“Of course it’s me, Mr. Wilson.”
I rolled my neck back over my shoulder as I said it. I heard my key chain clink as I brushed the stray hairs off of my face and summoned a sociable smile from beneath them.
“I’ve been living down the hall from you for the past six months,” I reminded him.
“Oh, good. So yours came with the new deadbolts.”
“Well, actual—“
“You know, the locking mechanisms really are much stronger…But you can’t ever really be sure…In fact, I tend to…”
Comforting. He continued to mumble absently about deadbolts and chain-locks, and I even caught myself thinking that he could have examined my door once I was behind it. I pushed my oncoming headache back into my temple and tried to focus.
The highlights on his pupils flickered as his eyes searched for something to latch onto. Eventually they settled into a stare towards his door—421. He slowed down. The corners of his thin mouth dropped slightly, darkening his frown lines, as he rolled his lower lip between his teeth. His cheekbones sank. And there it was, in delicate graphite. I wanted to capture him in that moment. Sit him down and freeze time for a portrait. Henry Wilson—The Quintessence of Loss.
Then it vanished.
The door to
1 comment:
Everett's apartment was similar in style to the men's parlour of a country club. His dark green walls were covered in black and white photographs of his younger self with friends and family. There were two leather arm chairs separated by a small wooden table with a lamp and ash tray. Two large bookshelves lined his walls. Each was filled with a variety of books, magazines, and photo albums. On the bottom shelf of one of the bookshelves was a sizable stack of incomplete manuscripts.
Not far from his living room was a small dining area with small yet heavy looking tables and chairs. A semi-completed crossword puzzle lay in front of Everett as he sat in the chair facing the window. He leaned close in, his thick-rimmed reading glasses only a few inches from the paper. He worked diligently for another 15 minutes until it was almost full. Saving the last few answers for later, Everett took off his reading glasses and rose from the table. As he walked to the door he tucked the rest of his newspaper under his arm and locked his door behind him.
In the hallway, Everett spotted his neighbor, Artie, cornered by Mr. Wok. He couldn't quite make out what Mr. Wok was saying at first but as he moved closer he heard something about Mrs. Wok's nail salon. As Artie listened she seemed to be battling fatigue and at times having trouble understanding through the thick accent.
When Everett got closer to the two he said, "Oh, Good Evening Artie. I uh, I'm so glad you're back. Thanks so much for watching my Iguana for me. I'll take her back now, she's probably homesick anyways."
Everett herded Artie into the door and gave a friendly nod in Mr. Wok's direction. Once inside the door, Everett spotted the everpresent grey smudge on Artie's cheek. She looked through the peephole and smiled. All of the tenants of Thallow Flats loved Mr. Wok dearly but at the wrong time, Mr. Wok's conversational stamina could be overwhelming. Artie walked to the back room of her apartment and returned carrying a small clear tank.
"Alrighty, here you are. Connie behaved very well. No trouble at all. "
"Thanks a million. I didn't want the poor girl to freeze. Luckily, the heat in my place got fixed this morning," said Everett taking the tank from Artie.
"Well I'll see you around Mr. Carson," said Artie opening the door.
"And remember," said Everett, "I want to know when you're having another one of your shows. An old man like me needs nice things to look at."
Everett returned to his apartment, placed Connie's tank in the corner, and went back out the door. Once in the elevator, Everett detected a very distinct, expensive smelling cologne. He recalled the day before as the young man with the slick hair directed the fat movers with his ornate furniture.
Leaving Thallow Flats, Everett walked in the direction of the diner. While he enjoyed walking during the evening, sometimes the smells wafting over from the ethnic food store made him lose his appetite. Everett couldn't help but smile thinking of the recent additions to the neighborhood: the ethnic food store, root emporium, and fortune teller. He couldn't even recall such places existing when he was young.
Entering the diner, Everett opened his newspaper. He took the arts and entertainment section with a special feature on jazz and took it to Pokey's booth nearby. Removing one ear of his headphones, Pokey muttered a soft "thank you" and Everett took his stool at the counter. He unfolded the rest of his newspaper and began to finish the crossword puzzle he had started that morning.
Post a Comment