What I didn’t expect was the landlord standing in the middle of my apartment, hands sitting firmly on his hips, and an expression on his face as if the world were coming to an absolute end.
Little did he know how close he was to this being the truth.
“Grey!” With the unfurling ‘r’ rolling like a snare drum falling down a flight of stairs. “Grrrey! This! What’s this?” he bellowed.
“It’s a door,” I replied dryly, and set the bags down on my countertop with neither demon nor Seraph in sight.
“Yes, yes. It’s door. Certainly, it’s door. Of course, it’s door.” He paused and set his hands up to pray. “But, Grey, why is door not doing what door is built to do? I work on building fixes. Right? My job. Pipe on fourth burst, I fix. Blackout on twelve, I fix. Elevator rat problem, I fix. Door not being a door, I don’t fix. I find new tenant.”
I felt bad for my super, Lou … especially for that last part. I heard the rats were staging a fight club in there on the weekends. Outside of my family, Lou was the only other person who was sweet to me. Lou, who was from some place in Europe, was real big on the how’s and why’s of our tenement. He went out of his way, superseding even some health codes, to make us all feel right, feel welcomed. He was the glue that held this place together. Every brick. Every awkwardly placed mousetrap.
Lou had a knack for sweating even when standing still, which always allowed the pinkness of his nipples to show right through the white T-shirt he wore. He must have a drawer full of those shirts. He stood large, a long torso, six-eight or six-nine, and always walked around with an odd clumsiness, as if he had just sprouted up in height the night prior.
“Talk, Grey,” Lou groaned. “Was walking by with new tenant—”
I jumped up. “New tenant? Who said anything about a new tenant?”
“Hey.”
I had been so caught up with Lou that I didn’t see him standing there. He was too much of a hipster to be snagging an apartment in my building. The sneaker-shoes. The plaid button down with the scrunched up sleeves. The clean shave of his head. He had dark skin and these eyes that seemed to change color from dark chestnut to hazel depending on how the sun hit them.
This is all to tell you that he was attractive. Not that I found him attractive, mind you, just that he was. It was obvious. Obvious in the same way a vegetarian shows you what they brought for lunch and you say, “Ooh. That looks tasty,” but you only say that because you have no inclination, and no future interests, of ordering it. Ever. He was attractive because he was supposed to be.
“Donaldson is moving into 6b,” Lou said coldly, “and while walking by, I see door.”
“‘Door not being door’. I get it, Lou.” I pulled a small bag out of the closet and rummaged blindly through it while Lou wasn’t looking. As soon as he turned back to me, I handed him the stack of hundreds. “Here’s the rent owed. Two months, plus this one, plus the next, and a bit leftover for the door.”
Lou held the stack in his hand but didn’t count it. Lou loved the tenement, he treasured working there. But he didn’t want anyone to know this because, I think, he seemed to be taking a cue from what he thought a super should be: a grumpy, grump who always asks for rent and walks around with a pair of needle nose pliers … just in case something needed needle nose pliering. My parents didn’t think it was a gimmick, but I felt it was. I would catch him singing while making repairs, a calm expression on his face when he thought no one could see him. He only barked and grumbled because he loved it so much, because he cared. He was the kind of person that was put on this earth without a sense of irony or sliver of pessimism. I honestly think that he never believed in the American Dream, but fully believed in making it possible for other people. That’s why I never took his gruff persona seriously.
Lou folded the cash and stuffed it in his back pocket. Bottom lip sealing his mouth shut, he tipped his head toward me and made for the door. He was almost gone when a loud crash came from behind my roommate’s closed door.
Lou narrowed his eyes at me. “You keeping a pet, Grey? I told your parents: children but no pets.”
“No, no,” I replied, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Just put up a bookcase in there. Guess I didn’t secure it.”
Another loud crash.
“And fort made out of cereal boxes.”
A shattering of glass.
“A wine rack?”
