Lola Fontaine Apt. 925

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."

Elizabeth Faraday Apt. 713

A New York Resolution

The phone dropped to the floor. Elizabeth crossed her arms as she began to pace the room. Her options were limited - now more than ever, but the facts remained.
'There's Mal,' she thought, 'the psychotic Private Investigator who stalked me across the country — because he couldn't take no for an answer. And my car—’
She paused.
‘Out of the picture, tainted by a tracking device. … there's no way out,’
She sighed.
‘And no way back.'
Elizabeth reached for her coat and headed out the door. She couldn't sleep. Not now. She needed to face him ... somehow, but she needed back up.
Without a second to loose, she pulled out her cell phone.
“Hello?” Mal answered.
“Meet me at Oscar’s in fifteen.”
“Liz, is that—”
“Order the New York Strip.”
Elizabeth ended the call as she crossed Bucher Drive. She noticed the police station, but notice it was all. Besides they weren’t at the top of the food chain. Mr. Machelli owned this town, which was the exact fact Elizabeth was counting on.

“Elizabeth,” Oscar smiled. “What can I get you tonight? A little filet mignon for the lady?”
“Tonight, I need a New York Strip.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lowered.
She slid him the fifty bucks as he led her to the back.
“Where’s Mr. Machelli?” she asked.
Oscar was kind enough to lead her to him. “Mr. Machelli, this is Elizabeth Farraday. She—”
“Do you need me to take care of someone, Ms. Farraday?” Mr. Machelli asked, continuing to watch the night’s activities. “I’ve seen a stranger hang around your car for too many hours in my parking lot. Malcolm’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,”
“Is that him now?” He asked, noticing the newbie walking into the ring.
Malcolm was the same as he had ever been. He wore a tweed suit and a black collar shirt, a brown fedora in his hand.
“Yep,” she said softly. “That’s him.”
“Do you want him—?”
“No, just far out of town. Leave me a tab for the gas."
He nodded.
Elizabeth tried to leave the ring without causing a scene, but it was no use. As she slipped past Malcolm, he smiled. “Elizabeth,”
“Malcolm,” she said, quickening her pace.
“Elizabeth!” he called, turning.
Silence fell around them, as they were beginning to appear more entertaining than the bids.
‘It’s now or never,’ Elizabeth thought.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” she said, turning to him.
“Back to Cali? Great,” he smiled. “We should have lunch sometime.”
Elizabeth scowled at him.
“What are you going to do, Liz?” he laughed. “Hit me?”
Elizabeth sighed, turning away as if she was going to leave.
“Oh, right.” He continued. “You’re the girl who couldn’t hurt a fly.”
The crowd ooed and hissed as they watched the encounter.
Without a moment’s pause, Elizabeth turned around and punched him square in the jaw.
He dropped like a dummy.
'Luckily you're nothing more than scum,' she thought.
Elizabeth squatted beside him as he blinked into consciousness seconds later.
“Liz?”
“Soggiorno I’inferno via da me.” She said slowly and clearly, before turning to leave.
The crowd parted to let her through.
“Liz?” Malcolm called as he slowly began to rise. “Liz — what did you say?”
“Stay the hell away from her, that’s what!” Mr. Machelli laughed as his associates circled around Malcolm.

The cool night air was refreshing as Elizabeth walked out onto the street. She could sleep. It was resolved. She could write again. Upon entering her apartment, she glanced at her laptop.
“Tomorrow,” she said, making her way to the kitchen sink.
As the hot water ran over her hands, she felt as if she was washing away more than the dirt and blood of the evening. She was clearing away a chapter of her life — a resolution.
‘But everyone knows,’ Elizabeth recalled. ‘It’s our past that comes back to haunt us.’

Victoria Lampshade Apt. 27

Gifts

Grandmother is the sort of woman whom you can crown with a thousand and one metaphors but never quite capture in type. She is as immense, as ancient as the Appalachian mountains wherein she dwells. She has tree-trunks for legs, boulders for breasts and white wisps of cirrus clouds for hair. Her teeth are jagged stones, her face is an autumn-leaf tracery of wrinkles and veins. Her blind eyes are the sun-starved gray of a snail's underbelly, and yet she sees incalculably more than those with technically perfect vision (which is a good thing, on account of her being somewhat hard of hearing).

The wind was howling, the sun rising and the year 1989 when Grandmother felt it -- the strangest sensation, as if something had reached its hand into her, grabbed a clavicle and started tugging.

