I roughly pushed open the door to the rooftop of the apartment building and hurried through. My arms were full, and I was sure to drop something if I didn't move quickly. The door banged shut behind me in the good breeze that had worked itself up throughout the morning. I dropped my armfull of objects and settled down next to the flowers I had planted so carefully a few days before. Besides looking extremely battered by the storm of the previous night, they looked to be doing well. I had always loved pansies, and the pansies themselves seemed to somehow be thriving in the gloomy environment that was Washington Heights.
I dumped the contents of the metal wastepaper bin I had carried most of the things upstairs in onto the dirt next to me and set the bin in front of my folded knees. I opened and placed carefully around me the candles that had been left on my doorstep by the woman who owned The Wrath. "I haven't seen her since that day I went in to get candles myself," I wondered aloud. "Is she alright?" I arranged the candles in a semicircle and stuck them into the dirt so that they stood on their own. I pulled a pack of matches from the pile next to me and lit the candles one by one. They made me think of my mother.
Now that the canldes were lit and the flames danced merrily in the breeze, I began on the pile that I had dumped so unceremoniously beside myself. First, I picked up my apron from the bakery and dropped it back into the trashcan. A cloud of flour rose above it, making me wrinkle my nose. "I'm so sick of flour and bagels and fingerprints," I muttered as I lit another match. "I'm so tired of that man who makes my life a living hell every time I walk into the bakery." I held the match for a moment, letting the flames creep up the matchstick. "I'm done with taking his thinly veiled insults and his condescending looks." I dropped the match into the trashcan and watched as the flames crept quickly along the fabric of the apron. When the fire had been going for a couple of minutes, I looked at the pile next to me again.
I picked up my little bottle of liquid hand sanitizer and stared at it a moment before dropping it into the trashcan as well. The flames flared as they came in contact with the hand sanitizer. "I'm done with you as well," I said to it as the flames died down a bit again. "I'm done with sticky and fingerprints and smudges and dirt and stains and everything like it. I'm done. I won't worry about it anymore. I won't. I can't." Next, I dropped a pile of neatly folded letters into the bin, the ones from my mother that I had never answered. It was time to put my anger behind me, or at least to try to talk to her again. I had proven that I could live by myself, she had to agree with me now. Finally.
I stared at the paper napkin sitting next to me for a long moment before picking it up. It was from the diner down the street. I had had it clutched in my hand when I had run out on Kevin before. When I finally got home, I was still holding it. "Silly Maria," I told myself, "you hold onto things longer than you should, just learn to let them go, learn to leave them alone and in the past." I dropped the napkin on top of the letters and watched as the paper was quickly eaten by the flames.
There was only one thing left in the pile now. I had cleaned the trenchcoat and folded it as neatly as I could. The folds were messy now after being carried up the stairs in a wastepaper bin, but I could still see the time and effort I had put into making to coat nicer. I hadn't gone looking for its owner though. Besides the fact that I didn't really want to see him after he had witnessed my breakdown in the street, I didn't know where to begin to look for him. I had realized that I didn't even know which floor he lived on. "Shows how much people notice around here. I've been living in Washington Heights but I still don't really know anything about it. I could tell someone where the diner was, but I don't think anyone would understand if I tried to tell them about the people."
I picked up the trenchcoat and stared at it. It was a mark of the past, a reminder that I didn't want with me when I left. While this place had been relatively good to me, helping me find myself again, helping me forgive people, I didn't necessarily want to take any of it with me when I left. But as I leaned over to drop the trenchcoat into the flaming trashcan, I couldn't make myself do it. I paused there for a long moment, stretched out, leaning over the trashcan, trenchcoat in my hands, but unable to finish the action. Finally, when I realized that it was impossible, I moved back to my seat and set the coat down beside me again. I sat there silently and watched as the flames in the trashcan burned lower until finally the flames in the trashcan and the candles around me went out, burned to ashes and melted to waxy stubs.
Before I moved again, I thanked my mother, silently this time, for what she had driven me to accomplish. I thanked the people of Washington Heights who hadn't killed me or stolen my belongings or made me walk on sidewalks. But I wasn't one of them.
So, I stood, picked up the trenchcoat, and slipped into it. I picked a pansy and stuck it in my hair. I walked away from the trashcan without looking back, I walked through the door and down the flights of stairs, all the way to the bottom of the apartment building. I walked through the entryway without changing my course because of the vending machine. I hopped the sidewalk outside and turned down Bucher Drive. I walked past the park without looking right or left even though there was an ambulance parked on the other side of the street. I continued to walk even as people gathered around the park, watching as a stretcher with a small form on it was lifted out of the wreckage of a fallen tree and carried to the ambulance. I walked past the synagouge and the bar; I walked past the Last Resort Thrift Shop without pausing.
