A Visitor

Harry sets down the phone sadly, the dial tone still ringing in his ears. "Bye," he murmurs, and then takes a deep, calming breath. With the phone returned to its cradle, he feels better. He surveys the apartment, the rows of neat things, the life he's made, created from chaos and regulated into an every-day sort of order. He runs a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to his couch. Though it's still early on Sunday, barely past one, he feels exhausted, drained, and quickly sinks into a much-needed rest.
He awakes to a thud. His eyes opening quickly, he sits bolt upright, and gasps. The room is in complete disarray. Not only have things been tossed haphazardly everywhere, but furniture has been moved, jostled out of their places and shifted, even the heaviest of items. The table before the couch is now propped against the wall, and in fact the only thing on the rug before him is the phone, its receiver still in the cradle.
Harry stands quickly and goes to the door. He tries the bolt, and finds it secure. A quick survey tells him that the windows are all locked from the inside, though someone would have a hard time getting to one of them even if they weren't. He stands in the middle of the room, and his gaze once again falls to the telephone. He reaches to pick it up, and it rings just as his hand closes on it. He drops it again out of sheer terror, and then answers it, curiousity getting the better of him.
"Harry?"
"Dean."
"Look... I didn't mean that. I'm sorry I hung up. I'm not really sure what just happened, but I feel so strange, as if someone told me to call you. Is there something.... I don't know. Maybe this was a bad idea."
Harry surveys the room again, and then replies, "No, nothing's wrong. I'm so glad you called back, though."

Barnaby

Harry tucks the last photograph in the cardboard box, and then lifts the surprisingly light box into his arms. "Mrs. Ryan?" he calls, "I'm just gonna run this back to the older man who left it here like I told you." She peers up at him, her eyes a little glazed.
"Sure, dear," she replies, and then looks off into the distance again.
He steps out into the daylight, blinking at first, and checks the little hand-drawn map in his pocket. It's not far at all, he thinks. This won't take long at all.
He quickly walks the block and a half to the address on the map, and then checks it again when he stands before it. The decrepit old lot just doesn't seem to him like the kind of place someone would live, and the ramshackle old house seems to be in such disrepair that no one could live there.
He starts, unsure, towards the house, and stops short when he sees the old man on the front porch. He stands slightly stooped over, a broom in his hand. He stares at Harry wordlessly.
"I'm, uh, just returning some of your belongings. They're all in there. I hope you don't mind that I went through them." He takes another step towards the house, the porch, the man. Adversely, the old man seems to shrink back from him without moving a muscle. Harry stops short. "I guess, uh, I guess I'll leave them here. Ah, if you have questions," he stammers quickly, unsure of what he is even saying, "about what we took, I mean, and what we left... I suppose you know where the shop is."
The old man stares back, still silent.
"Uh," manages Harry again, and then he spins on his heel and leaves the lot, feeling eyes on his back all the way.

One Red Shoe

Harry pours himself a mug of hot, black coffee. He sighs, sips his steaming coffee, and readjusts the mauve-colored robe which hangs over his t-shirt and pajama pants. He gazes around his trashed apartment, at the garbage on the counters, the empty bottles in the sink, and the general disarray of his belongings. Andy lays sprawled on his couch, her mouth open, snoring gently. Harry sighs again, and crosses the room to wake her. “Andy, you should wake up now. Andy. Andy?” he calls, changing the mug to his other hand. As the strong aroma of coffee crosses Andy’s nostrils, her bloodshot eyes open. “Harry,” she croaks. “That was a fun night out.”
She sits up, and takes the mug from Harry’s hand. “Hey-” he starts to complain, but is interrupted by Andy’s loud yawn.
“Have you got an extra razor?” she asks. She runs a hand over her stubble-covered jaw, and then her delicately painted fingers go to her cheek. “A girl should never be seen in the morning without her makeup on.”
“You can use mine,” Harry says. “Listen, what was the name of that girl we met last night?”
“The girl-girl or the boy-girl?” Andy giggles. Traces of thick eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, and she has lost one of her set of famously long fake eyelashes at some point.
“The girl-girl,” Harry replies.
“I’m not sure. Denise, maybe?”
‘That’s right. Denise.”
Andy looks at him over the rim of the mug. “Hmm. Well, I’m going to get in the shower.”
“Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.” Harry stands and crosses back to the kitchen. He cleans up a little, filling a garbage bag, and then goes to put it outside in the hallway.
The door to the apartment across the hall opens as he sets the bag down next to the garbage chute. A woman stands there, her gaze sleep-filled. She brightens upon seeing him, and he notices the black smudges on the ends of her fingers. “Hello,” she smiles. “You wouldn’t happen to be the owner of a pair of red Ferragamo pumps, size…” she leans back inside her apartment, “twelve? I found it in the hall just outside the elevator.”
He blinks, taken aback. “Yes, actually. I mean, no, it’s not mine, but my friend was wearing a pair when we went out last night.”
“Twelves are hard to find in designer shoes,” she informs him, and he notices a black smudge under one eye, too.
“Yes. Andy—my friend—has a very hard time. I think she had them custom-made.”
She hands him a shoe, which he notices is, indeed, Andy’s pump, and smiles. “You both looked lovely when you came in last night. I especially liked your wig.”
“You saw us?” He cradles the shoe.
“Well, I have a show coming up soon. I don’t sleep much. It’s coming together, though. I mean, I wasn’t staring out the peephole in my door. I’m not a stalker or anything,” she adds hurriedly.
“Of course not,” Harry smiles. He feels himself starting to warm to her. “Harry,” he offers his hand to her.
“Aretha,” she smiles back, and shakes his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Well, I’ll be going,” she says, and smiles again as she closes the door.
Harry tucks the shoe into the pocket of his robe, and tips the garbage down the chute, and starts humming an old tune.