Vexed, she stopped her knitting to swat at the thin air and mutter, "Busy, busy now. Leave me, you hands, you little imps' hands!" Then she resumed the project that lay across her lap -- something trying very hard to be an afghan but, in truth, more closely resembling an exploded woolen eggplant.

It was no use. The tugging only grew more insistent. So Grandmother tossed aside the blanket-in-progress/defunct aubergine and with a tormented cry of "Imps! Damned little imps!" reared to her full height (which was as impressive as a mountain's, a redwood's, a bear's, etc). She stormed out the cabin door, through brambles, across creeks and up steep slopes (in her stocking feet, no less) before finally her demons relented. She cupped her hand to her ear and heard something -- a weak wailing, a whimper. She dropped to her knees. Sure enough, there it was at her feet -- a mewling infant, black curls just beginning to sprout on its out-sized head.

The blood drained from Grandmother's wrinkled face and her voice dropped to a whisper. "It has begun."

. . .

Victoria ponders the question for a second, tops, and then shakes her head no. "He's not for sale." The man heaves an alcohol-reeking sigh, but Victoria only strokes the vulture's unfeeling head and offers the man a squirrel instead. "Little guy makes an excellent paperweight."

"I'll take him," the man says amiably before shifting to a more conspiratorial tone of voice. "You, uh, know of any good gambling around here?"

She glares at him. "I don't hold with gambling, Mister."

He shrugs. "I'll take that as a no."

She turns back to the vulture as the sinful man leaves with his squirrel. "That was a close one," she hisses. "I've just plucked you from the very fingers of perdition, you know."

She nods at the fat woman who has just now passed by, with grocery bags in her hands and an elegantly cut coat on her back. "Look at her," Victoria adds. "Where did she get a coat like that, I ask you, in a place like this? She's a harlot if ever a harlot I saw. This is a wicked place, and only me between you and it. You'd best remember that, and try doing your job -- next opportunity you get, that is."

Then she smiles, believing her feathered associate sufficiently chastened. "Oh, I could never part with you. You're downright important, you know! Why, I'm not quite sure . . . but Grandmother said it was so."

. . .

"I will give you three things before you go, Victoria," Grandmother said. "And they're all of them downright important."

First was the opossum, and next to it a bottle of whiskey. "Give this one a drink, and he speaks the truth," Grandmother said. "Just don't spoil him with fine liquor. Whiskey will do."

Next came the vulture. "This one will scream when danger is near -- and you'd best take heed of such warnings when they come."

Finally, the box. Grandmother did not explain the box. She said only, "Do not open this. It will open when the time comes."

Michael Seebach Apt. 236

Sweets for Breakfast

Chicka tick tick ticka. The 2nd floor of Washington Heights echoed with a continuous flow of noise from underneath a doorway. It was 4 o'clock in the morning.

Hm...Again? Already? It is a normal human function I suppose, but I waste time and capability every time I wish to indulge in these urges. It's not like there was anything in particular that activated this bodily response, I suppose staring at a glowing monitor in a completely dark room long enough it can happen to anyone. Fine, I have no strict schedule to adhere to, I suppose I can take time to make my body happy.

Blink.

Ah, much better. Blinking seems to be such a trivial activity to partake of really, if one doesn't keep their eyes open as much as possible, what point is there in eyesight at all? Information gathering is the only real use for eyes, how else would I monitor and intake data from 5 different screens at once? But it does begin to strain ones concentration eventually and the mind finds less time to focus. Wait, what did I just type? My concentration has totally been lost due to my little personal indulgence. Great, you type three pages of information and you forget every word because you happen to blink during that period. Let me see...Ah of course. I suppose this information is credible. No understanding should be lost through the transmission of information to a person of average intelligence.

Now what? My legs? Hm. Thinking back, this position does seem to be used for balance and training of leg muscles. A yoga position, or was it just called crouching? I suppose it isn't the way most people sit in their computer chairs. But it is imperitive, my analyzation ability would drop at least 40% if i didn't sit this way. Perhaps I shall stretch for a moment. Oh wait, there is no room to walk around in here...I should have used my resources more wisely, there is no room to store important documents in such a small complex. The alcoholic whom shall remain anonymous for now should have let me arrange for more comfortable quarters. I suppose his persona is one of extreme yearning for simplicity. Speaking of which, he should awaken in a few hours. Much earlier than he expects i'm sure, he really shouldn't have a clock which can be tampered with so easily. If that doesn't wake him, giving clients that mans number should at least annoy him enough to arouse his thirst for a drink. His instructions have been prepared, I think I placed it next to the typewriter. I'll just wait for him to wake up, i'd rather not have other tenants finding payment in the hallway.

