16
Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ June 27
I was today years old when I learned how to clean up my own mess #dontfeedthewildlife #hippopower
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke determined to have a fabulous day. I wasn’t scheduled to work, so I had time to do whatever I wanted. Too bad I couldn’t use some of that freedom to sleep in late, but the living room windows faced east, and the flimsy privacy curtains did little to block out the early morning light.
I sat up and stretched. Aunt Melanie’s couch wasn’t half as comfortable as her bed. Izzy had come home either very late last night or very early this morning and was now peacefully snoring on the giant mattress. In the room with blackout curtains. It was just for a few days, I reminded myself.
There was a warm weight on my feet, and I tried to move without disturbing Rufus, who was curled up at the end of the couch. No luck. He stood and stretched before coming over and demanding to be petted. “I hope this means we’re friends again, Rufie,” I said, but I wasn’t sure he could hear me over his loud, rumbling purrs.
I got up to fix him breakfast. My feet tingled where he’d fallen asleep on them, and I had to shake off the pins and needles. I selected the last can of cat food from the cabinet—I needed to remedy that sooner rather than later—scooped it into his bowl, and dropped the spoon into the sink. That’s when I noticed the sink was empty. Even the dishes I had forgotten to wash last night after dinner had been cleaned, dried, and put away.
Izzy snored. She also apparently went out on dates with someone I was harboring a secret crush on. The optimal word here being secret. I hadn’t told her I thought Detective Castillo was attractive. How would she have known? Besides, I reminded myself, I only had a little over two months left here in Williamsburg. The last thing I wanted to do was get tangled up in a romance. If I looked at it that way, she’d helped me dodge a bullet. Along with her cooking, buying groceries, and cleaning—even when I was the one who’d left the mess—Izzy was turning out to be the ideal roommate.
I set a pot of coffee to brew and decided I could probably use another shower or two to get the stench of yesterday’s adventures off of me. Then I remembered we didn’t have any clean towels, and I didn’t want to dry off with hand towels again. It worked in theory, but my hair was too long and thick to air dry. Using a hand towel on it yesterday hadn’t helped at all.
Two mesh bags hung in the tiny closet that held the washer and dryer. The bag that held my dirty clothes was half-full, but the other one that held soiled towels and other household linens was empty. That didn’t make any sense. I could have sworn it was almost full. In my haste to meet Parker outside yesterday, I knew I’d left a pile of dog towels in the bathroom, but I didn’t remember seeing them last night when I got home.
Sure enough, I checked and the towels were gone. I peeked into the cabinet under the sink, and lo and behold—freshly laundered towels. And they were fluffy and folded, not stiff and hastily rolled up like they were after I did laundry. Either we’d gotten a visit from the laundry fairy last night, or Izzy had washed, dried, and folded all of the towels, along with doing the dishes. Talk about a perfect roommate.
Knowing that the coffee ought to have brewed by now, I headed back to the kitchen to pour myself a cup. I’d heard stories of people who couldn’t drink coffee after noon, who thought drinking coffee in the shower was weird, and even some rare creatures who didn’t drink coffee at all. I didn’t have time for that kind of negativity in my life, so I poured myself a mug and headed back to the bathroom to shower.
On the way, something caught my eye, followed by a dull thud against the window.
There was movement outside of the living room window. A lot of movement. The thin curtains ensured that no one looking in would see much while still letting in natural light. They were opaque enough that I couldn’t see out clearly, but something was raising a ruckus right outside the glass. It was enough to draw Rufus’s focus, and I could see his silhouette on the other side of the curtain and his tail twitching like a metronome on this side.
“What’s got your attention, Rufie?” I asked, drawing back the curtain and then stifling a shriek as a seagull collided with the sliding glass door leading to the balcony.
At least thirty enormous seagulls clustered around the door—perched on the railing, flapping their wings against the glass, shrieking as they fought one another for something at the bottom of the pile of birds. They would rise a few feet off the balcony, circle, and then come in for a landing again. One of them started to fly away with a scrap of purple polka-dotted cloth in its beak, but then another bird snatched it away before he could escape with his prize.
Even with a quick glimpse, I recognized that scrap of cloth.
It was my—formerly—favorite bra, purple with a pattern of blue, pink, and white polka dots. It was the same bra I’d been forced to throw away yesterday because I didn’t think I’d ever get the stench of garbage out of it. Except, I hadn’t thrown it away, had I? I had tied it up in a garbage bag, along with the rest of the kitchen trash in the bin, and left it on the balcony to clean up later. And then I’d forgotten all about it.
But the seagulls hadn’t.
I’m sure in a world without landfills, in a world where people composted and recycled and used resources wisely, seagulls would only be found on ocean beaches, fishing in clean, shallow waters. That world might exist someday, but not here and certainly not now. Instead, we’ve trained generations of seagulls and other creatures that were never designed to be scavengers that trash equals food. Seagulls were attracted to dumps like third-graders were attracted to pixie sticks.
And now they were coming for my garbage.
