5A Story Contest

     Sylvie paused, teaspoon in hand, looking down at her bowl of half-made cookie dough. No baking soda. The ants had moved in with the hot weather and she’d gone on a rampage, throwing out every last open container in her cupboards.

     True, she could see if the guy in 5A had baking soda. He said to come by any time. He was friendly enough when she saw him in the lobby, checking his mail. Likely, he wasn’t home anyway. Most people did not spend their Friday nights at home alone baking cookies.

     In her head, Sylvie mapped out the walk down the hall and around the corner to 5A. She saw herself walking in her pencil skirt, silk sweater set, and Ugg slippers. This wouldn’t do. She kicked off her slippers and put her heels back on. But then, if he was home, he’d hear her tromping down the hall like a small elephant. She took off the heels and pulled off her skirt. Yoga pants. Slippers back on.

     “Oh, just go!” she told herself. Scuffling down the hall under the florescent lights, Sylvie rounded the corner to find two boys sitting at the top of the stairwell playing some sort of gameboy thing. Whatever those were called these days. It dawned on her that she might be the crazy lady who lived down the hall. Perhaps she should have changed out of her sweater set as well as her skirt. She stopped. But the thought of passing the boys again, and then again after changing was worse. “GO!” she commanded. And she did.

     Outside of 5A, Sylvie’s heart beat faster with every doubt that occurred to her. Did he really say to come by? Did Friday night qualify as anytime? What if he had company? Was 5A even the right apartment?

     She knocked on the door. Damn. Too soft. Now she wouldn’t know if he was ignoring the knock or simply didn’t hear it. She waited. Nothing. He probably wasn’t home. Sylvie stepped close to the door, listening, hand poised to knock again, when she heard the deadbolt draw back.

     “Hello hello! I thought you would never stop by! Come in!”

     “Um, actually, I was just wondering if you have any baking soda.”

     “I might. How are you, my dear?” It was funny, this 20-something year old boy talking to her as if he was 30 years her senior. Somehow, she felt comforted by it though.

     “Fine. Just making cookies.”

     “And you, ex-chef extraordinaire, have no baking soda?” He teased. She blushed. “I was never a…”

     “None of that, now. I’ve heard stories and I’d bet half of them are true.”

     The kitchen sink was on, just a trickle, and a cat sat on the counter, using the water for a bath. Everything in his house was meticulous. Forks, then knives, then spoons lined up in the silverware stand on the counter. Alphabetical, she recognized. Basil, oregano, poultry seasoning, thyme, on the right side of the cupboard. Where he was looking, on the left, she saw baking powder, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg. Baking and then Cooking. Left to Right. It should have been between the baking powder and the cloves.

     “So sorry, my dear. It appears I have none.” Mr. 5A said turning toward her. Sylvie realized she was still holding her teaspoon out like a little raccoon, waiting for a treat. “But,” he continued, “I know they have it at the produce truck downstairs. And I bet they’re still open. Shall we go see?”

     “Oh, no, it’s okay. I, um. I can go. I’ll go get money.”

     “I was just on my way out anyway, let’s walk down together. I believe I can spare the dollar – in exchange for a cookie, that is. One minute, let me grab my coat, and we’ll be off! You done, Miss Hattie? Out the door with you then.” The cat pattered out, her shower apparently finished.

     Sylvie quickly calculated: one flight of stairs, two stretches of hall, and another set of stairs—3 minutes of necessary small talk. Minimum. Quick, what could she talk about? Ask a question, Sylvie. Ask something.

     “Tell, me, how’s the library treating you this week?” he said. Or, she could just let him do the asking.

     “The library’s fine.” No, that wouldn’t take them all the way to the truck. Add something, Sylvie. Keep talking. “Um, I rearranged the mammal section?”

     “Tell me about it,” he said.

     And less than halfway down the first flight of stairs, Sylvie found herself unexpectedly, almost passionately, describing how at long last, her library had decided to use a newer version of the Dewey Decimal system in the mammals section, so each kind of animal would now be grouped together, rather than shelved by author within the mammals.

     Mr. 5A handed the man in the truck his dollar and, with an exaggerated flourish, presented Sylvie with the baking soda, “Madame.”

     Only now did it occur to Sylvie how she’d been rambling on. “Oh. Thank you.” She said, with less embarrassment than she’d have predicted.

     “And now,” said 5A, “I must bid you adieu.” He tipped his invisible hat, turned on his heel, and walked into the night.

     Sylvie clutched the box of baking soda to her chest and, teaspoons jangling, ran up the steps, her slippered feet taking them two at a time.

     When the cookies were baked and cooled, Sylvie wrapped two in parchment paper. Then she wrapped the box of baking soda, tied it with oven twine, and wrote “thank you”. She placed the items in a plastic Ralph’s bag and marched the silly package down the hall, around the corner, and to the door of 5A. She knocked loudly, three times. No answer. Below the A on his door, Sylvie hung her bag holding a box of baking soda, and chocolate chip cookies.

Tags: ABC, Hillary George

This entry was posted on Monday, October 5th, 2009 at 5:55 pm and is filed under Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.