I walked in the beautiful sunshine and the breeze. I walked in the road because where else was I supposed to walk. I walked right out of Washington Heights without looking back.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Apartment #982: Words and Onions
I twisted the key in the lock and turned down the hall towards the elevator. I was starving, and once again, there was no food in my apartment. The bits of dough I had found on the floor of the bakery earlier were enough to put anyone off grocery shopping. I didn't know if I could ever trust grocery stores, bakers, or butchers EVER again. And prepared food wasn't much better. Who knew what happened behind those walls. I shivered and almost backed into Kevin. He was also coming out of his apartment, but I was so wrapped up in my thoughts I didn't even hear him. "Good job, Maria," I muttered, before I realized what I had done. I smiled sheepishly at him, and he smiled in response.
"Where are you headed, Maria?" he asked quietly.
"The diner," I replied quickly, trying to cover up my talking to myself. Then a thought stuck me. "Would you like to come?" I asked. Kevin nodded, and we went down the hall, down the elevator, and out the front of the apartment building together. I couldn't help but walk with a lightness in my step even though the day was as dark as usual for Washington Heights. Kevin skipped the sidewalk with me without missing a beat, and we turned the corner towards the diner. I could even hear music from an icecream truck floating from somewhere nearby. The day didn't seem to be living up to its normal gloomy standards.
Outside the diner, we passed Ms. Flogsbottom as she hurried in the oppsite direction, looking smug but slightly distraught. She glanced at me and smiled knowingly, then continued on. Kevin looked sideways at me, and I smiled at him as we walked through the doors of the diner.
I slid into the closest booth, and Kevin sat opposite me. After we both pulled out menus and examined them, he looked up at me. I smiled nervously. I had never been on a date of any kind, not ever. What does it matter, Maria? I asked myself, managing to keep my monologue internal this time. This is no date, don't fool yourself. This isn't a date.
I was silent. I had no idea how to say anything to him now, now that he was actually sitting across from me eating a toasted sandwich with onions that fell out of the end and onto the plate. One onion dropped onto the table and made a greasy spot. My eyes glued to the table. The grease was spreading, multiplying, enlarging across the table. My fingers itched to reach across the table and sweep the onion up into a napkin and put it out of sight. All I wanted was for that little spot to be gone.
Plastic clinked on the table as Kevin put his glass of water down next to his plate. The noise broke my concentration, and I looked up at him once again. He was staring at me with one eyebrow slightly raised. "How long have you been like this?" he asked me. I looked back down at the table, but this time I focused on keeping a blush from my cheeks, not focusing on using my mental power to make the grease spot disappear. I didn't know how to respond. I had always been like this, I thought. Always. Always. Always. Always. Always. I couldn't stare at the table forever so I looked back up. I tried to smile but couldn't.
"You're getting better," he said slowly, sweetly.
I stared at him. "What?" I asked. He was silent. "What do you mean? What do you mean I'm getting better?" He didn't say a word. My heart beat faster and I leaned forward, searching for something in his gaze. I gripped the edge of the table with my fingers. I felt like I was about to stumble upon something important. "Why do you even care? No one cares about me. So why should you? Why do you care? Do you care?" He just stared at me sadly. I could feel myself begin to freak out. I could feel the fear and frustration and lack of control filling me up, about to boil over.
"Do you care?" I asked. I was speaking loudly now. Everything I had been thinking recently was coming to the surface. "I want you to care, it's the only thing I want now." I stopped speaking to listen to him, but he didn't say a word. I couldn't believe that I had just told him that, but I also couldn't believe that he didn't have a single word to say to me. He just sat there.
With his silence, something inside me broke. "Not one," I muttered. "Not one word." Kevin just looked at me, awkwardly, almost as though he wished he could have responded, but couldn't. I collapsed against the seat. "Not one word, not one, not one, not even one," I muttered over and over again. I stared around me, but the diner had gone fuzzy and all the people were indistinct. "Not one, not one, not one not one not one not one not one..." I stumbled out of the booth and ran from the diner.
The sky outside had opened up and the rain came pouring down around me. "I can't even feel it, not without one word, can't feel it, can't feel anything, nothing, nothing, nothing, no words, no sounds, no feelings, nothing nothing nothing," I cried as I slumped to the pavement.
"Where are you headed, Maria?" he asked quietly.
"The diner," I replied quickly, trying to cover up my talking to myself. Then a thought stuck me. "Would you like to come?" I asked. Kevin nodded, and we went down the hall, down the elevator, and out the front of the apartment building together. I couldn't help but walk with a lightness in my step even though the day was as dark as usual for Washington Heights. Kevin skipped the sidewalk with me without missing a beat, and we turned the corner towards the diner. I could even hear music from an icecream truck floating from somewhere nearby. The day didn't seem to be living up to its normal gloomy standards.
Outside the diner, we passed Ms. Flogsbottom as she hurried in the oppsite direction, looking smug but slightly distraught. She glanced at me and smiled knowingly, then continued on. Kevin looked sideways at me, and I smiled at him as we walked through the doors of the diner.
I slid into the closest booth, and Kevin sat opposite me. After we both pulled out menus and examined them, he looked up at me. I smiled nervously. I had never been on a date of any kind, not ever. What does it matter, Maria? I asked myself, managing to keep my monologue internal this time. This is no date, don't fool yourself. This isn't a date.