I smiled and Lou mumbled something to himself, but he walked out of the apartment. Behind him, Donaldson hopped over the door and approached me. He stuck out a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice a lot deeper than his first hey. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”
I didn’t reach out to shake it. I had had enough of shaking the hands of strange men in the middle of my apartment, thank you very much. I only told him, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s a common thing for you to say, but you probably won’t see me around. And even if you do, our relationship will probably degrade to meeting awkwardly at the mailboxes with nothing to talk about or me acting like I don’t see you running when the elevator door is closing. Not being a bitch or anything. Just would rather save us that awkward navigation of our nonexistent friendship. No offense.”
I sensed his body tense up. He froze, locked up. Men always look like they turn to stone when I draw that big, fat line in the sand.
“None taken.” He pulled his hand back. And since I probably looked like I was the one whose heart had stopped, he added, “That was both clear and succinct, probably rehearsed but still a lot of fun to hear. I actually still think we can be friends in some vein and will attempt in the future to engage you in a way that you feel comfortable.”
He then hopped over my door and left without turning around.
“Weirdo,” I muttered under my breath.
My roommate came out, dragged its feet to recover the broom and dustpan, and slothed its way back to its room.
That night I ate my kid’s alphabet spaghetti to the sound of a broom and the muffled―and possibly Satanic?―vocals of Celine Dion.
CHAPTER 5
Seeing Donaldson standing in my doorway the next day was pretty weird. In hindsight, it should have stood out even more to me, I guess, but I was focused on the demon behind my door and not the man trying to get to know me. I honestly wasn’t sure which one freaked me out more.
Luckily, it was too early for the demon to clamor out of its den, and I hadn’t seen Barnem since we went to the pet carcass debacle. My building wasn’t exactly known to have a revolving door of tenants. Everyone who was there had been for the long haul. And even though he stood out to me—the way he dressed, the way he spoke, the way he was able to digest my sense of humor—I didn’t expect to see Donaldson again. He had moved in two floors above me, which might as well have been Mars in terms of distance. Not at all uncommon for people like him, after meeting me once, to fall into a blank space of complete nothingness, leading us to never speak again.
Luckily, watching him step into my apartment gave me the jurisdiction to be my typical charming self.
Lifting my gaze from my laptop, I gave him a sour look and asked, “Hey, buddy, where the hell are we living? Twelfth century Prussia? No one knocks anymore? C’mon!”
Donaldson glanced at my door, still not being a door, and slowly knelt down to give it a light knock.
I went back to the screen and fixed my glasses. “Who is it?”
Laughing, Donaldson walked in. He held up the plastic cup he was holding and shook its dark brown liquid. It looked like syrup infused saliva.
“It’s coming out of every spout in my apartment,” he grumbled. “I think some of it’s even coming out of my doorknob, but I’m not sure how that’s scientifically possible.”
I didn’t look up at him. “It’s Tuesday, Donaldson. Lou pours ice-tea mix into the pipes to boost morale. What can I do you
for?”
“Right. Well I just came down to ask where you recommend to eat. Preferably on a budget.”
“Your own home.”
“Hmmm. And what if my home isn’t stocked up yet? Any place for takeout?”
“Burly’s is open right now,” I suggested.
His brow furrowed. “The burger spot across the street is open at 10 a.m.? Who in their right mind would have a burger at …”
I snapped my head up and stared at him.
