Chapter 1
I'll try to get the breaks in this time:
“Damn You Bennie!”
The shock of wet, freezing slush sliding down my neck did nothing to cool out the very hot frame of mind I was in. Thirty degrees in Dayton, Ohio is colder and uglier than in most places. Not enough snow to cover the grimy, broken sidewalks or the litter scattered everywhere. Not enough snow, but plenty of slush; wet stuff that seems to seep in every crack and crevice of your home, your car, and at this moment, my coat. All the pain of winter, none of the fun.
“Answer your damn door, Bennie, or I swear I’ll bust your butt…”
“If you don’t shut the hell up, I’m gonna bust your ass all the way up the block!”
I ducked the second slush avalanche caused by Bennie’s neighbor slamming her apartment window shut again. This time my Timberland’s got soaked, and I was losing all feeling in my toes. For good measure, I pushed as hard on Bennie’s bell as my frostbitten fingers would allow, then stomped off to my Wrangler.
“Got some new Tim’s I could hook you up with, seeing as you got yours all messed up,” offered the neighborhood hustler on the corner, “Nice brown ones, deal of the week.”
“Yeah, and you’re ‘Old Shady’ instead of ‘Old Navy’. I take mine with a receipt,” I cracked.
It wasn’t surprising that I could get the same boots I bought at the boutique next to my loft building for half the price ten blocks away. Dayton’s like that: a small, deadly city that has pitted fine arts, sports, and urban renewal against gang banger wanna-be’s, sports, and urban decay. Old factories turned into fancy lofts and offices that look down over the homeless sleeping on benches outside the main library. Fancy, rebuilt homes in new-old neighborhoods, next to public housing projects in old-old neighborhoods. In the winter, though, nothing looked new or improved. After the Christmas lights come down, the whole city seemed to be covered in a blanket of wet, gray poverty.
I parked the Wrangler in my spot, and waved at the camera looking out over the alley parking area. I could smell the cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee wafting from the Keystone Coffee House that shared lobby-level space with the leasing office of my loft building. I immediately began to thaw, and as I passed the Joey-Eric Boutique and Square 1 Salon, my step was lighter and I was beginning to forget my wet collar and frozen toes. The Cannery Lofts (unit 314) was my oasis.
“Hey sugar,” my neighbor Cantrell called over his shoulder as he brushed by, flinging air kisses in his wake. “Scrabble tourney tonight in the party room. You and Sam are going down.”
I stopped at my mailbox, and could not remember the combination again. I went to the service window and a guy I had never seen before looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Erin Kavanaugh, box 314. I can’t open it up, I forgot my combo again.”
“Do you have any I.D.?” the new guy asked.
“Yeah, but you better remember my face. I have a real mental block over this. I know my entire social security number by heart, almost all of my computer passwords, but I can’t seem to recall my mail box combination or debit card code to save my life.” I handed him my license.
“Okay, I wrote it down for you,” he said. “Maybe you could stick this someplace in your purse or wallet, so you don’t have to remember it. It’s not labeled, so no one would know what it goes to.”
“Great idea. Thanks for your help.” I went back to the box, opened it, and pulled out a pile of bills and a flyer. It read ‘Oscar’s Gym: Come and find the new you.’ “That would be the me that has the paycheck to cover all the rest of this mail.” I was, however, sufficiently chided by the flyer to forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs.
I noticed a unseemly amount of huffing and puffing coming from my own mouth when I got to my loft, and decided maybe I needed to see if Oscar’s Gym might squeeze into my budget. Squeezing definitely described what I had been doing to get into my favorite jeans lately. I’m not decrepit or anything, I could probably just use a little toning. My size eight behind seems to have aspiration to become a size ten. If that occurs, I would be forced to cut my hair off. Every time I gain more than ten pounds, I get a compulsion to change something about my appearance and it usually involves my hair. Since my hair had finally passed the shoulder line, I wanted to avoid this if at all possible. I just had it colored a yummy brown with highlights, and it looked like a shiny, chocolate waterfall. There I go again, thinking about food. Crap.
“Sam, you home yet?” I hollered as I walked in the loft. I dropped the mail on the side table, and peeked in the living area. No music or other signs of 15-year-old life. I back tracked to my room, and flopped on my bed, basking in the silence. Thoughts of Bennie intruded on my reverie and I hopped up quickly, remembering my wet clothes. As I headed for the shower, I wondered where Bennie had disappeared to. Bennie knows what a pain in the butt I tend to be when he is not available for inspection, so he keeps in touch regularly. Plus, he usually needs some sort of help, either with a job, a girl, a ride, whatever. He was like a fungus: a creepy little something that grows on you. Too bad I was going to have to kick his butt when I finally caught up with him.
Dry clothes and fresh boots improved my disposition greatly, and I decided to check in with the office one more time before calling it a day. I dialed my work phone and bypassed my voice mail message and retrieved the only message left for me.
“Ms. K? It’s Bennie. You gotta help me. I’m in big trouble. I need you to meet me at Towanda’s place, only don’t come alone. Call O...” The message abruptly cut off with a loud clatter, then dial tone.
Big trouble? That probably meant he needed money. Or a referee for his latest disagreement with his sometime girlfriend, Towanda. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Why did he tell me not to come alone? And what was “O”? Benny had a lot of explaining to do, and if he wasn’t careful, he’s have plenty of time when I busted him back to the pokey on a parole violation. My feelings of endearment were almost worn out.