I was silent. I had no idea how to say anything to him now, now that he was actually sitting across from me eating a toasted sandwich with onions that fell out of the end and onto the plate. One onion dropped onto the table and made a greasy spot. My eyes glued to the table. The grease was spreading, multiplying, enlarging across the table. My fingers itched to reach across the table and sweep the onion up into a napkin and put it out of sight. All I wanted was for that little spot to be gone.
Plastic clinked on the table as Kevin put his glass of water down next to his plate. The noise broke my concentration, and I looked up at him once again. He was staring at me with one eyebrow slightly raised. "How long have you been like this?" he asked me. I looked back down at the table, but this time I focused on keeping a blush from my cheeks, not focusing on using my mental power to make the grease spot disappear. I didn't know how to respond. I had always been like this, I thought. Always. Always. Always. Always. Always. I couldn't stare at the table forever so I looked back up. I tried to smile but couldn't.
"You're getting better," he said slowly, sweetly.
I stared at him. "What?" I asked. He was silent. "What do you mean? What do you mean I'm getting better?" He didn't say a word. My heart beat faster and I leaned forward, searching for something in his gaze. I gripped the edge of the table with my fingers. I felt like I was about to stumble upon something important. "Why do you even care? No one cares about me. So why should you? Why do you care? Do you care?" He just stared at me sadly. I could feel myself begin to freak out. I could feel the fear and frustration and lack of control filling me up, about to boil over.
"Do you care?" I asked. I was speaking loudly now. Everything I had been thinking recently was coming to the surface. "I want you to care, it's the only thing I want now." I stopped speaking to listen to him, but he didn't say a word. I couldn't believe that I had just told him that, but I also couldn't believe that he didn't have a single word to say to me. He just sat there.
With his silence, something inside me broke. "Not one," I muttered. "Not one word." Kevin just looked at me, awkwardly, almost as though he wished he could have responded, but couldn't. I collapsed against the seat. "Not one word, not one, not one, not even one," I muttered over and over again. I stared around me, but the diner had gone fuzzy and all the people were indistinct. "Not one, not one, not one not one not one not one not one..." I stumbled out of the booth and ran from the diner.
The sky outside had opened up and the rain came pouring down around me. "I can't even feel it, not without one word, can't feel it, can't feel anything, nothing, nothing, nothing, no words, no sounds, no feelings, nothing nothing nothing," I cried as I slumped to the pavement.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
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.
"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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Apartment #982: Candles and Daisies
The clouds shifted, and I looked up from my work in one of the flower beds on the rooftop garden of the Washington-Heights apartment building. I surveyed my surroundings and decided that "garden" wasn't exactly an apt description for the grimy walkways that surrounded a few attention-deprived and depressing rectangles of dirt. Was it even dirt anymore? For some reason I was attempting to bring some life back to this place that overlooked the whole of Washington-Heights. "Remeber that this used to calm you down when you were upset, Maria, even if this isn't exactly what you are accustomed too." Right, calming down, that's what I'm doing up here in the wind and cold. In the wind and cold, above the penthouse, as far as I could be from that bakery, its crazy German owner, the mysterious bits of dough on the floor, the man who asked for two bagels with alterior motives on his mind, the fingerprints, the stale bagels, the hand sanitizer...
"Maria," I muttered. "You're being stupid, just remember what your mother said." I grimaced. "Yeah, so maybe I'm not cut out for a job with so many social aspects, but I can't let her know that she was right about it all." All those customers at the bakery made me shake, and I had to steady myself on the counter when they finally left, the little bell on the door jingling menacingly behind them.
I had wanted to calm down. I had needed to calm down. I remembered how the candles in my bedroom as a child used to lull me to sleep as their flickering flames created shadows on the walls. "Candles." So I had gone to the little occult shop that stood hunched up beside the apartment building in search of candles. The girl behind the counter was quiet and shy; she didn't seem completely comfortable in the little shop front, only seeming to tolerate it because of the silent dog presence at her feet. I walked up to the counter, and the girl eyed me warily for a moment before asking if she could help me. "Candles," I said slowly. Pause. "Do you have candles?" I clarified. "White tapers?" She looked at me intently for a moment and then reached under the counter, searching for something. She then placed a box in front of me, saying, "You want green ones, for growth." I bought the box, six candles in all, and left the store rather quickly. It wasn't that I didn't like the girl, she just seemed to know alot more than she let on. It was disconcerting.
It was only after stepping outside into the windy day that I realized what I should actually be doing to calm myself down. And that is why I am up on the roof, planting sickly and slightly wilted daisies that I uprooted from the park while no one was watching. "But hey, who cares where the flowers were before because, now, they are actually serving a purpose. They are helping me prove her wrong."
The dirt was cool and natural under my fingertips. The recent rain had left it moist, and I enjoyed the feeling of earth against my skin. Unlike everything else around me, the dirt...wasn't sticky. "This is nice." A burt of chilly air breazed past me, making me shiver.
