."
I actually grinned in reply before I realized what I had done. I blushed. His smile widened as he looked back down to his food and continued to eat.
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Seemingly complacent, Elizabeth sat in a booth at the diner. Her novel was done. Dead? Her past was dead, that was for sure. Malcolm was probably somewhere in Las Vegas by now.
The faintest whift of decay brushed her nose. She turned to find Kevin brushing a hand through his hair as he and Maria sat down to a booth, both grinning. They were having lunch or dinner or something. An echo of a cheerfully eerie tune passed her ear. Elizabeth looked out the window to see the source being chased by a group of school children. An ice cream truck. It was four o'clock. They were probably having a late lunch.
The front door chimed. Mrs. Flogsbottom entered the diner, smiling. Elizabeth smiled, remenising over Mrs. Flogsbottom's advice. She had waited until the completion of the sixth chapter for her protagonist to be kissed by ... Malcolm. She'd actually waited until chapter 8, but that's a different story.
She wasn't sure of anything anymore. Dialogue had become nothing more than an echo of whispers. Her latest response had been, "Huh?"
"Would you like some more water, Liz?"
It was Mac.
"Please," Elizabeth replied, looking to the glass in embarrasment.
"What's wrong sweety?"
"Who knows,"
"Just let me know when you need a refill.
Elizabeth continued to stare at the water glass, now filled to the brim. "Thanks," she said, as Mac progressed to another table. Moving forward — the one thing Elizbeth needed to do, yet the only thing she couldn't. The afternoon turned to evening and evening into ...
"Liz," a voice echoed in the wind.
The building shook.
"Liz!"
The building shook again.
A sharp pain severed the dream.
"Liz, are you alright?"
It was Mac again. Everyone was gone. The sky was pitch black as raindrops spat against the window.
"What time is it?"
"It's midnight, sweety. We're about to close up shop."
"Right," Elizabeth said, rubbing her temples.
"Are you going to pass out again?"
"No Mac, I'm fine," she lied.
Without another word, she rose from the booth and walked out the door. Ten minutes later Elizabeth entered her apartment with a single letter in her hand. It was the only parcel she'd received that day. No junk mail. No letters from Mom. Just a letter from her editor Jerry Hacker. She'd made the deadline. She didn't know why he would complain. She sat upon her bed as she began to scan the letter.
Dear Elizabeth,
What a work of genius. ... We look forward to publishing your work very soon.
Sincerely,
Jerry Hacker
P.S. - I especially enjoyed the transformation of the protagonist after she confronts Mr. Gainnes with her realization of where her heart truly lies.
As Elizabeth laid the letter on the bed, she looked to the ceiling of her apartment. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. It was true. It was all true. Every word, paragraph and page of the novel was true and her biggest regret. She balled up the letter and threw it across the room, just like had thrown her heart across the country.
Leere Flasche
Holger war im Bäckereizimmer, aber Maria hat nichts arbeiten. The red-stained studs of dough were still on the floor. Hearing the soft song of an ice cream truck through the pitter patter of the rain, Holger added to the city noise symphony the soft brushing of a broom. After sweeping every single bite of dough and bit of paper on the floor out of the door onto the street, Holger went over to the gas station, not bothering to close the door.
With hundreds of empty bottles Holger bought from the homeless war vets, Holger started filling them with lard to make a lamps. Distrusting the Butcher to put quality meat on the table, Holger got his own meat when he went to West Virginia to visit his childhood friend. In his 1951 Red Willy's M-38 Jeep, Holger piled, strapped, and tied any dead road-kill he could salvage every possible place in the red jeep. Using Odin's Sword, Holger would butcher the road-kill slicing through the slabs of meat and lard, making two mounds on the bakery counter.Holger melted the lard in a large cast iron vat he found on the side of the road on one of his trips. He poured the hot oil into the bottles with candles.
Holger knew that the mess he made in the bakery was never going to be cleaned by Maria. Holger often considered firing her because she was just too fucking weird. And she grew progressively weird, too. When he first hired her, he thought she was just neurotic, but now on top of that less-than-desirable trait, her mind also began to be wander when she was working. She burned the bread more and more. Somehow the strength of her wandering mind overpowered her inherent woman's instinct on how to cook - she never had to one to clean.
