I'd suggest you check out the link to Part 1, over to the left, if you haven't already. -m
When I heard the bathroom door click, adrenaline rushed into my veins so fast I thought I was going to pass out. My heart was beating like a drum line. Of course my first instinct wasn't to call 911 or to scream for help or something; it was to stare, silent and open-mouthed, at the closed door.
Someone was in there. And they were making noises.
I mean, like, they were dropping things and moving things around. Like they were looking for something as quietly as possible. I took a step toward the door. I took another. I was within reach of the knob when I heard a crash and a muffled curse or three. My hand had been about to turn the handle and I jerked it away, expecting at any moment that it would open itself and a zombified Mr. Cassidy would lurch out into the hall, eat my gooey innards, and take a nap in his leather chair.
And then I heard a sound that really confused me: the shower. Then, a symphony of metallic ringing as the shower curtain was pulled aside. That same sound, again. I realized that I was standing like a puppy with my head to one side. Zombified Mr. Cassidy was taking a shower? What? I felt like busting open the door and confronting him, but a naked, sopping wet zombie was not exactly on the top of my list of Must-Sees. Maybe if he was... nevermind.
The shower stopped and I couldn't help it, I gasped and jumped back from the door, slamming into the corner of the wall. THUMP. The sounds of movement stopped in the bathroom and I could practically see the guy, frozen, staring back at me through the opaque door. I stepped backwards, back around the corner, and then suddenly the door was open and I was staring into the face of a guy with black eyes and thick black eyebrows.
He was naked. Well, he had the towel wrapped around his waist, but that didn't really connect in my brain for a few seconds. All I could really process at that moment was, "He's in my bathroom. He's naked. He's staring at me. Am I naked?" I looked down, quickly, just to make sure that I was still wearing my shorts and t-shirt. Oh, good. They were still there.
"Um," I said. He glared at me and slammed the door shut. "Oh, OK. Bye." I didn't have a chance to decide to do anything besides stand there like a stupid lawn ornament because in ten seconds the door slammed open again and the guy was glaring at me, this time in a black suit and a silk cravat. A white silk cravat.
"You live here," he said. He had a classic Italian accent that I'm not even going to try to replicate here. Believe me it was lovely, in that Oh God I'm Gonna Get Shot sort of way.
"Yes?" I asked, even though I had meant for it to be a statement.
"Where's the stuff?" And then I was staring at his tattoo, which I was shocked to have missed in the past seconds of pseudo-nakedness, and trying to figure out how the heck I had missed it before. The claw of a jungle cat was permanently attached to the space just below his Adam's apple, and I was sure the body of the cat was either on his shoulder or around the back of his neck.
I shook my head as I remembered that he was questioning me. Stuff?
"The stuff," he said again. He shook his head at my stupidity and heaves a sigh. Reaching slowly into his suit pocket, the man pulled out a long, black... whistle? I felt my body relax just before he lifted the whistle to his lips and blew a low, sharp blast.
He put it back, nodded and smiled at me, and leaned back into the closed bathroom door with his huge forearms crossed over his bulging pec muscles. I began to open my mouth to say something, but he lifted his finger, waved it side to side, and then pressed it up against his lips. Two seconds later someone knocked on the door, which opened to reveal a guy who could easily have been this guy's twin, except for the red silk cravat.
"Sit down," the first guy said. It occurred to me at this moment that neither of these men were Mr. Cassidy. They weren't exactly acting like the undead, and as far as I knew, Cassidy wasn't an Italian surname. I know now that I wasn't wrong.
Red Cravat Guy pushed towards me, sticking his arm out across my shoulders and throwing me backwards into the leather chair on his way into the back of the apartment.
"Hey!" I said. Finally, I seemed to be getting my thoughts and reactions in order.
"Shut up," White Cravat Guy said, waving a gun topped with a silencer in my face. Remember all that progress I had made with my thoughts and reactions? Yeah, totally gone. Totally and completely.
What followed was a very thorough, though messy, search of everything in the apartment. White Cravat Guy had already been through the bathroom, obviously, so the two of them moved on to the living room and the kitchen. In a matter of minutes everything -- and I do mean everything -- was out of every cabinet, closet, box, and whatever else could contain stuff. But they weren't finding the "stuff" that they were hoping for. I know this because every few seconds they would suddenly appear at my shoulder, stick the gun into the tender space under my jaw, and demand to know where the "stuff" was.
