Chapter 4
A GAY affair
“I THINK I’M GOING TO VOMIT, SHIT!” Daniel shot unexpectedly through the parlour room and stumbled loudly into the guest bathroom.
Donald looked around at the 15 plus congressmen and their wives, trying to sort out if anyone had noticed.
“SHIT! GROSS! UGH!” came muffled from behind the bathroom door.
Glen Miller suddenly boomed from the jukebox Deborah quickly turned on.
A couple wives giggled politely. Banging was now coming from the bathroom.
“I’ll just go see if he’s alright…” Donald apologetically informed his guests as he rose toward the dry heaving that was coming from the other side of the door.
“Dan, everything alright in there?”
The bathroom door flew open and Daniel jumped out from it.
“NO! Does anyone have an awl?” Mrs. Wright thoughtfully opened her purse.
“I just saw Meryl Stanfo…”
Mr. Stanford rose at the mention of his daughter’s name.
Daniel grimaced and caught himself, leaned toward his father, trying ever so calmly not to scream and whispered through his clenched teeth.
“I just saw Meryl fucking Stanford’s fucking bare snatch and now I have to go gauge my eyes out.”
This is when the Lambert’s should have questioned Daniel and his sexual preferences.
“WHAT!?” Deborah yelled at James, “Oh No, silly girl,” Don cautiously took a hold of one of Deborah’s shoulders.
“Daniel does not know your brother, would not even dare be friends with your brother, is not, will not ever talk to your brother!”
“Oh, but they don’t just talk...” James began but was cut off by Deborah’s curt, wild scream and wailing arms. Lily clapped.
Deborah suddenly sank to the floor and put her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she slurred through her snorts, “I’m not usually violent.”
Donald nestled down beside her and offered a handkerchief.
James looked at Basil who kneeled and touched her shoulder before he turned to his mother.
“Are you trying to imply that Daniel is a homosexual?” Don asked.
Deborah blew her nose loudly.
“Didn’t you already know?” James knitted her dark brows.
Quite abruptly, a memory came to Deborah.
It was December 15th, about 17 years ago. Deborah was wearing a mink coat and a black mini dress. Her mother had bought her the coat as an early Christmas present. It was entirely impractical since Louisiana was hardly the place to need a fur coat, but Debbie loved to wear it around the house. She remembered noting what an interesting brown it was, not quite as dark as chocolate but not quite as light as caramel. She loved that it was short, perfect for showing off her little bump. Her favourite thing to do in the morning was to wear the coat and admire her changing profile in the full length mirror in the upstairs closet. Danny always picked out her shoes. On this particular morning he had brought her red paten leather pumps.
“How does your mother look Danny?”
“Fabulous.”
She knew as soon as baby Dwight was born she’d wear this out to dinner.
“Oh my God,” Deborah sat up straight as a plank, “Daniel is a homosexual.”
25 November 2008
23 November 2008
Random Fact: i started writing this 4 years ago, good thing I remembered just now that i still haven't finished it.
Chapter 3
A girl named James and a Boy named Basil
“Oh Sweet Baby Jesus” Deborah expelled while throwing her arms out to her side as if she were trying to balance on a rolling log. Harold frantically squinted and scanned the elevator buttons. None of them read ‘push here in case of ungodly noises and sudden stop’.
“Blasted piece of ----” (here, Rosemarie at once covered Lily’s ears).
“I think we’re stuck” the southern boy said, eyes sliding ever so briefly toward the girl in the corner.
“I cannot believe this,” Deborah shrieked pulling her face back with her hands, “After all the bad luck we’ve had since we arrived yesterday evening.”
Harold bit the inside of his right cheek. At least this cowboy hat-wearing family had placed the blame on themselves; he hardly had to work to suggest it.
“Does anyone have a cell phone?” Rosemarie asked looking at Harold. He felt almost insulted. He wasn’t lazy enough to carry around a waste of money like that.
“I didn’t think I’d need mine” replied the girl in the corner.
“Oh! How silly. There is absolutely nothing to worry about then. Basil dear,” Deborah flicked her wrist in front of her son in case he hadn’t understood his name being called meant she wanted to speak to him. “Basil, pull out that contraption of yours that we just got for you.” She turned towards everyone else in the elevator. “You know, I myself just don’t understand the new gadgets out these days, But we’ve always bought our kids everything they’ve ever needed, regardless of price, for times just like these! I’m sure once we contact the authorities we’ll be out of this wretched thing in no time.” Twelve eyes now all stared expectantly in Basil’s direction.
