The Other Side(2)

“You didn’t forget. You were just hoping I wouldn’t notice you stole it.”

True. “Borrowed.” I was hoping he wouldn’t notice I stole it.

“You’re a liar,” he growls as he carelessly drops the padlock to the floor where it leaves a divot in the worn, peeling linoleum, and stomps through the kitchen like a pouting preteen girl. He’s a short, pudgy, acne-riddled, fourteen-year-old with a lopsided mohawk he shaved himself, and he’s carefully chosen clothes to match his disingenuous attitude. In his mind he’s menacing, but in reality, he’s harmless. Except for the stealing. And the lock picking, apparently.

He’s right. I lie. It’s cheap entertainment. But I never lie about anything important. Because the important stuff I don’t talk about at all. The list of important stuff is short. Mainly, it revolves around a calendar, The Count-Out, I call it, folded up in my wallet. It’s sandwiched between a condom on one side and imaginary money on the other. I’ll tell you about it later, when the time is right. When I feel like I can trust you with my secret.

I drop my backpack on the sleeping bag on the floor in my room, lock the door behind me with the tainted padlock, which now seems futile, and make my way to the answering machine on a rickety chair that sits below the telephone mounted on the kitchen wall. The message button on the answering machine is flashing. It’s always flashing. A desperate distress call the tenants of this fine establishment, an ancient Victorian house that’s been converted into five apartments, know will be answered but rarely with the news they want, or for that matter, need. You see, I’m the superintendent for this dilapidated pile of shit I call home sweet home. Did I mention I’m a sarcastic asshole? You’ll see soon enough. Darkness within gestates; sarcasm is the result. It’s how I breathe. My black soul is the wolf, the asshole is the sheep’s clothing.

I’m seventeen and have never had a home. Have I always had a roof over my head? Most nights, yes. Was it a clean, habitable environment suited for humans? Sometimes. Was it a place that felt like home? Never. My current situation, until the fifth of June when I graduate from East High School, houses me in the roomy kitchen pantry of apartment 3A. The attic apartment is a kitchen surrounded by two cramped bedrooms, a bathroom, and the kitchen pantry—it’s minimal. I used to have the second bedroom, but when Cliff moved in, I volunteered to give it up because he has more stuff and he’s Johnny’s family. And before that, I used to live in apartment 1A with my mom. She was evicted almost two years ago and disappeared and I had nowhere to go. Our landlord, Johnny, offered me a job as the building super (because he’s usually too drunk to deal with calls), paying me with room and board and a little cash in my pocket every Friday. I live like a king—yes, that was sarcasm again.

I press play and listen as my afternoon is dictated to me.

Message one: “The water is rising, Toby! It’s pouring in through the window! I’ve seen The Poseidon Adventure, I know what’s going to happen! The ship’s going down! We’re all going to dro—” It’s Mrs. Bennett downstairs in apartment 2B, on the second floor of a building in a landlocked state, I might add, which makes oceanic waves pouring in through the window an impossibility. At least once a week she calls in a panic and asks me to save her from herself. I tap the next button and make a mental note to knock later and make sure she’s not alone.

Message two: “Toby, get down here. The fridge ain’t workin’ again—” It’s Mr. Street in apartment 1B. I tap the next button because the gist of his tragedy has been relayed—he’s pissed his Pabst is lukewarm.

Message three: “Toby, Johnny here.” He always tells me who it is, as if I won’t recognize the familiar, slurring voice barking orders at me. “New tenants in unit 2A. Meet them at four o’clock. Keys are on the kitchen counter. I need these renters, so don’t screw this up.” Stunted sentences punctuated with condescension against the background soundtrack provided by the drunk patrons of Dan’s Tavern—this is the daily one-sided dance between us.

The blinking, red message light dies out. Only three SOS calls today. It’s a banner day. And it’s Friday. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall above the stove. It’s shaped like a rooster. Cliff calls it the cock clock because he’s clever like that. It’s covered in layers of grease and dust. I wonder how long it’s been hanging there because I’ve never seen anyone cook on that stove to generate grease splatters. It reads fifteen past four. I’m late to let the new tenants in. I have a thing about being late and Johnny knows it, which is why he told me to meet them at four o’clock. He knows I don’t walk in the door from school until a few minutes after four. He knows when I realize I’m already late, I’ll start sweating (yes, my pits are damp) and the nail-biting will begin (yes, they’re disgustingly short and hurt from my neurotic attacks). Most people don’t pay close enough attention to notice my reactions. Johnny has an odd talent for picking up on my ticks. Grabbing the keys from the counter and the toolbox from on top of the refrigerator, I head out the door.

I bound down the stairs and notice there’s no saltwater seeping from under Mrs. Bennett’s door when I walk past so I save her for last. Apartment 2A is on the second floor and is furthest from the stairs. A figure is sitting on the floor in front of the door with their legs outstretched. I squint, because my eyesight is far from 20/20 and glasses aren’t a luxury I can afford, and decide the figure is female and alone. The closer I get I can see her hands resting in her lap, her head bowed exaggeratedly so that her incredibly long blonde hair pools on the hardwood floor on either side of her.