Each time I could do nothing but stammer that I had no idea what they were talking about, but you know Italian mobsters, they never believe you when you say things like that. So they'd throw some more stuff across the room, stomp on some fragile things, and otherwise make a terrible mess.
They were in my bedroom when I suddenly remembered that my phone was in my pocket.
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
18 July 2010
14 July 2010
The Apartment, Part 1
This is why you don't get an apartment on the fourth floor: someday, sometime, you will have to walk up all of those steps carrying 50-pound boxes of books and clothing.
Luckily, I wasn't the only one moving boxes. My entire family had decided to show up to help. Plus Leandra and Jeremiah and Phoebe. And each and every one of us had a lovely, salty wet swath of nasty sweatness down the middle of our backs. Whenever possible we would walk around with our arms up in the air, trying to dry out our underarms. It almost worked. Almost.
When the last piece of furniture was in place and the living room and bedroom were full of boxes and loaded laundry baskets and just plain random stuff, everyone else suddenly found something else to do. Leandra was having dinner with Jeremiah, Phoebe had a Skype date with William, and my sisters had "cool things" to do, whatever that means. Suddenly everyone was gone, and I was left alone in the apartment, reveling in the air conditioning and trying to slow my breathing.
It was so quiet. I lifted my damp hair off of my neck and turned slowly, taking in the damage. Not bad. This was do-able. I decided to take a shower before tackling any other projects.
With wet hair hanging in my eyes and making drip marks on my old t-shirt, I first made sure that the fridge was in order. Then I pulled all of my kitchen-y stuff onto the tile and set to work loading up the cabinets. But the first door I opened, the one furthest to the left, already had things in it. I put down the shoebox of spices I'd been about to organize inside and stared at the contents of the cabinet with my hands on my hips. Spices, all in cute tin boxes labeled by hand with what had probably been a Sharpie. I smiled, thinking that my sister must have done that. Reorganizing that stuff wasn't sounding so good, so I moved on to the next cabinet.
Glasses. They were plain, simple, and completely random. Pom juice glasses, plastic Disney cups, jelly jars... I was significantly confused at this point. If my sister had filled my cabinets, everything would have matched perfectly and been ridiculously cute and awesome. This was the work of someone else. On a whim, I opened every other cabinet in the row, and all I could do was laugh when I saw that every single space was already occupied with pasta, canned foods, and cereal etc. Sweet. Thank you, previous owner, for leaving me all of your crap.
It was too much to handle; I left everything on the kitchen tiles and went into my bedroom. There were boxes everywhere, and I hoisted them all up onto my bed. It was only after I did all that lifting that I caught site of the dressers in my peripherals and froze. Two dressers. I pushed my hair out of my face and faced the dressers. One was mine, I knew that. The other one was black, probably spray painted, with square black drawer pulls. I spun and looked around the room. The dresser had a little brother -- a bedside bureau -- and there was also a desk in the corner. I was slack jawed, of course. Why hadn't anyone bothered to mention everything that was still there? They just dropped it in and walked away? Come on!
I walked up to the dresser and tapped it with my fingernails. It smelled like cologne. Wait. I mentally checked myself after that thought. Cologne? The top drawer was open in a second and I was staring at the extremely organized contents of a man's junk drawer. I understand that "junk" connotes, well, junk. Mess. Craziness. But this was...wow. I thought I was OCD. This guy had built little ridges into the bottom of the drawer so that things would stay in their compartments.
The cologne was in the middle, laying down. I picked it up and sniffed it. Who knows what it was made of, but that stuff was yummy. I looked at the bottle curiously, and jumped. Prada's snazzy suave seal was on the front of the glass, topped with the coat of arms, all emblazoned in silver. The bottle went back into its little area, and I opened the next drawer, and then next.
What followed could only be described as a flurry. I went through the dresser, the desk, the closet, the bathroom. And everything was filled with organized, clean possessions. I even found a collection of cool beer bottles in the top of the front closet. There were clean extra sheets with the linens and vacuum, and it wasn't until I went back to the bedroom to decide what to do that I realized that my family had simply dropped my mattress on top of the old mattress, which still had its black comforter on.
Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe the apartment I was moving into was already occupied; as in, the previous owner wasn't actually previous at all.