Perhaps this was to be his life. Maybe he was destined to live a life of solitude, although through no fault of his own. Perhaps he should stay out of any fighting for control of the neighborhood...
...unless the fighting came to his own territory.
George Jefferson stepped into his room. He had just come back from the clinic. He hadn't gone to the hospital this time; they ask too many questions. He had waited a few days after his accident to get treatment so as to not attract attention. He could barely remember what happened that night. He hoped no one else had been hurt during the chase; Ryan Ford wouldn't have any lasting damage, but it was still too much. He had been reckless, and someone innocent had been hurt. He would have to lay off of his Robin Hood - like thieving spree for a while again, but this time he wouldn't have to be completely inactive. He shut the door behind him and made sure that it was completely locked. He pried open the floor boards and revealed the numerous treasures, formerly belonging to unworthy drug dealers. It was time to give something back to the community.
There were a couple thousand dollars under there (Jefferson needed something to replace his lost police salary), but most of it was much more valuable than money. Jefferson had chosen to steal objects whose worth was uncalculable, objects of true beauty and art. These were things that no criminal, common or otherwise, could ever truly appreciate. That was why he had stolen the Miura; it had fit his criteria perfectly. Now he was charged with the task of redistributing these precious objects to those who would appreciate them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how he would accomplish this task. His stomach rumbled. Today was not the day, he decided. Now he just needed food. Jefferson grabbed some of the smaller bills in his stash and replaced the floorboards. Then he left his apartment, went down the elevator, and out on to the street. It was still overcast. I don't know if I remember what the sun looks like, he thought. He walked down the street. An ice cream truck was parked across the street. It was completely silent and still; no kids or music or anything. Jefferson also noticed that it appeared to be the same make and model as the black van he had nearly plowed into only a few days earlier. He would have thought about it more if it wasn't for an odd girl he noticed walking in the street ahead of him. She was walking as though every step filled her with disgust. Probably some sort of neat freak, Jefferson thought. If only he had some sort of golden disinfectant in his stash somewhere, he could give it to her. She would probably appreciate it. he smiled to himself and kept walking.
He arrived at the grocery store and entered. He picked some basic food items to stock his apartment and proceeded to checkout. A middle-aged woman was in front of him was taking an unnecessarily long time buying her food. She was obviously quite smitten with the checkout boy; Jefferson wondered if the boy realized this as well. He wondered which of his treasures he would give to these two people. Probably some sort of exotic rose would be given to the woman; of course, such a gesture could easily be taken the wrong way. Plus, he didn't think he had anything like that.
As Jefferson left the store with his groceries, he felt depressed. He had no idea how he would distribute his loot. He wanted his gifts to match the receiver, but he realized he knew very little about the people in his neighborhood. He had spent most of his stay at Washington Heights patrolling the streets alone at night. His was a lonely pursuit, and now it had caught up with him.
Then, as he rounded the corner, he saw the answer to all of his problems.
He ran back to his apartment. He threw his groceries into the fridge. As he was about to pry open his floorboards, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and there stood Oscar Alcazar. Oscar grabbed Jefferson by his necktie and pulled him close so Jefferson could smell his spicy breath. Jefferson's problems weren't over; they had just begun.
This can't be! It's impossible. No I refuse to believe it! Fey sat frantically staring down at the few papers in her hands. There it was, visible as the sun, but then again here in Washington Heights the sun was never visible. This must be the same. There was no way.
Of course it is. Just read it.
"That voice! Where is it coming from? Why? What is happening? Go Away!"
And yet Fey found herself looking at the pile of papers. Outside Fey heard the faint call of an ice cream truck, as if mocking the childhood Fey knew nothing of, and now wasn't sure she wanted to learn about.
"Stop it! My God! That Music!" Recently Fey had been blacking out more and more, to the extent she realized she couldn't call it spacing out. Things were slipping. Days were fading. People she saw were becoming vague figures in her mind, she knew she'd seen them, but she couldn't remember where. When she'd come to the shop today, the lava lamps were on. Fey never left them on. Finicky had become more distant from her as well. Choosing to stay at the apartment more often then not, and he hadn't had the same familiarity as he used to. On the counter the stack of papers Fey now held had been placed. After reading the first few lines on the top page, Fey had stopped reading.
