“You’re a liar,” he growls as he carelessly drops the padlock to the floor where it leaves a divot in the worn, peeling linoleum, and stomps through the kitchen like a pouting preteen girl. He’s a short, pudgy, acne-riddled, fourteen-year-old with a lopsided mohawk he shaved himself, and he’s carefully chosen clothes to match his disingenuous attitude. In his mind he’s menacing, but in reality, he’s harmless. Except for the stealing. And the lock picking, apparently.
He’s right. I lie. It’s cheap entertainment. But I never lie about anything important. Because the important stuff I don’t talk about at all. The list of important stuff is short. Mainly, it revolves around a calendar,The Count-Out,I call it, folded up in my wallet. It’s sandwiched between a condom on one side and imaginary money on the other. I’ll tell you about it later, when the time is right. When I feel like I can trust you with my secret.
I drop my backpack on the sleeping bag on the floor in my room, lock the door behind me with the tainted padlock, which now seems futile, and make my way to the answering machine on a rickety chair that sits below the telephone mounted on the kitchen wall. The message button on the answering machine is flashing. It’s always flashing. A desperate distress call the tenants of this fine establishment, an ancient Victorian house that’s been converted into five apartments, know will be answered but rarely with the news they want, or for that matter, need. You see, I’m the superintendent for this dilapidated pile of shit I callhome sweet home. Did I mention I’m a sarcastic asshole? You’ll see soon enough. Darkness within gestates; sarcasm is the result. It’s how I breathe. My black soul is the wolf,the assholeis the sheep’s clothing.
I’m seventeen and have never had a home. Have I always had a roof over my head? Most nights, yes. Was it a clean, habitable environment suited for humans? Sometimes. Was it a place that felt like home? Never. My current situation, until the fifth of June when I graduate from East High School, houses me in the roomy kitchen pantry of apartment 3A. The attic apartment is a kitchen surrounded by two cramped bedrooms, a bathroom, and the kitchen pantry—it’s minimal. I used to have the second bedroom, but when Cliff moved in, I volunteered to give it up because he has more stuff and he’s Johnny’s family. And before that, I used to live in apartment 1A with my mom. She was evicted almost two years ago and disappeared and I had nowhere to go. Our landlord, Johnny, offered me a job as the building super (because he’s usually too drunk to deal with calls), paying me with room and board and a little cash in my pocket every Friday. I live like a king—yes, that was sarcasm again.
I press play and listen as my afternoon is dictated to me.
Message one: “The water is rising, Toby! It’s pouring in through the window! I’ve seenThe Poseidon Adventure, I know what’s going to happen! The ship’s going down! We’re all going to dro—” It’s Mrs. Bennett downstairs in apartment 2B, on the second floor of a building in a landlocked state, I might add, which makes oceanic waves pouring in through the window an impossibility. At least once a week she calls in a panic and asks me to save her from herself. I tap thenextbutton and make a mental note to knock later and make sure she’s not alone.
Message two: “Toby, get down here. The fridge ain’t workin’ again—” It’s Mr. Street in apartment 1B. I tap the next button because the gist of his tragedy has been relayed—he’s pissed his Pabst is lukewarm.
Message three: “Toby, Johnny here.” He always tells me who it is, as if I won’t recognize the familiar, slurring voice barking orders at me. “New tenants in unit 2A. Meet them at four o’clock. Keys are on the kitchen counter. I need these renters, so don’t screw this up.” Stunted sentences punctuated with condescension against the background soundtrack provided by the drunk patrons of Dan’s Tavern—this is the daily one-sided dance between us.
The blinking, red message light dies out. Only three SOS calls today. It’s a banner day. And it’s Friday. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall above the stove. It’s shaped like a rooster. Cliff calls it thecock clockbecause he’s clever like that. It’s covered in layers of grease and dust. I wonder how long it’s been hanging there because I’ve never seen anyone cook on that stove to generate grease splatters. It reads fifteen past four. I’m late to let the new tenants in. I have a thing about being late and Johnny knows it, which is why he told me to meet them at four o’clock. He knows I don’t walk in the door from school until a few minutes after four. He knows when I realize I’m already late, I’ll start sweating (yes, my pits are damp) and the nail-biting will begin (yes, they’re disgustingly short and hurt from my neurotic attacks). Most people don’t pay close enough attention to notice my reactions. Johnny has an odd talent for picking up on my ticks. Grabbing the keys from the counter and the toolbox from on top of the refrigerator, I head out the door.
I bound down the stairs and notice there’s no saltwater seeping from under Mrs. Bennett’s door when I walk past so I save her for last. Apartment 2A is on the second floor and is furthest from the stairs. A figure is sitting on the floor in front of the door with their legs outstretched. I squint, because my eyesight is far from 20/20 and glasses aren’t a luxury I can afford, and decide the figure is female and alone. The closer I get I can see her hands resting in her lap, her head bowed exaggeratedly so that her incredibly long blonde hair pools on the hardwood floor on either side of her.
When I step over her legs that are punctuated with scuffed, black Dr. Martens boots, I notice her startled reaction to my momentary invasion of her personal space, but I don’t acknowledge it. I walk directly to the door, slide one of the two identical keys on the ring in the dead bolt lock, and open it. Leaving the keys dangling in the lock, I step aside with my back still to her so she can enter.
