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.
3 comments:
I like the balance between descrition and narration. Im interested in the choice to repeat "beige". Symbol? Or maybe just a "black hat". I like the mystery at the end when he feels comforted by the look of the old woman. That idea of comfort seems very important to him. Possibly because of his less-than-perfect roots. I guess we will find out. Good job!
he also seems a bit paranoid?
Brie turned slightly in the stool and slid the glass to the other side of the countertop. She looked carefully back at the bartender, over the flipped-up collarof her sheepskin jacket, before sliding down over the orange vellum and fighting her way through the heavy Irish lemonwood out to the crusty city, with the cleansing chill, that frosts over all the filth and cans and cats and corpses. It was nearly time for dinner.
I wasn't really getting anywhere, on my feet, in my thinning shoes and stuffy stockings. The streets passed like warped time, and they barely registered before the feeling. It came over the world, with such force that I turned to watch the epiphanies dawn in people's eyes. No epiphanies. Dull knife faces.
The bitter cold was tears in my eyes when a warm flood came to my face from the bookshop. I let myself be pulled in and quietly felt the sun in the rank flourescence of the store. The store's smell filled me.
The man at the counter looked at me from over his computer. There was familiarity in the gesture as there was familiarity in his eyes. I turned on a heel and hid behind the books.
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