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.

     The neighbor across the hall moved in about a month ago. August 8th in fact. I remember the date because after listening to the couple noisily move their furniture, they began to fight and I wondered whether I should call the police. I don’t make a habit out of spying through my peephole, but I had to look to make sure the girl wasn’t in danger. The way the man yelled at her and the few thuds I heard from somewhere out of peep-hole sight made me consider taking my shotgun out of the closet. But I didn’t. The girl ran out and I haven’t seen her since. But the guy is still there, in apartment 5C.

     Since he moved in, I have awakened almost every night to music thumping through the walls. The third time this happened, I pounded on his door to ask him to turn the volume down. I’m not doing that again. He answered the door smelling like beer and weed. His knuckles were scabbed over and bruised. At my politely phrased request, he rolled his eyes and slammed the door. The noise continued unabated, and I didn’t have the nerve to pound on his door again. I leaned my shotgun against the frame of the front door, just in case he ever decided to pay me a visit. As a woman alone, I can’t be too careful.

     At least my other neighbor, directly across from me in 5A, is always quiet. I’ve only seen him once, from the back. I’m not even sure what he looks like. But I’ve never heard him make a sound, and that makes him my favorite neighbor ever.

     “Thud. Thud. THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD BOOM THUD.”

     The books and pictures on my shelves shook with the beats of the music. I woke and sat up with a rush of adrenaline, the sudden movement making me dizzy. I looked at the clock, forcing my eyes to focus on the fuzzy green numbers. 2:00 a.m. Goddammit. I felt my face flush hot with impotent rage. Then I heard the soft creek of a door opening, and the whisper of the door brushing against carpet. The walls of my building are very thin and in the brief beats of silence between the thumps of 5C’s subwoofers, I could tell from the sound that the door was the one directly across the hall from mine: Apartment 5A.

     Now I couldn’t resist – I had to look through the peephole and see if my neighbor in 5A was going to finally take on the man in 5C. In my bare feet, I padded to my front door and peered through the hole. Like all peepholes, mine is too small to see anything useful, and almost too dirty to see anything at all. Through the grime I made out the slim gray shape of the man from 5A standing in front of the door of 5C.

     He knocked three times in a slow, even rhythm. Not the hurried pounding of someone annoyed, but methodical tapping. He knocked three more times. When the door to 5C opened, the music became too loud for me to hear the conversation. After a few minutes of deep voiced murmurs, the conversation was punctuated by “FUCK YOU, man.” And the door slammed.

     I thought that would end the confrontation, but my neighbor from 5A knocked again. The thug in 5C opened the door, already starting to spout profanities and balling his right hand into a fist.

     What happened next was a blur. The man from 5A had a hand around the other man’s throat and lifted him off of the ground, holding him up against the door frame. The guy from 5C was large with muscles the size of grapefruits and I couldn’t figure out how he had been overpowered. I heard gurgling and sputtering sounds come from his throat. His captor stared at him intently. From my angle I could see the choking man’s face. His eyes bulged and the blood drained from his face in terror. I breathed in sharply. The man from 5A dropped him in an instant and spun around towards my door. In that second, I saw what the other man had seen: A pale face with black eyes that burned like dry ice. And two long, very sharp teeth.

     The still sputtering resident of 5C scuttled into his apartment and locked the door. The music went off. The man from 5A and I were locked in a stare as if he could see through the peephole, through the door, and into my eyes. I couldn’t break his gaze and I was too panicked to move. I took shallow, quiet breaths and wondered if he could hear my heart pounding through the paper-thin walls. I slowly reached for my shotgun, glancing down as I unhooked the bungee cord from around the barrel.

     “Tap. Tap.”

     I jumped when I heard the staccato rapping on my door. I knew what he was, and I had a pretty good idea of what he was capable of, which probably included snapping the door off of its hinges if I didn’t respond. I joined the two halves of my shotgun with a click and slid two shells into the chambers. He could kill me any time he wants to, I thought to myself. I hadn’t even seen him move when he pinned the other man against the wall, it was like trying to see details on a hummingbird’s wing while it’s in flight. I decided that my best chance was to be polite, and armed.