She stands but makes no attempt to walk past me to enter the apartment. At the same time I turn to face her, she thrusts out her hand. It hangs in the air between us, suspended resolutely but shaking like a delicate kite riding a violent wind. I grip it with my own and shake firmly, more to quiet her tremors than to return the act of civility.
“Too much caffeine this afternoon, I guess,” she says playfully to acknowledge the jitters. I’m painfully aware of my damp palm and release immediately, when she adds, “Thanks. I’m Alice.”
I hear an odd combination of hope, confidence, and nerves in the lilt of her soft voice. It’s almost enough to draw my eyes to hers. But making eye contact at close range would require bravery, which I lack. I have bravado for days—bravado that usually translates into perceived arrogance—but no actual bravery to back it up. My mom always said I was a coward; I hate to admit she’s right. But she’s right. So I keep my gaze trained on the floor and bite my thumbnail instead, all while I speed walk back down the hall to escape before she turns around and tries to initiate conversation. It’s not that I dislike conversation, I dislike that it’s a two-way street. I prefer to watch and listen like a spectator. From afar. Okay, maybe I do dislike conversation.
“Thanks,” she calls again. It’s louder and clearer this time. The hope and confidence muffling the nerves.
For a second, I feel a twinge—pity knotting up like unstrung fishing line—behind my ribs for her, as I think,Say goodbye to hope, this is the place it comes to die. I contemplate calling back with my name as I hit the stairs to descend to Mr. Street’s, but I figure what’s the point? She’ll find out I’m an asshole soon enough if she doesn’t already know, no need for pretense and the showy pageantry of manners now. She may as well get the real Toby right off the bat.
Mr. Street opens the door in a dress shirt and pants cloaked, as always, in a clean, but shabby, brown terry cloth robe that looks out of place. A beer in one hand, his pipe in the other. The tobacco smoke swirling around him smells faintly of cinnamon today.
“What took ya so long?” he asks.
I glance at the television and realize he’s watchingTaxi Driverand that this is his best Robert De Niro impersonation. Which is a little disturbing because Mr. Street is, indeed, a taxi driver. He grandiosely calls himself an actor but says driving a taxi puts some money in his pocket between the “theater work.” In the three months he’s lived here I’ve been presented with poor representations of many movie characters. Some I know, some I’ve never heard of. He sucks at all of them. No wonder he’s a taxi driver. I’m also one-hundred-percent sure I’ve never met the real Mr. Street.
I don’t answer him and walk through his spotless apartment making a beeline for the fridge. It’s a bulbous, turquoise relic from the fifties. Grasping the long lever-action pull, I jerk the door open to take a look inside. There’s a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon neatly lined up on the top shelf, the cans’ placement methodical and precise. I picture him unpacking them into the fridge with the intimate touch most men reserve for a lover’s body. The thought is too perverse, Mr. Street caressing beer cans with his bony fingers, so I stop and focus on the task at hand. The only other things in the fridge are a few stray individually wrapped American cheese slices and an open package of hot dogs sitting in a pool of their own unnatural, watery juice. I bet he doesn’t even cook them. I bet he eats them straight from the package. Maybe he wraps them in a cheese slice if he’s feeling gourmet. When I have a diversion, this is the kind of crap my racing mind drifts to and gets tangled up in—the filthy dietary habits of the thespian boozehound on the first floor. My life is pathetic.
He’s hovering behind me. I can feel the itch of his stiff robe on my elbow.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he demands. His breath is a conflicting mixture of tobacco and toothpaste, not a hint of hops despite the beer in his hand. Maybe it’s a prop.
All I can assess so far is that the chamber inside is room temperature instead of cold.
I set my toolbox down on the floor and mutter, “Gimme a minute.”
I want to tell him I forgot my crystal ball upstairs, but I’m feeling charitable and keep my mouth shut and close the door. Stepping to the side, and away from him, I wrench the behemoth of an appliance away from the wall and inspect the coil and motor on the back. I’ve attempted to repair this ancient thing twice this month, to limp it along to its inevitable death.
I’ve always been pretty good at fixing things because it was a necessity growing up. We never had much and what we did have was secondhand and usually way past its prime. I started tinkering when I was young because I was curious to find out how things worked but also because I liked things like a toaster that actually toasted. All of that came in handy when I was forced to be handy with this job.
Pushing it back against the wall, I steal a glance at Mr. Street and he’s looking on expectantly, though the De Niro malice he’s channeling in his eyes makes it appear sinister instead of innocent.
“Nothing I can do. I’ll start looking for a new one.”
He throws his hands in the air incredulously, foam sloshing out of the can, and soaking into his pristine attire. “How long will that take?” He has the attitude down today. Kudos for that. Though when he registers his shirtsleeve sponging up the beer spill, he grumbles softly and surprisingly out of character, “Shit.”
I shrug, pick up my toolbox from the floor, and head for the door. Truth be told, I hate confrontation. It’s another thing that makes me sweaty. But bravado masks it, in the combination of standing tall and silent. I feel like an imposter when I do this, a fraud, but it always works. The other person perceives my posturing as me asserting power, instead of me hiding behind armor. That works for me.
