The Apartment, again
The first thing I did was excuse myself briefly while I went out to the balcony and swept away the scattered needles. This resulted in some odd reports to local weather stations from residents below concerning something along the lines of ‘the sky is falling’ that were dutifully ignored. No one was going to tell the local meteorologist his job. Once that was done I tended to my guest who remained where I had left her, standing in the threshold.
“Come in… please… I’m sorry I just-”
“That’s ok.”
She stepped inside. I’m glad she cut me off because I didn’t know where that was going. I probably would have spewed out the whole twisted tale. She would have slapped me and gone home absolutely appalled, and that would have left me alone, to tend to a love unrequited.
“Can I offer you something? Anything?”
“What have you got?”
Did that beautiful smile accompany everything? I thought for a second about what she asked me; to be totally honest I didn’t have much to offer, but there is a strategy in offering what you do have to offer.
“If you’re hungry I could make you a sandwich or something. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
Always start with offering that which has a moderate amount of preparation time. That way you create a little time to allow for development but not too much to leave you stranded. Speaking of time, I thought it’d be wise to take note of it, perhaps spare myself the future therapy bills, or at least make sure I was running within its confines and wouldn’t be roused by another unbalanced bus passenger. I expected some unrecognizable jumble, but this time the microwave flashed with a clear seven twenty eight, nine… it even progressed! It was really happening! And as an end to that aside, more often than not, the last option, if amiable enough, will be the most likely accepted.
“Tea sounds great.”
Offer something that has variety.
“Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey… Chai?”
“Chai?”
“Have you never had Chai tea?”
“I don’t think so…”
“Then you have to try it.”
She smiled
“Alright then.”
“The phone is on the table beside the couch in the family room.”
“Thanks.”
I let the tea brew while she used the phone. I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and freshen up. I didn’t want to impose on her privacy at this juncture in our fledgling relationship. I looked in the bathroom mirror and examined what I saw. Still donning the blue “Kitchen Staff” uniform and my faded black baseball cap I looked like I was losing the battle of life. I took off the hat to uncover a matted mess of short brown hair… with frosted tips. The result of weeks of litigation between me and a friend, who swore that dying my hair would change my life and solve all my problems. It was half past seven and I hadn’t even grown a two o’clock shadow on my chin or upper lip, which I had shaved the previous night. Those were the only areas experiencing any development in facial hair growth and to be honest I was wondering if the rest wasn’t just bad soil. All that seemed to sprout anywhere else consisted of tightly knit clusters of hair spawning from moles, the odd stray strand that stood alone, and consistent patches of adolescent acne, all of which amounted to very little in the self esteem department. To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as all that, or else beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, because in the other room, not more than fifty feet from where I stood scrutinizing my appearance, sat the most intriguingly beautiful being that could have ever graced my home and if Angelica was at all daunted or horrified by my youthful blemishes, she hid it amazingly well. To this day I still believe that there is only one factor with which to gauge self-esteem: requited love. If I loved Angelica (I was pretty sure it was escalating into such), and she loved me, there would be no need to further question my adequacy in the mirror. However that realization had not been made, and so I still tried to present what I had to work with the best I could in hopes of salvaging any possibility of kindling a mutual attraction; mutual feelings make surer foundations.
I took an uncomfortably brief shower, dried off, and focused my attention to my still-dripping hair, ruffling it back to some sort of life, though what type thereof I’m not at liberty to say. I preserved it in an extreme-hold gel. I always thought wet was better than dry anyhow; perhaps it appeals to some primal instinct relating to our foremost basic need of water; more than likely it’s a conditioning of “Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit Editions”. I redressed, not wanting to be caught in a towel… yet, and quickly stopped into my room to change out of my shirt, trying not to link the food particles clinging to my sleeve to their respective entrees. I slipped on a nice button-up T-shirt and left a few strategically planned places unbuttoned. I then returned to the kitchen. I felt like a heel. I had left her to fend for herself for nearly fifteen minutes.
The tea in the pot had steeped into an aromatic and homogenous comfort drink, just as I had planned. I poured it, fixed it, and slowly walked out to serve my guest. She was off of the phone and didn’t appear to have had a very good conversation… or I was too long. That was it. She had been offended by my inadequate hosting of someone of her caliber. She was livid. There was no trace of that smile in her features, her gaze was distant, yet penetrating, and her lips slightly pursed, but she was as beautiful as ever. She looked at me as I approached and I thought it best if she was not the one forced to break the tension in the air. I wasn’t prepared to defend myself from an attack… my defenses, usually so keen, were waning in her imposing presence. I asked more for my own sake than for hers, to establish some parameters, not to be taken unaware…
“Everything ok?”