What could it be now? Ah. My stomache. I forget to give myself the proper amount of calories now and then. The coffee with 10 sugars had gone cold before I finished it. Usually I have more time to eat, I used to have assitants for typing. Perhaps...no, he wouldn't know how to type. Unless I want a bootprint lodged into a computer, Mr. Barnheart wouldn't be of help...Where is the miniature fridge? These stacks of paper are quite inconvenient. Ah, i'm in the bathroom. Hm...My eyes seem to be lacking rest perhaps, these large black bags under my eyes do not seem to be normal. Are these considered scary? Or perhaps what I heard that one time...What was it...The eyes of a pervert? I suppose they are appropriate for someone with my birthday? Eventually my hair will need to be cut, I cannot observe and analyze with my eyes covered. My physique seems to be lacking something as well...for someone of mid-twenties I am perhaps severely underweight? What nationality am I again? I think a quarter Japanese, a quarter English, a quarter Russian and...maybe a quarter French or Italian? Something like that.

I need to consume nutrition, where in the world is that miniature refridgerator...Ah, that hurt. Not wearing shoes or socks has some disadvantages, but my long blue jeans seem to have padded the stubbing of my foot. Ah, I have located the fridge, excellent. Let me see...Hershey's chocolate, black tea, canned coffee, pudding, jam. What should I eat? Jam seems appropriate for breakfast. Mnm...My wrist strength also seems to be lacking, perhaps the result of typing so frequently. This jar is being very difficult. Alright, Brone gets an extra 3 hour wake-up call---Oh, I have it. The jam is a wonderfully cool temperature for this early in the morning, this apartment complex is quite hot. I should perhaps buy a shorter sleeved shirt. My fingers fit into the jar to the very bottom, good, I can eat as much sugar as I need. Mmmm...Raspberry is a very good flavor, my brain is charging with energy already. According to medical journals and scientific studies, this does not seem to be the best diet for a person. But it is fine, the brain is an organ which consumes more calories than any other, as long as I continue to think in the procedure which I do, my health should be adequate.

"I look at the world through apple eyes, and cut myself a slice of sunshine pie, and dance with the peanut-butter flies..."

Oh wait, that is one my ring tones. I should answer the phone, only clients should have this number, unless the alcoholic miraculously woke up so early. I should never try a "prarie oister" again. I'm just gonna deposit his money from now on, he only uses it for meat and booze. Oh right, the phone.

"This is Deneuve. Is there a situation?"

Leroy Pickler Apt. 808

All Leroy Pickler ever wanted was to be famous. He didn't care about anything else. He never cared much for school, and he dropped out when he was fifteen. His youth was spent playing his guitar to the country songs he wrote during the time he was supposed to be in school. He just knew that one day he'd make it big, even though nobody else except his second cousin Cullen even remotely thought he had a chance. After Cullen moved to Baltimore to get out of Paintlick, Kentucky, it suddenly dawned on Leroy that in order to make it big he'd have to get himself known by folks other than his 3-5 supporters in Paintlick. One morning he decided he was ready to get out of Paintlick for his first time, and knew the only place for him to go was to go live with Cullen in Baltimore. He was sure he wouldn't mind. He had mentioned having an empty couch in his last letter. He heard him talk about some bar, and Leroy knew it'd be a great place to start his gig. Leroy wanted to make a life for himself other than taking over the family farm and he knew if he stayed longer, he'd be sucked in. He hopped on a greyhound in his overalls with his guitar and the little money he had, and headed for Baltimore without a bone of regret in his body. He walked on the bus and put the coins he had in the slot.
"Mornin' sir!" Leroy said as he tipped his cowboy hat to the bus driver. "The name's Leroy. Leroy Pickler. I'm headed to Baltimore to see my cousin and to start up my singin career. You know, you sure are nice to be driving us folks around like this. I sure don't know how in heck I'd be gettin' all the way up there without---"
"Have a seat!" Said the aggrivated bus driver. "We won't be gettin nowhere with you wasting mine and everybody else's time like this."
"Well sorry, sir. You sure are right but there's no need to get yer boxers in a bunch. After all, you are talkin to Leroy Pickler. I'm 'bout to be famous ya know. Oh, and here's where i'ma headin." He handed the driver an old envelope from one of Cullen's letters with the return address of apt. #808 of Washington Heights in Baltimore. He took a seat somewhat confused as to why the driver not to mention everyone was looking at him so funny. He was in for an awakening. He was venturing out of the walls of the pretty and friendly little town of Paintlick. He couldn't have been more ready to get out, though. He was just ready to start on his road to stardom. When the bus stopped hours later in front of Washington Heights, Leroy simply continued to stare out the window patiently waiting for his stop.
"Here ya are Leroy!" The driver chucked. "It's your stop!"
Leroy just laughed. There was no way it was his.
"Get out."
Leroy stepped out onto the dumpy street and stared up at the worn out building. It's not exactly what he pictured. But then again, he'd never seen much of anything but Paintlick so he didn't know what to picture. He wasn't quite a fan of elevators, so he took eight flights up the cruddy stairs to #808, he was ready to say hello to his cousin he hadn't seen in years, but even more ready to hurry and find out where this bar was. He just knew he would be an instant hit. After all, who wouldn't like Leroy Pickler?