“Uh,” a corner of the boy’s mouth curled into a slight smile which he breathed out, “Mama, you know I never use that thing. It’s not charged.” The girl in the corner suddenly felt warm.
“Doesn’t it have a back up battery, or generator, or something?” asked Don.
“No Dad, it’s just a cell phone.”
“It’s not just a cell phone sweet pea, it takes pictures and connects to the world wide web and records…it has to…is there not some sort of…” Deborah jerked toward her son in the jumpiness of someone trying to remove a stain from the carpet before company arrived.
“Momma,” the boy said quietly through clenched teeth, “stop.”
“Calm down Deborah, I’m sure soon enough someone will realise that the elevator is not responding” Don suggested with a slight grin as if to imply it was silly no one had thought of this before.
“No one uses the elevator” replied the girl in the corner. Don scanned the company. The woman with the child nodded in apologetic agreement.
“Sweet Jesus, what kind of dumpy place is this?” Deborah retorted as she fanned herself with her long, pale hands. “I cannot believe Daniel has lied to us again. He swore that this time he had found a nice decent place to live.”
Deborah Lambert would have been a very attractive older woman had it not been for her intense facial expressions and personality. Fortunately, her husband’s appearance was not misleading at all. Both inside and out he was very bland. Therefore, knowing them as a couple balanced everything out and erased any pity one might have for either member. Deborah was as conservative as they came. In fact, the only real questionable thing she had ever done was arrive at a photo shoot misinformed. She was 19 and her naïveté was to blame, of course. By describing the setting as “Romanesque”, the director was not implying that she would be wearing a toga and shot in a classically tasteful way, but completely nude. Deborah left right away and never revealed her mistake to anyone. Of course, the manner in which her eldest son, Daniel, had been conceived in the back seat of Donald’s chauffeured car wasn’t all that classy either.
“You,” Deborah said pointing to the girl in the corner, “You seem to know you’re way around this…place. Is there anything we can do to get out of here?”
The girl shook her head.
In fact, she had only lived at 128 West Street for little over a year. However, she probably knew it best. When she was 16, James Julia Aleman lost her mother. No misplacement involved, only the sad fatality of breast cancer. Her father had died two years before in a car wreck. Jeremy, her older brother and now her guardian, decided to move to Los Angeles to pursue acting and finally become acquainted with the city their father had grown up in. James didn’t mind the move at all. London had never really brought her any happiness. People avoided her at school. More than anything they were scared, secretly jealous of her uncommon beauty. She was always tanned for one, something the people of England are never known for. Her father had been a handsome man of Mexican decent and her mother had been a half-English, half-Egyptian TV actress. James was a superlative mix of her parents’ ethnic influences. Her hair was flawless, silk that danced in the wind. But it was her eyes that gave kids her age a real reason to tease her. One was as brown as the chocolate her father used to bring back from Mexico when he visited his grandfather. The other was a blue as clear and enchanting as the rarity of pleasant skies parading over London.
When the time came to leave the house they had called home behind, only Jeremy got teary-eyed. James was excited. She saw the move as a transition. She could start over. 128 West Street might possibly provide her with the life she had always dreamed of.
Her first week living in the building, James had descended the stairs in hope of finding a suitable place to read in the lobby. Instead, she found it very occupied. A caramel-complected girl was lying on top of someone who was insisting, “Charmain, we can take it slow, I’m not pressuring you…” to which the girl-confection answered by removing her top. Well, certainly this was not the right setting to read 1603: The Death of Queen Elizabeth I, the Return of the Black Plague, the Rise of Shakespeare, Piracy, Witchcraft, and the Birth of the Stuart Era.
James quietly snuck past the couple only to find herself in front of a strange looking set of doors. After some inspection, she realised it was an elevator. It was the find of a lifetime. Soon the elevator became her sanctuary, a space that was rarely used. She could read away in peace without the fear of ever being disturbed.
“Dear Lord Donald, we can’t stand about in here all day. Daniel is expecting us.” Deborah began to pace in front of James.
“So, someone is expecting you soon?” Rosemarie asked hopefully. Basil grunted and slid down onto the floor. Deborah glared at him and nipped him with the point of her shoe.
“Well, yes. My son expects us at 6:00. But we always arrive early, He’ll realise that.”
Rosemarie deflated. It was only 12:30.
“At least I have some snacks, in case anyone gets hungry.” She pulled a backpack from her shoulder and shook it around as proof. “I’m Rosemarie Thack…um… well, actually, I suppose now it’s Jordan, Rosemarie Jordan.” More forgetful than usual, in light of her recent and messy divorce from her husband, Rosemarie stuck her hand shakily toward Deborah. After brief contact, Rosemarie gestured to Harold. “This is Harold Grimson and my daughter Lily.” Harold’s eyes looked as if they were about to leap out of his head. Now this woman even had the gall to introduce him to public enemies. Deborah stared at Harold and when he didn’t extend his hand in warm welcome, Donald took the liberty of offering his.