I regretted it as soon as I said it. I know it was stupid, after all it was more than obvious that everything was not ok; people were starving, AIDS had reached epidemic proportions in countries, and, on a more immediate and local scale, she was visibly upset. I sat beside her on the couch setting the teas down on the table and turned to face her. She began to speak, but that musical voice I was so fond of was accompanied by an expression I hadn’t heard in it before that moment; it sounded strained, as though it were about to break and let loose a sadness that would cause the greatest mountains to crack in its wake. I was afraid of what I was about to hear.
“What’s that look for? It’s not the end of the world. There will be other parties Frankie… besides, now we don’t have to feel rushed.”
She sipped her tea. Her voice was as composed as it ever was and I wondered if she wasn’t perpetually peaceful. I guess parties aren’t her whole life. Did she have a single character flaw? I would be hard pressed to find one. I smiled, and I too sipped my tea. At length she spoke:
“So…”
If you would call that speaking… I ventured a guess that she was action oriented.
“What would you like to do?”
“I don’t know… what do you usually do?”
“With company?”
“Yeah.”
“Go somewhere else.”
“Oh… well, do you have a deck of cards?”
“Playing cards?”
All I got in response was a knowing look and that smile; I fetched a deck of playing cards from a nearby drawer where they had sat untouched for years past.
“Do you know how to play Gin?”
I didn’t. Come to think of it, I knew how to play very few card games, with the exception of fifty-two-card pickup; I learned early on to avoid activities that involved any ‘picking up’. I shook my head. She proceeded to give me a quick five-minute lesson on the rules of play, followed by a ten-minute beginner’s strategy tutorial and went on to triumph in the game for an additional three quarters of an hour.
It was my deal, and if I wasn’t dropping them while shuffling, or tossing two at a time, I was flinging them clear off the table.
“Sorry.”
She shrugged it off and deftly organized her hand. As poor a player as I was I could definitely get used to this. Sitting face to face, looking intently in the eyes of your opponent to try and decipher their stratagem, the ease of conversation, the brushing of hands, the moments when the look in her eyes tells you that the last thought in her mind wasn’t on the game. Playing cards is a wonderful pastime. I was just about to go out, winning my first hand, when she glanced around and caught a glimpse of the glass-framed spectacle outside the window.
“Oh!”
“What?”
She simply stood in response and walked to the window.
“There’s a balcony you know…”
She eagerly followed me out onto the elevated open-faced platform nine stories above the parking lot where I caught a glimpse of the splendor she had seen. In the hour we had sat idly by and played cards the world around us had been busy churning up a storm. The sky was ominous and dark even though the sun would have just begun its decent. The turmoil of the atmosphere was presented to every faculty of sense. Lightning that bounced around illuminating the clouds, would be spontaneously released from its prison and smite the earth with its wrath, to which a deafening roar rolled behind; whether it was the cry of the earth, or the lightning’s unnecessary reinforcements couldn’t be distinguished. Although the rain had not yet been set free from its celestial stronghold, a warm breeze forewarned of its imminent presence with an aroma that can only be described as the calm before the storm, arriving late. We watched the gathering momentum of nature’s performance; the warm breeze blowing Angelica’s hair about her, mingling the scent of the coming rain with Outrageous shampoo; if only they could bottle that. Then, with an explosion of light and sound, a bolt of lightning rent the sky and let loose the torrent. It came too all of a sudden to wholly avoid. As quickly as we could we pushed the table and chairs back against the wall so we could sit and watch the show without audience interaction.
“Would you like a drink or anything?”
“Another cup of Chai would be nice.”
We must have sat out there for two hours engaged in conversation, sipping our teas, and enjoying the interruptions of the storm. When the clouds finally began to thin and disperse, revealing the backdrop of night scattered with the first distant stars, all three of those visible, still almost indistinguishable, through the haze of the city’s lights, I dreaded the impending announcement that Angelica would be heading home. Throughout the course of the evening I had fallen under the impression that the night would never end. To my dismay it seemed to be ending entirely too soon.
“I guess I had better get going… I didn’t think it was so late.”
I knew it.
“Yeah… I guess.”
“Thank you, Frankie… for a wonderful evening.”
I had been patient… but I figured I should bite the bullet, albeit lightheartedly, so I corrected her with a smile.
