One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Delilah Plunk's five fat fingers gently clenched the fifth orange juice carton back. The cold air from Manny's refrigerator encircled her slouched frame before falling in broken tendrils at her feet. She laid the Tropicana at the bottom of her rusting silver cart next to the transparent bag of five apples. Red. She gripped the handle of the cart gingerly and went on shopping, watching her feet to avoid the cracks in the dirty tile. These tiles were small – her gait was a clumsy square dance.
The coffee tins were on display, a pyramid of stunted growth and yellow teeth. Displays were always more difficult than the shelved goods – no distinct starting point. Delilah stood with her legs slightly farther apart than was natural and pondered. She chose the tip of the pyramid and worked her way down. One. Two. Three. Four.
She reached for the fifth tin down – not carefully enough. It slid out of her fingers and toppled the rest of the display like metallic bowling pins. Delilah's hands flew to her ears to muffle the cacophony of cheap metal on dirty tile. As ringing gradually faded, she welcomed the sleazy R&B that Manny's always played over the PA system. Delilah's face grew hot. She squatted and began gathering the fallen tins.
The cashier walked over. Her steps were not as careful. Sixteen cracks, Delilah counted. The young woman looked down at Delilah with her hands on her hips, annoyed and smacking her blue chewing gum. Looking up, still squatting, Delilah felt like a lap dog about to be punished. She attempted to apologize, but the words, as always, lodged in her throat, freeing themselves only in painful, repetitive spurts. Her blush deepened, and she quickly stood up and walked away, but not fast enough to miss the cashier mutter, "Bitch" under her breath as she began rebuilding the pyramid alone.
Delilah went without coffee.
The walk back to Washington Heights was short. Five plastic grocery bags hung sorrowfully from her hands as the threat of winter whipped down the gray street. Delilah's coat was nice, a gift from her parents (as everything was), but no coat could repel the oppressive chill that Delilah always felt on the B-block – B for Bucher, Baker, Barton, and broken. The place was a crap shoot, she knew. She could've lived anywhere she wanted, her parents said. Anywhere. But she chose here.
She stopped in front of her building, Washington Heights. The one apartment building in all of Baltimore with the fifth room on the fifth floor available. Go figure. She turned her key and jiggled the door knob five times before stepping inside, thinking,
I hate the grocery store.
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The streets were chilly as Mrs. Flogsbottom stepped onto the cracked pavement. Her orange plaid coat wasn't enough- if only she had also brought her hand knitted neon green mittens and matching hat- she pulled her coat tighter around her body as she walked quickly up the street to Manny's Grocery- her not yet declared lover's work. The wind whipped at Mrs. Flogsbottom's skirt and it flew up, revealing her plump knees. Looking casually around, she spotted an onlooker, beguiled by her beauty. Oscar, the butcher, watched her curiously from the comfort of one of the chairs behind an outside table. He wasn't wearing a coat, but his huge form didn't require one. Mrs. Flogsbottom looked away, she wouldn't condone his sexual advances, she loved Achilles, besides, he was big enough to squash her entirely and not even notice until he scrapped her orange plaid blob off the floor.
The rundown exterior of Manny's Grocery made her heart flutter. From the grimy windows, covered with everyday sludge and foggy from the chill, she could see Achilles. His strong jaw, his warm mocha brown eyes, and his shining head. She did not see his receding hair line, fused with gray streaks, or his growing gut. His glasses were thick as a bread slices, but they added an allure- the green rim matched her own glasses stunningly. Sure she changed the color of her glasses to match his, but it was all for the price of love.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door with chipped paint, she stepped inside, grabbing a shopping cart for good measure. Achilles turned and smile widely, exposing the wide gap between his two front teeth.
"Well Mrs. Flogsbottom! What a lovely lady to see on such a dreary day!" Achilles said, bowing as he always did, just for her. Mrs. Flogsbottom turned a bright red, shyly looking down, counting in her head for 2 seconds, before looking up to him. It's all in the eyes, she thought, flirtatiously batting her eyelashes.
"If anyone deserves a brighter day, it's my special veggie man!" Mrs. Flogsbottom chortled, trying to laugh lightly, but sounding like a snorting pig.
"That coat looks mighty fine on you, the color is very unique, brighter than any carrot I've ever seen" he replied.
