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.
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Wasting Time
Michael Seebach Apt. 236
THIS SHALL BE EDITED FOR PERSONAL CHARACTER FORMAT, AND UNDER INFLUENCE OF OTHER CHARACTER POSTS. (GRANDMA PEARL, PLZ TELL ME IF THIS IS OUT OF LINE OR GIVE SUGGESTIONS)
Nope...nothing here.
I thought not, the slim chance this elderly woman was connected with that man hardly made sense. I suppose I shall update my employee---Hm? Oh. Her meeting should not be over for some time...This is troublesome.
Michael Seebach was not in his apartment. He was not even in an apartment of a friend of his. His head was stuck underneath the quilted sheets adorned over the side of the bed of a Mrs. Pearl. He was studying every little inch of the penthouse home, which seemed to house two, knowing that the owner in question attended daily meetings. And now the front door was opening a little early.
"Terrible, there's no point to it..." Mrs. Pearl seemed to be indignant. "Just thinking about these meetings causes stress, even less time to prepare for that boy..." She slowly walked inward and placed her purse on the counter. "I'll make my own food for those meetings from now on."
Hm. A slight southern drawl, I had guessed correctly. I suppose she grew frustrated with the stress relief meeting, she is home far too early. How should I deal with this...Perhaps it is best to sneak out of the front door when she is preoccupied. I'm fairly sure that an elderly woman will not take well to finding a stranger underneath her---"WHO'S THERE!?" Oops.
Grandma Pearl was staring at the two naked feet jutting from underneath her bed with a fierce glare mixed between fear and confusion. "...You're not Alex. Come out from there!" Michael slowly crawled on all fours out from under the bed, as if he were trying to scale a wall using his palms. He slowly stood up and stared at the old woman, who had decided to brandish a firewood poker, and began biting his thumb.
I might as well confirm some things...
"What are you doing in my apartment? You're not a maid or something..."
"Hello madame, I was just wasting time."
"What?!"
"Perhaps not. I was cleaning."
"What are you saying?"
"No good. I was investigating, I am a detective. My clients hired me to search your home for evidence."
"What on earth are you talking about, what do I have to investigate!?"
"Ok, no one hired me. I actually am wasting time. I would have kept lying, but it's rather annoying to keep changing my alibi."
Michael decided it was best to voice out all of his options as a complete stranger, it didn't really matter anyways. Mrs. Pearl was looking absolutely furious from participating in this unbelievably esoteric conversation. She was slowly tiptoeing towards the phone with the poker held firmly in the direction of Michael's eyes. Michael decided it was better to crouch down. Might as well feel comfortable while trying to think of something to say.
"Stay right there, i'm dialing the police."
"Naturally."
"..............!?"
"Oh wait. I disconnected the phone, the ringing distracted me. Sorry."
The elderly woman was looking particularly stressed at this moment. She obviously couldn't comprehend what in the world this psycho wanted. Mrs. Pearl moved away from the phone while keeping her eyes on Michael, who was staring up from his crouched position, and slowly lowered herself into a large chair.
She does seem to be highly stressed, perhaps she should have stayed to finish her meeting...Or perhaps i'm just feeling guilty about being caught? Hm.
"If you want money or valuables, you are free to take them, but please leave my home."
"I'm sorry for intruding madame, I was just wasting time, as I mentioned earlier."
"...How, did you get in here?"
"A simple lock is easy enough to open. It's even simpler when you tell the Super you're with the police."
"You're with the police, you mean you really are an official detective?"
"Mmm...yes, except the 'with the police' part."
"........"
This grandmother had lived long enough to see alot of things. It wasn't hard for her to notice that the person in front of her was absolutely insane. Perhaps not very dangerous, but she didn't want him in her house all the same.
"...Pardon?"
"Hm?"
"I must excuse myself to the restroom."
"Of course, it is your home."
Michael watched as the woman walked deftly towards the hallway, not so discretely placing her cellphone to her hip. Ah. Perhaps he should...No, he could get some reading done.
Mrs. Pearl returned a few short minutes later, a flushed look on her face. Michael released the copy of "The Catcher in the Rye" from his thumb and pointer finger, and placed it beside him on a coffee table.
"Welcome back. Just making small talk, but your bathroom does not have a signal. How strange. Bye the way, you forgot to flush madame."
"..."
"Well, before I leave I wonder if I may make an enquiry."
"...Yes, what do you want?"
"Do you know a Marcus Manuel?"
"? No, I don't recall that name..."
