The sunlight tickled my eyelids as I lay on the hard-wood floor. I sat up quickly, scattering the pile of matt boards that I had been up cutting the night before. I had a show coming up, and I was at the point where the best sleep I got was on top of my work. And I must have been out cold because there was a note taped to my forehead.
Morning, Sunshine!
I’m in the studio, so bring me some breakfast.
XOXO
-Your Mark
His reckless handwriting ran across the old receipt while lopsided, ball-point hearts whirled around his name. I smiled. This was his type of joke. He wasn’t my Mark, and he hardly ever XOed me. But he got a kick out of the whole platonic roommate thing we had going on. In the evening he would swing the door open with a robust “Honey! I’m home!” scaring the bejesus out of me every time. But the breakfast he was serious about, so I grabbed some fruit, and a bagel, and fixed a thermos full of Earl Grey, and I headed out to meet him.
“The studio,” as Mark called it, was more or less a shack where he could work without neighbors complaining about his tribal drum and battle cry records. He had lived with the volume turned down for too long, and it was beginning to get to him. His shack in the woods was a godsend. He could cut loose. He could turn it up and move to it. His own personal rhythm.
It was faster than mine.
As I walked along Barnaby I wondered what time it was. The sunlight was so diffused by the overcast sky that it was hard to tell how long the sun had been up. I passed the run-down parking lot and turned right. As I headed into the woods, I began to hear Mark’s unruly tempos rising. “Right at the rotting stump, left through the briar patch, clockwise around the big oak,” another one of Mark’s jokes was the quality of his directions. But this time it wasn’t funny because I ended up in the back lot of an old, worn-in house. I realized my mistake and started to turn back when I was captivated by the dozens of sporting balls that decorated the patchy lawn. I leaned down to grab the abandoned baseball at my right foot when I heard the screen door creek and snap. My heart jumped and my fingers came loose of the red stitched seams. The baseball rolled until it hit the porch as I raised my eyes to apologize for trespassing. He wore small brown shoes, tied with tired fingers, and loose brown slacks. His hands hung at his hips holding an empty mug, and his shoulders curled heavily over his timid chest. Thin, gray hair was combed flat against his head, and long, untamed eyebrows wisped around his deep, wet eyes. I rambled off apologies and I even offered him some tea, but while he was staring straight at me, he hardly seemed to recognize me. I finally shut up.
He bent down and reached out and grabbed the baseball I had held earlier. Then he straightened up and pitched it right to me. My reflexes clicked, and to my surprise, I caught the speeding, weathered ball. It clapped hard against my palm, and my fingers wrapped around it. I dug into my bag and pulled out an apple. I tossed it underhand to the old man on the porch. He caught it with his right hand while his left hand held the mug. He nodded to me as he rubbed the apple on his chest, and we both turned around and went our separate ways.
I clutched the baseball in my red hand as I walked back through the woods. I turned it over and flicked off years worth of dirt until a row of tiny black letters was revealed. Barnaby Baseballs. Trusted and Durable.
I dropped the ball into my bag and quickened my pace as the deep drums and high cries grew louder.
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Harry pours himself a mug of hot, black coffee. He sighs, sips his steaming coffee, and readjusts the mauve-colored robe which hangs over his t-shirt and pajama pants. He gazes around his trashed apartment, at the garbage on the counters, the empty bottles in the sink, and the general disarray of his belongings. Andy lays sprawled on his couch, her mouth open, snoring gently. Harry sighs again, and crosses the room to wake her. “Andy, you should wake up now. Andy. Andy?” he calls, changing the mug to his other hand. As the strong aroma of coffee crosses Andy’s nostrils, her bloodshot eyes open. “Harry,” she croaks. “That was a fun night out.”
She sits up, and takes the mug from Harry’s hand. “Hey-” he starts to complain, but is interrupted by Andy’s loud yawn.
“Have you got an extra razor?” she asks. She runs a hand over her stubble-covered jaw, and then her delicately painted fingers go to her cheek. “A girl should never be seen in the morning without her makeup on.”
“You can use mine,” Harry says. “Listen, what was the name of that girl we met last night?”
“The girl-girl or the boy-girl?” Andy giggles. Traces of thick eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, and she has lost one of her set of famously long fake eyelashes at some point.
“The girl-girl,” Harry replies.
“I’m not sure. Denise, maybe?”
‘That’s right. Denise.”
Andy looks at him over the rim of the mug. “Hmm. Well, I’m going to get in the shower.”
“Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.” Harry stands and crosses back to the kitchen. He cleans up a little, filling a garbage bag, and then goes to put it outside in the hallway.
