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.
Friday, March 28, 2008
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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