by Elle Casey
“No parties,” the landlord says as I walk out the door.
“Righty-oh,” I say, running back to my car in an effort to get the smoke stench out of my hair. It wants to cling to me like it’s made of adhesive.
“You stink,” Quin says, waving her hand in front of her face.
“I know. She smokes like a fiend in there.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Tell that to Large Marge. Come on. Help me carry up some boxes. We can check it out together.”
“What do you mean, check it out?” she asks, taking a box I’m holding out. “Haven’t you already seen it?”
“No.”
Her mouth drops open. “What? Are you serious? You actually rented an apartment in Heroin Alley without even looking at it first?”
“What’s up?” asks Perry, walking over with two suitcases in hand. I still have my Burberry luggage for some reason. I probably should have sold it for the money, but I can’t bring myself to do it yet. Maybe next month when I need more mac-n-cheese than I can afford on my salary I’ll put them on Craigslist.
Quin responds. “She hasn’t even seen the inside of the apartment yet. She rented it sight unseen.”
“That’s brave,” he says. “Or incredibly stupid. What number is it?”
“Two-oh-four,” I say, holding up the key. It’s a very sad day when an asscar driver can legitimately call you incredibly stupid. I hand my head in shame.
He takes it from me and heads for the stairs. “Can’t wait to see this,” he says, walking faster than we can keep up with.
“You’re a complete nutbag, you know that?” Quin is mad. “You’re probably going to catch a disease in there. I’ll bet there’s shag carpet from nineteen seventy over rotten floors.”
“Maybe it’ll be new carpet,” I say, feeling really stupid. Having more money than I could spend in my past life has apparently shrunk my brain down to the size of a walnut. I’m making turkeys look like brain surgeons at this point. Good thing my dad is gone. He’d probably disown me over this; he always accused me of not thinking when I made decisions. I guess he was right about me after all. Fuck me with two boxes of fuck.
“Maybe it’ll have blood stains on it and gray matter chunks,” she says in a near-whisper.
“Stop,” I say, but a part of me is thinking she could be right. This place looks like a good location for an anonymous murder. I wish I had some of that glowy blue stuff in my moving boxes so I could look for body fluids before putting things down on the floor.
Perry’s laughter floats over the balcony.
“Oh, good,” I say. “That’s what a girl wants to hear when people walk into her apartment.”
Perry comes out and looks over the railing. “I hope you brought some Windex.”
As soon as I’m in the doorway standing next to Quin, I realize that the local grocery store won’t have the amount of Windex I’m going to need to make this place habitable.
“Holy Batman balls … that is … that is …” Quin can’t finish her sentence, so I do it for her.
“Heinous. Disgusting. Toxic. Worse than a murder scene.”
She looks at me with pity in her eyes. “Not worse than a murder scene. Right?”
I grimace as I look back at the room that is coated in bug killing powder residue. Taking in the rest of its ambiance, my heart sinks lower and lower until I’m pretty sure I feel it in my ankles.
The wall has a hole punched in it, right in the center. There’s a brown shag carpet that may actually be from the seventies but has since played host to about ten gallons of I-don’t-want-to-know-what that has been ground into its fibers. A single cabinet and hand sink makes up the corner kitchenette, and a window so grimy and opaque it’s possible it’s not even made of glass - it might be just a hunk of wood in a window shape - sits in the middle of the far wall. There’s one other mini-window with bent mini-blinds over it that looks out to the front entrance area.
“Nothing a little elbow grease won’t fix,” I say, my voice faint and weak.
Quin puts her arm around my shoulder. “What posters did you say you have?”
“Rick Springfield, Donny Osmond, and Shawn Cassidy.”
Quin nods slowly. “I’m feeling a definite seventies vibe in here. We could make it work.”
I look at her sideways, not sure if she’s messing with me. “Are you serious?”
She grins. “Yeah. Perry will help, won’t you, Perry?”
“No. I have to go.”