     I opened the door with my shotgun pointed unsubtly at his chest.

     “Hello Ma’am. I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest,” said the vampire with a placid smile. No teeth showing now. My eyes flicked up to meet his and I thought I saw the edges of his eyes crinkle in amusement. He didn’t even glance at my gun. He wasn’t at all concerned.

     “I was already up.” I replied, trying to match the calm of his voice.

     “I’m sure you were. That guy was making enough noise to wake the dead.”

     And with that, the vampire chuckled. He turned around still laughing to himself, opened the door to apartment 5A, and went inside.

     I stare out the car window at the drizzle coming down. I can’t stand looking out the windshield. Shaun is driving us around on our Sunday afternoon errands, and he never runs the wipers enough. The raindrops pile up, gradually blotting out the view until I feel trapped and claustrophobic. Better to just look out the passenger-side window of the yellow VW Rabbit.

     “Where do you want to eat lunch?” Shaun asks.

     “I don’t care.”

     “I don’t care either.”

     “I picked last time.”

     “Uh, OK, I picked the ten times before that. It’s not that hard. Just pick somewhere.”

     “I told you, I don’t care. You just pick somewhere if it’s no big deal.”

     We see something white on the sidewalk, flapping in the wind, and forget about our fight. It’s a bathrobe, I think, streaming out behind a tall, thin boy. He doesn’t look as old as a teenager, but I wouldn’t call him a little kid. He looks old enough to be out alone. Still, it’s odd.

     Shaun and I look at one another with the question in our eyes. We don’t want to be THOSE people; you know, the ones who ignore the screams while a young woman is being stabbed to death right next door. The thing is, you don’t know she’s being stabbed. People fight all the time. Maybe she’s just screaming mad and not being killed at all. This boy might be just a strange kid running out to get a gallon of milk for his mom. It’s risky, stepping in.

     We continue down the street, slower now, sitting in silence as we pass the gas stations, strip malls, and 50’s-era gingerbread ranches of charmless Buena Park. We passed the boy at least a mile ago, but his image stays with me; his lurching but purposeful walk, his wet, stringy brown hair, the threadbare bathrobe, the dark sweatpants, his mud-splattered white socks…

     “We have to call the police.”

     “What?”

     “We have to find a phone and call the police. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.”

     Shaun pulls into a Thrifty’s parking lot and parks the car. He turns off the motor and steps out into the rain, headed for the pay phone at the entrance of the store. We don’t discuss who will make the call. I have the better sense of direction when it’s a question of taking a right or a left; but, while Shaun may not know how to get where he’s going, he always knows where he is. He’ll be able to tell the police what direction the boy was walking in.

     It must have been ten minutes ago now that we saw him. What if he’s changed direction? What if he wandered off into one of those neighborhoods instead of staying on the main road? Has anyone even noticed that he’s missing yet?

     Now that we’re making the call, I’m excited. Maybe the story will be on the news tonight. But then I feel bad and creepy for getting excited. There’s no guarantee our tip will help. Maybe they won’t be able to find him after all. Maybe a bad guy will find him first.

     The rain beats down on the roof of the car. Who was watching the boy? Does he escape often, or was this the first time? How dangerous is it for him to be out alone? What is his home like? I want to know his story, but I guess the knowing is what we forfeited when we chose to drive on by instead of stopping to help.

     It’s a let-down when Shaun returns to the car with no new information. Yes, the police will look into it. That’s all we know. Feeling guilty, I ask Shaun to drop me off at my great-grandmother’s place in Whittier. Neither of us is hungry for lunch any more. He lets me off on the sidewalk and I walk up to the boxy 1980’s-era stucco apartment building, the lone eyesore on a street of cozy craftsman bungalows and Spanish colonial revival duplexes.

     Huge raindrops slide from the shaggy palms overhead and splash onto my hair. I brush them off with my hand and ring the doorbell to apartment 5A.