I grabbed the broom from the cubby next to the fridge and slid the door open just wide enough to squeeze the head of the broom outside without letting any of the huge, squawking birds inside. I waved the broom around, shouting, “Shoo!” as loud as I could manage. The birds were unimpressed.
I had no idea what to do. If I’d been back home, I would have turned the hose on them, but I was on the fifth floor, and I doubted my aunt owned a garden hose. Most people who lived in Brooklyn apartments never needed one. I could maybe get one from maintenance, but then I’d have to admit that I’d caused the problem in the first place. Besides, unless it was a really long hose and I had an equally long ladder, I had no way of reaching them.
If the broom and the cat and my screaming didn’t scare them away, what would? They were New Yorkers. They weren’t afraid of anything.
The idea of calling animal control crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. What would I say? There’s a couple dozen seagulls fighting over my underwear? I’d be the laughingstock of Williamsburg.
I had to think of something.
“What’s all the racket?” Izzy asked. I hadn’t heard the bedroom door open over the melee on the balcony. “And do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s early,” I admitted. “And it seems that every seagull in Long Island has taken up residence on our balcony.” Careful not to drop the broom or let the door open any farther, I yanked back the curtain and let her see the extent of the seagull circus.
“What do you think drew them in?” she asked, pressing her hands against the glass, as if feeling their wings slap against the door made them more real. “You didn’t feed them, did you?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Well, not exactly. At least, not on purpose.”
“Odessa, what did you do?”
“I might have left a garbage bag filled with scraps and the clothes I was wearing yesterday when I was pawing through the park’s trash-holding facility out on the porch to take care of later, but then there was the whole Huckleberry bath fiasco and the . . .”
“I get the picture,” she said. And she meant it. Izzy took out her phone and started recording. After a few seconds, she hit the button to end recording. “
This is gonna make a great TikTok.”
“Gee, I’m glad something good came of this,” I muttered. “What am I supposed to do?”
Izzy was already Googling. “It says here that seagulls are afraid of owls,” she said.
“Which would be helpful if we were also being invaded by owls,” I replied. “Wait a second.” I read her screen over her shoulder. “Seagulls don’t like anything bigger than them looking at them. They’re not afraid of Rufus because he’s smaller than they are, and they’re not afraid of us because they’re so used to humans.”
I looked around the apartment with new eyes. All of my aunt’s odd statues might not just be taking up precious space. “Here, help me.” I opened the door a crack wider so I could pull the broom back inside.
“What do you have in mind?” Izzy asked.
“Give me a hand moving this closer to the door,” I said, pointing at the seven-foot-tall metal giraffe statue in the corner. It took both of us, but we finally managed to position it so it was looking out onto the balcony. A few of the seagulls squawked and flew away, but the majority redoubled their efforts.
“What about that weird monkey statue in the bedroom?” Izzy suggested.
“Perfect.”
We dragged the realistic chimpanzee statue out into the living room and pressed it against the glass. It took the seagulls a minute to notice it, but when they did, they all took flight at once. They hovered a few feet off the ground before coming back to land on the rails.
“It’s working.”
“Yeah, but not well enough,” I said. “It won’t be long before they realize they’re not in any danger.”
“What about that hippo trash can from the bathroom?” Izzy ran and got it, waving it at the glass door. The birds took off again, and this time instead of resettling, they circled warily. “This is our window. Our problem,” she said.
“Agreed. Keep ’em busy.” I dashed into the kitchen and pulled one of the heavy-duty black trash bags off the roll. The idea did not escape me that if I had used one of these bags in the first place instead of a flimsy white trash can liner, we might never have had this problem.
“I’m gonna go out first and keep them off you while you collect the trash,” Izzy offered.
“You really are the perfect roomie,” I told her as I steeled myself to follow her.
“Are you kidding? This isn’t the first time I’ve lived someplace that was overrun by pests. Although, last time it was pigeons. Stay behind me, and whatever you do, don’t let any of them inside.” She slipped outside and waved the hippo trash can over her head, yelling obscenities at any bird that dared get too close.
While she did that, I was on my hands and knees, scooping up the remnants of my clothes, the garbage bag, and as much of the gloopy mess that remained of last week’s kitchen trash as I could into the big black bag. When I got to my boots, I hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Izzy asked, shaking the hippo at a bird that looked like it was considering taking a run at her.
“It’s my boots. They’re the only pair of shoes I have here. I love these boots.”
“And so do the birds,” she pointed out. “If there’s that much bird poop on the outside, just imagine what’s inside. Be reasonable, Odessa. Even if you do manage to clean them up, every time you wear them, you’ll be the Pied Piper to every rat and seagull in the New York metropolitan region. Raccoons are gonna take the train from Connecticut just to get a whiff of those boots. Now toss ’em!”
“Fine,” I grumbled. She had a point. I could never wear those boots again. They might as well be haunted. I tossed them into the bag, trying to pretend I didn’t hear the sloshing sound as whatever was in the heel splashed back and forth. I twisted the bag shut. “All done.”
“Good. I think that big one over there is giving me the stink eye.”