Quin glares at him. “You’re going to leave your former girlfriend in this shithole without fixing her drywall and cabinet? What’s wrong with you?”
“We made out once and she yacked on me!” he yells. “That doesn’t make her my ex-girlfriend!”
She continues to glare at him and he buckles. “Fine. Get me the stuff and I’ll do it.”
“Here.” She hands him fifty bucks. “Go get it and come back. Maybe she’ll give you a blow job when you’re done.”
I turn around in disgust, just in time to see the hopeful look on his face. I snatch the money out of his hand and slap him. “No, not really, pig. Go away. I’ll fix it myself.”
“You want your futon?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Well, come help me. I can’t lift it myself.”
I glare at Quin on my way out the door. “Do not pimp me out for wall repair ever again. Especially not to asscar drivers.”
She giggles as she walks out the door with me. “I have a feeling BJs are the going rate around here. I was just seeing how far you were going to assimilate into the Golden Legacy culture.”
“Not that far,” I say. “Definitely not that far.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’M STANDING IN MY NEW living room staring at the hole in the wall as I hold a small plastic tub of spackle. Up until thirty minutes ago, I didn’t even know a thing called spackle actually existed. I thought it was a way to describe bad makeup application, but apparently, the whole thing started in the construction world and not with Cover Girl liquid foundation and pressed powder.
I leave my front door open to help air out all the cleaning fluid fumes that don’t to seem want to leave the room. It could be because I poured them liberally onto the carpet, or it could be because I used about ten gallons of industrial strength stuff, but whatever; if the bugs don’t get me while I sleep, it’s very possible the chemicals will, but I’ve decided I’d rather go that way, so here I am.
“What happened in here? Crime scene cleanup?”
I look over at the teenager standing in my doorway. His pants are belted at his upper thighs and his baseball hat is on crooked. He looks like someone I should probably avoid, but his tone is nice enough.
“No. Not as far as I know, anyway.” I stare at the hole in my wall. “You know how to do drywall repair, by any chance?”
“Yeah.” He walks inside the room and stops about five feet away, inspecting my problem. “That’s an easy one.”
“So you say.” I hold up the little container. “Is this the right stuff?”
“Yeah, but you need some drywall to patch in there. That hole’s too big to just mud over.”
“Mud over?”
He lifts his chin in the direction of my spackle. “That’s what you’re holding in your hand. Mud.”
I look at the label. “I thought it was spackle.”
“Same diff. You got a knife?”
“What are you going to do with a knife?” I hope it’s not for stabbing me. I’ll be really mad if he has come in here pretending to be a construction guy just so he can take me out with my one butter knife. It’s not even sharp, so it’ll be a particularly painful death.
“You need something to spread the mud with.”
I walk over to the corner of the room and pick up the butter knife from my meager selection of utensils. “Here’s one.”
He laughs. “Not that kinda knife. A putty knife. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.”
&nb
sp; I’m still staring at the hole that needs mud and a knife when he returns. He comes in and stops next to me, giving me a better look at him. He’s probably about sixteen or seventeen, skinny as hell, with a light smattering of pimples on his cheeks. I’m not sure he needs a razor yet, but I can see he’s used one.
“This is a putty knife. And here’s a hunk of drywall you can use to patch the hole.”
“You have this stuff lying around in your apartment?” I take the two items from him, inspecting them on all sides.
“My dad does construction. We always have junk lying around.”
Walking up to the hole with the drywall chunk in front of me, I try and figure out how I’m going to get it to stay put. “So I just lay this thing in here and mud the shit out of it, and that’ll fix it?”
He speaks with the speed of a teenager. “No. Make the hole a square, then cut out a square about two or three inches bigger on all four sides, then make a cut the same two or three inches in and pull the back paper and plaster off those outside strips, then lay the patch into the hole with the extra inches of paper all around the hole, and mud over it.”
“Ass sphincter says what?”
“What?”