“Phillip.”
“Phillip? What have I been saying?”
“Frankie.”
“Oh m’gosh! I’m so sorry!”
She said it laughing. That was easy…
“I can’t believe I’ve been calling you Frankie all night…”
“It’s ok.”
The laughing stopped.
“No. It’s not. I’m such an idiot!”
On second thought, she seemed to be taking it rather hard…
“Why didn’t you correct me sooner? I hate you! I’m so stupid”
A little too hard…
“Really Angelica, it’s no big deal; I’m partly at fault.”
“Shut up! I hate you! I hate you, I hate me, I hate everything!”
I had to go and open my big mouth… she had started crying and was hyperventilating.
“Angelica?”
Between convulsions…
“Shut up! Get away from me!”
I took a step in her direction and she hurdled off of the balcony to a gruesome death nine stories below.
“Phil?”
She called me back.
“Are you ok?”
She called me Phil…
“Yeah, I’m fine… sorry, I just…”
“It’s ok… look, here’s my number. I had a lot of fun tonight. We should do this more often.”
She scribbled down her name and number on a piece of paper. Even her penmanship was of an unsurpassable quality in it’s own unique way. She turned to go.
“Wait!”
I tore the piece of paper, ever so carefully as to not mar her hastily scrawled yet beautiful name and number, and I wrote my own name, in my best block letters, and my number below it on the other piece and handed it to her. She looked confused.
“So you can call me too.”
I didn’t think a further explanation would be necessary, but that wasn’t the problem in the first place.
“Frankie?”
Shit! (That’s a word I’ll try never to say, but I’ve been certainly known to think it on occasion… this being one of them.) What was my name anyway? I took back the piece of paper and scribbled out “FRANKIE” and wrote “Phillip” next to it. I made a little nervous laugh and that seemed to set things right. She smiled, shook her head, and put the piece of paper in her pocket. Once again she turned to go.
“Wait!”
She turned back once more.
“You forgot something…”
I picked up a picture that was left on the table. It was taken from her wallet with a bunch of others during the course of the night to help illustrate a story. A tangible memory to share on rainy evenings; I made a mental note to get a camera and start taking more pictures, myself having none to accompany my stories.
“Oh! Thanks…”
She put the picture back in its place. With a final check to make sure nothing was left behind she was heading on her way.
“Wait!”
When she turned again it was with an amused impatience. I assumed a playful disposition.
“Can I walk you home?”
“No.”
Ouch. Shot down. Rejected. Too much too soon. I’ve betrayed myself. She’ll hate me now, start thinking I had ulterior motives. She’ll start finding excuses and will slowly, or quickly, distance herself from my seemingly obsessive-compulsive freaky pseudo love lust! Such honorable intentions unjustly misconstrued by not keeping my mouth shut and thinking before…
“I’m not walking home.”
I lost my train of thought… where was I?
Pause and think. Recapitulate. That was plausible. I later learned how far a walk that would be. Suffice it to say far, and it was… 10:30; unsafe for a beautiful girl alone at night, at least in this neighborhood; of course she wouldn’t walk. In the midst of my confusion she went on and abolished my ill-navigated locomotive.
“You can walk me to the bus though.”
I finally accompanied her off of the balcony breathing a silent sigh of so much more than mere relief. We were on our way the moment I was ready. It took me some time to get ready because I kept trying to tend to Angelica.
While getting a sweater…
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“No thanks.”
While tying my shoes…
“Hungry? A little something for the road?”
“No. Thank you.”
While searching for my wallet and keys, which were handed to me by the patient Angelica, standing with the door propped open and ready to go…
“Ready?”
“Quite.”
“You’re sure I can’t offer you a…”
Just a nod in reply.
We were out the door (which I mechanically locked). I walked halfway to the elevator before I stopped and ran back to the door to make sure it was locked. I did this all the time. I returned to the elevator to see Angelica waiting with her foot in the door (she was cute when impatient, so I couldn’t count it against her). Down the elevator, into the lobby, and onto the street. While opening the door I recalled my earlier premonition of the grim death that awaited me outside. I looked at Angelica and decided it would be worth it to make this night my last, before I had the opportunity to wake up again, or screw it up, and I continued on with her beside me. Deja vu. There was a guy getting the tar beat out of him (I knew him to be a smoker and I think he actually was coughing up black stuff while his assailants kicked him) and a group of 15 year olds smoking a joint. The two guys who would introduce me to my maker were conducting their business a few feet away. As I knew it would, everything stopped and everyone turned to look at Angelica. The victim of the attack struggled to his feet and stopped when he saw her. The kids smoking up saw her. My murderer and his accomplice saw her, as did their clients. Everything froze and I prepared myself for the inevitable.