"Oh shi-oooooot," I said out loud. I scrabbled for my phone, found the landlord's phone number on the emergency instruction sheet on the front door, and waited while it rang.
"Hullo," a tired woman's voice said.
"Hi, are you the person I talk to about problems with my apartment?"
"Sure," she said.
"Oh. OK. Well this is Meli Lyons, in 407, and I just wanted to know when the previous renter was going to pick up his stuff?"
"What stuff, hon?"
"Well, there's still a bunch of kitchen things, and the bedroom set in particular," I said as I sat in a recliner I suddenly recognized as not being my own. It was super comfy.
"What 'partment you in?"
"Four-oh-seven."
"Uh-huh. Jus' a sec'," she said. Faint sounds of keyboard tapping made me confident that she was at least pretending to help me. Then she sighed, and it was not a good sigh.
"What?" I asked.
"Nahthin'. Jus' someone was s'posed tuh pick it up. Guess they di'n't. Poor Mr. Cassidy," she said, like she wanted me to inquire further. The leather of the chair squeaked a little as I leaned into it, groaning to myself, not believing my day.
"Cassidy?" I asked.
"Oh, last guy in 407. Poor guy," she said again.
"What happened?" I was starting to feel curious.
"He died," she said.
"Died," I repeated after her.
"Terrible accident," she said. "Girlfriend walked in tuh find 'im with a bullet in his head."
"Gaa," I said. A horrible mental image flashed in my brain: a girl walks in the apartment door holding a bottle of wine. She's stylish and short, and she reaches out to flick on the lights. And then she screams because the love of her life is in the chair with a single bullet hole between the eyes. Shaking the image out of my mind proves just a tad impossible.
"Right between thuh eyes, i' was," the woman says, like she's enjoying the story. This random confirmation of my rampant brain creativity makes it even harder not to think about. And then I think, "This is his chair. I'll bet he was...oh. Oh no. Oh man." I launch myself out of the chair, almost dropping my phone in the process.
Mr. Cassidy had died in the chair I had just been sitting in; I know this because there's a large block of duct tape covering the headrest of the black leather. It's hard to see because the leather and the tape are so similar in color and sheen. But there's no doubt about it, he died there. I know it.
"Um, thanks," I say into the phone after I notice that I'm still holding it up to my ear. I punch the red phone button and absentmindedly stick the phone in my front pocket. I'm staring at Mr. Cassidy's chair and feeling significantly creeped out.
And that's when the hall bathroom door opened and closed with the tiniest of clicks.
Luckily, I wasn't the only one moving boxes. My entire family had decided to show up to help. Plus Leandra and Jeremiah and Phoebe. And each and every one of us had a lovely, salty wet swath of nasty sweatness down the middle of our backs. Whenever possible we would walk around with our arms up in the air, trying to dry out our underarms. It almost worked. Almost.
When the last piece of furniture was in place and the living room and bedroom were full of boxes and loaded laundry baskets and just plain random stuff, everyone else suddenly found something else to do. Leandra was having dinner with Jeremiah, Phoebe had a Skype date with William, and my sisters had "cool things" to do, whatever that means. Suddenly everyone was gone, and I was left alone in the apartment, reveling in the air conditioning and trying to slow my breathing.
It was so quiet. I lifted my damp hair off of my neck and turned slowly, taking in the damage. Not bad. This was do-able. I decided to take a shower before tackling any other projects.
With wet hair hanging in my eyes and making drip marks on my old t-shirt, I first made sure that the fridge was in order. Then I pulled all of my kitchen-y stuff onto the tile and set to work loading up the cabinets. But the first door I opened, the one furthest to the left, already had things in it. I put down the shoebox of spices I'd been about to organize inside and stared at the contents of the cabinet with my hands on my hips. Spices, all in cute tin boxes labeled by hand with what had probably been a Sharpie. I smiled, thinking that my sister must have done that. Reorganizing that stuff wasn't sounding so good, so I moved on to the next cabinet.
Glasses. They were plain, simple, and completely random. Pom juice glasses, plastic Disney cups, jelly jars... I was significantly confused at this point. If my sister had filled my cabinets, everything would have matched perfectly and been ridiculously cute and awesome. This was the work of someone else. On a whim, I opened every other cabinet in the row, and all I could do was laugh when I saw that every single space was already occupied with pasta, canned foods, and cereal etc. Sweet. Thank you, previous owner, for leaving me all of your crap.