"Nice as in a cold day without sun working on the dirty rooftop of my sticky apartment building in dirt that is probably commonly doused in acidic and poisonous rain from the huge city nearby but not close enough to allow and escape from this upper level of hell. That kind of nice." But for all my complaining, the daisies really were quite nice. They seemed to look happier the moment I put them back in the ground. Maybe soon they would be pretty enough to pick and put in a little vase in my apartment. Maybe I could even give some to Kevin. "Stop blushing, Maria," I muttered, embarassed at my own thought.
Maybe I'll take some to the bakery to lighten the mood.
"Maria," I muttered. "You're being stupid, just remember what your mother said." I grimaced. "Yeah, so maybe I'm not cut out for a job with so many social aspects, but I can't let her know that she was right about it all." All those customers at the bakery made me shake, and I had to steady myself on the counter when they finally left, the little bell on the door jingling menacingly behind them.
I had wanted to calm down. I had needed to calm down. I remembered how the candles in my bedroom as a child used to lull me to sleep as their flickering flames created shadows on the walls. "Candles." So I had gone to the little occult shop that stood hunched up beside the apartment building in search of candles. The girl behind the counter was quiet and shy; she didn't seem completely comfortable in the little shop front, only seeming to tolerate it because of the silent dog presence at her feet. I walked up to the counter, and the girl eyed me warily for a moment before asking if she could help me. "Candles," I said slowly. Pause. "Do you have candles?" I clarified. "White tapers?" She looked at me intently for a moment and then reached under the counter, searching for something. She then placed a box in front of me, saying, "You want green ones, for growth." I bought the box, six candles in all, and left the store rather quickly. It wasn't that I didn't like the girl, she just seemed to know alot more than she let on. It was disconcerting.
It was only after stepping outside into the windy day that I realized what I should actually be doing to calm myself down. And that is why I am up on the roof, planting sickly and slightly wilted daisies that I uprooted from the park while no one was watching. "But hey, who cares where the flowers were before because, now, they are actually serving a purpose. They are helping me prove her wrong."
The dirt was cool and natural under my fingertips. The recent rain had left it moist, and I enjoyed the feeling of earth against my skin. Unlike everything else around me, the dirt...wasn't sticky. "This is nice." A burt of chilly air breazed past me, making me shiver.
"Nice as in a cold day without sun working on the dirty rooftop of my sticky apartment building in dirt that is probably commonly doused in acidic and poisonous rain from the huge city nearby but not close enough to allow and escape from this upper level of hell. That kind of nice." But for all my complaining, the daisies really were quite nice. They seemed to look happier the moment I put them back in the ground. Maybe soon they would be pretty enough to pick and put in a little vase in my apartment. Maybe I could even give some to Kevin. "Stop blushing, Maria," I muttered, embarassed at my own thought.
Maybe I'll take some to the bakery to lighten the mood.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Apartment #982: Ice cubes and Baked Goods
I leaned haphazardly across the sidewalk so that I could reach the door of the bakery. As I knocked urgently, the glass panes in the window rattled and shook. My umbrella was out of my purse this time, attempting to shield me from the torential rains that were currently falling from the sky. The water flowing into a nearby drain was up to my ankles as I stood on the edge of the road, avoiding the dreaded sidewalks. Some things just had to be given up for safety. However, I didn't like how my feet felt as they squished around in my soggy shoes. It reminded me of stepping on slugs in the summer, of stepping on slug after slug after slug after slug. Squishy slugs. Juicy slugs. I shuddered.
A man, the baker, came to the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me as I stood in the pouring rain before stepping aside. I hurried inside, quickly hopping from the street to the doorstep and into the relative safety of the bakery. The rain followed me, making a puddle on the floor and dripping down the window panes. The man stared at me, seeming perpetually angry. I felt awkward as I realized that he was taking in my darker skin, assuming immediately that I was an immigrant, or worse. "I'm here for the job," I said, skipping all pleasantries, not that he seemed the kind of person accustomed to such niceties. He continued to stare, so I glanced around the little room. It was relatively clean except for a powdering of flour, but what bothered me most, and immediately, was the lack of organization. The loaves of bread were crooked in their racks and the counter had fingerprints all over it. I itched to pull out my hand sanitizer and remove them. I stepped sideways towards the counter while saying, "I saw your sign." I took another step towards those annoying smudges.
"Do you have any German in you?" he asked.
He himself was obviously so, tall, blond, blue eyes. Very Aryan. I shrugged. "Sure, can I have the job?" He didn't answer, so I spoke again. "Your sign fell while I was outside but I didn't pick it up." He continued to glare in my general direction, but I prefered to think that that was his normal expression as opposed to a response to me.
"Damn commies," he muttered.
Not that he would understand, but I felt the need to explain why I hadn't picked up the sign, so I continued, "Your sign was on the sidewalk. I don't like sidewalks." He didn't seem to be listening, so I turned around, took out my hand sanitizer, and began to clean the counter with a spare napkin I had. The fingerprints began to disappear nicely as I worked. I had cleaned my own mirror the same way just this morning. The whole apartment was old and dingy, but at least now the mirror was shiny, well, shiny-er at least.