Exactly forty-nine minutes later, I fixed the knot on my drawstring pants and sat back in my stool. Burly’s was a tight fit: only ten tattered, spinning stools in the entire joint. It was like someone found a grill in a closet, fired it up to see if it worked, and turned around to see folks dishing out their orders. There weren’t any menus in Burly’s and that’s because they only sold two things: an overcooked hockey puck called a burger and an overcooked hockey puck with cheese. The place was run by an old Polish couple. Pops—with his ultra-thick glasses and three remaining hairs slicked up and over—ran the over-greased grill with what seemed a quiet rage that had been slowly brewing over the course of sixty years. He stood at the stove, slouching in his stained apron, as if he was guarding the gates of Heaven. His wife, a woman that only went by the name of Lady—with her large hazel eyes and a mole in the shape of Lyndon B. Johnson—manned the register and plates
I hadn’t been to Burley’s in a long time, so maybe that’s the reason I leapt at the opportunity. Besides, I was really getting sick of the ramen patties I had made for breakfast and was then repackaging for dinner. Yes, I had money from my demon roommate, but I was being frugal about spending it. Just in case.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten that when someone invites you out to eat, you sort of have to be ready to do something absolutely horrifying.
Socialize.
Donaldson silently nodded his head as he held up what was to be his last bite. “Thanks for the recommendation. Helluva choice, Amanda. One thing bothering me though. Why do they call it Burly’s?”
“Dunno,” I replied slowly, and glanced down at my plate. “Maybe that’s how they thought the word ‘burger’ sounds.”
He smiled with his eyes. “And I can’t say I’ve been to a place that lets you bring your own toppings.”
“Yup. Free toppings of your choice, no matter the choice. You went safe with that bag of Doritos, Donaldson. Never took you as a wuss.”
He shrugged. “I’m new here, remember? How was your … hot sauce and Pepto Bismol burger?”
I untied my hair from its “safe to scarf down food” position. “Don’t knock it. It was both delicious and decisively protective of my stomach lining.” When he shot me a thumbs up, I averted my gaze again. “True story. My sister and I always used to come here. We wondered what would they not cook up here. I mean, if I came in with a human foot, would Pops slap that on the grill like nothing? Or if I came in with a burger, would they throw that burger on top of another burger? Can I make a burger burger?”
Donaldson chucked the last bite in his mouth as Pops’ metal spatula filled the place with the sound of a Kung-Fu sword fight. With his mouth clear, Donaldson asked, “A burger burger? Sounds blasphemous.”
“Sounds like lunch,” I replied boldly.
Donaldson laughed. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Not really.”
“You said you came here with your sister? Why don’t you come here often?”
I stuffed fries into my mouth and mumbled a bunch of random things. “I’m allergic to bees. And airborne viruses. And this damn recession is kicking my ass.”
Donaldson nodded again. “You do that a lot, you know?”
“Do what?”
“Deflect.”
“Deflect.” I rapped the counter with my fingers. “You’ve only known me for … what, twelve seconds, Donaldson? You think that by buying a gal a burger, you can try to diagnose her?”
He sat back and crossed his arms, but his face showed that he was still amused. “Not saying that at all, and I’m not trying to mess up your Zen in any way. I’m new to the building and I’m attempting to get to know someone. You know, just communicating.”
I smacked my lips and burped out an, “Overrated.
Donaldson slipped me a slightly credulous look. “So you don’t go out? I can believe that. But what about online?”
“Nope. Don’t even have it on my phone.”
The way Donaldson leapt up, I might as well have elbowed him in the crotch. “I call shenanigans! You’re kidding, right?”
“Donaldson, I do not and shall not kid you. I lack the desire, capacity, and charm to kid.”
Wanting to prove him wrong, I slowly handed him my phone the way someone hands another human being a napkin they sneezed in.
Donaldson flicked through the screens. After he was done with his inspection, he handed my phone back and exclaimed, “Well, Grey, you have my respect. Being without the social media nonsense … that must be an easy life to live.”
“Well I’m learning that the hard way,” I admitted. “You know, I used to enjoy my ‘Lady Cave’.” Donaldson did a double-take. “That sounded a lot better in my head. What I’m trying to say is that I have—unwillingly, mind you—been exposed to an alarming amount of television; an ‘assload’, I would say, if ‘assload’ were a proper unit of measurement.”
“Noted,” Donaldson agreed.