The Tavern

Harry shakes his head, sighing, as the man stalks back out of the bookstore. The door slams shut behind him. He checks his watch, and sees that he's been off the clock for the last twenty minutes, and should be long gone. He pulls his sweater on, bids adieu to Mrs. Ryan, and leaves, softly closing the door.
He inhales the fresh, chilly air, and closes his eyes. It smells like winter in the city. It smells like it'll be cold. His eyes open and he sees the neon lights on The Tavern. It's a derelict bar sitting on the corner of the block. He steps towards it, falters, and then continues.
He sits at the bar. "Just... an Amstel Light... please...." The bartender nods, and a few seconds later, there is a cold bottle of beer before him. He holds his nose over the mouth of the bottle, and inhales the crisp scent of his mother. "Ahh," he sighs, and sips deeply from the bottle.
His eyes light on a familiar-looking girl sitting alone in the corner. She scribbles furiously into a noteboook. He stares for a moment, understanding the need for solitude in a crowded place. "Bartender? Send the girl in the corner another of whatever she's having. Put it on my tab."
The girl seems startled when the bartender places another drink before her. Harry cannot hear their interaction but suddenly their eyes meet. He raises his drink to her, finishes it off, and leaves a five and a ten on the bar as he pads back out into the cold air. He wonders about goings-on downtown, and makes his way back to his apartment.

Earl

Harry browses through the books, brushing the dust off of a few particularly thickly coated volumes. His fingers linger on a tall leather-bound book with an unintelligible title. He squints through his glasses, trying to make out the words, and then finding it impossible, he pulls it from the shelves. His favorite thing about working at the bookstore is that he can, at any moment, sit down and read. He can open any book to any page and immerse himself within whatever story he finds there. Mrs. Ryan doesn’t mind. She is constantly hoping for the men her husband had promised her would come when they opened the bookstore. Every time the door opens she peers at the new customer, expecting each to be one of the men in their dark, expensive suits coming into her store to offer her thousands, perhaps even millions, for one of her rare editions. Every day, when it doesn’t happen, she consigns herself to wait another day, just one more.
Harry sinks into a squat, rocking his weight onto the balls of his feet. He opens the aged book and thumbs a dark stain that spreads across the title page, obscuring any title that might have been there. The stain is dark brown, almost black, and has nasty looking faded edges. Quickly, he removes his hand from the stain, feeling contaminated in some way.
He flips through a few pages, noting the thick paper was darker around the edges of the pages, as if the book had been dipped inadvertently in water. He notes also the handwriting. Dark ink has, over time, faded into a pale blue script. It seems to be a journal of some kind. Skimming a page halfway through the book, he picks out the words “war,” “blood,” “Death,” and then reads the last sentence on the page, which appears to be the end of one particular entry. “God has deserted us.”
He tucks the book under his arm and rises slowly, feeling the blood rush into his head and simultaneously, chills running down his spine. Unconsciously, he rubs his right temple with the fingertips of his right hand.
“Harold, dear,” calls Mrs. Ryan suddenly. “Harold? Could you come and give me a hand?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there,” he calls to her. As he makes his way from between the dusty shelves, he suddenly realizes the book is still tucked under his arm. Just to be rid of it, he settles it onto the corner table alongside with the small pile of books he will be taking home over the weekend.
As soon as the weight of the book leaves his fingers, he felt relief, and walks quickly away from it and towards the aid of Mrs. Ryan.
Throughout the day, an unusually large number of people visit the shop, and Mrs. Ryan keeps him quite busy. Perhaps the approaching holidays drive people to shop in less-frequented stores, or perhaps it is merely a fluke; either way, he is on his feet until the shop closed at five.
He gathers the short stack of books he’d set aside, dons his sweater, which he shed earlier, and bids Mrs. Ryan have a nice night. Then, in his slow, nearly invisible way, he threads through pedestrian traffic and back to the flats.
As he pauses while waiting for the traffic light to change, he shuffles through the books in his arms. He catches sight of the journal, and takes a deep breath. He halfway wants to turn around and take the book back to the store, but while he waits on the curb in his indecision, the light changes and foot traffic pushes him forward.
He finds himself walking next to a man who lives in his building.