     Marta answers the door and invites me in with a smile.

     “Lenora, there’s someone here to see you.” A single amber-colored glass lamp lights the dim living room. My great-grandmother sits in the corner on a wooden spindle-back chair; it’s easier to get out of than the overstuffed sofa. I lean down to put my arms gently around her and then straighten up after the hug; her knobby fingers reach up for my damp hands.

     “And how are the children today?” she asks with a knowing smile. “The deaf children at the school—are they behaving for you?” I should visit more. But I never know how to answer these questions. I’ve never even met any of the people she mistakes me for. Today I’m Mary, her roommate from sixty-five years ago.

     “How are you?” I ask awkwardly. She starts to answer but is interrupted by the call of a mourning dove from the birdcage that stands by her chair. She looks at the gray-brown bird until I think she has forgotten I’m there, but she finally turns her face back to me. Her lower lip is trembling, and tears spill over from the round violet saucers of her eyes.

     “I would like a snack,” she says. By now, I’m used to the emotional and verbal non sequiturs of her dementia. But today, I’m captivated by her eyes. And I realize that that’s what I’m missing from the boy’s story. His eyes.

     If only I’d seen into his eyes, I’d have the answer to the question that bothers me the most: Was he lost and cold and afraid out there, walking along the street all alone? Or did he wing down the street in that bathrobe—free—and lift his face to the rain?

     So there was the last question – “Where is your family?”

     He’d been told at some point, but that was before the testing began. Each test five questions. Something thrown in to throw him off, always. Each time he was thrown off… wasn’t good.

     His hand, poorly bandaged, blood dried brown, throbbed. He stared at it. Where was his family? He considered it again. They had told him… before the testing began. He tapped his foot, impatient. The pain that shot up his leg was almost unbearable. Another failed test. The answer to each failed test told him about the trouble. “What is the most vulnerable nerve ending in the human foot,” “What happened to the last man?”

     “Where is your family?”

     Only four possible answers:

1. Dead
2. Apartment 5A
3. Corner of 1st and Adams
4. Freight Line Shipping Warehouse

     There was a connection between the answers. Something he should see. But without sleep, drugged, days into this ordeal. Who were these men holding him again? Why did they have his family? Why did they want to hurt him? He’d gotten in trouble for asking these questions before. He wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

     He stared at the test again. The other four mindless questions, weather, math, trivia and then that fifth question… like all the other fifth questions. Insidious, the one that decided his fate. And he wasn’t getting them right.

     Maybe I’m not supposed to get them right, he thought. Maybe there was no right.

     But they watched him carefully, through that camera, maybe behind that mirror. Hard to know because of the faint flash of the broken strobe light, the disorienting, discordant music that never stopped. He’d seen this done to men once. He’d known this was done to men since. He hadn’t been on this side of it before. But now he was. And he remembered nothing.

     Except he had to answer this question.

     Some kind of mystery, some kind of connection. They probably weren’t dead. That had to mean something else. The apartment? Is this where he lived? Where these men lived. The street corner? Is this where he was snatched? Is this where everything went wrong? And Freight Line? Something about his answer… heavy with implications. But the corner? A tease about getting out.

     The time slipped by. And he had to answer. He guessed, like most other times. Number three. The corner. It felt right. It was where they wanted him to go. The names… Adams, 1st… it felt… was Adams the first. Were they telling him…

     His time was up. He guessed three. 1st and Adams.

     He set his test down. A voice spoke over a speak, “Ready?”

     The man nodded.

     The voice read the answers. Nothing important until the fifth… and then.

     “Only the first two answers mean anything to you. And the correct answer…. Apartment 5A.”

     His family probably didn’t have long. Let it be quick.

     I met Jolene, parrot enthusiast, 80, at a fundraising luncheon I attended a few days ago. She was a good listener, interrupted infrequently and always had witty remarks or clever questions to keep me going. After awhile I was comfortable enough to tell her my favorite parrot story. Though her interjections would be interesting for the reader, I will keep them to a minimum in order that the story flows smoothly. Now then, here is the tale:

     It was a few years ago, when I was still a bachelor living in a breezy beach-front apartment with Elmo, my stodgy parakeet. Though I’d had several close-calls with this gal or that, Elmo and I remained a pair. It was a relaxing life.