“Gouda meat chew?” said Donald almost sincerely. Harold didn’t have the interest to unscramble the strange babblings of cowboy hat-wearing Americans.
“Pleasure” he replied dryly.
“Oh,” piped Deborah, identifying the accent and looking from James to Harold, “are you her grandfather?” Harold’s upper lip quivered.
“No,” said James quickly, “I’ve never even spoken to this man before.”
“Then you are?”
“James Aleman.” The girl stood up for the first time and extended her hand confidently.
“James? Isn’t that a boy’s name?” Deborah expelled slow dopey giggles and looked around for approval. Only Lily joined her.
“My mum’s Dad was very ill before I was born and my parents promised to name their next child after him in his honour. I turned out to be a girl, but they kept their promise.”
“How silly. Weren’t you teased at all as a child?”
“You should talk mother,” Basil interrupted with a smile, “They would have named me Dwight if my great uncle hadn’t thought he was dying and demanded I be named after him.” Basil rose from the floor and took James’ hand gently. “Basil Walter Allen Montgomery Lambert III, imagine substitutes getting that right the first try.” James’ blue eye twinkled.
On the contrary, substitutes never slurred or confused Basil’s name. They knew the wrath of his family very well. The Lambert’s were old money. Creole by blood, powerful by inheritance, and infamous from holding office, Lambert was a name hardly brushed aside. Nonetheless, Basil and his older brother Daniel had never considered themselves different or righteously special. They found it all quite silly. Daniel was notorious in their gated community for rebelling and driving his mother crazy with his “improper antics”. He had turned down a scholarship from Harvard to instead travel the world and send scandalous pictures to his mother’s friends of himself in pubs and places like Guatemala. Basil disliked polo, sports in general, sailing, and people like his classmates who instead of bragging about good grades, were more interested in getting other trophies: cars, poker spoils, girls. Deborah was blind to her sons’ humility however, and simply lavished them with luxurious gifts trying in vain to make them realise the prosperity and rewards of money.
“Yes, Basil’s why we had trouble at the airport. They thought his name was too long to be real and so we were set aside like cattle and checked out. The nerve of those people. If my father were to find out, God, I don’t even dare tell him. He’d…well, we’re never treated like cattle.” Deborah pulled a compact out of her Louis Vuitton purse and continued to talk to no one in particular as she powdered her nose. “And then our taxi got a flat tire and we just had to walk to our hotel. Dear Lord, in these heels I felt like my toes were right about to fall off my feet. You’ll never guess what happened last night. I guess Margery, that’s the head of our hired help… I guess she forgot about the time difference and called me at 11:45 P.M telling me that one of our horses had got out. I couldn’t believe it. Now this! It’s like we’re cursed.” Deborah put her compact away and smiled absently at Rosemarie. Harold backed as far away as he could from Deborah and narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re visiting your son for Thanksgiving?” Rosemarie asked; mislead to think Deborah’s misdirected smile at her implied she wished to be conversed with.
“Oh…” Deborah’s eyebrows furrowed in a look like she’d been interrupted, “yes. My son Daniel. He says he’s finally found his soulmate. So here we are ready to get acquainted. It’s going to be a lovely dinner, He’s a fine cook.” Deborah turned toward James whose eyes had suddenly widened.
“Well there’s some good news” Rosemarie said cheerfully.
“Oh Mon Dieu,” James breathed, eyes not focusing on any particular thing. “Daniel Lambert? Dizzy Danny? Oh my God.” James suddenly sank back into her earlier mentioned position on the floor.
“How?” Deborah began, alarmed that such a girl would know her son’s private family nickname. “What are you muttering about?”
“It’s just. I…I just realised that I know Daniel. I know him…very, very well.”
“Sweet Jesus, you aren’t saying that YOU are Daniel’s love interest are you? How old are you? 13?” a vein made itself present on Deborah’s temple.
“No, no, NO.” James shook her head and bit her lip, beginning to fully realise just how small the elevator was.
“What are you trying to say then?” Deborah’s vein pulsed wildly. “Do you know who my son is in love with?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Who? Your big sister John?” Deborah laughed at her own joke (as did Lily) but stopped when James didn’t snap back in defence.
“Jeremy.” She finally let out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re sister’s name is Jeremy? You’re parents really went too far.” Deborah nudged Don in disbelief.