"Perhaps a Mr.Dominic Machelli?"
"...Doesn't he live above that rotten bar?"
"Are you certain you are not lying?"
"I don't have any reason to-"
"A Mr. Marcus Manuel is a drug pusher in this city."
"What are you?-"
"I am quite certain you are partaking of some illegal drug activities."
Mrs. Pearl stood up slowly and pointed a finger at the tool for justice, the detective who broke into people's homes for no reason.
"YOU BREAK INTO MY HOME. AND ACCUSE ME OF USING ILLEGAL DRUGS!? YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE A MENTAL DISORDER, I WOULD LIKE IT IF YOU WOULD LEAVE!"
"I have proof."
"!? WHAT IN THE WORLD-"
Michael stood up and walked slowly over to the kitchen. Placing his hand on a plate, he undid plastic wrap revealing...
"...My cookies."
"Yes madame."
"...What in the world is wrong with you?"
"Madame, upon tasting these cookies my body has become severely addicted. I cannot stop with just one, I suspect a small dosage of morphine or perhaps cocaine has been added to the mix."
Michael delicately picked up a cookie in two fingers and chewed on the chocolately goodness.
"..."
"..."
The aged woman was trying her best to keep her face steady and stare directly into this deranged man's eyes, but he didn't seem to have a way to express his emotions on his face. She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, but that didn't really matter.
"...You came here to eat my cookies."
"That deduction is of a high possiblity."
"Please leave, I shall be calling the police."
"Of course, I wouldn't suspect any less. I am guessing it would be futile to mention that the police station across the street has no credibilty, and would be of no use to you without a top class forensic team..."
"..."
Michael moved towards the doorway, and did a sidestep as a teenage boy walked up.
"Thank your grandmother for these cookies, and perhaps talk to her a bit more, she seems quite stressed. By the way, have you seen a number #6 anywhere?"
‘Malcolm Gainnes was the kind of guy that would make you crazy in high school. If you were too far away, you’d do anything to get closer—either to admire his manipulation of power or his own appearance. But as soon as you stepped in too deep, you’d do anything to get away. If it was possible to combine Mr. Wickham’s attraction and Mr. Darcy’s high sense of propriety you would find Malcolm Gainnes in an instant. No one knew what made him so fascinating, just that his locker was on the third floor next to the language lab, his favorite band was The Verve Pipe, and he spoke French—minimally. Elizabeth was fortunate enough, some would say, to have met him after his heyday. Instead he ran into her in the Atlanta airport about a year and a half ago. The two were running towards each other in the terminal. Elizabeth — as not to miss her flight — and Malcolm— to catch the game — collided. She was knocked to the ground unconscious, as he continued to watch the television in the sports bar. The Seattle Seahawks had just scored after the opening kick off, and in a moment Malcolm realized he had lost a hundred bucks to his buddy back in Sacramento. The terminal swirled as Elizabeth began to gain consciousness. She looked from the focused medic to a man squatting beside her, who was the spitting image of Indiana Jones—somewhere between the Boy Scout and the professor in age. It was the hat that gave it away, not to mention the same brown hair and yearning for adventure in his eyes.’
“Writing a novel, are you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, meeting the waiter’s gaze. “Yes, I am.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“A diet Coke and some water would be great.”
“How about a diet Pepsi instead?” the waiter inquired.
“How about just a glass of water?”
“I’ll have that out in just a minute," he replied.
Elizabeth forced a smile before she returned to her laptop.
‘What kind of weirdo reads over a stranger’s shoulder anyways?’ she thought.
Shaking her head she began to type:
“Hold on,” he had said. “Everything’s going to be ok.”
As she woke up in a hospital room a while later, she found her Dr. Jones sitting with his socked feet propped up on the bed, leaning back in the chair, snoozing. Blinking hard, she looked around the room. The Emory Hospital clock read two in the morning.
Scott was going to kill her, not to mention Kaylee.
“Ah, you’re awake.” The nurse smiled as she entered the room.
Dr. Jones stirred.
“Here’s some pain medication,” she said, walking past him.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, suddenly realizing the sensation of a jackhammer drilling into her skull.
The nurse began to leave.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth called.
The nurse turned.
“Is there a phone I could use?”
“Yes,” Dr. Jones replied.
His voice was light and pleasing to her ears.
“I have my cell phone if you would like to use it.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth repeated, dismissing the nurse.
“You should really rest." He said, rising from his seat. "Who is it you need to call?”
