Chapter 1
A Red Couch, A Man, and A Girl
Everyone’s a turd. Harold Grimson hated Los Angeles. He especially hated anyone who appeared to have taken extra time out of their day to be well put together. Clearly, anyone preoccupied to do this was hiding something, trying desperately to cover up their imperfections. Stinking turd thought Harold as he passed by a man who smelled as if he’d just been rained on with daffodil excretions. On any other day, Harold would have made a point to show said man that he was annoyed with his scent and unusually perfect eyebrows, but today Harold had to get home and prepare and so, he increased his pace and continued on his way towards 128 West Street. Summer was Harold’s favourite time of year. He liked the limited interaction of people too concerned about not appearing sweaty. They were especially aware of their bodies and he liked not worrying about looking where he was going because, for once, they would make sure to move out of his way. Sweat. Harold loved sweat. Sweat reminded him of the war and that kept him alive, or more appropriately, aware that he was alive while many others were dead. The war had left him with a limp, nothing more, and other than the occasional stare from an unsupervised child, it gave him no real trouble.
Harold didn’t like children. They were too apt to want to touch him, probe him with their small, pointy fingers, curious about a man with so many wrinkles and stray whiskers. Babies in particular were fond of grabbing his long crooked nose, and so, Harold didn’t like babies either.
In fact, Harold Grimson didn’t like many things. He hated when people felt it was necessary to proclaim “I’ve got some Irish in me too” when they heard him speak in his deep raspy voice. Harold was not Irish, did not like potatoes, and would never learn to love either. The Irish were expressive in both extremes and Harold hated anyone who wasted energy on useless emotions. Harold was from Liverpool. Fellow Britains would know this from his dialect. Americans could hardly ever tell the difference. Harold did not like to be called ‘Harry’. He hated its implications. Being called ‘Harry’ meant you were boisterous or lively or maybe even carefree. Harold was none of these. He didn’t like cats. He hated cowboy hats and especially disliked crowds and department stores. This accounted for the reason all his sister and her children ever received from him were paid subscriptions to Outdoor Life and National Geographic as Christmas presents.
Harold stopped outside a large brick building taken over by moss and rain-stained blotches. He had lived here for eleven years and couldn’t account for any one of those years being especially memorable. As he closed the door behind him, Harold paused to take a breath. The lobby of the building was, in a word, eccentric. The walls were covered in nice Victorian looking crème wallpaper that clashed horribly with the cement floors. The red couch, where Charmain Lewis of apartment C19 coyly informed every new boyfriend she was still a virgin, the ancient looking elevator and metal winding staircase were the only other things that brought the room any life. Harold eyed the stairs. The genius who constructed 128 West Street amusingly christened the 8th floor ‘A’ and the first floor ‘H’. And so, Harold, who lived on C, had to descend and ascend 5 flights day in and day out. Usually he didn’t mind the exercise, but today his limp twinged with anxiousness and he wasn’t looking forward to the 66 steps that lay ahead of him. The elevator would have to do.
Paralyzed from mid-thigh down, old Mrs. Sales was the only one who used the elevator if and when she left her room at all. The other inhabitants avoided it altogether because they had either heard it was A) haunted- used in the 20’s by the disputed criminal Vick Maloney as victim storage B) not in service- Mrs. Sales actually started this rumour 34 years ago and earned her the endearing nickname of "shaft nazi", or C) heated like a sauna- and no one was comfortable with the idea that by using the thing they could possibly break a sweat. Harold limped toward the elevator and pushed the ancient looking buttons. Clear, clangy footsteps were quickly plummeting down the stairs. The elevator gave an epic groan and ever so slowly began to twitch and screech with renewed life. As Harold anxiously began to squeeze his body through the doors, which were not quite open yet, he shot a glance at the two figures who had just stepped into the lobby from the stairwell. His pulse quickened as he recognised the mother and child and forcefully flung himself into the elevator, fumbling over the body of someone he had not noticed before. A girl, on the floor. She looked up at him almost as surprised and disturbed as Harold immediately felt.