His name is Earl, and Harry only knows a few things about him. He’s English, and he’s young, and Harry knows of the Englishman’s fascination with wartime literature. They’d had a scintillating conversation about books in the elevator once when it had stopped halfway between two floors and were trapped for nearly an hour. He catches Earl’s arm. “Hullo,” he says in his crisp accent, “what are you doing here? And what’s that you’re holding?”
Harry presents him with the book, saying hurriedly, “Well, I found this at the book store. It…ah, well, it made me think of you. I know you like wartime novels and such. This isn’t a novel, but, ah, it is about a war. Interested?”
Earl takes the book from him, flipping through the pages slowly. “Fascinating. I think it’s a war journal. Not as good as these, though.” He indicates the novel under his arm.
“Well, anyways, if you don’t want it…” Harry begins.
“No, no, I didn’t say that. It looks brilliant.” Earl’s nose is already buried in the book.
“That stain on the inside cover… what does that look like to you?” He wonders aloud, “It almost looks like coffee, doesn’t it?”
The Englishman flips to the inside cover and traces the stain. “No, you know, I think it’s…. I think it might be blood.” He peers at the dark stain.
Harry blinks and notices they’ve arrived at the apartment building. “Yes. Well. Be seeing you, I guess.”
“Thanks so much,” Earl calls after him as Harry quickly enters the building. Harry raises a hand in response, anxious to get into the elevator and away from dusty blood-covered war journals.
A young man wearing a flannel and wool coat is standing patiently in the elevator. “What floor?” he asks.
“Ah, four,” replies Harry distractedly. “Thanks.”
The elevator doors slide shut with a clang.

Of Camus and Jimmy Choo

Harry G., Apartment 419

Harold E. Gershwin tucked his head into the beige poly blend sweater. Momentary darkness, a subtle smell of laundry detergent and something else... dust, perhaps, and then he can see a fuzzy outline of himself again in the bathroom mirror. He gazes for a moment into that dim figure, taking stock of the same slim frame he's seen there day in and day out since high school, when all he wished for was to be built like the other boys in his class: tall, broad, dark haired and deeply-dimpled. He sighs, a soft breath that whooshes against his thin lips, and shakes his head, unwilling to think of school. It was nearly thirteen years ago, he reminds himself. C'mon, now, Harry, there's no reason to think about something from way back in Midland.
He flicks the light off as he pads softly into the next room, picking his glasses up off of the dresser on the way. With them settled comfortably around his face once again, he can see more than just dim outlines. His whole apartment takes shape. A beige couch, a faded olive-colored rug, and a state of the art stereo system: these things are his pride and joy. They're the first things he ever bought for himself when he first moved to Thallow Flats. They're really the first things that he ever bought for himself, save for the train ticket out of the shallow hell he'd grown up in. With nothing more than a a change of clothes in the bag on his shoulder and his two favorite books: a first edition copy of The Count of Monte Christo and a well-thumbed paperback version of The Stranger, he'd set out to make a new life for himself.
A quick glance at the cheap watch on his wrist speeds up his pace. He doesn't want to be late to work, not because he'll be docked pay or even reprimanded at all, for it would be quite a leap to expect elderly Frances Ryan, the blue-haired store-owner, to even notice him. No, he's anxious to get to work because in this beige state he currently occupies it's the only place he feels he's truly welcome. He loves to lose himself within the rows of ancient books, which smell of leather and dust and a whole unbelieveable world so far from his own. The books are his first love, for back in Midland, they were the only friends he could find that didn't judge him or whisper behind his back.
He rides the elevator down to the ground floor with two little girls, a set of twins who speak a foreign language and giggle whenever they see him. He thinks that they might know something about him. They're always around every corner of the apartment building, on the roof, playing in the drop-ceilings of the hallways. He finds them sneaky, beady-eyed. They remind of the girls from his elementary school, who were always too ready to laugh at his naive attempts to ask them out for a milkshake and make fun of his thick glasses.
The book store is a mere block away, and he makes it there in no time. As the bell rings, and Mrs. Ryan's ancient eyes peer at him, hope flaring in their milky irises before fading, he takes a deep breath, the first one he's truly taken all day, and feels comfort.