     Occasionally, our relaxing life would saunter over to 5A. Maxine’s was a bachelor pad like mine, but Maxine was no regular bachelorette; she had inherited a small fortune after the collapse of a distant relative and wiled away her time designing costumes for community theatre and buying expensive musical instruments which littered her apartment like crumpled drafts of a hack writer with bad aim.

     One day, as Elmo and I mounted the stairs to Maxine’s, we heard an unfamiliar voice. Did Maxine have a gentlemen caller? Unlikely; she didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Still, there was a distinctly male voice in her apartment

     “Do we go on?” I whispered to Elmo.

     “Why not?” Answered the daring bird.

     “The door’s open,” Maxine announced, hearing us through the open front window. We crossed the threshold into 5A and found Maxine reclining on a futon opposite an round, shaggy fellow. Elmo, who was riding on my arm, looked nervously at me. I won’t let him eat you, I transmitted, convinced that some parrots can read minds.

     Introductions were made. He was Maxine’s cousin thrice-removed; there was no resemblance. They’d recently reconnected on Facebook and the affable Maxine accepted Mitch when he stopped in unannounced. The three of us tried to make conversation, but Elmo would have none of it. He kept butting in with knock knock jokes and lame puns – anything for attention. At first it was charming and we chuckled a bit, but soon it became a nuisance.

     “I’ll take him home,” I said, “He can see and hear us through the window so he’ll feel like he’s in the loop, but…” and here I lowered my voice and spoke away from the bird, “…it’ll be easier to ignore him.” Then I scooted home with Elmo who was just then in the middle of a classic Abbot and Costello routine.

     Once back, the three of us had a casual evening of inconsequential chatter. All I remember is Mitch’s way of speaking; he had a stutter and a lisp. I recall supposing that it was okay because such a large man should be able to handle two speech impediments.

     A few weeks passed where Mitch dropped by 5A rather frequently. Sometimes I, sans Elmo, would drop by too. I liked Mitch, he was the type of guy one could relax around; he wasn’t anything special and didn’t expect anyone else to be. Plus, we liked the same sort of beer and enjoyed introducing each other to new brews. Then, as if he never existed, Mitch stopped coming over. I asked Maxine about it, but she had no idea – he didn’t respond to her Facebook messages and she never did have his phone number.

     Two weeks later, I awoke drowsy on a Sunday after a late date. On autopilot, I went to feed the bird only to find a nervous Elmo pacing his cage. He was saying something, but it was hard to understand.

     “a…a…athoon?” I tried, “you heard someone sneezing?”

     Elmo answered by imitating a sneeze, which sounded nothing like what he was saying.

     “a a thpoon? A spoon?” I offered. No. To be continued, I thought, feeding Elmo and going down to the beach to walk off my hangover.

     When I came back, there were two police cars in our driveway. I could hear Elmo shrieking as I mounted two flights. Upstairs, through my window, I could see the police interviewing a distraught Maxine.

     “Pashtoon?” I attempted. Elmo tried to bite me. “Bethune? What? No?”

     The bird was inconsolable. I looked around the apartment and racked my brain for what could be causing Elmo’s distress. Finally, at my wit’s end, I was dialing the veterinarian when there was a knock on the door. It was the fuzz.

     The reader might liked to know that, at this point, nearing the end of her peach cobbler, Jolene asked what sorts of instruments Maxine kept at her apartment. I winked at her and continued my story.

     Apparently there had been a theft. As my sharp friend intimated, a number of Maxine’s instruments were gone. Unfortunately, I could tell the police nothing since my previous night’s stupor was so deep I had heard nary a sound. When they left I took a toweled Elmo to the vet’s office. The doctor found nothing unusual with the offended parakeet. That evening, Maxine came over. I gave her a delicious Porter I’d been saving for Mitch.