"I'd hoped you'd like it, but don't go and grow a watermelon head you tease!" Mrs. Flogsbottom laughed, delighted to hear Achilles laugh that resembled the sound of a horn blowing. "I suppose I should do my shopping- you know how busy I am, if you asked me out tonight I would have to refuse, that's how busy I am. So much to do, that's me- but how I love going out, especially with other people. It's so lovely. I love it. Oh, I'm dithering so, I'd best get back to shopping!" Mrs. Flogsbottom carefully walked down the first aisle she came to, sure to swing her hips vivaciously so Achilles would see. Needing some milk, she walked to the back section and saw Delilah pondering over the juices, but Mrs. Flogsbottom knew better. Ever since she and Delilah had wanted the same can of lima beans weeks before, she knew Delilah was enthralled with her. That's why she probably spent so much time at the juices just as an excuse to see Mrs. Flogsbottom. Well, if she ever tried to declare her love, Mrs. Flogsbottom knew exactly what to say, she had rehearsed it many times- with as many admirers as her, one always had to be ready.
It's not you dear, really. I think you are a stunning person and beautiful in your own sparkling way, but I cannot love you. I have another I have given my heart to completely and it wouldn't be fair to you to get your hopes up. And I like men. But she would only say the last part if she was talking to a woman, because her charms worked on both sexes. Curse the Gods for making her so irresistible!
With a gallon of milk, 2 candy bars, ice cream, and fettuccine pasta, Mrs. Flogsbottom tried to think of anything else she might need. A sudden crash of cans brought her back to reality as she watched Delilah bring a pyramid down, probably to get her attention. The cashier walked over to clean up, and Achilles quickly took her place at the counter. In break neck speed Mrs. Flogsbottom was in line and smiling coyly at Achilles. "Did you find everything?" Achilles asked, scanning her goods and putting them in paper bags.
"You have everything I need-" She waited a moment, forced a blush, giggled and said, "I mean your store- silly me!" Mrs. Flogsbottom smiled inwardly, she had been working on that line for 2 weeks, and it was even better than she thought it would be.
"I love to see you happy," Achilles replied, winking.
"You Don Juan," Mrs. Flogsbottom replied, "Why if you asked me out, you're so smooth, that I might just have to accept! Even though I'm so very busy and all, but I would probably push everything back, just for you!" Writing a check she handed it to him, making sure he could see her perfectly filed nails. "And my phone number is on there, in case there are any problems. Not that there would be, and even if there was, I live right down the street, Washington Heights, 2nd floor first apartment, so you could find me. How close we are! It's almost like a sign!"
With a final flirtatious wave, she walked out of the store, giddy as a school girl. With all her subtle hints, and his flirtatious responses, they would be together in no time- but now came chapter 3. Not seeing him for a while so he misses her and realizes how much he really loves her. It would be one of the longer chapters for her, but she was ready.
Gifts
Grandmother is the sort of woman whom you can crown with a thousand and one metaphors but never quite capture in type. She is as immense, as ancient as the Appalachian mountains wherein she dwells. She has tree-trunks for legs, boulders for breasts and white wisps of cirrus clouds for hair. Her teeth are jagged stones, her face is an autumn-leaf tracery of wrinkles and veins. Her blind eyes are the sun-starved gray of a snail's underbelly, and yet she sees incalculably more than those with technically perfect vision (which is a good thing, on account of her being somewhat hard of hearing).
The wind was howling, the sun rising and the year 1989 when Grandmother felt it -- the strangest sensation, as if something had reached its hand into her, grabbed a clavicle and started tugging.
Vexed, she stopped her knitting to swat at the thin air and mutter, "Busy, busy now. Leave me, you hands, you little imps' hands!" Then she resumed the project that lay across her lap -- something trying very hard to be an afghan but, in truth, more closely resembling an exploded woolen eggplant.
It was no use. The tugging only grew more insistent. So Grandmother tossed aside the blanket-in-progress/defunct aubergine and with a tormented cry of "Imps! Damned little imps!" reared to her full height (which was as impressive as a mountain's, a redwood's, a bear's, etc). She stormed out the cabin door, through brambles, across creeks and up steep slopes (in her stocking feet, no less) before finally her demons relented. She cupped her hand to her ear and heard something -- a weak wailing, a whimper. She dropped to her knees. Sure enough, there it was at her feet -- a mewling infant, black curls just beginning to sprout on its out-sized head.
The blood drained from Grandmother's wrinkled face and her voice dropped to a whisper. "It has begun."