"Yes, you get the job," he said suddenly. "You start today. There's an apron on the hook behind the counter. I make the dough, you bake it, you sell it, yes?" He waited for me to nod, then turned around and stomped into the back room and out of sight. I stared after him, just another weird fanatic in this crazy upside-down town. I wondered how it was possible for so many oddities to end up in the same place.
I stepped behind the slightly cleaner counter and put on the apron I'd been assigned. I ran my hands down the rough fabric, brushing off the flour, but my hands didn't slide smoothly at all. They were sticky. It was sticky. My breathing began to quicken and I looked around in fright. "I hate sticky," I said aloud, trying to contain myself. I took a deep breath and leaned up against the counter. "Calm down, Maria, you really can't freak out now." The counter was sticky. I looked around and saw the cash register was sticky, the floor was sticky, the walls were sticky. Everything was sticky.
I looked around me hurredly for the freezer. The sticky was beginning to overwhelm me, and I needed that freezer. I stumbled into the back room and spun around, searching. "There," I muttered, as I ran towards it. My fingers were sticky and stuck together. To be sticky forever. Stuck together, no fingers, no toes, no arms, no legs, no eyes, no mouth. Killed by the very food that sustained me. Sticky bread! "Sticky, everything is sticky, sticky," I murmered over and over again. I wrenched the freezer door open and plunged my hands into the icebox, pulling back with a handfull of frozen cubes. I leaned against the wall and cupped the icecubes in my fingers, concentrating on how cold they were.
"Cold, cold, cold, cold," I repeated to myself slowly. "Cold and not sticky. Cold and concentrating, cold and breathing, cold and steady, cold and calm." I stood there until the ice had melted in my hands and created yet another puddle on the floor. I sighed. Just another diverted crisis.
Just then the bell on the door jingled as someone entered the bakery. I hurried out to greet the young woman who smiled at me so happy and carefree. She told me that she adored me long luxurious hair, bought a loaf of white bread, commented on how absolutely fresh it seemed, smiled brightly at me once more, and departed. She was soon followed by Kevin, who slipped in asking for a croissant, then a blueberry muffin, then a plain bagel as I denied each of his requests for a lack of anything but bread in the bakery. He smiled his quiet smile as I handed him his slightly stale bagel.
As he walked out of the bakery, wrapping himself in an oversized raincoat, I wondered why such a dark and dreary day suddenly seemed a little bit brighter.
A man, the baker, came to the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me as I stood in the pouring rain before stepping aside. I hurried inside, quickly hopping from the street to the doorstep and into the relative safety of the bakery. The rain followed me, making a puddle on the floor and dripping down the window panes. The man stared at me, seeming perpetually angry. I felt awkward as I realized that he was taking in my darker skin, assuming immediately that I was an immigrant, or worse. "I'm here for the job," I said, skipping all pleasantries, not that he seemed the kind of person accustomed to such niceties. He continued to stare, so I glanced around the little room. It was relatively clean except for a powdering of flour, but what bothered me most, and immediately, was the lack of organization. The loaves of bread were crooked in their racks and the counter had fingerprints all over it. I itched to pull out my hand sanitizer and remove them. I stepped sideways towards the counter while saying, "I saw your sign." I took another step towards those annoying smudges.
"Do you have any German in you?" he asked.
He himself was obviously so, tall, blond, blue eyes. Very Aryan. I shrugged. "Sure, can I have the job?" He didn't answer, so I spoke again. "Your sign fell while I was outside but I didn't pick it up." He continued to glare in my general direction, but I prefered to think that that was his normal expression as opposed to a response to me.
"Damn commies," he muttered.
Not that he would understand, but I felt the need to explain why I hadn't picked up the sign, so I continued, "Your sign was on the sidewalk. I don't like sidewalks." He didn't seem to be listening, so I turned around, took out my hand sanitizer, and began to clean the counter with a spare napkin I had. The fingerprints began to disappear nicely as I worked. I had cleaned my own mirror the same way just this morning. The whole apartment was old and dingy, but at least now the mirror was shiny, well, shiny-er at least.
"Yes, you get the job," he said suddenly. "You start today. There's an apron on the hook behind the counter. I make the dough, you bake it, you sell it, yes?" He waited for me to nod, then turned around and stomped into the back room and out of sight. I stared after him, just another weird fanatic in this crazy upside-down town. I wondered how it was possible for so many oddities to end up in the same place.
I stepped behind the slightly cleaner counter and put on the apron I'd been assigned. I ran my hands down the rough fabric, brushing off the flour, but my hands didn't slide smoothly at all. They were sticky. It was sticky. My breathing began to quicken and I looked around in fright. "I hate sticky," I said aloud, trying to contain myself. I took a deep breath and leaned up against the counter. "Calm down, Maria, you really can't freak out now." The counter was sticky. I looked around and saw the cash register was sticky, the floor was sticky, the walls were sticky. Everything was sticky.