     “I don’t feel safe over there now. I don’t come home one night and BAM, someone steals my beautiful instruments,” she lamented.

     “All of them?” I query. Maxine shoots me a quizzical look.

     “Are you crazy? They’da had to be here all night,” she answers and we laugh. “No, but they took plenty…Two violins, a trombone, a bassoon…” Here Elmo cuts her off, going absolutely bonkers.

     “Bassoon! That’s it!” Shouted Jolene.

     “…And could you explain Elmo’s hint?” I teased, knowing she could.

     Maxine called the police and soon most of the instruments were back with their owner who bought Elmo a CD full of bassoon tunes which he enjoys very much.

     ”I’ve seen you before.”

     ”Yes, hello Mrs. Halsey.”

     The door will open. Open dammit.

     ”I haven’t been married for a long time.”

     “Goodbye, Mrs. Halsey.”

     BOOP – “Hey, Sanjay. I’m gonna stop by this afternoon and hang out for awhile. If you want to see a movie, wait for me.” BOOP – “Hello Sanjay. This is a message for Davendra.”

She is the matriarch of a vast crumbling submarine, aimless tongue pushing teeth, stretching lips into a murky yawn as she struggles with sleep in a motel room’s bed. I am standing by the window, close the curtain, and exit unnoticed.

     Is the electric bill I just paid for one month, two, or three? Why is it always a different amount? Does he notice my headphones are still in? “I like it. Is it the beginning of a story?”

     ”I can’t write.”

     ”You wrote that just now.”

     ”I have too much faith in the moment I’m writing. If you can’t edit, you shouldn’t write.”

     ”It’s just natural for you”

     ”That would be nice, but when I return to something it’s just embarrassing. Or was that a question?”

     ”Maybe I don’t get it. Maybe …”

     “Look at that.”

     They stare out the bus window, even I’m unsure if he was really referring to anything. There was a nice house out there though. The trim matched the flowers in the yard, all symmetrically blue. He’s learned how to avoid tangling with her. I’m surprised he showed that to her. It’s obviously about me. She didn’t notice I guess? I guess it’s my turn to learn something.

     What will I do today? This is boring. I hate this part of the trip. I fell like falling asleep. It’s probably him. Oh, I’m so mean. Why did he show that to me? I used to be inspired by his passion, but if anything now, I’ve just learned that it’s useless getting worked up over anything. I wonder what Heather’s thinking. “Hey. Have you seen those solar cookers?”

     ”I can’t understand you. Turn all the way around.”

     ”They’re like just boxes with aluminum coating them. Do you think they work?”

     ”I don’t know.” This is not a day for talking. He’s right to stare out the window, connect with images speeding by and inhabit an impossible visual community.

     ”I think there must be a trick. A chemical or something? It can’t be as easy as the sun and a box.” I wonder if anyone else takes him seriously. He thinks too much. What will I do tonight? I’ve spent too much this month. Some window shopping. That can’t hurt.

     One more stop and this asshole has to sit right next to me. There are plenty of other empty seats. Do I look like I want company?

     ”What’s the longest you’ve ever slept?”

     Thank you, Beth. “Thirteen, fourteen hours.”

     ”I’ve slept over twenty once.”

     ”You?”

     ”Lighting enables people to sleep or wake whenever they want yet we’ve designed everything to be afraid of the night.”

     ”Yeah.” But who cares. I’d like to live back in that house but the blue would look better if it were the fire color of Heather’s hair.

     This is not a day for talking. This is a day for letting things go. That puffy man on the car phone speeding by has to let things go or he’ll kill us all.

     I must get back to work. A sabbatical to plan. Ridiculous review committee. Abuse the time to study? Ha. Where are my glasses? It’s a hot fall. The sun will stop the blindness. Ah. My glasses. She’ll be home soon. Umph. Finally a peace of my chair. Mmnnn. Mneumatic device. Too tired. Just relax. Read.

     !BRINGGG !

     Damn phone. I’ll let it go.