“Well, no. Jeremy is my brother’s name.” James said quietly.
A girl named James and a Boy named Basil
“Oh Sweet Baby Jesus” Deborah expelled while throwing her arms out to her side as if she were trying to balance on a rolling log. Harold frantically squinted and scanned the elevator buttons. None of them read ‘push here in case of ungodly noises and sudden stop’.
“Blasted piece of ----” (here, Rosemarie at once covered Lily’s ears).
“I think we’re stuck” the southern boy said, eyes sliding ever so briefly toward the girl in the corner.
“I cannot believe this,” Deborah shrieked pulling her face back with her hands, “After all the bad luck we’ve had since we arrived yesterday evening.”
Harold bit the inside of his right cheek. At least this cowboy hat-wearing family had placed the blame on themselves; he hardly had to work to suggest it.
“Does anyone have a cell phone?” Rosemarie asked looking at Harold. He felt almost insulted. He wasn’t lazy enough to carry around a waste of money like that.
“I didn’t think I’d need mine” replied the girl in the corner.
“Oh! How silly. There is absolutely nothing to worry about then. Basil dear,” Deborah flicked her wrist in front of her son in case he hadn’t understood his name being called meant she wanted to speak to him. “Basil, pull out that contraption of yours that we just got for you.” She turned towards everyone else in the elevator. “You know, I myself just don’t understand the new gadgets out these days, But we’ve always bought our kids everything they’ve ever needed, regardless of price, for times just like these! I’m sure once we contact the authorities we’ll be out of this wretched thing in no time.” Twelve eyes now all stared expectantly in Basil’s direction.
“Uh,” a corner of the boy’s mouth curled into a slight smile which he breathed out, “Mama, you know I never use that thing. It’s not charged.” The girl in the corner suddenly felt warm.
“Doesn’t it have a back up battery, or generator, or something?” asked Don.
“No Dad, it’s just a cell phone.”
“It’s not just a cell phone sweet pea, it takes pictures and connects to the world wide web and records…it has to…is there not some sort of…” Deborah jerked toward her son in the jumpiness of someone trying to remove a stain from the carpet before company arrived.
“Momma,” the boy said quietly through clenched teeth, “stop.”
“Calm down Deborah, I’m sure soon enough someone will realise that the elevator is not responding” Don suggested with a slight grin as if to imply it was silly no one had thought of this before.
“No one uses the elevator” replied the girl in the corner. Don scanned the company. The woman with the child nodded in apologetic agreement.
“Sweet Jesus, what kind of dumpy place is this?” Deborah retorted as she fanned herself with her long, pale hands. “I cannot believe Daniel has lied to us again. He swore that this time he had found a nice decent place to live.”
Deborah Lambert would have been a very attractive older woman had it not been for her intense facial expressions and personality. Fortunately, her husband’s appearance was not misleading at all. Both inside and out he was very bland. Therefore, knowing them as a couple balanced everything out and erased any pity one might have for either member. Deborah was as conservative as they came. In fact, the only real questionable thing she had ever done was arrive at a photo shoot misinformed. She was 19 and her naïveté was to blame, of course. By describing the setting as “Romanesque”, the director was not implying that she would be wearing a toga and shot in a classically tasteful way, but completely nude. Deborah left right away and never revealed her mistake to anyone. Of course, the manner in which her eldest son, Daniel, had been conceived in the back seat of Donald’s chauffeured car wasn’t all that classy either.
“You,” Deborah said pointing to the girl in the corner, “You seem to know you’re way around this…place. Is there anything we can do to get out of here?”
The girl shook her head.
In fact, she had only lived at 128 West Street for little over a year. However, she probably knew it best. When she was 16, James Julia Aleman lost her mother. No misplacement involved, only the sad fatality of breast cancer. Her father had died two years before in a car wreck. Jeremy, her older brother and now her guardian, decided to move to Los Angeles to pursue acting and finally become acquainted with the city their father had grown up in. James didn’t mind the move at all. London had never really brought her any happiness. People avoided her at school. More than anything they were scared, secretly jealous of her uncommon beauty. She was always tanned for one, something the people of England are never known for. Her father had been a handsome man of Mexican decent and her mother had been a half-English, half-Egyptian TV actress. James was a superlative mix of her parents’ ethnic influences. Her hair was flawless, silk that danced in the wind. But it was her eyes that gave kids her age a real reason to tease her. One was as brown as the chocolate her father used to bring back from Mexico when he visited his grandfather. The other was a blue as clear and enchanting as the rarity of pleasant skies parading over London.
