So, Braxton decided not to go. School is unimportant, anyways. Besides, it wasn't like his father wasn't around to tell him otherwise.
Instead, he decided to people watch. Usually, he did this from his lemonade stand. He knew most of the people around the neighborhood, or at least knew of them. He wasn't scared of anyone...except for Aberdeen. She made Braxton feel extremely uncomfortable...with her "bulbous jubilies". Although, when his father was in town, he seemed to love that creepy antique store.
Anyhow, he didn't last long at his lemonade stand. Far too cold and rainy. Braxton hated the cold. Not nearly as many lemonade customers.
Instead, he packed up stole the Front Desk Man's chair. Front Desk Man must have been out to lunch, as the chair was hardly ever empty. Braxton spent the better part of his day in that chair. The Front Desk Man returned to the building, but didn't know where his chair was, as Braxton was busy rolling around the entire building in it. Braxton was having far too much fun spinning wildly on the spinny chair in the elevator when the new guy, Mr. Alwyn walked in. His pinched face didn't seem friendly, but nonetheless, Braxton insisted on pushing the buttons. Gosh how he hated it when the other people pushed the buttons.
Hmm. Mr. Alwyn was in an apartment on the 11th floor. Braxton didn't like the 11th floor. It smelled like old people. But he smiled up at Mr. Alwyn with his toothy grin and held his breath for as long as he could until the elevator doors once again closed and Braxton could breath in "fresh" air again.
As the elevator started to go move downwards towards the eighth floor, towards home, it suddenly went dark and stopped. Scared, Braxton looked at his glow in the dark Mickey Mouse watch, his only source of light. It was about 8 pm.
Today is another one of those days when I think I might be dead. I'm pretty sure time isn't moving, or maybe it's just fluctuating back and forth. All I know is I need some cigarettes and I need some vodka. I think the meat industry can wait.
ReplyDeleteI break the seal on my plastic flask of vodka before I'm even out of the store. I should be a poster child for broken dreams or some shit like that. There is a little kid selling lemonade on the side of the road. Wait, there's a little kid selling lemonade on the side of the road. Why the fuck is a little kid in this part of town selling fucking lemonade on the side of the road? Well I've got vodka, he's got lemonade, let's get this party started. The kid says it's fifty cents but my hands are too cold and my motor functions too degraded to actually grab anything out of my pocket. The kid realizes the futility of his business and tells me to just take the lemonade, I oblige.
I sit around all day, just like every day. My buzz is wearing off and I'm getting a mid-day hangover, just like every day. I know what I'll do to break the monotony, maybe today will be the day I finally die.
Something wakes me up, it's dark, my head is on fucking fire and the compressor to the meat freezer has shut off. The power's out. What's even worse, I'm laying in an ice cold bath tub, I'm surrounded by floating empty beer cans, like all the countless messages sent off in bottles never to be found, never to be heard, to drift alone eternally or sink to an icy grave. I can taste gun metal in my mouth, my gums and teeth hurt from clenching around the barrel of a .45, and I'm perfectly fine, alive and breathing. God damnit.
Well I've stumbled out of the tub, into some dirty clothes and all the way to the fridge. It's completely empty, not a drop of alcohol in this fucking house, just the fumes on my breath. Without thinking I find my way outside.
I think it's pretty late at this point. It's below freezing, there's sleet, and I'm in wet pajamas. Look at me. The power's still out and every store in town is closed. But Jesus Christ, there is silence. My ears and eyes are open and neither can detect a thing. This is beautiful. This is the first time I've found any kind of joy in this town, maybe even in my life for that matter. But all of a sudden I am thrown to the ground. Sharp pain shoots through my body as my moment of clarity shatters into hundreds of pieces. I feel like I was looking into some mirror and it cracked, the crack spread and sprouted like a tree, until the every piece fell to the ground, leaving me god only knows how many years of bad luck. Some dark hooded figure stands over me trembling. He says some shit about the government being after him and disappears into the darkness. I am stone sober; I'm on the cold, wet ground and I am unable to find where I just was. I am pathetic. Out of nowhere I'm in the spotlight. There is some car in front of me shining headlights straight in my face. I now realize that I am in the middle of the road. I step out of the way and a gray minivan slowly pulls past, like the looming side of a freighter while I'm stranded in a life boat. Some thug inside points a gun at me, I close my eyes and pray for my final bang. But when I open my eyes again I am alone. I am left once again to my silent, blind serenity.
I am alone.
The day was cloudy, but the precipitation had subsided. Altan sat next to his window, observing passersby on the street below. If only he could be down there... the market was full of opportunity this day. A fair had set up down the road early in the morning causing just enough racket to let everyone know it was there. As the day progressed more and more people made their way toward it, many of whom clearly weren't going for the rides, but simply wanted to peruse, check out the scene. Altan saw Braxton carrying all of his lemonade supplies in his arms as he made his way down the street to where the crowd was. Altan snorted - he detested the fact that this devious little boy who peddled overpriced, tasteless lemonade made more sales than him, an honest, experienced man who sold fine Turkish coffee for only 25¢.