I looked around me hurredly for the freezer. The sticky was beginning to overwhelm me, and I needed that freezer. I stumbled into the back room and spun around, searching. "There," I muttered, as I ran towards it. My fingers were sticky and stuck together. To be sticky forever. Stuck together, no fingers, no toes, no arms, no legs, no eyes, no mouth. Killed by the very food that sustained me. Sticky bread! "Sticky, everything is sticky, sticky," I murmered over and over again. I wrenched the freezer door open and plunged my hands into the icebox, pulling back with a handfull of frozen cubes. I leaned against the wall and cupped the icecubes in my fingers, concentrating on how cold they were.
"Cold, cold, cold, cold," I repeated to myself slowly. "Cold and not sticky. Cold and concentrating, cold and breathing, cold and steady, cold and calm." I stood there until the ice had melted in my hands and created yet another puddle on the floor. I sighed. Just another diverted crisis.
Just then the bell on the door jingled as someone entered the bakery. I hurried out to greet the young woman who smiled at me so happy and carefree. She told me that she adored me long luxurious hair, bought a loaf of white bread, commented on how absolutely fresh it seemed, smiled brightly at me once more, and departed. She was soon followed by Kevin, who slipped in asking for a croissant, then a blueberry muffin, then a plain bagel as I denied each of his requests for a lack of anything but bread in the bakery. He smiled his quiet smile as I handed him his slightly stale bagel.
As he walked out of the bakery, wrapping himself in an oversized raincoat, I wondered why such a dark and dreary day suddenly seemed a little bit brighter.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Apartment #982: Canned Milk and Poison
What was I supposed to do now? There was no canned milk. What the hell was I going to do?? I rummaged around one last time behind the canned green beans and peas, hoping against hope, but no. There was nothing I wanted there. I dreaded what I knew had to come now. I had been thinking about it, building myself up for the terrible act that I would have to commit if this situation were to arise. And it had. So I had to do it.
I walked slowly towards to refridgerated aisle, making sure to keep my breathing regular and steady. I paused before turning the corner onto that dreaded aisle, took and exceptionally deep breath, and stepped onto the aisle. There were several people there, including a striking woman in red, but my mind immediately drifted towards the shelves. Oh those terrible shelves. The cartons and jugs glared at me from row upon row of cold metal shelves. Those shelves and their contents often haunted my dreams, and I would wake up, afraid to even breathe. I was going to die. "Hush, Maria," I murmered to myself, glancing around me to see if anyone noticed my somewhat odd behavior. A red basket hung on an arm, filled with shiny glass bottles brimming with various liquids. How I approved of her choices. So neat and clean and contained and safe. I wished that everything came packaged like that.
But the woman with the basket continued to stare at the shelves, assessing which poison she would take home with her. And the people around me eyed the jugs and cartons like pieces of dripping meat straight from the slaughter, picking and choosing as though each one were different, as those the eyes alone could decide which would be best. I was so afraid of making my choice. What if I chose the wrong one? "This is all they have, Maria, so just suck it up. Think of the kitten. Deep breaths, Maria, deep breaths." The woman looked at me questioningly, but I wouldn't meet her eyes. I looked up and down the rows of plastic, thinking how easy it would be to slip something into one, how simple it would be to slide that needle gently through the side above the liquid line and then back out again, unnoticed. I shuddered. Poisons, diseases, other liquids, and then everything would be tainted, destroyed and terrible.
Movement next to me brought me back to my current situation. The woman was stepping back from the shelves and walking away, leaving the cartons and jugs untouched. She must be an intelligent woman to have grasped the truth about them, I thought. I wonder if she always looks at them and then walks away, or does she sometimes take something with her? Does she realize what danger she is in everytime she stands so close to them? "Close, too close," I muttered, and took a quick step back myself. "But I need it." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "I need it." Breathe in. "Yes, I do." Breathe out.
I stepped forward and picked up the jug of milk closest to my reaching fingers. One percent. Expiration date still nine days away. The jug looked alright, nothing strange and white and floating in it, no discolorations, no dents in the jug. "You can do this, Maria," I said quitely. I moved the jug to where it hung suspended above my own little basket and took one more breath. I began to lower it into the basket. That was when I saw it, a tiny hole, a pinprick, a needle incision, on the cap.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn't really there, but before I had even gotten through saying the first word of reassurance outloud, I had dropped the jug on the floor, not caring that it split down the middle and milk started to run across the floor. I let my basket slip from my arm, hearing the bottle of olive oil break and the tomato smash. I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could and ran. I ran down the aisle and through an open checkout line. I ran out of the store and down the street, jumping the sidewalk and landing in a giant puddle where water was rushing into a drain. I ran even though the rain was pelting down and my umbrella was still neatly packed away in my purse. My scarf slipped from my shoulders, landing in the street like a stray red thread would on a grey carpet, but I didn't stop to pick it up, I just kept running. I ran until I had reached my apartment building, dashed up nine flights of stairs, and run to my very own door.