. . .
Victoria ponders the question for a second, tops, and then shakes her head no. "He's not for sale." The man heaves an alcohol-reeking sigh, but Victoria only strokes the vulture's unfeeling head and offers the man a squirrel instead. "Little guy makes an excellent paperweight."
"I'll take him," the man says amiably before shifting to a more conspiratorial tone of voice. "You, uh, know of any good gambling around here?"
She glares at him. "I don't hold with gambling, Mister."
He shrugs. "I'll take that as a no."
She turns back to the vulture as the sinful man leaves with his squirrel. "That was a close one," she hisses. "I've just plucked you from the very fingers of perdition, you know."
She nods at the fat woman who has just now passed by, with grocery bags in her hands and an elegantly cut coat on her back. "Look at her," Victoria adds. "Where did she get a coat like that, I ask you, in a place like this? She's a harlot if ever a harlot I saw. This is a wicked place, and only me between you and it. You'd best remember that, and try doing your job -- next opportunity you get, that is."
Then she smiles, believing her feathered associate sufficiently chastened. "Oh, I could never part with you. You're downright important, you know! Why, I'm not quite sure . . . but Grandmother said it was so."
. . .
"I will give you three things before you go, Victoria," Grandmother said. "And they're all of them downright important."
First was the opossum, and next to it a bottle of whiskey. "Give this one a drink, and he speaks the truth," Grandmother said. "Just don't spoil him with fine liquor. Whiskey will do."
Next came the vulture. "This one will scream when danger is near -- and you'd best take heed of such warnings when they come."
Finally, the box. Grandmother did not explain the box. She said only, "Do not open this. It will open when the time comes."
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 Night
As Lulu Lamar re rigged her morning wake-up alarm, she felt the ground shake from Sinclair bounding in to say goodnight and then curl up in his usual corner of the bed. His tongue brushed across her toes, tickling them and she reached down and rubbed his soft ears. Lulu switched on the mattress heater, gently pulled back the old quilt that was once her mother's and climbed into the bed, snuggling up to her best and only friend Sinclair. The window was open letting the cool night air fill the room and she could smell the lingering scent of Chinese from Ming Ming's stream in with the breeze. Lulu slowly drifted off to sleep trying not to think about the many tasks of tomorrow.
Her eyes opened and closed. The air felt thick to her lungs, strangely thick. She opened her eyes and sat up to find flames all around her bed. Washington Heights was ablaze. She could now feel herself shaking from fear and the flames hot breath covering like a velvet curtain. She looked helplessly for Sinclair, but he was no where in sight. She had no one to comfort her and the smoke was making it hard to see; without her sight she would be left with just three senses and that was no good. She would die in these flames alone and without comfort. Looking around helplessly for a way out, she saw a familiar figure climbing through the window. A man she had not seen for many years, her father. He pulled himself through the window frame and came to her bedside, seeming to walk right through the flames. He sat down on the bed and reassured her that everything would be just fine. He kissed her cheek quite sloppily and then started to scratch her back. Lulu suddenly awoke from her dream to the kind presence of Sinclair and a very hot mattress heater. She turned off the heater and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It read 4:00 am. Way too early for Lulu so she snuggled back down and drifted back to sleep with Sinclair by her side.
The alarm had gone off and she felt the slow dripping of water on her forehead. She no longer had money for a nurse to wake her, so she had resort to other methods. Lulu prepared herself for the day, scooped up her flowers and put them in a basket. They were red carnations today, fake of course because of the weather. She called to Sinclair and walked out the door with him by her side carefully closing the old somewhat broken door and locking it. As she walked down the hall she passed Delilah Plunk. She had a box of cookies and seemed to be counting the rows and then eating the fifth cookie down. How strange. She caught Lulu's glance and gave her a short smile. Lulu weakly smiled back and hurried toward the elevator. The elevator always left Lulu feeling uneasy the way shook going up and down. It felt like a small earthquake. She was always relieved when it hit the right floor. Another cold, long day was about to start, but Lulu was not prepared for this particularly unusual day.
death & taxes.
The buses passing splashed water onto the sidewalk, making more puddles for Chloe to carefully avoid. Her shoes were drenched from the long walk, but she refused to ride public transportation. Think of all the germs! Her father used to tell her.