When the time came to leave the house they had called home behind, only Jeremy got teary-eyed. James was excited. She saw the move as a transition. She could start over. 128 West Street might possibly provide her with the life she had always dreamed of.
Her first week living in the building, James had descended the stairs in hope of finding a suitable place to read in the lobby. Instead, she found it very occupied. A caramel-complected girl was lying on top of someone who was insisting, “Charmain, we can take it slow, I’m not pressuring you…” to which the girl-confection answered by removing her top. Well, certainly this was not the right setting to read 1603: The Death of Queen Elizabeth I, the Return of the Black Plague, the Rise of Shakespeare, Piracy, Witchcraft, and the Birth of the Stuart Era.
James quietly snuck past the couple only to find herself in front of a strange looking set of doors. After some inspection, she realised it was an elevator. It was the find of a lifetime. Soon the elevator became her sanctuary, a space that was rarely used. She could read away in peace without the fear of ever being disturbed.
“Dear Lord Donald, we can’t stand about in here all day. Daniel is expecting us.” Deborah began to pace in front of James.
“So, someone is expecting you soon?” Rosemarie asked hopefully. Basil grunted and slid down onto the floor. Deborah glared at him and nipped him with the point of her shoe.
“Well, yes. My son expects us at 6:00. But we always arrive early, He’ll realise that.”
Rosemarie deflated. It was only 12:30.
“At least I have some snacks, in case anyone gets hungry.” She pulled a backpack from her shoulder and shook it around as proof. “I’m Rosemarie Thack…um… well, actually, I suppose now it’s Jordan, Rosemarie Jordan.” More forgetful than usual, in light of her recent and messy divorce from her husband, Rosemarie stuck her hand shakily toward Deborah. After brief contact, Rosemarie gestured to Harold. “This is Harold Grimson and my daughter Lily.” Harold’s eyes looked as if they were about to leap out of his head. Now this woman even had the gall to introduce him to public enemies. Deborah stared at Harold and when he didn’t extend his hand in warm welcome, Donald took the liberty of offering his.
“Gouda meat chew?” said Donald almost sincerely. Harold didn’t have the interest to unscramble the strange babblings of cowboy hat-wearing Americans.
“Pleasure” he replied dryly.
“Oh,” piped Deborah, identifying the accent and looking from James to Harold, “are you her grandfather?” Harold’s upper lip quivered.
“No,” said James quickly, “I’ve never even spoken to this man before.”
“Then you are?”
“James Aleman.” The girl stood up for the first time and extended her hand confidently.
“James? Isn’t that a boy’s name?” Deborah expelled slow dopey giggles and looked around for approval. Only Lily joined her.
“My mum’s Dad was very ill before I was born and my parents promised to name their next child after him in his honour. I turned out to be a girl, but they kept their promise.”
“How silly. Weren’t you teased at all as a child?”
“You should talk mother,” Basil interrupted with a smile, “They would have named me Dwight if my great uncle hadn’t thought he was dying and demanded I be named after him.” Basil rose from the floor and took James’ hand gently. “Basil Walter Allen Montgomery Lambert III, imagine substitutes getting that right the first try.” James’ blue eye twinkled.
On the contrary, substitutes never slurred or confused Basil’s name. They knew the wrath of his family very well. The Lambert’s were old money. Creole by blood, powerful by inheritance, and infamous from holding office, Lambert was a name hardly brushed aside. Nonetheless, Basil and his older brother Daniel had never considered themselves different or righteously special. They found it all quite silly. Daniel was notorious in their gated community for rebelling and driving his mother crazy with his “improper antics”. He had turned down a scholarship from Harvard to instead travel the world and send scandalous pictures to his mother’s friends of himself in pubs and places like Guatemala. Basil disliked polo, sports in general, sailing, and people like his classmates who instead of bragging about good grades, were more interested in getting other trophies: cars, poker spoils, girls. Deborah was blind to her sons’ humility however, and simply lavished them with luxurious gifts trying in vain to make them realise the prosperity and rewards of money.
“Yes, Basil’s why we had trouble at the airport. They thought his name was too long to be real and so we were set aside like cattle and checked out. The nerve of those people. If my father were to find out, God, I don’t even dare tell him. He’d…well, we’re never treated like cattle.” Deborah pulled a compact out of her Louis Vuitton purse and continued to talk to no one in particular as she powdered her nose. “And then our taxi got a flat tire and we just had to walk to our hotel. Dear Lord, in these heels I felt like my toes were right about to fall off my feet. You’ll never guess what happened last night. I guess Margery, that’s the head of our hired help… I guess she forgot about the time difference and called me at 11:45 P.M telling me that one of our horses had got out. I couldn’t believe it. Now this! It’s like we’re cursed.” Deborah put her compact away and smiled absently at Rosemarie. Harold backed as far away as he could from Deborah and narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re visiting your son for Thanksgiving?” Rosemarie asked; mislead to think Deborah’s misdirected smile at her implied she wished to be conversed with.