I about die when he falls for it. He stares at me with a bemused expression as I grip my stomach, trying to control my laughter. It’s possible I’ve blown a brain gasket and all the stress has caused me to lose my mind.
“I’m sorry … I’m sorry …” I gasp out. “I just … I have no fucking idea what you just said.”
He grins, telling me he’s a good sport. I already like him a ton.
“Give me that.” He takes the drywall hunk out of my hand along with the knife. “Get me a ruler and a pencil and a beer.”
“You’re not old enough for a beer,” I say as I dig through my backpack. I threw all my office supply stuff inside it, so if there’s a ruler in this house, that’s where it’ll be. I still have my five boxes to unpack, but until the residue is gone, I don’t want any of my things touching any surfaces in this place.
“If I’m old enough to fix your wall for free, I’m old enough for a beer.”
“Good point. But I don’t have any beer.” I look around my kitchenette. “Shit, I don’t even have a fridge.” How could I not notice before that I don’t have a fridge?
“I’ll take a raincheck. Ruler?”
“I don’t think I have one.”
“Okay, then we’ll just fudge it.” He goes about using a pocket knife he pulls out of his pocket to turn my fist-shaped hole in the wall into a square hole in the wall. He chats with me while he does his magic.
“So, what’s your name? Where you from? How old are you? Are you married? Got any kids? Ever been to jail?”
I laugh. “You want the whole resumé, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, my name is Teagan. I’m from Silicon Valley but I go to school here in LA. I’m almost twenty-two, single, no kids, and I’ve never been to jail. Now that I think about it, I guess I’m kind of boring.”
“Nobody who lives at the Golden Legacy is boring.”
“So, what’s your deal?”
“Well, my name is Rat, I’m from around here, I’m sixteen, not married, no girl but definitely looking for one, and I got arrested once but never went to jail.” He holds the hunk of drywall he brought over for me and eyes the dimensions to try and make it a couple inches bigger all the way around the square hole he made. He uses the pocket knife to saw away the extra.
“Brother’s or sisters?” I ask, picking up a rag and spraying ten squirts of Windex onto the grimy front window.
“I got a sister. She’s not around here, though. She’s older. I was the bonus baby.” He looks over and grins, and a gold tooth winks out at me. His grin drops away when he catches me grimacing. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry. Your gold threw me off.”
He frowns until he figures out what I’m talking about. “Oh, the grill.”
“The golden tooth. What’s up with that, anyway?” Now’s my chance to get into the head of a person who finds that kind of thing attractive.
He shrugs as he puts the patch up to the wall to test the size. He scrapes some of one of the edges off, all his attention on the drywall and not me. “Dunno. Guess I thought it was cool. Cost some money too.” He looks up. “You don’t like it?”
I’m afraid to answer him honestly. He’s being so nice to me, the last thing I want to do is insult him. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Go ahead and say it. You hate it.”
“Okay, fine. I hate it.”
“So does my ma. She whacked me on the head when she saw it. Every time I smile she rolls her eyes.”
“Must make you want to stop smiling.”
“Kinda,” he says, putting the patch up to the wall a few times while marking it with a pencil. “But whatever. Parents never like what their kids do, right?”
I nod. “You got that right.”
“What about your parents? They like where you’re living?”
“They’re dead.”
He stops everything and turns to look at me. “No shit? Dude, I’m sorry. That sucks. How’d it happen?” He sits down on two of my stacked boxes, staring at me, the drywall forgotten. He looks so cute, sitting there with his hat tilted crookedly and gold tooth shining from behind his lips. I promptly and silently ask the universe to find him a cute girlfriend.
I shrug. “My mom died of cancer when I was just born. I guess she had it while she was pregnant. Then my dad died just last week. I don’t really know how. Heart attack, I think.” The call from his lawyer is just a blur in my memory right now, another thing to deal with that I want to just forget.
“My condolences.”