I retreated backward into the living room, and then slid the door shut as soon as Izzy was inside. Izzy passed me the hippo trash can and took the big black garbage bag from me and took it into the kitchen. She tied off the top, then nested it into another bag and tied that one, too, before handing it back to me. “Now go put this down the incinerator.”
“Uh, we don’t exactly have an incinerator in the building. We have a service. But they only come on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.”
“I’m not fighting off seagulls for the next two days,” she announced. “Go find a dumpster somewhere and get rid of it.” She pulled the mop bucket out from under the sink and started running water into it, adding some dish soap that started bubbling immediately.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I’m gonna try to get the slop off the balcony. Should keep them from coming back.”
“All right. And before I forget to say it, thanks.”
“For what?” Izzy seemed genuinely perplexed, which made me like her even more.
“Oh, I don’t know. For doing the dishes. For washing and folding the towels. For helping me shoo off a gazillion angry seagulls.”
“Least I can do, with you letting me stay here and all. Besides, it’s what I do.”
“What you do? You moonlight as a bird wrangler and I’m just now hearing about it?” I teased.
“No, I mean you can sew. That’s your talent. Bethany could make soap. I take care of people. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I enjoy.”
“You’re also a talented cook,” I pointed out.
She shrugged and looked embarrassed. “I’m not as good as someone like Parker who makes up amazing meals from scratch, but I can follow a recipe.” Izzy cocked her head. “I don’t want to ruin a moment or anything, but can you do something about that trash? Even double bagged, it’s pretty . . .” She waved her hand in front of her nose.
“Consider it done.” I dressed and put on the pair of flip-flops I’d borrowed from my aunt’s closet. I pocketed my keys and then dragged the bag downstairs.
“Good morning, Miss Odessa,” Earl said, with his most professional smile.
I nodded politely in return. “Morning.”
“Taking that bag out for a walk?” he asked, completely unfazed. Then again, this was Brooklyn. He’d probably seen much weirder. “We have people who can take care of that, Miss Odessa. Would you like me to print off the schedule for you? Again?”
“Appreciate it, but I’m fine.”
“Miss Odessa,” he said again, which set my teeth on edge. Which is probably why he did it. Down South, children often called elders that were family friends Miss Susan or Mister Jim, and near strangers by their last name like Ms. Smith or Mr. Jones. Earl, a man at least twenty years my senior, calling me Miss Odessa sounded . . . wrong. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a flock of seagulls harassing the residents and causing a commotion, would you?”
“Should I?” I asked. Without waiting for his response, I bolted for the door.
17
Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ June 27
It’s dangerously HOT outside—don’t risk sunstroke! Instead, beat the heat at UB&C & let us intro you to your new fav book & brew! #hydrate #craftbeer #thatnewbooksmell
BY THE TIME I got back, Izzy was in the shower. The coffee in my mug was cold now, and the pot was empty. “You gonna want any coffee?” I yelled through the bathroom door.
“Already have some,” she replied. Shower coffee drinkers, that’s my tribe.
Rather than making another pot for just one cup, I microwaved my mug. I added a little non-sugar sweetener and nondairy almond milk, and it was good to go. It wasn’t quite the same as it would have been fresh out of the pot, but I wasn’t about to waste perfectly good coffee.
On the counter, Bethany’s phone rattled and I turned it over to look at the screen. I’d found a compatible charger and left it plugged in overnight. The sheer volume of missed calls, texts, and other message
notifications that scrolled across the screen boggled my mind. Even dead, Bethany was more popular than I ever hoped to be. Unfortunately, I couldn’t access any of her messages.
The phone was locked, and was asking for a four-digit code. I stared at it, hoping for divine inspiration, but nothing happened. If I entered the wrong code too many times or too frequently, it would brick the phone and then what good would it be?
“Hey, I gotta run or I’ll be late for work,” Izzy said, emerging from the bathroom with one of the clean, fluffy towels wrapped around her. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. “And I might be a little late coming home tonight.”
“Another date with the hot detective?” I asked.
She gave me a shy smile. “I really like Vince.”
“He seems like a nice guy. I’m happy for you.” And to my complete surprise, I meant it. Maybe I was a teensy weensy bit jealous, but I did want Izzy to be happy, and if Detective Castillo—Vince—made her happy, well, then, good for both of them.
Showered and dressed at last, I headed out to run errands. Cat food would be my last stop. Otherwise, I’d end up dragging a heavy bag of cans all around town. Besides, I had a more important stop to make first.
Cell phone stores in New York City were about as prolific as the Gap and Starbucks, only at least 90 percent of them were for carriers I’d never heard of before, or only sold cheap, disposable phones that came with reloadable minutes. Bethany’s phone was connected to one of the big-name carriers and it was early enough that I was only the fourth person in line.
After explaining that I needed help unlocking a phone, the clerk—a guy a year or two my senior who had a bushy blond beard that could rival Santa’s—shook his head. He wore his blond hair in a neat man-bun on top of his head, and had on a polo similar to the one I wore to work, but not in neon green. “Sorry, no can do. Unless you have a”—he counted out my options on his fingers as he talked—“death certificate and a court order granting you power of attorney, or you’re a duly appointed member of the court with a search warrant, I can’t open this phone.”
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