“Parents,” Elizabeth said softly, dialing the number.
“Alright,” he smiled.
A moment later he was in the hall.
“Hello, Mrs. Farraday?” Elizabeth heard through the cracked door. “This is Malcolm Gainnes, I’m a friend of Elizabeth’s.” He paused. “Yes, I understand she was supposed to fly home tonight, but she’s currently in a hospital in Atlanta. She had a concussion and a minor head wound. The doctor said there’s nothing to worry about, she should be out in a day or two. He'd just like to monitor her to make sure she’s ok.” He paused. “Oh, he’s in town? Great, I’ll let Elizabeth know.”
Upon returning to the room he approached the side of Elizabeth’s bed. Resting his hand upon hers, he leaned over. Their cheeks touched.
“Your father’s on his way,” he whispered.
She smiled.
Elizabeth looked up from her laptop as the waiter returned with her beverage.
“She thinks they should kiss,” he commented.
“Who?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mrs. Flogsbottom,” the waiter explained. “She’s the curly red-headed woman behind you. That is, unless you're not past chapter six.”
“I’m only on the first page.”
“Well, then. I suppose you don’t need to worry about it.”
Elizabeth sighed as reached for the water glass.
'I am moving things a little fast, though, aren't I?' she pondered.
As she raised the glass to her lips she paused, distracted by the view of a most interesting relationship. As Grandma Pearl passed the diner carrying a bag of food from Ming Ming's, Alex was lazily treaded behind her reading up on the latest baseball hotshot in Sports Illustrated.
'I could never have the patience to deal with him.' She thought. 'What some women are able to endure is simply amazing.'
“Now where was I?” she asked, returning to her laptop. “Ah, yes. The narrative of a most substantial regret.”
Molina Rose
Where the hell is my jacket at? If I don't leave now I'll miss the last bus for the night and I don't got that kind of money to be takin' cabs to work every night. Cheap bastards don't tip but five dollars or so and Big Rick charges all the girls to dance at his club.
Damn! There goes the bus. I'm gonna have to ask Grandma Pearl's boy for a ride. What was his name? Albert or Alex or somethin like that. Anyway he comes to the club all the time. He'll probably go tonight if he can get his grandmother's car. He's an alright tipper. I guess it aint his money he's throwing at me so it don't make no difference to him. Poor old woman.
There he is.
“Hey, you comin’ out tonight?” I yelled
“I guess, you need a ride or somethin?” He asked
“Yea, I just missed the bus. Big Rick is gonna have my butt if I’m late again.” I said as I was walkin’ to the car
Molina Rose
Where the hell is my jacket at? If I don't leave now I'll miss the last bus for the night and I don't got that kind of money to be takin' cabs to work every night. Cheap bastards don't tip but five dollars or so and Big Rick charges all the girls to dance at his club.
Damn! There goes the bus. I'm gonna have to ask Grandma Pearl's boy for a ride. What was his name? Albert or Alex or somethin like that. Anyway he comes to the club all the time. He'll probably go tonight if he can get his grandmother's car. He's an alright tipper. I guess it aint his money he's throwing at me so it don't make no difference to him. Poor old woman.
There he is.
“Hey, you comin’ out tonight?” I yelled
“I guess, you need a ride or somethin?” He asked
“Yea, I just missed the bus. Big Rick is gonna have my butt if I’m late again.” I said as I was walkin’ to the car
George Jefferson - The End of the First Night
The night had gone well in the beginning. He had stopped two small time robberies and scared the living daylights out of a crack dealer. With his deep voice he would bellow something awe-inspiring, then he would leap out with his sword and whack their weapons right out of their hands. He would then proceed to work them over with his sword and his fists, and he would top it off by handcuffing them to a nearby object. There they would stay until the police came, if they were lucky. He knew he had struck a fear of the night into at least four criminals, and they would not be returning to crime anytime soon. Except, of course, for that last one.
In his wandering he had come upon what seemed like a classic crime: a man was holding a gun to another man's head in a dark alley. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, but he didn't care - they were obviously criminals. Jefferson leaped from the shadows and yelled, "Criminals never prosper, motherf---er!" in his most menacing voice. He sliced the sword down on the first man's hand, sending his gun flying, and possibly breaking his wrist. Jefferson then clocked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The second man fled. Jefferson chased after him, assuming he was also involved in the crime. It was his first mistake.
