by H. B. Hogan
A new automated announcement came over the intercom: service suspension both ways at Sheppard–Yonge station for a security incident. Karla tightened her grip on the banister. She was ready for a fight.
The TTC Constables did eventually escort her from the premises, but she went willingly, after she was satisfied she had impressed upon them the importance of punctuality and reliability to a successful transit system, and when she saw the shuttle buses were only going two stops down to where the subway service was still running. In all of the excitement, though, Karla had forgotten to remove her Daily Dispatch smock. By the time she got home that afternoon, there was a message from her supervisor telling her not to come back to work, and instructing her on how to return her smock to head office or else they’d deduct the cost of it from her last paycheque. Karla shut off her ringer and went to bed for three days straight. The premonitions of her own death started when she woke up. That was three weeks ago.
The kettle boils, and Karla slowly pours the water over her tea bag—a morning habit that she’d curated in her twenties because it seemed like something a writer would do.
“Seems a shame it should all die with me,” she whispers, watching her tea bag sink slowly to the bottom of her cup. Like her unwritten novel, which there was no point in starting, since she wouldn’t have time finish it. And all the things she’d seen—things that would have formed the foundation of her book and its many sequels. She thinks of the boxes of notebooks she’d accumulated over the past ten years. On every birthday and Christmas, from every supportive, well-meaning relative and friend, back when they were still willing to put up with her. Moleskines. Floral hardcovers. Pocket-sized, letter-sized. Brand new and re-gifted. Some lined, some not. Some with calendars, some without. Monogrammed. Watermarked. Plain. All of them, empty.
A vision comes to her: an ending to her as-yet-unwritten novel. Edward, the superintendent, is in the building’s dark and grimy basement. It’s the height of summer. The basement is cool but humid. He groans as he shifts mildewed boxes from a storage locker onto a metal dolly. The rubber grips on the dolly’s handles have disintegrated with time, leaving his hands smelling of pennies long after he’s touched them.
He sighs and lifts the last box to the top of the pile on the dolly. He has already dumped four loads of these boxes into the garbage. This is the last. He slams the now empty storage-locker door shut behind him and the twang echoes down the damp concrete hallway.
“Edward?” the building manager hollers down the elevator shaft. “Edward! The police are here about unit 804!”
Edward runs through his mental roster of tenants most likely to die without anyone noticing. Karla. Karla what’s-her-name is in 804. Her rent is two months overdue. He hasn’t seen her since last winter, and she was clearly unhinged back then. He doesn’t need the police to identify the stink at her end of the hallway. Edward nods in the dark. Good riddance; the woman was a bully.
He pushes his cart down the hall and prays that Karla what’s-her-name had the decency to get rid of all her crap before she kicked the bucket. Edward enters the garbage room and pulls the dolly up to the open end of the Dumpster. He pulls at the packing tape that seals the box shut, flips open the top, and smirks at what he sees.
Stacks of lumpy notebooks huddle shoulder to shoulder, swaddled in yellowed newsprint. The pen on the thick covers has faded away completely, leaving only a cursive indentation. Edward runs his finger across the script. He picks up a notebook and considers reading it, then he shrugs and tosses the notebook into the Dumpster. If he’d had a dime for every mildewed box of pointless, self-obsessed vitriol he’d tossed, he wouldn’t be stuck here, mopping up other people’s messes for a living.
“The things I’ve seen,” mutters Edward as he heaves the rest of the boxes into the dumpster. He shuts the door and trudges off to the elevator, dragging his heels as he goes.
“I could write a book.”
CREDITS
Earlier versions of these stories have appeared in print:
“Corey Was a Danger Cat” and “The Princess Is Dead” in Taddle Creek
“Words for Evelyn” in subTerrain
“The Mouths of Babes” in THIS Magazine
“This Keeps Happening” and “A Fare for Francis” as the chapbook 2 Stories, published by Proper Tales Press
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Stuart Ross, for 20+ years of friendship, patience, and guruship, thank you. I am grateful to those who encouraged me to write, including The Ladies Guild (but especially Laura Rantin), Daphne Boxhill, Harmony Toumai, June Croken, Inti Ali, Marco Landini, Heather Conklin, Digal Haio, Swathi Sehkar, Michelle Winters, Big D, but most especially and deeply, Matthew Smith. Shout-out to The Jacademy for Wayward Women and Girls and its Madam. Leigh Nash, your gentle guidance and tough questions made me a better writer. Thanks also to Alison Strobel for her eagle eyes and Megan Fildes for, really, the perfect cover. Thank you to the Arts Councils of Toronto and Ontario, and the taxpayers who fund them. Finally, very special thanks to my first love and muse, the City of Toronto and its people.
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