Nicole Lee Carmine -1112

Back in Apt. 1112

Legs crossed, dark red pump rocking impatiently in the
air, she sat on the couch and stared at the door
opposite her over her glass of equally red wine. Her
only movement included blinking and the occasional tip
of the glass to her waiting lips. The only sound heard
was the constant drip, drip of the sink.

He was late. She had been courteous enuogh to call
ahead of time, an entire day in fact. He said he'd be
here at 8:00--it was now 8:06. Drip, drip, drip...It's
not like she expected him to be here exactly at 8:00,
he had to travel all the way to the 11th floor, to
room 1112. That took time, she understood. She was so
understanding, she'd give him an extra two minutes to
get here--drip, drip,drip. She put the glass to her
lips--drip--and took another sip; How does one know
they've taken a sip or not? How does one measure a
sip? Does it matter, no one's here--drip, drip--to
dictate how much I have...no one's here to even object
to alcohol in the morning anymore...doesn't matter.
She grinned to her self as she raised the glass to her
lips. She shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of
civility that surrounded this place. Ever since she
got back a week ago, she'd endured the stupidity,
incompetence, and outright retardation that are the
people that inhabit this hell hole. Washington
Heights--drip--how she missed it's grime covered walls
and it's less than adequate heating system. Drip--it
was depressing, it probably violated every health code
possible,--drip--but it sure beat where she'd recently
been--drip. It's not like being there had been hard,
but--drip--she desired, nay, needed her freedom. Yeah,
he was late, but it was better than the blatant
disrespect that she'd suffered--drip, drip--there. She
went by Coley, not Nicole. She hated that name, and
she tirelessly reminded them of that everyday, but
they--drip--refused to get it right, claiming they
knew better than her what she deserved. She turned
her head to the clock hanging--drip--on the wall near
the--drip--window, 8:11--drip. She got up, oblivous of
the glass in her hand, oblivious to the crash it made
as it met the unforgiving hard wood floor, oblivious
to the sharp remains surrounded in a crimson pool. She
began marching to the kitchen to do something about
that annoying drip of the faucet. She stopped short of
the kitchen when she heard the rap at the door.

She sweeped around to look at the door, hand on hip.
Knock, knock, knock. She walked to the door, slower,
purposeful. She stopped at the door, hand on the knob.
She didn't turn the handle, instead she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply...She thought back to why she
had to leave in the first place...Knock, knock--she
was in control. She opened her eyes and turned the
knob.
"You're late."
"Look lady, you're not the only person in the world
that requires my services."
Nicole wrinkled her nose, he didn't sound nearly as
bad as he smelled.
"Are you gonna let me in?"

She thought about it. Might as well, he was here for a
reason despite his obvious lack of repsect for her
time and her patience. She stepped aside without a
word, glaring at him all the time. She glared as he
dragged his feet to the kitchen, as he took out his
tools, as he began to examine the kitchen sink.
"So what's wrong with--what happened?"
This was unexpected, didn't he hear the constant
vexing drips of the damned sink? Yeah, he obviously
came from a worse shit hole than she'd ever been, but
was he really this dense? She hated ignorance. She
turned to where he was looking.
"What the hell's wrong with you? I want you to stop
that damned dripping,"
She lit a cigarette while she spoke, which she now put
to her lips--last one, needed to go out later and get
more.
"The mess doesn't concern you, fix the sink.'
8:17. She watched him work, leaning on the wall,
taking a drag every so often. She thought on his
tardiness, his rudeness, his abscence of self worth:
shoddy clothing, no people skills, no reason to live.
She looked at the sleek wrench sticking out of his
toolbox, it was everything he was not: clean, strong,
perfect...useful. She thought about ending the misery
of this fulfilled object. It'd be easy to eliminate
one more counterproductive organism that God puts on
this earth out of pure laziness; It'd be easy to take
that lustrous metal across his dirty face, to hit him
again and again, to hear his futile screams, to watch
his pathetic attempts to defend himself. Then again,
he might not defend himself: he's worthless, surely he
knows that. Surely he'd know that no one would
possibly come for him, of all people...