Jefferson caught up to the second man and grabbed him by his collar, but he fainted in terror. Then Jefferson heard the cocking of a gun that saved his life. He turned just in time to see the first man, his nose bleeding profusely, aiming the gun directly at his chest. Jefferson dived headlong into a nearby window just as the first man fired. He could've sworn he felt the bullet narrowly miss his hand. He climbed out of the window with a few cuts and bruises but unscathed overall. That leather jacket was a lifesaver. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Jefferson dragged the fainted man's body over to a nearby lamppost and handcuffed his hand to it. An elderly woman walked by, who Jefferson recognized as Mrs. Pearl, one of the tenants of his building. "Someone should call the police" Jefferson said, and fled into the night. He hoped she would not recognize him under his mask.
Jefferson ran through the back alleys of his neighborhood, shaken. That man was obviously a part of some sort of organized crime. Small-time druggies and messed-up kids could be scared straight, but crime bosses and their followers were something else. He stopped in the vacant lot next to Washington Heights. If he kept this up, he could be dead within a week. Then he remembered why he had started this crusade in the first place. This was one of the most crime-ridden parts of the city; it was also the neighborhood he grew up in. This was where he had first decided to become a police officer. He had done it with the hope that he could clean up the city. That plan had failed, so he moved on to another plan - the sword.
Jefferson stood up. Within a week he could be dead, but, he asked himself, how would that be different from any other week? He would have to change his tactics. He would deal with crime from the top down., instead of just scaring the bottomfeeders straight. This neighbor was where his first crusade had began, so this neighborhood was where his second crusade would begin, as well. Jefferson looked across the street. He could see the owner of Oscar's Meat setting up shop, and also discreetly taking down a sign that read "New York Strip." Something illegal was going on over there, but he would have to wait to investigate. The sun was just beginning to rise over the skyline, and Jefferson was still in costume. Also, he was tired. Jefferson climbed the fire escape, but he paused and looked out over the city. He would focus his efforts here, until Washington Heights was a beacon of hope for the rest of the city. Or he would die trying.
Charlie was relieved when Ms. Wong finally flipped the closed sign on the Ching Ching door. The last customers, that little Jew with his sweet, old grandmother had been especially annoying. He kept begging her for money to buy his "girlfriend" a present, but Charlie and the kid's grandmother could tell he didn't really have one. It had been a busy day, and Charlie smelled like he had been building the Great Wall all day. The restaurant didn't have a shower, so Charlie stripped down and went outside to take a hobo shower with the hose out back. He grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed all over. Just as Charlie was about to rinse off and head back inside, a group of girls drove by and screamed at him, "Nice bod." He knew he was attractive, but he didn't let these mere girls faze him because he had a real woman waiting for him in Brooklyn.
Her name was Billie Jean, and she was his lover. She was beautiful and an inspiring model. After he finished drying off, Charlie picked up his tips and headed out to the only cool place in town, Oscar Alcazar's butcher shop. He had met Oscar a week earlier during a delivery, and they ended up having becoming good friends on account of they both loved nice cars and beautiful women. Charlie admired Oscar's illegal exhibitions, and often spent his free time chilling in the butchery.
Charlie approached the door, and knocked. Shortly after, a burly looking Jamaican opened the door and said, "Can I help you mon?"
Charlie replied the secret password, "I'd like a little New York Strip please."
"Well come on in then Mr. Slicks," he said.
Charlie walked down into the secret room in the back of the butcher shop through the meat freezer. The room smelled of cigar smoke, and a group of rough looking men sat around a table gambling Vegas-style. From behind him Charlie heard a rumbling voice, "Well, well, well, White China, how ya doin?"
Charlie spun around to give some dap to Oscar. "How you doing Oscar?"
"Good, Good." he replied. "Go ahead have a seat, need a beer?"
"Sorry Oscar, I can't stay for long, I actually came to ask you a favor," Charlie said. "I need a good connection for a gun, nothing fancy, I just need something that will kill someone."
"Whoa, Whoa!" Oscar shouted. "Whatcha need a gun for?"
Charlie simply replied, "My mission Oscar, I need it for my mission."
Oscar nodded. He was one of the few people he knew about Charlie's mission, and he respected him for it. Oscar pulled out his wallet which was bursting at the seams with 100 dollar bills. He fished a crisp bill out of the wallet along with a business card covered with strange symbols.
"This should cover the gun. Go to the pawn shop, mention my name, and give the man this card...He knows the drill and owes me a favor," Oscar said.
"Thanks Oscar, you've done more for me than my father ever did. And I hold you close to my heart because of it," Charlie said.