"The patient shows that there may be far deeper conflicts at work within her. Apart from her outward personality, one which seems to be built entirely upon the joy of seeing others' misery, there is another, more delicate, personality that seems to wish to see only the good in every creature and object on earth. It seems that some childhood incident led to this separation of essentially 'light' and 'dark'. However, whatever the cause, the dominant personality Lillith has been reluctant to share anything about herself, and it appears that the passive personality, who seems to not even have a name, doesn't even know of Lillith's existence, nor her situation."
Fey just sat and stared. What didn't she know? What had happened? Read on, it'll explain enough. The voice had been getting louder and louder, and harder to ignore. Fey didn't want to read on. She wouldn't. No. She slammed the papers on the table and ran out the shop into the street.
.......................................
Fey didn't know how she wound up at the chapel, or when memories started to come back. She sat there with her back against one of the walls of the chapel. Like the world around her it was cold to the touch. She leaned her head back against it, the tears she'd cried had mixed with the dust around her and created streaks of dark against the lightness of her skin. Just a few years ago Fey had left the hospital, but before that.......
"Fey I'm really impressed with the progress we've made. You seem to have really blossomed."
"Thank you Dr. Loomis. I appreciate your kind encouragement." Loomis smiled at Fey, the name she'd picked out seemed so appropriate.
That's right. He helped me pick the name out. Then later.....
"Without her intruding upon your life, I believe that you can live happily." It had been years since Loomis had such a promising patient. "Now, you know that after the session you probably won't remember most of you time here, if any. Anything you associate with her will be erased from your memory." Fey nodded.
"But I'll be free, right? No more of her mind games, she'll be gone. Asleep." A worried look crossed Fey's face. In the past all the various pills out to control this disorder had failed. Lillith always returned. She was just too strong.
"Yes, she should go to sleep. Now remember, there is no guarantee that she will remain gone. But if she will resurface, it is in her personality to resurface sooner rather than later."
Back in the present, Fey laughed.
"It was all part of her plan to get me comfortable and then take everything back. She's free. Nothing to stop her, the check-ups stopped a year and a half ago. The world is hers." Inside her head Fey heard a cold laugh. This was it. There could be no other way. Fey had failed in the past and would fail now, but maybe she could leave some goodness in the world.
Fey shut the door to her apartment and took the basket she carried to the elevator. She rode for a purpose today. On the 9th floor, Fey got off. She reached inside her and allowed her feelings to guide her. Outside apartment 982, she placed the basket full of candles and incense for luck and love.
Fey turned and went back to the elevator, perhaps for HER last ride.
Train of Thought
It was another rainy afternoon. Luckily, Kevin wouldn't be out much. He had only one class today, an afternoon lecture on the endocrine system.
Kevin sat alone in the car of the SMARTA train, staring blankly through the window across the aisle, watching flashes of orange light the color of macaroni and cheese pass by, interrupting the blackness that was the bowels of the city.
Lulled by the rhythmic clacking of wheel on rail, Kevin was lost amid the sea of thoughts swimming through his head. He reflected on the crazed events of the morning.
Especially noteworthy was his lunch with Maria. She had bumped into him as they were both leaving their apartments in search of decent food, a rare commodity among the residents of Washington Heights, it seemed. They had ambled down the wet pavement together, the both of them skipping the sidewalk in Maria's usual, peculiar manner. Then came the fun. The sandwich Kevin had been eating had a serious onion leakage problem. One piece of onion that fell onto the table seemed to flip a very strange switch in Maria, causing her to fall into a silence only to be broken with shouts of despair and affection, followed by her flight from the diner.
Kevin's thoughts also wandered to an attractive young woman he had seen around Washington Heights. She, too, wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. He wondered what she might be doing around Washington Heights so much. Did she live there, too?
Kevin was aroused from his meditations by the squeal of brakes as the train entered a station. Glancing up, Kevin saw the sign reading Johns Hopkins University. Grabbing his bag, he trod onto the platform and up the stairs, returning to the gray world outside.
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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