The Other Side(3)

When I step over her legs that are punctuated with scuffed, black Dr. Martens boots, I notice her startled reaction to my momentary invasion of her personal space, but I don’t acknowledge it. I walk directly to the door, slide one of the two identical keys on the ring in the dead bolt lock, and open it. Leaving the keys dangling in the lock, I step aside with my back still to her so she can enter.

She stands but makes no attempt to walk past me to enter the apartment. At the same time I turn to face her, she thrusts out her hand. It hangs in the air between us, suspended resolutely but shaking like a delicate kite riding a violent wind. I grip it with my own and shake firmly, more to quiet her tremors than to return the act of civility.

“Too much caffeine this afternoon, I guess,” she says playfully to acknowledge the jitters. I’m painfully aware of my damp palm and release immediately, when she adds, “Thanks. I’m Alice.”

I hear an odd combination of hope, confidence, and nerves in the lilt of her soft voice. It’s almost enough to draw my eyes to hers. But making eye contact at close range would require bravery, which I lack. I have bravado for days—bravado that usually translates into perceived arrogance—but no actual bravery to back it up. My mom always said I was a coward; I hate to admit she’s right. But she’s right. So I keep my gaze trained on the floor and bite my thumbnail instead, all while I speed walk back down the hall to escape before she turns around and tries to initiate conversation. It’s not that I dislike conversation, I dislike that it’s a two-way street. I prefer to watch and listen like a spectator. From afar. Okay, maybe I do dislike conversation.

“Thanks,” she calls again. It’s louder and clearer this time. The hope and confidence muffling the nerves.

For a second, I feel a twinge—pity knotting up like unstrung fishing line—behind my ribs for her, as I think, Say goodbye to hope, this is the place it comes to die. I contemplate calling back with my name as I hit the stairs to descend to Mr. Street’s, but I figure what’s the point? She’ll find out I’m an asshole soon enough if she doesn’t already know, no need for pretense and the showy pageantry of manners now. She may as well get the real Toby right off the bat.

Mr. Street opens the door in a dress shirt and pants cloaked, as always, in a clean, but shabby, brown terry cloth robe that looks out of place. A beer in one hand, his pipe in the other. The tobacco smoke swirling around him smells faintly of cinnamon today.

“What took ya so long?” he asks.

I glance at the television and realize he’s watching Taxi Driver and that this is his best Robert De Niro impersonation. Which is a little disturbing because Mr. Street is, indeed, a taxi driver. He grandiosely calls himself an actor but says driving a taxi puts some money in his pocket between the “theater work.” In the three months he’s lived here I’ve been presented with poor representations of many movie characters. Some I know, some I’ve never heard of. He sucks at all of them. No wonder he’s a taxi driver. I’m also one-hundred-percent sure I’ve never met the real Mr. Street.

I don’t answer him and walk through his spotless apartment making a beeline for the fridge. It’s a bulbous, turquoise relic from the fifties. Grasping the long lever-action pull, I jerk the door open to take a look inside. There’s a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon neatly lined up on the top shelf, the cans’ placement methodical and precise. I picture him unpacking them into the fridge with the intimate touch most men reserve for a lover’s body. The thought is too perverse, Mr. Street caressing beer cans with his bony fingers, so I stop and focus on the task at hand. The only other things in the fridge are a few stray individually wrapped American cheese slices and an open package of hot dogs sitting in a pool of their own unnatural, watery juice. I bet he doesn’t even cook them. I bet he eats them straight from the package. Maybe he wraps them in a cheese slice if he’s feeling gourmet. When I have a diversion, this is the kind of crap my racing mind drifts to and gets tangled up in—the filthy dietary habits of the thespian boozehound on the first floor. My life is pathetic.

He’s hovering behind me. I can feel the itch of his stiff robe on my elbow.

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he demands. His breath is a conflicting mixture of tobacco and toothpaste, not a hint of hops despite the beer in his hand. Maybe it’s a prop.

All I can assess so far is that the chamber inside is room temperature instead of cold.

I set my toolbox down on the floor and mutter, “Gimme a minute.”

I want to tell him I forgot my crystal ball upstairs, but I’m feeling charitable and keep my mouth shut and close the door. Stepping to the side, and away from him, I wrench the behemoth of an appliance away from the wall and inspect the coil and motor on the back. I’ve attempted to repair this ancient thing twice this month, to limp it along to its inevitable death.

I’ve always been pretty good at fixing things because it was a necessity growing up. We never had much and what we did have was secondhand and usually way past its prime. I started tinkering when I was young because I was curious to find out how things worked but also because I liked things like a toaster that actually toasted. All of that came in handy when I was forced to be handy with this job.

Pushing it back against the wall, I steal a glance at Mr. Street and he’s looking on expectantly, though the De Niro malice he’s channeling in his eyes makes it appear sinister instead of innocent.