Oscar gave Charlie a hug (but a manly one at that), lifting him off the ground, and nearly crushing his lungs. Then told him good luck. With that Charlie left out the way he came. He stepped out the door of the shop and into the street. Something caught his eye, and he looked across the street only to meet eyes with the strange old man from earlier. He was standing in the middle of the road, just waving at Charlie. Charlie sprinted to where he saw the man standing, switchblade drawn, still covered with a little dried blood from his last subway brawl. But once Charlie reached the place where the old man had just been standing, he disappeared again.
Shaking off the feeling that he was going insane, Charlie flicked his switchblade back up and put it in his pocket. He felt light headed as he walked toward the pawn shop.
The park didn't have many trees, but this one was as tall as Washington Heights. Fil had taken some old floorboards from the abandoned house and hoisted them three-fourths of the way up the tree with some rope that he had borrowed from the conveinience store. Borrowed, because one day he planned to give everything back. In fact, the first thing he saw everyday when he scaled the tree to his platform was a list- a list of everything he had ever taken. Along with the list, he had heeps of blankets piled in a corner, resembling a dog's bed. Various other oddments were strewn about the planks, but nothing of any signifigance besides a crumpled newspaper article, that lay within the recesses of his blankets.
Fil sat up from the wooden platform of his tree. He didn't think it was very comfortable-the planks, but this was the safest place in the whole town-cheapest too. The whole town seemed frozen in time. He recalled the police station as being quite terrible. If he thought about it, the whole rest of the city had some sort of problem as well. Something. Addictions, crime, paranoia. Something was wrong with Fil too. He was poor. He was homeless. There was nothing he could do about it. He was ten. This didn't bother him much except that he got hungry. He was hungry now. With a ressigned sigh, he pulled on his wool hat; partway over his glasses, slid his cigarettes into his back pocket, and shimmied down the tree.
He had a regular place that he borrowed from. The Old Woman Pearl's place. She always kept the place stocked with food for her no-good grandson, and she was always gone on some errand. He quickly reached her door. After making sure the lights were off, he tried the handle. His instints told him something was fishy. Pearl always locked her door. He peered through the darkness to see the shady figure of a man eating a cookie. He slowly backed out of the door, and holding his breath, began heading for the stairs, but he saw Old Woman Pearl coming out of the stairway, so he quickly backed into an obscure cranny of the hallway. Pearl shrieked. Fil ran, bumping into the grandson on his flight down.
Finally back in his tree, Fil let out a deep breath. Something was going on here, and he didn't like it.
Marissa Bancroft - Basement
"Monday"
It was Monday. No further description needed. No word in the English language can possibly qualify the bitterness, anxiety, and frustration of waking up on a Monday morning. Human happiness draws from two resources: contentment with the past and anticipation of the future. On Monday mornings, the latter takes a sharp dive into the workweek abyss.
With little in the way of contentment with her past, Marissa narrowed her vision to the future. And with five days ahead of her of near-minimum-wage work and night classes, not to mention social dramas and financial crises, the future obscured itself in a dark tunnel.
As she rolled out of bed, these thoughts traveled merely in her subconscious. Her conscious thoughts in the morning never deviated from fundamental necessities. Bathroom. Sink. Closet. Clothes. With the whole world in front of her, life could only be approached in single word sentences. No subject, no verb, no action - just an object.
She entered the bathroom, her eyes half open, and glanced at the mirror with an awkward smile, reassuring herself with a reassuring facade of happiness. She bregrudgingly opened up her make-up kit, though the action was never debatable: she had to make herself look presentable. Just a swish of mascara here and a dab of blush there - enough to effective without being conspicuous.
Conspicuous was to be avoided at all costs, as she trudged up the stairs out of the basement. The cold morning breeze jolted her senses, but not her mind, with the sunlight blinding her resisting pupils. The place never felt like hers. Washington Heights was owned by her father, but never did she feel a familial connection to it. She had been kicked out of the house at 18, disgraced and pregnant, her only consolation being the basement apartment. And that was only after she got an abortion.
Grandma Pearl was the first character of the morning drama. A tragedy, perhaps, but Marissa always looked for the comedic elements in her awkward life. Grandma Pearl, though, required a taste for dark humor. She sped through sidewalk with the motivation of an old soldier, blinded by age. Life seemed not to need reason or a purpose for her - just objects and actions.
"How sad," Marissa thought, though sympathy was directed more inwards. "What if I end up like her? Old and miserable."