     ”Good afternoon. No I’m sorry. He isn’t here. I don’t. He doesn’t spend a lot of time here. Is everything alright? Oh… Can he call you? Does he have the number? Of course. I’m so sorry. Yes. You’ve tried Heathers? Of course. I will. Good-bye.”

     He said he once believed we should sit on couches, be some thing like a seed in fruit, thinking, dreaming, until it was worth procreating. Get up and hammer a nail or whatever was needed, then settle back, congregate with crumpled brows and wonder if the front window was a cornea or a greenhouse wall. I sit comfortably under the café window, arms wrapped under my armpits, my head resting against a propped shoulder. I look cold, there’s a bathroom in back. There are so many people with piercings today. They’re all so young.

     He arrives tugging at an oversized brown sweater, it looks like he’s hiding my child in his belly. He sits down next to me and smiles, catching dried lips on his teeth. “Do you want some lip gloss?” It is basically all we say to one another. He hands me a hundred and fifty dollars and apologizes. I move my purse nervously around what’s left of my lap. I don’t feel guilty anymore. He did respond to my personal: SWF 37 athletic, nurse, pleasing figure enjoys movies seeks SM for long-term companionship, possibly marriage. As undemanding as it read, he had stopped reading at nurse. What did he say, he was so hot, neurologists should be sleeping with artists, teachers with parents. It was all there, perfectly clear. My intentions. Dirty words. The bus takes him away from me again, doleful, sympathetic. I’ve got to use that bathroom.

     ”The buzzer is working intermittently. I’ll come down.” I will open the door and I will not smell her urine. I am not smelling it as I walk down the steps.

     ”Hi Dave.”

     ”Hungry?”

     ”Not really. I’ve got a paper. C’mon up.”

     ”Oh God that smell is worse. Is that poor woman still alone in 5A?”

     Just come inside the door.

     ”The buzzer isn’t working? It sounds like it is.”

     ”Intermittently. You got a message on my machine about your mom.”

     In the immaculately kept Apartment 5A, Roger Delacroix adjusted his tie. Roger was an investment banker, and therefore as immaculate as 5A–deals behind closed doors might be messy in that world, but outside appearances were always well-maintained. Roger was also a cat burglar. But then, some might say that was to be expected, as Roger was also a cat.

     Roger proceeded to his well-appointed kitchen to prepare breakfast when someone knocked at his door.

     “Yes?” he queried, after opening the door. The bird at the door in the rumpled brown suit reeked of the law. Half of a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth.

     “I’m Detective Rat Warren,” he said slowly, so as to keep the cigarette from falling. “And I have a few questions for you.”

     The detective had often been asked, on the schoolyard, at the police station, on dates, why his mother had given him such an unusual name. Sometimes he’d shrug, and sometimes he’d reply honestly, that his mother never told him because bloodied whore corpses weren’t great at answering questions.

     Roger did not ask any such impertinent questions. “Certainly, Detective. How may I help you?”

     “Wondering if you’ve seen this female in your neighborhood.” Warren’s cigarette hung precariously as he proffered a photograph of a striking bird, opulently attired, with mesmerizing jewels circling her throat.

     Roger forced himself to look away from the priceless gems and focus on the lady in question.

     “I haven’t seen anyone even remotely like her around here. But those jewels–is she royalty?”

     “She’s some rich socialite, visiting from Malta. She went missing and she was last seen a few blocks from here. There’s a team of us canvassing the area. You sure she doesn’t look familiar?

     Roger shook his head. He wished he had seen her–he could almost feel those cool, unyielding stones in his paw.

     The detective nodded and took his leave, giving no indication that he was unduly interested in Roger, instead knocking at the door across the hall to continue canvassing.

     Roger spent the better part of the day obsessing about the necklace in the photograph–he never kept any of the goods he plucked, as the thrill was equally in the theft and the first flush of possession. But for some reason, this particular piece seized his attention—he thought it possible if he ever did manage to procure the necklace, he would be hard pressed to send it to his fence.