“Oh…” Deborah’s eyebrows furrowed in a look like she’d been interrupted, “yes. My son Daniel. He says he’s finally found his soulmate. So here we are ready to get acquainted. It’s going to be a lovely dinner, He’s a fine cook.” Deborah turned toward James whose eyes had suddenly widened.
“Well there’s some good news” Rosemarie said cheerfully.
“Oh Mon Dieu,” James breathed, eyes not focusing on any particular thing. “Daniel Lambert? Dizzy Danny? Oh my God.” James suddenly sank back into her earlier mentioned position on the floor.
“How?” Deborah began, alarmed that such a girl would know her son’s private family nickname. “What are you muttering about?”
“It’s just. I…I just realised that I know Daniel. I know him…very, very well.”
“Sweet Jesus, you aren’t saying that YOU are Daniel’s love interest are you? How old are you? 13?” a vein made itself present on Deborah’s temple.
“No, no, NO.” James shook her head and bit her lip, beginning to fully realise just how small the elevator was.
“What are you trying to say then?” Deborah’s vein pulsed wildly. “Do you know who my son is in love with?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Who? Your big sister John?” Deborah laughed at her own joke (as did Lily) but stopped when James didn’t snap back in defence.
“Jeremy.” She finally let out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re sister’s name is Jeremy? You’re parents really went too far.” Deborah nudged Don in disbelief.
“Well, no. Jeremy is my brother’s name.” James said quietly.
20 November 2008
You'll need to go back a post to understand this part. (please)
Chapter 2
God’s Gift to the World: Children
The girl could not believe it. Someone other than herself (and the old women who smelled of cats and cheese) was actually attempting to use the elevator. She rubbed her ankle where the old man had accidentally stepped on her. He already started to push frantically at the buttons. No sign of apology at all, just knitted brows and a sharp escape of breath from his tight, slanted mouth. The girl scooted across the bottom of the elevator until her back touched the end of the wall. The book she had been quietly reading now lay closed at her side.
“Blasted bloody piece of Communist scrap metal” the old man slurred exasperatedly at the brass buttons which had not yet done their job of closing the elevator doors.
“Sir,” the girl tested the word, waiting for the man to at least acknowledge her presence (he didn’t), “It won’t work if you press the ‘close door’ button twice. It cancels out the first press or something.”
Harold froze with a mixture of anxiety and suspicion. The girl in the corner was speaking at him. He took his finger off the button and could not decide which was worse, waiting for the doors to close on their own or having to answer this girl if she spoke to him again.
“MOMMY!” a youthful shriek rang out from the lobby.
“MOMMY! I LEFT HENRY UPSTAIRS! WE HAVE TO GET HIM!”
Actually, it sounded more like, MOMMY I wefenrEEEE up Stay-Os! WEHABtoGAYHIM! But Harold, in his lack of affinity towards the very young, was uniquely blessed with the remarkable ability to understand every word of their jumbled applesauce phrases.
“Lily, sweetie, we just climbed down all those stairs. We won’t have enough time to stop by the bakery to get that pie you like if we go back up, honey, please.”
“MOMMY! I KNEESenREEEE!” chipped Lily.
Harold was paralyzed with terror as a pair of footsteps made a dash for the now closing doors of the elevator.
“Please, could you hold that?” MOMMY’s voice slid into the elevator like the sweet skid of car wheels on wet pavement. Harold didn’t budge. In his absolute stillness, he could feel the disbelief in the girl’s stare burning into his back. Just before the ancient doors pulled together, a worn, but elegant hand shot through the crack, sending the doors horizontally retreating open.
“Thank you” said the woman reflexively, not noticing that Harold had done nothing to deserve a thank you. He didn’t even make eye contact. Harold knew this woman very well. She lived next door with her three wild children. Her name was Rosemarie and she worked at the grocer across the street on Sundays. Monday through Friday she worked at the flower shop next to the grocer. Harold knew all this from observing her through his window. Of course, if his window hadn’t been facing the grocer he most certainly would have heard “MOMMY! Take us to work with you to the grocer across the street on Sundays and the flower shop next to the grocer on ThursdaMonday through Friday” coming from the children’s mouth at some point. The walls were so thin and the children were very loud, he’d have no choice but to over-hear everything about her. Most days, Harold was woken up from his nap by the sounds of the children’s laughter or their sing-alongs. Harold hated sing-alongs. Once, this Rosemarie woman had even dared to knock on Harold’s door and ask if he could watch the little tyrant that was now standing before his knees. “Just for half an hour” she’d said. He told her he was expecting company. She thanked him anyway.