I turn back to my nasty window, pretending to be very interested in getting it sparkling clean. I can actually see sunlight coming through it now. Apparently, it isn’t grime covering the glass; it’s paint. Who the hell paints over a window in a tiny, airless studio apartment? “Thanks,” I say without looking back. I’ve done enough sharing for one day, so I say nothing more about my family.
Thankfully, he takes the hint and goes back to the repairs. “Yeah, so we moved in here about a year ago. It’s not that bad if you can ignore Stella in the front office.”
“She’s pretty hardcore about the no partying rule, huh?”
He snorts. “Yeah, right. She wishes. Like she can stop that around here.”
I look over my shoulder and see him shaking his head.
“This place is never quiet. Never. There’s always people shouting, and playing music too loud, and throwing things around. I have to play static in my headphones just to study.”
“You study?”
He turns around. “What? I look like I don’t study?”
My face burns red. “Maybe?”
“Whatever.” He goes back to the drywall repair.
I feel like a total dick. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I’m an asshole.”
He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It’s easy to judge around here. Trust me, I live with it every day.”
Abandoning my cleaning I walk over to stand next to him. “Why do they call you Rat?”
He doesn’t answer me at first. His jaw muscle tenses and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to speak or not.
“It doesn’t sound like a very nice nickname, and I can’t believe your parents named you that.”
“Nah. They named me Julio.”
“So why Rat?”
“Because. When I see shit that’s not right, I tell.” He turns to me, his face a mask of seriousness. “I’m a rat, get it?”
“So as punishment you have to call yourself that?”
He shrugs. “I guess. But it doesn’t bother me. I’m proud of it.”
I nod. “You should be. Standing up for what’s right is a lot harder than following the crowd. Your parents must be happy.”
“My parents don’t know shit, and I want it to stay
that way. My mom already hassles me too much.”
“I get it. Well, your secret is safe with me, Julio.”
He grins at me so hard, I’m pretty sure I’m forgiven. “So you said you don’t have a boyfriend, right?”
I laugh. “No, but I’m not looking for one either, so keep it in your pants.”
“Damn, that’s harsh.” He’s still smiling as he goes back to his repairs. The patch is in place and he’s smoothing mud over the top of it.
“That looks fun,” I say. “Like decorating a cake.”
“Here,” he says, handing me the knife and the container of spackle, “have at it. I have to go anyway.”
“But …” I stare at his back as he’s leaving. “What do I do next?”
“Build up the mud higher than the wall surface and let it dry. We’ll sand it down and paint it tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Julio!” I yell out as he turns the corner outside my door.
“Don’t forget the beer!” he yells back.
I grin like a fool as I smear what looks like frosting all over my wall. I have cool-as-shit neighbors. How awesome is that?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MY NEIGHBORS ARE COMPLETE DICKS. Julio was not kidding about the noise.
I spend both Saturday and Sunday night sleeping on the futon mattress which is carefully covered with a bunch of garbage bags that are supposed to be protecting me from being attacked by regenerated sperm. All the bags do in reality is make me sweat my lady balls off and wake up way too early in the morning to the sound of the boom-boom-booming of someone’s rap music.
No partying my ass. The Golden Legacy is party central. Saturday night I crack my front door open and see a group of guys standing in a circle as they take turns break-dancing on cardboard in the parking lot. I didn’t even know people still did that.
The door remains locked for the rest of the weekend except for the one time Julio stops by to give me some sandpaper and more instructions for wall repair. Luckily, he didn’t have time to chat since he has business offices to clean on Sundays as his part-time job.
By the time I wake up Monday morning for my first full week of work, I’m a total wreck. I’ve been working up a sweat with all the cleaning I’ve been trying to do and the garbage bag mattress cover, yet my shower is still too disgusting to actually use. I’m pretty sure I’ll get dirtier showering in it than I was going in, so I clean up as best I can using the tiny kitchen sink. I’m hoping there will be a degreaser at work that will do the trick on the weird black stuff growing in and around the tub. I’d like to be able to use it someday.