“Damn You Bennie!”
The shock of wet, freezing slush sliding down my neck did nothing to cool out the very hot frame of mind I was in. Thirty degrees in Dayton, Ohio is colder and uglier than in most places. Not enough snow to cover the grimy, broken sidewalks or the litter scattered everywhere. Not enough snow, but plenty of slush; wet stuff that seems to seep in every crack and crevice of your home, your car, and at this moment, my coat. All the pain of winter, none of the fun.
“Answer your damn door, Bennie, or I swear I’ll bust your butt…”
“If you don’t shut the hell up, I’m gonna bust your ass all the way up the block!”
I ducked the second slush avalanche caused by Bennie’s neighbor slamming her apartment window shut again. This time my Timberland’s got soaked, and I was losing all feeling in my toes. For good measure, I pushed as hard on Bennie’s bell as my frostbitten fingers would allow, then stomped off to my Wrangler.
“Got some new Tim’s I could hook you up with, seeing as you got yours all messed up,” offered the neighborhood hustler on the corner, “Nice brown ones, deal of the week.”
“Yeah, and you’re ‘Old Shady’ instead of ‘Old Navy’. I take mine with a receipt,” I cracked.
It wasn’t surprising that I could get the same boots I bought at the boutique next to my loft building for half the price ten blocks away. Dayton’s like that: a small, deadly city that has pitted fine arts, sports, and urban renewal against gang banger wanna-be’s, sports, and urban decay. Old factories turned into fancy lofts and offices that look down over the homeless sleeping on benches outside the main library. Fancy, rebuilt homes in new-old neighborhoods, next to public housing projects in old-old neighborhoods. In the winter, though, nothing looked new or improved. After the Christmas lights come down, the whole city seemed to be covered in a blanket of wet, gray poverty.
I parked the Wrangler in my spot, and waved at the camera looking out over the alley parking area. I could smell the cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee wafting from the Keystone Coffee House that shared lobby-level space with the leasing office of my loft building. I immediately began to thaw, and as I passed the Joey-Eric Boutique and Square 1 Salon, my step was lighter and I was beginning to forget my wet collar and frozen toes. The Cannery Lofts (unit 314) was my oasis.
“Hey sugar,” my neighbor Cantrell called over his shoulder as he brushed by, flinging air kisses in his wake. “Scrabble tourney tonight in the party room. You and Sam are going down.”
I stopped at my mailbox, and could not remember the combination again. I went to the service window and a guy I had never seen before looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Erin Kavanaugh, box 314. I can’t open it up, I forgot my combo again.”
“Do you have any I.D.?” the new guy asked.
“Yeah, but you better remember my face. I have a real mental block over this. I know my entire social security number by heart, almost all of my computer passwords, but I can’t seem to recall my mail box combination or debit card code to save my life.” I handed him my license.
“Okay, I wrote it down for you,” he said. “Maybe you could stick this someplace in your purse or wallet, so you don’t have to remember it. It’s not labeled, so no one would know what it goes to.”
“Great idea. Thanks for your help.” I went back to the box, opened it, and pulled out a pile of bills and a flyer. It read ‘Oscar’s Gym: Come and find the new you.’ “That would be the me that has the paycheck to cover all the rest of this mail.” I was, however, sufficiently chided by the flyer to forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs.
I noticed a unseemly amount of huffing and puffing coming from my own mouth when I got to my loft, and decided maybe I needed to see if Oscar’s Gym might squeeze into my budget. Squeezing definitely described what I had been doing to get into my favorite jeans lately. I’m not decrepit or anything, I could probably just use a little toning. My size eight behind seems to have aspiration to become a size ten. If that occurs, I would be forced to cut my hair off. Every time I gain more than ten pounds, I get a compulsion to change something about my appearance and it usually involves my hair. Since my hair had finally passed the shoulder line, I wanted to avoid this if at all possible. I just had it colored a yummy brown with highlights, and it looked like a shiny, chocolate waterfall. There I go again, thinking about food. Crap.
“Sam, you home yet?” I hollered as I walked in the loft. I dropped the mail on the side table, and peeked in the living area. No music or other signs of 15-year-old life. I back tracked to my room, and flopped on my bed, basking in the silence. Thoughts of Bennie intruded on my reverie and I hopped up quickly, remembering my wet clothes. As I headed for the shower, I wondered where Bennie had disappeared to. Bennie knows what a pain in the butt I tend to be when he is not available for inspection, so he keeps in touch regularly. Plus, he usually needs some sort of help, either with a job, a girl, a ride, whatever. He was like a fungus: a creepy little something that grows on you. Too bad I was going to have to kick his butt when I finally caught up with him.
Dry clothes and fresh boots improved my disposition greatly, and I decided to check in with the office one more time before calling it a day. I dialed my work phone and bypassed my voice mail message and retrieved the only message left for me.
“Ms. K? It’s Bennie. You gotta help me. I’m in big trouble. I need you to meet me at Towanda’s place, only don’t come alone. Call O...” The message abruptly cut off with a loud clatter, then dial tone.
Big trouble? That probably meant he needed money. Or a referee for his latest disagreement with his sometime girlfriend, Towanda. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Why did he tell me not to come alone? And what was “O”? Benny had a lot of explaining to do, and if he wasn’t careful, he’s have plenty of time when I busted him back to the pokey on a parole violation. My feelings of endearment were almost worn out.
posted by Lainey @ 5:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home