“Oh, hey, good,” Rosemarie relieved as she recognised Harold, “we’re going up too.” Harold pushed the ‘close door’ button once and busied himself by examining the tattered hem of his tweed coat. Lily also noticed the state of Harold’s hem. She looked up at him and saw deep into his brain, via nostrils. She liked Mr. Grim. (That’s what her brothers called him). She liked to watch the way he wobbled out of his apartment. She liked how he always made the extra effort to crash into her Barbies and the houses she constructed for them in the hallway as he made his way to the stairs. She thought he was funny. Of course, being four, almost everything seemed funny to Lily. Even now, the sight of Mr. Grim staring so intently at his hem made Lily giggle.
The doors made terribly annoyed sounds of discontent at being bothered and began to ever so slowly close again. Even though he was close to losing his sight and frequently ran into things, Harold’s listening skills were as keen as a trained dog’s. He could detect tin can openers buzzing two floors below or hear people approaching fifty-two yards away. This is what made him aware that someone was approaching the front of the building. In his angst, he pushed the ‘close door’ button again.
“Sir, I told you, that deactivates the whole thing.” The girl’s voice softly began again. Harold stopped and tilted his head. The girl had an accent. British. He hadn’t even noticed it before. This new fact made him want to inspect her. He almost turned around. However, as quickly as the desire to grant this girl personal immunity or maybe even ally-status had risen, aggravation welled up in Harold’s spacious gut as the voice of another woman sang out, “Hold the elevator door please!”
The old man won’t have to hold anything, the girl in the corner thought. He’s surely jammed the doors by now. Rosemarie and Lily shifted closer to Harold as a new woman, accompanied by a man and a tall boy trailed along behind her.
“Two floors up please,” the new woman said in a smooth, assertive drawl. Harold suddenly thought of cowboy hats and grimaced.
“What’s the number again Don? B something, five? Four?” The man she was speaking to was presumably her husband for they matched quite well. She had on a white skirt and peach silk shirt and he, white linen pants, pale orange polo, which he probed and pulled a card out of.
“That’s right, B05.”
The corners of Rosemarie’s mouth made an unexpected expedition upwards.
“Actually,” the girl in the corner interrupted, “you’ll have to go six floors up if you’re wanting to get off on B.” The Southern woman turned to see whom this quiet spew of information had come from then turned back to her family. She adjusted her pearls then whispered, or thought she was whispering by simply leaning in closer to her husband, “I don’t trust these people Don, just press the 2 button.”
Everyone in the elevator suddenly felt a little bit more cramped and uncomfortable. Don awkwardly made his way toward Harold and the brass buttons, pushed 2 and walked back to his wife and son. The doors closed. The elevator began to rise. And then, accompanied by a sound none of them had heard before, it stopped and ceased to move altogether.
God’s Gift to the World: Children
The girl could not believe it. Someone other than herself (and the old women who smelled of cats and cheese) was actually attempting to use the elevator. She rubbed her ankle where the old man had accidentally stepped on her. He already started to push frantically at the buttons. No sign of apology at all, just knitted brows and a sharp escape of breath from his tight, slanted mouth. The girl scooted across the bottom of the elevator until her back touched the end of the wall. The book she had been quietly reading now lay closed at her side.
“Blasted bloody piece of Communist scrap metal” the old man slurred exasperatedly at the brass buttons which had not yet done their job of closing the elevator doors.
“Sir,” the girl tested the word, waiting for the man to at least acknowledge her presence (he didn’t), “It won’t work if you press the ‘close door’ button twice. It cancels out the first press or something.”
Harold froze with a mixture of anxiety and suspicion. The girl in the corner was speaking at him. He took his finger off the button and could not decide which was worse, waiting for the doors to close on their own or having to answer this girl if she spoke to him again.
“MOMMY!” a youthful shriek rang out from the lobby.
“MOMMY! I LEFT HENRY UPSTAIRS! WE HAVE TO GET HIM!”
Actually, it sounded more like, MOMMY I wefenrEEEE up Stay-Os! WEHABtoGAYHIM! But Harold, in his lack of affinity towards the very young, was uniquely blessed with the remarkable ability to understand every word of their jumbled applesauce phrases.