The door to the apartment across the hall opens as he sets the bag down next to the garbage chute. A woman stands there, her gaze sleep-filled. She brightens upon seeing him, and he notices the black smudges on the ends of her fingers. “Hello,” she smiles. “You wouldn’t happen to be the owner of a pair of red Ferragamo pumps, size…” she leans back inside her apartment, “twelve? I found it in the hall just outside the elevator.”
He blinks, taken aback. “Yes, actually. I mean, no, it’s not mine, but my friend was wearing a pair when we went out last night.”
“Twelves are hard to find in designer shoes,” she informs him, and he notices a black smudge under one eye, too.
“Yes. Andy—my friend—has a very hard time. I think she had them custom-made.”
She hands him a shoe, which he notices is, indeed, Andy’s pump, and smiles. “You both looked lovely when you came in last night. I especially liked your wig.”
“You saw us?” He cradles the shoe.
“Well, I have a show coming up soon. I don’t sleep much. It’s coming together, though. I mean, I wasn’t staring out the peephole in my door. I’m not a stalker or anything,” she adds hurriedly.
“Of course not,” Harry smiles. He feels himself starting to warm to her. “Harry,” he offers his hand to her.
“Aretha,” she smiles back, and shakes his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Well, I’ll be going,” she says, and smiles again as she closes the door.
Harry tucks the shoe into the pocket of his robe, and tips the garbage down the chute, and starts humming an old tune.
Must... Stay... Awake...
I MUST! There was too much on this! Again, the buzz of the street lamp infiltrated my mental core, and I found myself drawn by the hidden beats within that noise. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.................
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....
.................................
(Earlier that day)
I strode down the street, avoiding eye contact and moving against the foot traffic. People careless bumped into me a few times - I ignored it and soldiered on, head bent over. The fellow at the root shop hadn't been helpful in the slightest - it was all "Good day!" to him, and he suspected the man didn't know even know how to talk properly. His act certainly didn't gain him any favor with Saul.
Lately, the other occupants of the building had been looking at him oddly, and crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him approach. They walked the other direction, and hurried into their apartment if they saw him coming down the hall. Saul was sure that Aretha hadn't just forgotten a canvas, but she quickly announced it to the air when she spied him coming down the hall, want back into her apartment, and he even thought he had heard the deadbolt turn as he walked past the shut door.
These petty items did not really concern me - but the reasons for them did. I wanted to be viewed with disgust. That was the reason for my manufactured rotten scent, the uniform I wore, and the way I conducted himself. But now, these people seemed to fear me. I do enjoy the new sentiments on a strictly personal level. Fear is a great motivating factor - but if feelings toward me continue down this road, it might be threatening to my mission to -
(At this point, I found myself to be rather close to a certain car who driver I couldn't see. The breaks screeched and squealed, and it seemed that I had escaped harm from my carelessness.)
But not quite. My legs suffered contact, and the vehicle was still at a sufficient rate of speed that I found my face in rather close quarters with the front hood. I jumped off as soon as I could, and the car sped off without me getting a chance to see the driver. Pokey came out of his stooping booth and asked me if I was alright, but I was fine. He apologized for the other car and said he'd talk to the driver about safety around the deck, but I persuaded him against that course of action. People were already spooked and it was my fault, after all.
Ms. Verdioso was standing across the street, rubbernecking at my minor calamity. I crossed and she didn't move away, but rather stood her ground as if bracing herself. Fair enough. "What in all Hell do you think that makes you a party to that little event, Ma'am!" I shouted. Let them stare. But no, she was staring, and not backing down. This wasn't going to work, and I knew it, so I walked away, almost feeling shameful, but not quite. She still shouldn't have been watching like that.
I knocked the doors of the Flats aside I strode into the hall. Van Vraken was at the mailboxes. He turned, and I SAW him. What eyes could communicate so much? Vraken pulled at his threadbare coat; the stitches were tested but held, and I knew it was time for me to let him be. I did not desire pain in one already hurt.
And then here came that fool Eros, making a smart stride as if the winds of fortune were at his back. I turned toward him and wanted to anchor that ship. But not now, not after being physically hit by a car and mentally walloped by the pain in those tormented eyes. I was weak.
He also made eye contact, and I saw the hint of a sneer, but there was no fear there. Only a haughty condescension and an arrogant gleam in his eyes. Oh no. Those were my winds, and that was my stride. What foolishness had he put upon my name?
Or was it not foolishness at all? I still had the strength for a vigil.
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