“I thought I was bad, but this entire society is built on insecurities. How many views did you get? How many likes have you nabbed? Upvotes, downvotes, ten items or less. You have to stress over your opinion about someone else’s opinion on something someone wrote on a bathroom stall. You have to worry about missing that trend that will make you feel dumb. Otherwise, how else will you learn to feel the social/emotional struggle of being a left-handed dentist in New Guinea? You have to ‘catch” texts. You have to ‘count’ characters. I used to be too busy slowly rotting away in this physical existence, or waiting for baked potatoes to finish, but now I’m busy being swallowed up by a culture of ‘spin-off offshoot reboots’. Of people I don’t know doing things I can’t care less about for amounts of money I will never see. Do you know that there’s a hit show where a guy, his wife, and their twelve children drive cross-country renovating shoe boxes for stray cats? It’s called The Whole Kitten Kaboodle.”
Donaldson feigned covering his ears. “I’m pretty sure I’m dumber for knowing that.”
“No, you know what’s worse? What’s worse is that I saw every episode, every season, every single one. Because everything is processed now into recording shows that you would not be able to watch otherwise. Basically, TV is watching TV for you and there’s still not enough hours left in the day for me to finish my laundry and safely forage for food.” I took a breath and passed my hands over my face. “Just makes me wonder if I was really missing anything by minding my own business all these years.”
“Well, Grey. Hell is other people.”
I know Donaldson meant well by the comment, but the cold hand of irony struck me across the face nonetheless. A knot formed in my gut, the same way it did every time I sensed a stranger getting all up in my space bubble. It was moments like these that made me more comfortable to be as aggressive as humanly possible, so I gave him a side eye. “Just because you listened to one of my rants doesn’t mean you can be my friend.”
Typically, this comment was enough to keep someone in check and give me space for some breathing room. But Donaldson just smiled. “I’ll take your defensive comment to mean that you enjoyed yourself but still don’t want to look weak in front of me.”
I shook my head. “Donaldson, I’m pretty sure that you were created when a lonely wizard enchanted a thesaurus just because he wanted someone to speak to.”
Donaldson bowed. “Possible.”
I balled the napkin up and tossed
it into my plate.
Sensing that the conversation had now run its course, Donaldson handed the bill and some cash to Lady. She grinned and America’s 36th President gave me a knowing nod. While she rang him up, he tried one more time.
“You know, you don’t have to call me Donaldson. The super kept pronouncing my name wrong, so I let him hang onto the last name. But you can call me Jeff. Or Jeffrey.”
The name clashed like cymbals in my ears and my body seized up. The sound of it was so close to a certain bastard I murdered in my apartment ... too close. Donaldson must have caught on because he quickly added, “Or not. Didn’t mean to twist anything up here.”
“Right. Well …” I hopped off the seat and headed for the door. Lou was coming to fix my door and I needed to be around to curb his questions about the demon I was housing. To me, fixing the door was important. It was the only thing that had been separating me from the rest of this city and I didn’t need to breathe in any more of it.
And then something hit me. Before I crossed the street, I whipped around in time to catch him coming out of Burly’s.
“Donaldson.”
“Yeah?”
I put my hands on my hips and stood so close that I hoped he could feel how serious I was.
“Are you flirting with me?”
“I—”
“Because if you are, you can stop. You paid for me to eat. I thank you. My stomach thanks you. You’re also not too horrible to talk to.”
“Um. Thank ... you?”
“You’re welcome. And I actually wouldn’t mind doing this again as long as you’re not flirting, you’re showing no romantic interests in me, and you-don’t-have-any-inclination-to-occupy-space-within-my-vagina.” I spouted every worth emphatically.
“Whoa! H-hey.” He looked around. “Promise. None of that. I mean, I’m not doing any of that. Okay?”
Satisfied, I crossed the street and headed right for my apartment. When I got there, the demon ignored me and laughed as the little girl crab-walked down the stairs once more.
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