It was too much to handle; I left everything on the kitchen tiles and went into my bedroom. There were boxes everywhere, and I hoisted them all up onto my bed. It was only after I did all that lifting that I caught site of the dressers in my peripherals and froze. Two dressers. I pushed my hair out of my face and faced the dressers. One was mine, I knew that. The other one was black, probably spray painted, with square black drawer pulls. I spun and looked around the room. The dresser had a little brother -- a bedside bureau -- and there was also a desk in the corner. I was slack jawed, of course. Why hadn't anyone bothered to mention everything that was still there? They just dropped it in and walked away? Come on!
I walked up to the dresser and tapped it with my fingernails. It smelled like cologne. Wait. I mentally checked myself after that thought. Cologne? The top drawer was open in a second and I was staring at the extremely organized contents of a man's junk drawer. I understand that "junk" connotes, well, junk. Mess. Craziness. But this was...wow. I thought I was OCD. This guy had built little ridges into the bottom of the drawer so that things would stay in their compartments.
The cologne was in the middle, laying down. I picked it up and sniffed it. Who knows what it was made of, but that stuff was yummy. I looked at the bottle curiously, and jumped. Prada's snazzy suave seal was on the front of the glass, topped with the coat of arms, all emblazoned in silver. The bottle went back into its little area, and I opened the next drawer, and then next.
What followed could only be described as a flurry. I went through the dresser, the desk, the closet, the bathroom. And everything was filled with organized, clean possessions. I even found a collection of cool beer bottles in the top of the front closet. There were clean extra sheets with the linens and vacuum, and it wasn't until I went back to the bedroom to decide what to do that I realized that my family had simply dropped my mattress on top of the old mattress, which still had its black comforter on.
Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe the apartment I was moving into was already occupied; as in, the previous owner wasn't actually previous at all.
"Oh shi-oooooot," I said out loud. I scrabbled for my phone, found the landlord's phone number on the emergency instruction sheet on the front door, and waited while it rang.
"Hullo," a tired woman's voice said.
"Hi, are you the person I talk to about problems with my apartment?"
"Sure," she said.
"Oh. OK. Well this is Meli Lyons, in 407, and I just wanted to know when the previous renter was going to pick up his stuff?"
"What stuff, hon?"
"Well, there's still a bunch of kitchen things, and the bedroom set in particular," I said as I sat in a recliner I suddenly recognized as not being my own. It was super comfy.
"What 'partment you in?"
"Four-oh-seven."
"Uh-huh. Jus' a sec'," she said. Faint sounds of keyboard tapping made me confident that she was at least pretending to help me. Then she sighed, and it was not a good sigh.
"What?" I asked.
"Nahthin'. Jus' someone was s'posed tuh pick it up. Guess they di'n't. Poor Mr. Cassidy," she said, like she wanted me to inquire further. The leather of the chair squeaked a little as I leaned into it, groaning to myself, not believing my day.
"Cassidy?" I asked.
"Oh, last guy in 407. Poor guy," she said again.
"What happened?" I was starting to feel curious.
"He died," she said.
"Died," I repeated after her.
"Terrible accident," she said. "Girlfriend walked in tuh find 'im with a bullet in his head."
"Gaa," I said. A horrible mental image flashed in my brain: a girl walks in the apartment door holding a bottle of wine. She's stylish and short, and she reaches out to flick on the lights. And then she screams because the love of her life is in the chair with a single bullet hole between the eyes. Shaking the image out of my mind proves just a tad impossible.
"Right between thuh eyes, i' was," the woman says, like she's enjoying the story. This random confirmation of my rampant brain creativity makes it even harder not to think about. And then I think, "This is his chair. I'll bet he was...oh. Oh no. Oh man." I launch myself out of the chair, almost dropping my phone in the process.
Mr. Cassidy had died in the chair I had just been sitting in; I know this because there's a large block of duct tape covering the headrest of the black leather. It's hard to see because the leather and the tape are so similar in color and sheen. But there's no doubt about it, he died there. I know it.
"Um, thanks," I say into the phone after I notice that I'm still holding it up to my ear. I punch the red phone button and absentmindedly stick the phone in my front pocket. I'm staring at Mr. Cassidy's chair and feeling significantly creeped out.
And that's when the hall bathroom door opened and closed with the tiniest of clicks.
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