"That'll be--." He looked all the way up at me.
Without knowing it, she found herself not an inch away
from him, wrench in hand, cigarette in the other.
"Get out."
He heard a calm voice, but he saw a troubled girl, a
demented gleam in her eye. He hastily grabbed his
tools (leaving the wrench) and stumbled to the door
and left. She walked over to the door, grinning to
herself, and grabbed her jacket and boots nearby. The
leather felt cool on her skin, the contrast of her
deep red dress with the black boots and jacket pleased
her immensely. With the supply of her daily morning
drink on the floor, she needed to get her buzz from
somewhere else; she also needed to celebrate her
recent victory. Wrench thrown on the couch, she left
apartment 1112 and headed to the bar down the street.

It was good to be back.

Blog #1 - Chapter One - Oscar Alcazar

Oscar Alcazar - "Oscar's Meat" back room

After 8 years, Oscar didn't mind the smell of meat. He didn't mind touching, or cutting, or the blood oozing down in hands. In fact, he liked it. His everyday interaction with raw slabs of muscle was one of the only constants in his life, the only thing he could count on. A butcher doesn't have it easy.

The Alcazar family had it hard times back in Columbia. They pooled their money, and elected Oscar to forge a path to America, with dreams of opportunity and wealth. Funny how his fortunes ended up. A small butcher shop, dwarfed by a towering apartment building, struggling in Baltimore's ghetto. But he had friends. He had his regular customers, and then those that just came for the gambling. The back room of "Oscar's Meat" doubled as living space and illegal dogfighting ring. The entry fee was $50 and the password was 'New York Strip.'

It was hard for such a big man to get around. At 6'6 and nearly 400 pounds, Oscar suffered from compulsive feasting and knee problems. His hulking, mammoth form could be seen cleaning the outdoor tables every day, closing the red and white striped umbrellas, or just sitting, staring, and watching the world go by.

An old Cadillac decorated his back parking lot. The rims were chrome and the leather soft, one of the perks of having family in the Columbian drug trade. But that's where his valuables ended. It was 6 o'clock. He flipped the "Open" sign over. It now read "Special: New York Strip." The night would soon begin.

Blog #1 - Chapter One - Grandma Pearl

Grandma Pearl, Penthouse

While I was playing Mahjong last monday like I do every week, I received a distubring phone call from my grandson, Alexander. He said he just couldn't take living with his mother anymore. I understand, considering Lisa moved out of the house when she was 16, moving in with her 24-year-old boyfriend... she wasn't exactly an honor student. Alexander told me he wanted to move in with me. I love him very much so of course I obliged.

Oh, what a mistake. I am one of those people that enjoys stressing over nothing... such as a wedding 7 months in a advance or losing the two of spades... but now with Alexander living here I don't have time to stress about nothing. From sunrise to sunset I'm cooking for him, doing his laundry, giving him money, or constantly being conned into giving him my car. I'm a nervous wreck and know that in my old age a lady like me can be driven to death by kids like Alexander.

I have started to go to these stress relief meetings everyday, Alexander's mother told me I should go to them so I won't hate my life so much. The meetings aren't too bad, the food is crappy but I should probably be watching my weight anyways.

I don't really feel like cooking tonight... I think I'll take Alexander to Ming Ming's and just get some supper there. I hope he doesn't make me buy two entrees like he did last time. He had said that night that he was far too hungry to share with me. Alexander didn't even eat but half of his entree. He assured me we could get it to-go and put it in the fridge. "How am I supposed to fit these boxes in my fridge," I said. Of course he tells me to not worry about it, but that is what I do.

I just can't stand living in the penthouse by myself. It's just too big and too much to handle by myself. I can't tell any of my kids that or they'll surely put me in some old folks home to die. I'd rather be dead then rot in the Jewish Homes. Well nobody should worry about it too much because I'll be dead soon. sigh.