“Hey! Not so fast; we’re not done with you yet…”
The assailant who first noticed that his punching bag had risen leapt after him and tackled him back to the ground. The other two rejoined in the festivities.
“This is some good shit!”
That was from one of the kids smoking the expensive clippings of a recently weeded garden. All of his friends agreed, nonetheless.
“Hey, Phil…”
This was from the guy who was going to stick me with an ice pick. Not everyone gets these predictions 100% accurate, Nostradomus missed more than a few, a number of times, but I was certain that my time had come.
“I thought you were gay. Where’d you find her? Hey baby, want a real man?”
“Sure, big guy.”
Angelica left me and took his arm. He had dealt me a blow worse than death.
“Come on Phil, let’s go.”
She took my arm and directed me and my hyperactive imagination, away from the fray, into the night.
There was the bus stop right across the street from my house. We went there. Now, for Angelica to get home she would have to ride the bus to the mall, where the terminal is, and transfer onto another bus. At this time at night, that driver would, by request, stop right in front of her house, provided it was en route, which it was, because she had done this before. The mall is a ten-minute walk from my building, so I suggested that we walk instead of wait, because there are stops along the way should the bus approach in the meantime.
It was a humid night, the streets still wet from the recent rain. It wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too cool; everything about that night was absolutely perfect. As we walked together, I think we were both trying to figure out how we got where we were, trying to trace the day’s events and how they drew to this conclusion. We walked in silence for the most part, our footfalls and the odd passing car the only sounds with which to pace our thoughts. Personally, I’m a thinker. There’s always something being worked out in my head, and if some external guide isn’t keeping track of the real world for you, it’s easy to get caught up in a net of ideas. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was noting our footsteps, and the way they seemed to mesh, like we were meant to walk together. We weren’t in sync, but we were headed in the same direction, which is more than most people could say of another. We reached the bus stop without being overtaken, and we stood under a lamppost anticipating our separation. It wasn’t until we saw her bus pulling into the turnaround that we spoke to each other. Even then it seemed too soon in comparison to the amount of time needed to assess exactly what transpired that night. Were we friends? Were we strangers again? Were we more? I had so many questions. When would I see her again?
“Goodnight.”
It was the greatest night I had ever known.
“Goodnight, Phil. Call me sometime…”
Sometime didn’t sound very promising.
“How about tonight?”
I couldn’t believe I said that. I don’t know what was at fault, my brain for not keeping that thought a secret, my lips for not knowing when to keep shut, or my tongue for choosing this opportunity to liberate itself from the shackles of introversion. What’s more, I couldn’t believe her response.
“Sure.”
At this juncture the bus pulled up and opened its double doors. As she stepped up onto the first step I noticed that I had extended a hand towards her. I wasn’t waving, I wasn’t reaching, and I certainly wasn’t grabbing, although I think that is the impression I gave the bus driver. She cast a dreadful glare in my direction but I hardly even noticed it. Once on the second step Angelica turned around and saw my outstretched arm. Without any awkward pauses or silences or second thoughts she took my hand in hers. It wasn’t prolonged or profound, she just held it for a moment and turned around to seat herself for her ride home. That was goodbye. At least for an hour before I’d try and call her. The bus’ doors shut and it began its route. I watched it for as long as I could then I started on my way back home. There was not so much as an inkling of thought preoccupied with what horrors lay lurking in the night to thwart this perfect day as it approached its end. The time was ten fifty-seven. I didn’t know that because I still wasn’t wearing a watch, but if I were I would have known as much. At 11:00, not more than three minutes after her bus passed from view and I was homeward bound, the onslaught would be over and I would have failed. I was taken totally off guard.
Ever since the occasion I am about to share with you it has been my firm conviction that a faculty exists within every person whose only purpose is to bring agony to the self. A subtle, malicious, masochistic, thought process that, once begun, gathers the momentum of a freight train and careens down a track destined for misery and despair. This domestic enemy takes a number of forms and its sphere of influences stretches beyond the reaches of any innate defense mechanism if it is not halted in its tracks before it gathers steam. I had entertained a thought and the grueling battle had begun. I couldn’t have helped it. The battle was destined to be fought.
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