     So naturally Roger thought he was dreaming when the frantic bird from the photo knocked on his door in the middle of the night. Bleary eyed, he opened the door and was nearly knocked over by the bird who charged in, eyes fearfully darting around the darkened foyer.

     ”Are you Roger Delacroix?” she whispered urgently. “I was told you were the only man who could help me.”

     Roger, slowly realizing this wasn’t a dream, was perplexed. Who would send a damsel in distress to his door? He had never been one for heroics. Until possibly now, when the prospect of grasping those jewels in his paw was astonishingly real.

     ”Who said? Why? Where have you been? The police are looking for you.”

     ”I was told I was in danger–my family has many enemies and I was going to be killed, as a warning to them. But I was told to run, and hide here, until it was safe.”

     ”Of course you can hide here,” Roger said soothingly. (The jewels–would she have taken them with her while on the run? It was possible she had them on her, Roger thought.) “But who gave you my name? And why?”

     She shook her head. “I was only told I could trust you, and only you. And to stay here until I got a message that it was safe.”

     Roger nodded, distracted, when there was yet another knock at the door. He motioned for the bird to be quiet and hide herself.

     Roger peered through the peephole and was startled to find the detective from the morning on his front stoop.

     ”Yes, Detective?” he asked as he opened the door.

     And those were the last words he got out before losing consciousness, a blast of horse-grade sedative hitting him full in the face.

     By the time neighbors were stirring the next morning, 5A was a full crime scene. Yellow caution tape blocked entry to the unit. Inside, Roger was conscious and pleading his innocence to anyone who would listen.

     ”I was framed! She came to me for help!” he said through gritted teeth, as the throbbing pain in his head threatened to unman him completely.

     The officers searching the apartment paid him no heed. The missing bird’s feathers had been found throughout the apartment, evidence of a struggle as she tried to flee. There was no sign of the bird herself, which boded ill.

     An officer appeared from the bedroom, asking a superior, “Is this the necklace in the photo of the bird?”

     Roger’s head snapped up, the pain tripling, and he saw the object of his yearning in the officer’s hand, as though it were not a piece of sublimity but a common trinket.

     The officer caught Roger’s expression and steeled his resolve to find the kidnapped bird as he took Roger’s reaction to be further proof of his guilt.

     Outside, Detective Rat Warren was sorrowful, not for his role in framing the cat burglar he’d long sought to nab, or even for the message sent to the Maltese mob don whose daughter the police would discover had recently perished at the hands of local druglords. No, Detective Warren felt sorrow that his work had come to these convoluted means for the noble ends he’d always worked toward. Maybe his mother’s answer for him was that she had named him in a fit of stunning prescience.

     Rat Warren shrugged and let the cigarette butt dangling from his mouth fall to the ground, before crushing it with his foot.

     The afternoon alarm buzzed for forty minutes in the dark bedroom before Bea realized. She clung to her dream and her bedsheets as if they were the same thing. “Not yet,” she urged. It was the kind of dream that seemed to make happiness out of thin air. But again the buzzer went off, as it was set to go off every five minutes on “snooze”.

     Finally she reached out to hit “dismiss,” because, after all, she had a reason to wake up. She blinked a few times, and scanned her bedroom. There was a Saturday afternoon quiet that rolled in at about this time. It was the kind a working person notices when they are home between the hours of nine and five. Some of the neighboring apartments filled it in with TV.

     From outside came the jingling of keys and the familiar volume of her roommate Jessa’s voice. Bea could picture the scene. Jessa would be wearing lip-stick and sunglasses even though she was indoors. She’d be balancing shopping bags on one arm and a purse on the other, cell phone in hand. It was always the cell phone with Jessa.
         
     They lived your typical Craigslist set up- made small talk when they ran into each other and shared a meal or two each week. They had some moments.
         
     Jessa opened the door and high-heeled all over the living room’s hardwood floor. The powerful thumping grew louder and then their was a knock. “Come in,” Bea said, wincing at the crack of light. “Hi!” Jessa popped in. “Just checking you don’t overdo your beauty sleep. Big date tonight, yeah?”
           