The nine that I had super glued there this morning (to protect it from certain theft) stared cheerfully out at me, but I would have none of its good humor. I turned my back on the door and slid down the wall until i sat, a dripping mass, in my very own doorway. I shrieked when I looked down at my hands and thought of milk. Ripping open my purse I tossed things out until I found that little bottle of hand sanitizer I had purchased from the conveniant store. I poured the entire contents onto my wet hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until there was no more. Then I sighed, leaning back against the door, all the while tears streaming down my face.
A dim shadow flickered over my knees as a figure slipped out of apartment 981. I wondered for a moment at the oddity of it, but then ignored it, another mystery for another time. The weary face looked surprised to see me, but not at all amazed that someone would be sitting on the floor in the dirty hallway, purse contents lying haphazardly around them, crying their eyes out. Kevin came and sat down next to me, back against the wall. He looked across the hallway at his closed door. "So," he said eventually, "Are you going to be alright?"
I walked slowly towards to refridgerated aisle, making sure to keep my breathing regular and steady. I paused before turning the corner onto that dreaded aisle, took and exceptionally deep breath, and stepped onto the aisle. There were several people there, including a striking woman in red, but my mind immediately drifted towards the shelves. Oh those terrible shelves. The cartons and jugs glared at me from row upon row of cold metal shelves. Those shelves and their contents often haunted my dreams, and I would wake up, afraid to even breathe. I was going to die. "Hush, Maria," I murmered to myself, glancing around me to see if anyone noticed my somewhat odd behavior. A red basket hung on an arm, filled with shiny glass bottles brimming with various liquids. How I approved of her choices. So neat and clean and contained and safe. I wished that everything came packaged like that.
But the woman with the basket continued to stare at the shelves, assessing which poison she would take home with her. And the people around me eyed the jugs and cartons like pieces of dripping meat straight from the slaughter, picking and choosing as though each one were different, as those the eyes alone could decide which would be best. I was so afraid of making my choice. What if I chose the wrong one? "This is all they have, Maria, so just suck it up. Think of the kitten. Deep breaths, Maria, deep breaths." The woman looked at me questioningly, but I wouldn't meet her eyes. I looked up and down the rows of plastic, thinking how easy it would be to slip something into one, how simple it would be to slide that needle gently through the side above the liquid line and then back out again, unnoticed. I shuddered. Poisons, diseases, other liquids, and then everything would be tainted, destroyed and terrible.
Movement next to me brought me back to my current situation. The woman was stepping back from the shelves and walking away, leaving the cartons and jugs untouched. She must be an intelligent woman to have grasped the truth about them, I thought. I wonder if she always looks at them and then walks away, or does she sometimes take something with her? Does she realize what danger she is in everytime she stands so close to them? "Close, too close," I muttered, and took a quick step back myself. "But I need it." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "I need it." Breathe in. "Yes, I do." Breathe out.
I stepped forward and picked up the jug of milk closest to my reaching fingers. One percent. Expiration date still nine days away. The jug looked alright, nothing strange and white and floating in it, no discolorations, no dents in the jug. "You can do this, Maria," I said quitely. I moved the jug to where it hung suspended above my own little basket and took one more breath. I began to lower it into the basket. That was when I saw it, a tiny hole, a pinprick, a needle incision, on the cap.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn't really there, but before I had even gotten through saying the first word of reassurance outloud, I had dropped the jug on the floor, not caring that it split down the middle and milk started to run across the floor. I let my basket slip from my arm, hearing the bottle of olive oil break and the tomato smash. I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could and ran. I ran down the aisle and through an open checkout line. I ran out of the store and down the street, jumping the sidewalk and landing in a giant puddle where water was rushing into a drain. I ran even though the rain was pelting down and my umbrella was still neatly packed away in my purse. My scarf slipped from my shoulders, landing in the street like a stray red thread would on a grey carpet, but I didn't stop to pick it up, I just kept running. I ran until I had reached my apartment building, dashed up nine flights of stairs, and run to my very own door.
The nine that I had super glued there this morning (to protect it from certain theft) stared cheerfully out at me, but I would have none of its good humor. I turned my back on the door and slid down the wall until i sat, a dripping mass, in my very own doorway. I shrieked when I looked down at my hands and thought of milk. Ripping open my purse I tossed things out until I found that little bottle of hand sanitizer I had purchased from the conveniant store. I poured the entire contents onto my wet hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until there was no more. Then I sighed, leaning back against the door, all the while tears streaming down my face.
A dim shadow flickered over my knees as a figure slipped out of apartment 981. I wondered for a moment at the oddity of it, but then ignored it, another mystery for another time. The weary face looked surprised to see me, but not at all amazed that someone would be sitting on the floor in the dirty hallway, purse contents lying haphazardly around them, crying their eyes out. Kevin came and sat down next to me, back against the wall. He looked across the hallway at his closed door. "So," he said eventually, "Are you going to be alright?"