A Red Couch, A Man, and A Girl
Everyone’s a turd. Harold Grimson hated Los Angeles. He especially hated anyone who appeared to have taken extra time out of their day to be well put together. Clearly, anyone preoccupied to do this was hiding something, trying desperately to cover up their imperfections. Stinking turd thought Harold as he passed by a man who smelled as if he’d just been rained on with daffodil excretions. On any other day, Harold would have made a point to show said man that he was annoyed with his scent and unusually perfect eyebrows, but today Harold had to get home and prepare and so, he increased his pace and continued on his way towards 128 West Street. Summer was Harold’s favourite time of year. He liked the limited interaction of people too concerned about not appearing sweaty. They were especially aware of their bodies and he liked not worrying about looking where he was going because, for once, they would make sure to move out of his way. Sweat. Harold loved sweat. Sweat reminded him of the war and that kept him alive, or more appropriately, aware that he was alive while many others were dead. The war had left him with a limp, nothing more, and other than the occasional stare from an unsupervised child, it gave him no real trouble.
Harold didn’t like children. They were too apt to want to touch him, probe him with their small, pointy fingers, curious about a man with so many wrinkles and stray whiskers. Babies in particular were fond of grabbing his long crooked nose, and so, Harold didn’t like babies either.
In fact, Harold Grimson didn’t like many things. He hated when people felt it was necessary to proclaim “I’ve got some Irish in me too” when they heard him speak in his deep raspy voice. Harold was not Irish, did not like potatoes, and would never learn to love either. The Irish were expressive in both extremes and Harold hated anyone who wasted energy on useless emotions. Harold was from Liverpool. Fellow Britains would know this from his dialect. Americans could hardly ever tell the difference. Harold did not like to be called ‘Harry’. He hated its implications. Being called ‘Harry’ meant you were boisterous or lively or maybe even carefree. Harold was none of these. He didn’t like cats. He hated cowboy hats and especially disliked crowds and department stores. This accounted for the reason all his sister and her children ever received from him were paid subscriptions to Outdoor Life and National Geographic as Christmas presents.
Harold stopped outside a large brick building taken over by moss and rain-stained blotches. He had lived here for eleven years and couldn’t account for any one of those years being especially memorable. As he closed the door behind him, Harold paused to take a breath. The lobby of the building was, in a word, eccentric. The walls were covered in nice Victorian looking crème wallpaper that clashed horribly with the cement floors. The red couch, where Charmain Lewis of apartment C19 coyly informed every new boyfriend she was still a virgin, the ancient looking elevator and metal winding staircase were the only other things that brought the room any life. Harold eyed the stairs. The genius who constructed 128 West Street amusingly christened the 8th floor ‘A’ and the first floor ‘H’. And so, Harold, who lived on C, had to descend and ascend 5 flights day in and day out. Usually he didn’t mind the exercise, but today his limp twinged with anxiousness and he wasn’t looking forward to the 66 steps that lay ahead of him. The elevator would have to do.
Paralyzed from mid-thigh down, old Mrs. Sales was the only one who used the elevator if and when she left her room at all. The other inhabitants avoided it altogether because they had either heard it was A) haunted- used in the 20’s by the disputed criminal Vick Maloney as victim storage B) not in service- Mrs. Sales actually started this rumour 34 years ago and earned her the endearing nickname of "shaft nazi", or C) heated like a sauna- and no one was comfortable with the idea that by using the thing they could possibly break a sweat. Harold limped toward the elevator and pushed the ancient looking buttons. Clear, clangy footsteps were quickly plummeting down the stairs. The elevator gave an epic groan and ever so slowly began to twitch and screech with renewed life. As Harold anxiously began to squeeze his body through the doors, which were not quite open yet, he shot a glance at the two figures who had just stepped into the lobby from the stairwell. His pulse quickened as he recognised the mother and child and forcefully flung himself into the elevator, fumbling over the body of someone he had not noticed before. A girl, on the floor. She looked up at him almost as surprised and disturbed as Harold immediately felt.
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