     Yes, Bea had spilled her plans. After one movie and then a group dinner date, things were getting down to it. They’d be together in her apartment for the first time, among her things. Bea rolled over on the bed and opened her laptop to read the email again. “Let’s meet at your place. Apartment 5A?,” the screen said, and “Seven works for me too. Yours, Charlie.”
          
     “That’s right. We’re meeting here tonight.,” Bea said. She hoped it didn’t sound as novel to Jessa as it did to her. “You’ve got to clean up,” Jessa said, searching through the heap of old jeans, sweaters, sneakers, Bea’s all-purpose tote-bag, a collection of Ibsen plays, DVD’s and that type of thing which covered half the bed.
“I know,” Bea agreed, . “And the clock is ticking.”
        
     “What are your outfit plans?,” Jessa wanted to know. “Black, red, or white?”
        
     “Is it really that easy? As one, two, three?,” Bea asked, showing Jessa the door. “Tell me if you need help!,” Jessa added.
         
     Bea sided with all romantic notions that said tonight mattered. She lifted the pile from her bed and dumped it into the closet. There were times on the sewing machine, when altering her clothes, it would occur to Bea that a skirt was just material before it was anything. Her hands were the makers of size and shape. She thought of that now, as she saw herself get into and out of a few outfits in front of the tall mirror. It felt like an underwear commercial. Like those that claim every body is beautiful.
          
     After finally sticking with a brown cotton dress, Bea moved into the living room to put on some music. What startled her when she got there had been making her jumpy all week. A few evenings ago Jessa had come in the front door carrying a large bird cage and a bag of food from th pet sore. Inside the cage was an expensive- looking bird, a gray African parrot. “Need something to take care of,” Jessa explained. “Good practice you know? I’m naming her Queenie.”
         
     The sight of the bird surprised Bea every time. “Are you fixing dinner?” Jessa asked entering the room. “I thought wine would do,” Bea replied. “Bake a cake!,” Jessa blurted. “Bake a cake,” Queenie repeated. “But who bakes cakes anymore, what with everyone going healthy? And isn’t it too I Love Lucy for someone who’s already a secretary?,” Bea protested.
         
     Only now she couldn’t shake the idea or put anything in its place. The basic yellow cake mix sat in the pantry ready to go and all that followed were water and eggs. Bea dug out the ingredients and set them on the counter. She felt her time being squeezed. Through the window, the blue afternoon sky could be seen letting its hair down. It was the pale orange start of sunset that glowed against the tiles and walls. Soon the sun would seem its brightest and then trail off completely.
           
     Crack. She cracked each egg with one hand and let the round yolks plop into the big bowl. The eggs and their yolks and the bowl were all round together. Two minutes later, she ‘d poured the mix and begun stirring with a big wooden spoon. But as she stirred, Bea’s motions felt strange. “I guess I don’t bake cakes very often,” she thought. There was a faint feeling of lost cakes.
          
     “Pour batter into pan, smooth, and bake at 375 degrees,” said the cake box. Bea did all those, set the timer, and wondered “How will the night work out?” It was like a dream-date board game, the way she was waiting for the doorbell. Who won at those? Should she be like The Crystals’ recording of And then he kissed me?, or like the Beach Boys’ And then I kissed her? Well, these were any woman’s troubles.
           
     Bea stood at the window letting twilight settle. She heard Jessa’s power heels walk out the apartment again. “Go get em!.” Bea kept standing and thinking for she didn’t know how long until “RIIING!!” cut her off. “Oh no!” she gasped. “I’m not ready!” “RIIIING!!” Queenie mimicked. For a some number of seconds Bea felt caught in the headlights. Then something else hit her, the buttery warm smell. The cake was done.

Hemingway once wrote: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn,” and called
it his best work.

With all due respect to the other writers of the 5A Story Contest,
whose works are impressive, I thought I’d give the six-word fiction
genre a shot:

Cockatoo’s gone, Thanksgiving in 5A suspected.