ReplyDeleteEXCERPT FROM "The Adventure of the Missing Two"
ReplyDelete...“Got a problem Mr. Alwyn?”
“My two’s been stolen,” I say before I look at my interrogator.
The boy has a thoughtful look on his face. He’s holding the same useless clipboard and wearing the same ridiculous over-sized suit as he was my first day at Wilshire Tower.
“Looks like a Mystery to me.” He says it with a capital M.
“You know,” I say, “You’re right. It is a mystery.”
“Are you a detective Mr. Alwyn?”
“Kind of,” I say. “A detective who only solves mysteries no one else cares about.”
“Well then this will be perfect! Who else would care about the location of your two?”
“Good point,” I say and I begin to wander off, unsure of my direction. The flip flop of Braxton Chamber’s clown shoes follows me like a cartoon echo of my steps.
“Except for me, of course!” He says. A serious look crosses his face. “Inspector Alwyn, can I be your deputy?”
“Detectives don’t have deputies, that’s for sheriffs,” I say, but the way he looks down at his toes and twists his mouth stops me from continuing. I wonder how many times he paced by my door that morning, waiting for me to exit, to notice what was missing, to enlist his aid in this very important mission. Possibly he had planned for the chance that I wouldn’t notice, had readied sly ways to draw my attention to the empty space on my door.
Well, I had nothing better to do.
I followed my odd guide on a wandering path through the building. As we explored I realized how little of Wilshire Tower I’d actually seen. Each floor had its own character. Seven was probably a full half of a foot lower down on the east end than the west end. On floor five I thought they’d installed new wallpaper, until I realized the green pattern was most likely organic.
Thirteen seemed to have its own floor plan entirely, as though the architect forgot about it until the last minute and had to improvise. This may not be so far from the truth, as the elevator doesn’t seem to go to floor thirteen. Instead we were forced to use the stairs, or at least the sixty percent of them that weren’t almost rotted through.
Luckily, Braxton knew which ones were safe. I waited before following him, watching him jump up the stairs nimbly and assuredly in a demented game of hopscotch.
On each floor we visited, Braxton would choose a room at random and knock – a surprisingly solid knock. Then he would wait, coughing importantly until the door was answered, when would squint his eyes and look up at the wary tenant.
“My associate,” he would say, “is missing his two.”
There might be a response, but even if there wasn’t he would go on.
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
Next was the part where variations were allowed.
“Mr. Marconi,” he might say, “what is your favorite color?” Or “Mr. Oedkirk, have you frequented the antiques store lately?”...
I saw somebody get arrested this afternoon. I don't really know what was up, but it was almost pathetic. The guy didn't seem dangerous at all. He just seemed confused. If I were getting arrested, I'd be fucking pissed. of course, then there's that your name goes in the records, and so you're pretty much fucked because people know where you are. Which is never a good thing. I would have run or something. Maybe paid the guy off. Not that I have any money or anything. I don't like thinking about it, it makes my skin crawl. I hate that. I get so wrapped up in this shit before it has even happened to me. Probably wouldn't ever happen to me. But I'm going crazy thinking about it. Like that damn carnival. There was this fortune teller who kept staring at me like she knew who I was or something. I don't really know if I believe in that shit, but if I did, this lady would be for real. That is not good.
ReplyDelete8:00 AM
ReplyDeleteThe doorbell's just rung, and now someone is knocking on my door. I suppose I should go answer it. Lalala...I have lots of tea. Yum. Oooh, this door sticks in the damp. Good heavens. There are two young men at my door. Well, one young man and a little boy. The little boy waved a clipboard in my face and coughed and puffed out his chest like a pufferfish.
8:01 AM
Only, of course, he isn't covered in spines and he's not a fish. That would be unfortunate for a little boy. Think of all the teasing.
8:02 AM
"Hello, Miss."
"Mrs." Just because my husband is dead doesn't mean I've lost my title.
"Mrs," the boy corrected himself very graciously. "Have you seen a number two anywhere?"
8:05 AM
I refuse to believe that I am going deaf. Therefore, I must have a build up of earwax.
"A number two, small boy-child?" I was never any good with children. Not even my own. What am I saying? ESPECIALLY my own.
"Er, yes. A number two. Like, you put it on your door." The boy pointed at my door where my apartment number is.
"Oh. No. I can't say that I have."
"Ok. Please tell me if you catch sight of it."
Catch sight of it? What is it, a fugitive? I can see it all now. The police have been trying to catch Number Two for a while now. Oh no! There it goes, harring down the street! Catch it! Catch it!
The little boy has walked off and he's pounding on the neighbor's door. The man--who could easily be my son, at his age--nodded politely to me and wandered on after the boy.
Perhaps they are father and son. I've never much paid attention to the people in this town. They'll all die soon anyways.
8:10 AM
Actually, it's more likely that I'll die first. I'm very old. I've been around her since before the Earth cooled.