“Lily, sweetie, we just climbed down all those stairs. We won’t have enough time to stop by the bakery to get that pie you like if we go back up, honey, please.”
“MOMMY! I KNEESenREEEE!” chipped Lily.
Harold was paralyzed with terror as a pair of footsteps made a dash for the now closing doors of the elevator.
“Please, could you hold that?” MOMMY’s voice slid into the elevator like the sweet skid of car wheels on wet pavement. Harold didn’t budge. In his absolute stillness, he could feel the disbelief in the girl’s stare burning into his back. Just before the ancient doors pulled together, a worn, but elegant hand shot through the crack, sending the doors horizontally retreating open.
“Thank you” said the woman reflexively, not noticing that Harold had done nothing to deserve a thank you. He didn’t even make eye contact. Harold knew this woman very well. She lived next door with her three wild children. Her name was Rosemarie and she worked at the grocer across the street on Sundays. Monday through Friday she worked at the flower shop next to the grocer. Harold knew all this from observing her through his window. Of course, if his window hadn’t been facing the grocer he most certainly would have heard “MOMMY! Take us to work with you to the grocer across the street on Sundays and the flower shop next to the grocer on ThursdaMonday through Friday” coming from the children’s mouth at some point. The walls were so thin and the children were very loud, he’d have no choice but to over-hear everything about her. Most days, Harold was woken up from his nap by the sounds of the children’s laughter or their sing-alongs. Harold hated sing-alongs. Once, this Rosemarie woman had even dared to knock on Harold’s door and ask if he could watch the little tyrant that was now standing before his knees. “Just for half an hour” she’d said. He told her he was expecting company. She thanked him anyway.
“Oh, hey, good,” Rosemarie relieved as she recognised Harold, “we’re going up too.” Harold pushed the ‘close door’ button once and busied himself by examining the tattered hem of his tweed coat. Lily also noticed the state of Harold’s hem. She looked up at him and saw deep into his brain, via nostrils. She liked Mr. Grim. (That’s what her brothers called him). She liked to watch the way he wobbled out of his apartment. She liked how he always made the extra effort to crash into her Barbies and the houses she constructed for them in the hallway as he made his way to the stairs. She thought he was funny. Of course, being four, almost everything seemed funny to Lily. Even now, the sight of Mr. Grim staring so intently at his hem made Lily giggle.
The doors made terribly annoyed sounds of discontent at being bothered and began to ever so slowly close again. Even though he was close to losing his sight and frequently ran into things, Harold’s listening skills were as keen as a trained dog’s. He could detect tin can openers buzzing two floors below or hear people approaching fifty-two yards away. This is what made him aware that someone was approaching the front of the building. In his angst, he pushed the ‘close door’ button again.
“Sir, I told you, that deactivates the whole thing.” The girl’s voice softly began again. Harold stopped and tilted his head. The girl had an accent. British. He hadn’t even noticed it before. This new fact made him want to inspect her. He almost turned around. However, as quickly as the desire to grant this girl personal immunity or maybe even ally-status had risen, aggravation welled up in Harold’s spacious gut as the voice of another woman sang out, “Hold the elevator door please!”
The old man won’t have to hold anything, the girl in the corner thought. He’s surely jammed the doors by now. Rosemarie and Lily shifted closer to Harold as a new woman, accompanied by a man and a tall boy trailed along behind her.
“Two floors up please,” the new woman said in a smooth, assertive drawl. Harold suddenly thought of cowboy hats and grimaced.
“What’s the number again Don? B something, five? Four?” The man she was speaking to was presumably her husband for they matched quite well. She had on a white skirt and peach silk shirt and he, white linen pants, pale orange polo, which he probed and pulled a card out of.
“That’s right, B05.”
The corners of Rosemarie’s mouth made an unexpected expedition upwards.
“Actually,” the girl in the corner interrupted, “you’ll have to go six floors up if you’re wanting to get off on B.” The Southern woman turned to see whom this quiet spew of information had come from then turned back to her family. She adjusted her pearls then whispered, or thought she was whispering by simply leaning in closer to her husband, “I don’t trust these people Don, just press the 2 button.”
Everyone in the elevator suddenly felt a little bit more cramped and uncomfortable. Don awkwardly made his way toward Harold and the brass buttons, pushed 2 and walked back to his wife and son. The doors closed. The elevator began to rise. And then, accompanied by a sound none of them had heard before, it stopped and ceased to move altogether.
18 November 2008
and now for something completely different: excerpt from ELEVATOR (a novel about people, thanksgiving, and cowboy hats)
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.
15 November 2008
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