She quickly crossed the street, her hair falling into her eyes spilling out from underneath her hat. When she finally reached Washington Heights she was soaked and shivering in the cold October air. As she shook out her umbrella in the lobby of the complex, she noticed someone checking their mail, delicately sorting it into piles. Chloe walked over to the mailboxes and unlocked 1256. Nothing. There was never anything.
As she closed her mailbox she looked over at the woman who was now walking down the hallway, her steps oddly spaced. Just as she was turning the corner Chloe noticed a button in front of the mailboxes.
"Wait!" She called after the woman, but she was already in the stairwell. Chloe went over to the button, picked it up, and but it on top of the mailbosxes. Delilah Plunk she thought her name was. She'd been living there for over a year but hardly knew anyone.
When she reached her apartment there was a note slid underneath with familiar handwriting. Came by to see you, but I guess you're not around. Lawyer wants to see you. - Luke
Chloe quickly lit another cigarette and opened up a beer from the fridge. She turned on the tv but there was nothing worth watching. The phone rang and she jumped. I thought I unplugged that. She thought. She went over to the wall and pulled the cord out forcefully. Chloe finished the beer and decided to call Luke. She pulled out her cell phone from her purse and dialed the familar numbers.
"It's me," she said softly, uncomfortably, tapping her foot against her coffee table.
"I was worried. The lawyers said you never came, and you haven't been answering." He paused anxiously. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine, I just got nervous. I don't wanna deal with--"
"God! Not this again! You don't have to deal with anything!" Luke spat, interrupting her. "All you have to do is just show up, they'll read you a will and write you a check! It's that simple!"
There was silence.
"It's not that simple." Chloe said finally, breaking the silence. She lit another cigarette. "I have to go."
"Okay, will you need a ride there? I know you still haven't bought a car..."
"Luke, you know I can't have a car down here, there isn't parking. Stop bothering me about it."
"Why do you live in that shithole anyway? You can afford something much nicer. I'll help you find a place if you like."
"I like it here thanks, and I'll go to the layer tomorrow. Have a good night."
"You too. Are you sure you're okay then? I get worried, you never talk to me anymore. Are you still working.. I could help you get a job."
"I'm so sick of everyone trying to help me, I'm perfectly fine. I have an apartment, I have a job, I have money, I'm fine!" She slammed her phone shut and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and the battery flew off the back. She swore loudly, grabbed her coat, and stormed out of the apartment.
As she reached the lobby, Delilah was there searching on her hands and knees. Chloe wanted to tell her about the button, but before she could Delilah got up and scrambled away. Chloe flung the front door open and let the cold, bitter rain pelt her face.
FIl woke early. Water dripped down from a crack in his foliage roof. He got up and patched it with some dirt and leaves.The rain would cake the leaves together. People wanted their news. He rifled through his pile of rags and pulled out a patched up raincoat. It was too big. He had 'borrowed' it from the local store, and he was small for his age. His morning routine. He clambered down the branches and jogged to the edge of the town by the highway. Everyday, he found the newspapers. He didn't know who left them there, but he took advatage of it to make some nickels. He had to walk back under the weight of all the words he carried. He put the news down, stuck the sign back on the bus stop, placed the cup by his feet, and waited. It would be a long day. The constant drizzle was no bother to him. He just sat back and watched another sorry day unfold.
The first sign of life was the swindler, picking up his S.S. money. He had a stain on his shirt. Fil swore the man did it on purpose. Alan was high yet though. Maybe this day would turn around for him. No. there he goes to get his supply of syringes. When he was safely back in the building, the crazy woman came out of the store. She looked both ways and hurried back to her appartment building, oblivious to the rain. Fil felt sorry for her. The showgirl came out. She was wearing a smile, as always. Fil could not see why. When the world helped him out, he would smile, maybe say something, but not 'til then.
Another slow day. No one really bought newspapers, especially soggy on-ow, he thought. Someone had just run into him. People never noticed him. He liked it that way. This woman didn't notice either. Her face was blocked by boxes of flowers, stacked in her arms.
He waited. Now dusk, it was still raining. A woman on her phone crossed the street to Oscar's. She looked tense. The man that had been following her since she came to this town went after her. She came out quickly. She had blood on her hand. FIl was worried. The man didn't come out. Resigned, Fil started packing up for the night. Things were getting strange. Stranger than normal. He wanted to get out, but this was the only place he could remain anonymous, but he felt that was about to change. The town was stirring from its stupor. He didn't like it one bit.
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