“You look great!” I secretly wonder if she is cold, but she is an adult and can dress herself without my advice. “Do you have a date or something?” I inquire, pulling my bag onto my shoulder.
“Nope, just like to look my best. Never know who you’ll bump into.” She gives a spin, causing her dress to lift and fan out from the action.
I envy that carefree feeling, wishing I too could twirl around in my favorite flowy skirt without a care in the world. How could someone with such an infectious personality want to work at a B Grade grocery store, like Star Mart? Clearly, she’s from money, but why here? She belongs selling vacations or designer handbags that are worth triple my monthly rent.
“Let’s grab lunch one day soon,” she suddenly suggests, pulling me from my super judgy thoughts.
Don’t be a bitch. I tell myself. You don’t know her. “I’d like that,” I say as we walk side by side, down the sidewalk.
“I’ll text you!” She sings songs.
Right, she has my number now. I nod and smile, before she says, “Byeeee.” Seeming to dance away down a side street, while I continue walking the path toward my apartment building.
I don’t need a key to get into my building. It’s nice, especially in the colder months when you just want to get inside and warm up. Someone always has the lobby door propped open with a brick or something they’ve found lying around in the street. More often than not, someone was accidentally locking themselves out or forgetting their key, so the tenants informally agreed the easiest solution was to leave the door ajar. Sure, it’s not exactly safe, but most of the neighbors know one another, and we don’t exactly get a lot of visitors to our building. If someone they don’t know comes around, people have no trouble asking what their business is here.
I slip past the entry, replacing the tire iron in the door, before stopping by the collection of metal mailboxes. Most are stuffed to the brim with letters, while boxes line the edges of the lobby floor. Since packages don’t fit in the building’s meager, slottedcompartments, they go on the floor. It was all based on the honor policy. We always get our mail, so the system works.
A small sticky note was inside our mailbox, indicating one of those staged packages was for us. I reached down, picking up and turning over each cardboard box, until I found a shoebox sized one, with my name and address. Placing the rest of the mail under my arm, I make my way up the stairs to our third-floor apartment. Inside, I retrieve a pair of scissors from the kitchen, to open the mystery shipment. No return address. I didn’t think you could mail anything without a return address. It has my information on it, but I don’t recall ordering anything. When my parents send me something, my mom calls twice a day to make sure it arrives on time. So, I can count them out as senders. It was very light, considering the size of the package. Running the scissor along the taped seam. I opened the box. Inside, sat another box. This one was white and looked brand new, like it was just purchased from a postage store. Slicing the tape along its edges, I pull out yet another box, slightly smaller than the last. This box, however, was black. No tape, just held together with a purple ribbon. I pull at the bow and lift the lid of the box, finding it filled with purple, sparkly tissue paper. My heart stills and I drop the package to the floor. Stepping back, I all but grasped the scissors in my fist, whirling around expecting to defend myself. From what or who, I’m not sure. I’m met with a still, quiet apartment, just how it was when I arrived.
Wow, I am paranoid! I put down the impromptu weapon and went to Andrea’s door. Knocking softly, I wait. No answer. I’m home alone. Why is she never here when I need her? Picking up the fallen box, I pull back the tissue paper to reveal a neatly folded note. Tiny cut-out letters were arranged to form words.Try not to lose this one,it reads.
“No,” I whisper.
I pull out the tissue slowly, until I find what I suspected would be inside. Was this some kind of fucked up game? I stand frozen in utter disbelief, as the purple star mocks me from the stem of the earbud sitting just inside the box.
I feel sick and confused. This joke isn’t funny. I haven’t felt this vulnerable since I was little. When my life changed. Is someone trying to trick me?
I recheck the locks on the front door, I need to know that no one can get to me. I reread the note, trying to discern who would do something like this. Andrea would never play such a cruel joke on me. She’s always inquiring about who I’m with or where I’m going. It’s like having an extra mom away from mom. Whoever is doing this must have known I got rid of it. Don’t those things have trackers? If I keep it, will they leave me alone?
I pace the length of the small apartment kitchen while I think. After some time, I decide to keep the infernal thing, but I refuse to use it again. What other choice do I have? I put the white bud back in its smallest box, open my bedroom door and chuck it onto my bed before slamming the door shut.
My ears were sore, and I felt a headache coming on. I remove my hearing aids, place them in the charger by the door, and attempt to busy myself. My brain is short-circuiting, and I need to do anything other than spiral into insanity. I’ll occupy myself the best way I know how. Cleaning.
Starting off easy, I begin breaking down the mind fuckery number of boxes and set them by the door for recycling. Then I move onto wiping down the kitchen counters and replacing the garbage bag beneath the sink. Once I finish in the kitchen, I march over to the small storage closet beside the bathroom and pull out the cordless vacuum.
On this episode of Cindel teetering on madness, join us as we watch her rage clean the whole damn apartment, so she doesn’t have to face her current circumstances. I’m sweating.I focus on sucking up every single dust bunny as I extend the nozzle beneath Andrea’s bed. She has lots of junk under here. I can’t hear the whirring of the vacuum, but the tones of bells are forever present.
A tap on my shoulder causes me to jump back and a scream rips from my throat. I turn to find my perturbed roommate.
Turning off the vacuum, I give her the “one minute” finger, scurrying through our home, appliance in hand, to retrieve my hearing aids. Aids in place, I gingerly slide the rocker switch as I find Andrea before me in the living room.
Her eyes bounce around the room, admiring the results of my cleaning bender. “Wow!” I can now hear her say. “That bad of a day?”
Our apartment is never this tidy.
“Something like that.”
I tuck the vacuum back into the closet and come to sit next to her on the couch.
“Was it Creepy Craig?” she inquires.
“Tuna breath was tame today.”
She skates her knuckle back and forth over her lips.
“Was someone mean to you? Do I need to hurt them?!”
I laugh at the suggestion. She was the kind of friend who couldn’t hide what she was thinking from her face. Her features were intense, as she probably debated accompanying me to work next time. Andrea has never had a problem speaking her mind.
