The Other Side(8)

“Can it be fixed?” she asks.

I replace the lid and flush the toilet to answer her question. When I look in the mirror over the sink, I see a wide smile break out on her face like the sound of that toilet flushing is the best answer she could’ve hoped for. I’d guessed her early twenties, but wearing this smile it’s obvious she’s younger, probably my age. This is the first time I’ve really looked at her. She’s pretty. Really pretty.

“That was quick. You’re a lifesaver, thank you.” Her voice sounds different, happier.

I understand the relief. When the only toilet in the apartment isn’t working, it’s kind of a bummer. But the thing about Alice is that every word she utters emits emotion. Her words seem to carry more weight and reveal more than most people’s do; they’re not frivolous. She doesn’t hide. I’ve never known a blind person before, maybe everything shifts around when one of your senses is stifled and you get a superpower in some other area. It’s interesting. She’s interesting.

Accepting thanks has always made me uncomfortable. I’ve never spoken the phrase, you’re welcome, because the thought of it brings heat to my cheeks. Gratitude, whether sincere or the reaction of unconscious, trained manners, shines a momentary spotlight on me—I hate that. So I never acknowledge a thank you, I just move on. After quickly washing my hands in the sink, I would usually walk out and leave without saying anything more. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to do it with her.

“It’s a temporary fix. I’ll ask Johnny to get the part to fix it the right way this week though.” I almost add, I’m leaving, but then I decide to pick up my toolbox from the floor and squeeze by her instead.

But when she says, “Sorry,” again when I graze her arm, I blurt, “Bye.”

To which she immediately responds, “Bye, Toby. Thanks again.” Her voice sounds more awake now, the husk faded and replaced by softness.

The second thank you sends me speed walking for the door. I turn the dial on the inside knob to lock before I pull it closed behind me.



My skateboard ride to the bus stop is consumed with thoughts of Alice: beautiful, confident, friendly, but also alone. I’ve been to that apartment twice and she’s been alone both times. Where are her parents? I was a latchkey kid myself, hell, I’ve lived with my drunk, most-of-the-time absent landlord for almost two years because my mom split, but the difference is I’ve never been helpless. Not that she’s helpless, she just seems…I don’t know…vulnerable. Like she could use some assistance. And suddenly I’m angry for her. I believe that ideal families only exist on television, because I’ve never seen one in real life. Why can’t parents just parent?

I’m still dwelling on it on the bus, but as soon as I step through the door of Mile High Comics, every stray thought vanishes. This is the place I get lost for an hour every week. I’ve always equated the smell of newsprint paper and ink with more than the entertainment factor that comics provide. The earnest search for the next great storyline is a quest. The enormous number of painstaking hours that went into creating each and every volume housed in this store feels like a sacrifice; the visual overload that the presentation of cover after cover provides is a gift. Every illustrator’s artwork is as unique and individual as a fingerprint, their style precise and identifiable—that’s my favorite part because it’s further proof that human beings aren’t carbon copies and there are never duplicates. I categorically memorize illustrators and their work, analyzing and appreciating. Todd McFarlane is god-like.

I do a slow walk-through of the store, meandering down each aisle like it’s my first visit. I know the owner probably thinks I’m a lunatic, but he leaves me alone and doesn’t follow me anymore now that he knows I’m not going to tuck something into my backpack that I didn’t pay for. After my walk-through, I go back to whatever section captured my attention the most (that is, unless there’s a new issue in the Dark Knight series, because it’s a given that I’ll go home with that) and I slip every book off the shelf one by one to look, careful to only touch the corners and not leave smudgy fingerprints on the slick cover. Time is irrelevant here, at least for a while. But around the hour mark, my conscience starts harping on me. Your time is up. You’ve been here long enough. You like being here, and you know you don’t deserve that.

I don’t.

So, that’s when I make my decision, pick the comic that’s going home with me, pay the grouchy curmudgeon behind the counter, and leave knowing this is likely the last time I will come here.

The entire journey back to the Victorian on Clarkson I feel guilty.

Guilty I enjoyed myself.

Guilty I was gone and not available for work if something happened.

Guilty I spent the dollar that I could’ve spent on food or something else.

Guilty I chose Amazing Spider-Man over Usagi Yojimbo.

Guilty that maybe I don’t feel guilty enough.

You name it, I feel guilty about it.

Guilt and me, we’re conjoined. One. When it isn’t stabbing me, I drag it around like a ball and chain.



When I arrive back at the Victorian on Clarkson, I walk up the first flight of stairs as stealthily as I can, tiptoe down the hall to 2A, and listen at the door. Okay, I don’t literally tiptoe, but I’m cautious of how lightly I tread my beat-up Chuck Taylors. When I hear the melody of a cordial conversation, male and female, coming from behind the door, I turn and immediately go up to 3A, satisfied she’s no longer alone.