Disappointing Merriment

I woke up before dawn this morning, my internal clock ticking and my arthritic knees aching. Happy 60th birthday to me. The wind was howling and lightning was shooting past my window, all centered around the park. I took my new pin from the armoire in the corner, the one that said HAPPY 60th BIRTHDAY!, and pinned it to my blouse. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a quart of milk from the fridge. I slowly poured it into the pot on my gas stove--the stove the super was supposed to fix. I zapped a frozen chocolate eclair and got out the Wainwright china I'd brought up from Georgia. I stuck a small yellow candle on top and grabbed a box of matches.

While the milk for my hot chocolate heated, I went to the window to look out. Yesterday afternoon, I'd seen a nurse walk hurridly down the street, talking on her phone with great enthusiasm--too much for this neighborhood. I often feel lonely here because so many of these people keep to themselves. Or at least keep away from me. Which reminds me, I know what I want to wish for. I quickly fixed the hot chocolate and sat down to my cake. I lit the candle, made my wish, and sang softly to myself. If only I had someone to celebrate with--when my Henry was around, birthdays were always such a big deal. . . .

I looked over out the window again. The wind had died down again. The sun was out and the world looked at peace. An elderly lady stood in the park, huddling over a pile of rags and an old piece of newspaper. She looked excited, keyed up in some way--even from six floors up. She must have seen me in the window, because she waved her arms and shouted something. It sounded like Happy Birthday, but I couldn't be sure. I waved back though. I was surprised she'd know it was my birthday, and I took that wave as a sign of good luck, possibly just enough luck to get my stove changed. So I took the rotting, lurching elevator down to the basement and knocked on the super's door.

"Happy Birthday," he said as he opened the door. "What could you possibly want this time of the morning?"

So I explained the situation to him. "When people fly and sidewalks sing."

Hmm.

Next I ran by Manny's grocery to buy a new battery for my hearing aid. The old one was giving out. When I walked in, the manager greeted me with a smile and a "Happy 60th!" He selected me a new battery and escorted me to the checkout. Halfway home, I glanced at the park and saw a gathering of people-some waving at me, some talking with great excitement, one with a celebratory bottle of wine. Off to the side, an odd woman sang in a low, deep voice. "Happy Birthday." The notes drew slowly down the crowd to merge near the street, where a high pitched siren screamed. Touched to tears, I turned away from the group and headed back to my apartment.

I installed my new battery and sipped on my leftover hot chocolate. Drawn out of curiosity, I once again stepped to the window, my view of the park only partially obstructed. The crowd was still gathered, so I opened the window to shout down my thanks. I was cut short by the same low tune from my walk. The high-pitched screech was missing, and over the noise of the crowd I heard "Somebody died today."

No jazz 'round here

You know, rain is deceptive. Back in Georgia, it was always sunny while it rained. The rain was softer, less concrete, more like in the movies. Disney always has a cheerful little ditty to accompany the rain. But here? A funeral dirge would be more appropriate. New Orleans style, on the way to the cemetery--not the jazz on the way back. In a place like this, there is always a rain check on the jazz.

Which is why the clanging, discordant crash of symbols brought me to my window. Looking down, I saw a garishly painted ice cream truck just cruising up to the curb. So I decided to go down and have a look, maybe get an ice cream. Of course, to counter-act the calories, I decided to trek down the stairs.

I made it to the fifth floor before my knee replacement started troubling me. So I exited the stairwell and slipped into the elevator just as a young woman headed past toward her apartment. On the end of the leash was a little dog, waddling to keep up. The woman reminded me of myself. She looked a little out-of-place in this neighborhood, a little lonely, and a little bit in need of a friend--which reminded me my 60th birthday is coming up, and I still don't have anyone to celebrate with.

Dante's Elevator

I feel like I've been buried alive today in this musty, dingy, dirty building. As far as the weather, it's more of the same, casket gray skies and  intermittent sleet. It never rains cats and dogs on this side of town--more like cockroaches and snakes. Something that hides in the dark corners like I do. Hindered by the rain, without an escape route. In a gloomy, crumbling hole in the stucco walls. The only variation is a route up and down the quietly deteriorating elevator lurking in the rear of the building.

Right after my husband's 50th birthday, I decided to redecorate the kitchen again as a surprise. Henry was livid. Told me to quit spending so much  of his money, told me I was nothing to no one but an aging face. Thought I should get some culture. He sent me off to some literature class to learn about the world. All I know is that is what the elevator reminds me of. 

The trip up to the top becomes gradually darker. The hallways have a rank odor and putrid shades of paint on the walls. The people become stranger, more foreign to an old woman like me--outside a seventh floor window, a young woman drops a bag and chases a hat. The eighth floor displays a black panel van rolling slowly down the street. The view from the ninth floor is of a small boy heading off alone toward the park at dinnertime. By the tenth floor, windows reveal only shadows creeping along the alleys and hovering on street corners. 

The trip down, now that's another story. Try imagining Dante's levels of hell all in one apartment building. We have the pagans, the lustful, the miserly, and the abusers--all separated by a few thin walls of chipped concrete and a rust-encrusted elevator. A creaking, straining, decrepit old elevator.