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Apartment #982: Nines and Sixes
Looking at the door, I wondered if the chipped nine was originally a six, just upside-down. Probably. Probably if I went downstairs I would find the door with the missing number, a demoted three digit apartment staring sadly at the empty hallway. Maybe one day out of the week someone passed that lone door, maybe they noticed the missing number. Maybe not. Now, here on my door several floors up, it looked disfigured and curved at a careless angle. Like someone had nailed it up there without really watching. Someone who had hurried down the hall right before I stepped out of the elevator. Someone who wouldn't be back later to straighten it. Someone who would see me on the street around town, laughing on the inside because of the crooked, false number nine.
"Stop it, Maria," I warned myself. There was no use getting worked up over somthing as insignificant as a metal number. A terribly crooked and tarnished metal number. A horribly twisted and dented -- "No, you spent too much money getting here just to wimp out now. So, stop it. The number nine, that's all it is." Suddenly, the door behind me opened, and my neighbor from #983 slipped past me and down the hall. Great, just what I needed, to be assumed crazy by Kevin, especially when he at least seemed relatively normal. "Wonderful, good job, Maria," I told myself as I unlocked the door and looked glumly, and for only the second time, in on my dingy apartment.
The first time had been yesterday after tripping along the street from the SMARTA station with my six boxes, avoiding sidewalks to the frustration of the drivers around me. "Deal!" I had muttered angrily at the woman on the sidewalk who looked at me strangly. "Everyone has their oddities, some of us are just odder than others." I then traipsed through the front doors of Washington Heights and along the hall, making the largest arc possible around the banged up vending machine that stood sentinal in the lobby, if you could even call it a lobby. The room was dim and sticky. I wanted my hand sanitizer, too bad it was still sitting on the bedside in my parents' house. Too bad it was all the way in freaking Columbia. But, hey, I had a cousin here somewhere, albeit a distant one. Maybe he could lend me some.
I stepped inside and dropped my keys on the floor because I hadn't found a table for my whopping three rooms yet. "You need furniture, Maria," I said as I turned to shut the door behind me. A little, dirty tabby kitten looked back at me. "Hey, kitten, care to join me in my insanity?" I asked gently. No reply. "Well, come on in, it's not like anybody else is taking up space, and I sure don't need three rooms to myself. My boxes only take up twelve feet. Well, twelve feet squared and a bed." I pushed the door wider, and the kitten wandered in, looking bemused and somewhat spacy. "You can keep me company while the oddities of this shady building wander the halls at wee hours of the morning, kitten. Maybe you can even sit on my shoulder when I walk into that bar down the street. Maybe your cuteness will stay their guns, as I'm sure they are carrying something, don't ask me how I know." The kitten just stared at the wall. "We'll make a great pair, but, first, a job the human."
No reply from the cat. "You need some milk." Silence, but it was a relaxed one. "Canned milk. Don't worry, though, Maria will get you some."
"Stop it, Maria," I warned myself. There was no use getting worked up over somthing as insignificant as a metal number. A terribly crooked and tarnished metal number. A horribly twisted and dented -- "No, you spent too much money getting here just to wimp out now. So, stop it. The number nine, that's all it is." Suddenly, the door behind me opened, and my neighbor from #983 slipped past me and down the hall. Great, just what I needed, to be assumed crazy by Kevin, especially when he at least seemed relatively normal. "Wonderful, good job, Maria," I told myself as I unlocked the door and looked glumly, and for only the second time, in on my dingy apartment.
The first time had been yesterday after tripping along the street from the SMARTA station with my six boxes, avoiding sidewalks to the frustration of the drivers around me. "Deal!" I had muttered angrily at the woman on the sidewalk who looked at me strangly. "Everyone has their oddities, some of us are just odder than others." I then traipsed through the front doors of Washington Heights and along the hall, making the largest arc possible around the banged up vending machine that stood sentinal in the lobby, if you could even call it a lobby. The room was dim and sticky. I wanted my hand sanitizer, too bad it was still sitting on the bedside in my parents' house. Too bad it was all the way in freaking Columbia. But, hey, I had a cousin here somewhere, albeit a distant one. Maybe he could lend me some.
I stepped inside and dropped my keys on the floor because I hadn't found a table for my whopping three rooms yet. "You need furniture, Maria," I said as I turned to shut the door behind me. A little, dirty tabby kitten looked back at me. "Hey, kitten, care to join me in my insanity?" I asked gently. No reply. "Well, come on in, it's not like anybody else is taking up space, and I sure don't need three rooms to myself. My boxes only take up twelve feet. Well, twelve feet squared and a bed." I pushed the door wider, and the kitten wandered in, looking bemused and somewhat spacy. "You can keep me company while the oddities of this shady building wander the halls at wee hours of the morning, kitten. Maybe you can even sit on my shoulder when I walk into that bar down the street. Maybe your cuteness will stay their guns, as I'm sure they are carrying something, don't ask me how I know." The kitten just stared at the wall. "We'll make a great pair, but, first, a job the human."
No reply from the cat. "You need some milk." Silence, but it was a relaxed one. "Canned milk. Don't worry, though, Maria will get you some."
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