Marissa swared every time she passed the Grandma Pearl that the old woman muttered "Kids these days" under her breath. But it was one of those things that Marissa never thought twice about. One of many. When guys passed by, hooting and hollering at the gorgious object of their attention, she never took a second glance. Such thoughts were merely diversions for her foward focus.
She crossed the street to Oscar's shop, entering without so much as a glance toward the sketchy door in the back. Though she suspected something, she thought it a waste to dwell on it. It was his business anyway. Oscar fixed her a sandwich every morning, and she had no complaints.
Roast beef on rye. An interesting selction, complemented by a slice of swiss. Marissa always appreciated Oscar's spontaneity. Her life completely lacked it, she thought, and his friendly randomness generously mixed up her mornings. She picked up the bag from him with a shy smile, her usual variety, and he replied with a quick grunt. Also usual.
She strolled down the street, clutching her bag like a baby wrapped in a blanket. Oh, how nice children would be. A house, a car, a white picket fence - the whole works. But she had her sandwich, she had her morning walk, she had Washington Heights - and she lived with that.
The grocery store approach her imposingly. It stood as her morning fortress, locking her in for six hours - the eight-to-two shift. Out of Manny's walked Delilah Plunk, fresh from the most recent episode of her morning routine. Orange juice and coffee - Delilah never failed her rhythmic quest for monotony.
Marissa peered at the woman with sympathetic eyes, as she did all women lacking her attractiveness. But beauty is only skin deep, and Marissa was always more concerned with the inner struggle. At times, she almost wished to be free from the chains of beauty. But regret never stole her attention, and as Marissa stepped into Manny's grocery, her attention focused on her cashier line and the immediate business at hand.
The mustiness of the subway station reminded Naublus he was still on Earth. Sometime he forgot. Sometimes he would walk down the grey streets of Baltimore, and the gleaming sunset would transport him to the Sun, where it was nice and warm and comfortable and everyone shared food -- hummus, fried green tomatoes, chappati with cumin-sauteed potatoes, the finest Bordeaux red wines. In a most fleeting instant, he'd be on that brilliant ball, filled with nothing but light and warmth. And then -- plop! -- his cheek would scrape the wrinkly Baltimore sidewalk. "Reality, man," Naublus urged himself, "you've got to stay in reality.
All subway commuters saw of him was two pitifully beige, brown-splotched shoe soles sticking straight up like spring shrubs, forming a sort of trapezoid. At times, on their own account, the soles would liberate themselves from Naublus' shoes and glide towards the commuters, eventually hanging themselves on top of the subway doors. As the bankers, fast food workers, and random jays rushed into the airconditioned car, the soles slapped them on their foreheads. Of course, they would feel the sting much later on, when they were about to fall peacefully to sleep. Naublus had no idea this happened.
With a sad crack of his muscles, Naublus stood up, greeted the whoosh of the passing subway cars. Oh, the fresh air! Oh, morning, yes, come to Naublus, breathe in new strength to march the streets of Baltimore! Welcome back, Naublus, to life!
But what to eat? Naublus scrounged the spare platform for any bit of crystallized milk, sugar, ketchup, cheesesteak grease. No luck, only dust. He walked up the steps and down he plunged into Washington Heights, into Baltimore, into the United States of America. The first rays of sunlight shot through the clouds like needles piercing a scraggly old T-shirt. Naublus frowned. The sun did not radiate food. No, he was sure it didn't. He tried reaching for the light with is hands, wafting into his mouth. It didn't fill him up, so onward, Naublus! Food is out there somewhere!
Out of the grey, a man resembling bamboo bumped into Naublus, breaking his slow, deliberate, yet dazed stride.
"What the hell's yer problem, buddy?" the man squealed.
Ding-dong. The doorbell of hunger resonated in Naublus's mouth. He pounced on the man, reaching -- yes! -- and clawing at the Chinse take-out box in his hands. With but a little struggle (the man immediately backed away), the Mongolian beef was all Naublus'. All Naublus', could you believe it?
Lady Liberty flew in, this time on a hot pink hovercraft and wielding a socker-bopper. She affectionately punched his head, softly.
"Ya did it, Naublus!" she smiled widely, her teeth, all with teeny mouths, smiling too. "I told you you'd be alright."
Heavy breathing and panting -- with tongue smacks mingled in -- were Naublus' response. He looked up, a blob of sauce suspended in the hair between his eyebrows.
Publicado por Andreas Tuglione en 19:31
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
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