Locked Out

I woke up this morning itching to get out. Finally the week-long rain had stopped, and my old legs needed to walk. So I thought I'd go to church. My mama raised me Catholic, and although I don't practice anymore, I miss the morning service. It gives me something to think about during the day. Unfortunately, there is no church on this side of the interstate except the synagogue down the street. My mama always warned me to stay away from places like that, but I was desperate, so I got all gussied-up and took that rickety old elevator downstairs. The sky was casket gray and the wind was chilly. By the time I crossed the street to the synagogue, my toes were numb and my skin was translucent. But I trudged on, determined to attend the morning service. I walked right up to that front door and yanked on the handle. No one was going to keep me out--regardless of my religion. 

The door was locked. Those rabbis wouldn't let me in, and the other parishioners hid inside. I didn't see a single soul. Just as I turned to make the long walk back to my apartment, a small grocery receipt flew by on a gust of wind. I watched it bounce up and down the street, jerking this way and that, like a marionette pulled by unseen hands. The wind suddenly quieted. The paper dropped. Right in front of a hole-in-the-wall store I'd never seen before.

A cheap sign out front advertised THE WRATH. I peered in the store window and saw a small woman bent over an oven. She was holding a few weeds and a cylindrical bar of something melty and white. All around her loomed cases of odd objects: old playing cards, odd candles, crystal balls. . . . Not the sort of place a woman of my age and upbringing should enter, but I was tempted. After being rejected by the people at the synagogue, a new friend like this might be nice. As I squinted to see into the shop, the receipt that brought me there blew up in my face and bounced down the street. I followed it, wondering where it would lead me next. It bounced down to the corner by Washington Heights, ricocheted off the traffic light and fluttered all the way to Manny's Grocery. 

I looked up, and there in the window was a sign. NO ALCOHOL SALES ON SUNDAY.

Retreat

It rained again today. It's been raining all week, a variation of drizzle and torrential downpours--always just enough to keep me indoors. I haven't been able to go on my daily walk, so today I decided I'd travel only as far as the lobby. I thought I might watch the residents come and go. What an interesting experience that turned out to be. The first man I saw on my journey appeared a bit tipsy. He didn't quite have his costume on right. To tell you the truth, I wasn't really sure why he was dressed up like that. It's not like it's Halloween. Of course before I had time to ponder that further, an even odder woman marched by. I couldn't tell you what she looked like, other than I caught a whiff of death seeping from her bag. As my mother used to say, she gave me the heeby-jeebies. It was like she'd crawled up from the Underworld, the way she felt to me. My mama always said I had a sort of sixth sense about these things. Maybe that woman works in a morgue or in a cemetary. Whatever she does, it's something disgusting, something sub-human, something no Wainwright would ever so much as acknowledge. And I didn't. I turned up my nose, wrinkled because of the stench, and ignored her. And as soon as she was safely out of sight, I took the elevator back to my floor to make a strong cup of camomile tea. Soothes the soul, my mother used to say.

Through a shrouded lens

Some new boy got off the bus today. I haven't seen him around here before. All I know is he looked lost. He just stepped right off the bus and stood there for a minute or two like he didn't quite know what to make of this building. I must admit it shocked me at first; it's one of those places where you know its bad going in, but you're never quite prepared enough.

Anyway, he reminded me of a kangaroo. You see, there's this book about a kangaroo named Katy, who has no pocket, and she doesn't know what to do with her baby. She tries putting him on her back, but he falls off when she hops, and he's too slow to keep up. He's always left behind.

I sometimes feel like that. And this boy reminded me of that feeling-staring dazedly up at this massive mausoleum. After all, fourteen floors of filth and decay is quite a sight. Me, I prefer the view from above. On days like today, I get bored and just need someone to watch. I take the elevator up to the roof and look down on the dilapidated buildings that stretch as far as my rheumy eyes can see.

Mamie Wainwright Apt. 730

A package arrived at apartment 730 today. The return address was from a storage locker in Lumpkin County, Georgia--an address I recognized well. This was the last of the silver I confiscated from Henry's estate. I had returned the keys to the storage company a week previously. The furniture I'd taken looks a little classy for this shabby neighborhood--I've certainly fallen from my former position as the wife of Henry Wainwright. But as they say in Clue, it was a matter of life or death. Now that he's dead, I have a life.

Not that I killed him or anything. He just up and disappeared one day, leaving no will. The only provision for me was his army benefits. Lucky for me, I know how to take care of myself. That wholesome Southern background, you know? I went straight to the bank after he disappeared and took out as much as they'd let me. Little did I know the IRS were parked around the corner. Luckily those government types would never expect an old lady. I went straight home and cleaned out the house.

So it's tacky--I know, I was brought up right. And the Georgia Wainwrights have a reputation above reproach. We had the prestige and the money to get away with anything. We were old money-that's the important thing. Not that anyone here would notice the distinction, which is what I'd intended. This lease is under a different name. I've canceled all my old accounts. I feel like an escaped convict, hiding out and watching those around me, just in case they work for the IRS. Those tax collectors remind of the Sheriff of Nottingham in that Disney Movie. Couldn't catch me. I'm just like a modern Robin Hood, only I'm keeping the loot. Got to look after number one. After all, I'm the only Wainwright left, and someone had to pay for my new apartment. I'm just afraid the cash I have won't convince the super to change my stove. I can't have gas burners- I'm an old lady. I might accidentally light myself on fire. What I need is a quality electric like I had back home. I did ask him to come fix it--at least I think that man was the super--but he hasn't come yet. Maybe I should go talk to him again. . . .