Apartment Blues (A Short Story)

The tapping from upstairs felt unintentionally rhythmic, only slightly offbeat. The elderly couple who lives in 2B either nap around this hour or go for a walk, but I, as well, am not following suit with my typical schedule. The tapping is now a drum lodged in my ear, and I need to go investigate. I slip on some jeans I've been wearing for four days now (possibly six) and a sweatshirt from 2013. The stairs creek and hum like a choir, as I quickly tip-toe up the arpeggio, until my feet tap the slightly ajar door.

"Ms. Luce, is that you?" a booming voice, filled with laughter calls out. The door hinges screech a whistle tone as I finally see my dearest neighbors dancing, shoes on, dressed almost like they are going to be guests at their own wedding. Their hands open to welcome me into the ring. I fling my slippers on their doormat and run to join the afternoon groove.

Ever since I moved in, Mr. and Mrs. G have always looked out for me. When I got violently ill a couple years ago, they brought me food for days. When I travel, they come feed my two hairless cats. They're my grandparents in this space. When we venture onto the streets and pass like two ships, they'll smile softly at me and I'll nod, almost like there's a secret force shield prohibiting us to be as intimate as we usually are within our respective homes.

I've spent plenty of time in their apartment as well — helping clean when things got busy or hard for them and watching numerous grandchildren (I think) revolve in and out like a rest stop off the intersection of I-84 and I-95. They have a big family, but it seems like none of them live nearby.

Dancing in a circle to some jazz fusion tape, I notice their belongings a bit out of place. Their various knick-knacks and art pieces are gone, white walls suddenly yelling slurs and kicking you down.

I stop and ask, "Where are you going?"

There again his deep laughter cuts through the dense air and calms me slightly, but then Mrs. G strikes a necessary dissonance as her hands wrap around both my shoulders and my body gravitates into a full on hug, tears welling up in our hidden faces.

"It's time we go home."

Deep breath.

Isn't this your home? I don't even know where you're from! How can you leave like this? When are you leaving? Haven't you been here for over 30+ years? Where are you going? Are you flying? Driving? Taking a bus or train? You're too old to uproot your life like this! One of you is sick! Are there any good hospitals wherever you're going? How do you have the money to move? Isn't this place rent stabilized?!

One deep, long, slow sigh later and, of course, "I understand."

I don't feel like dancing, so they try to offer me a dessert from their small assortment of cakes, cookies, and unrecognizable bagged pastries.

They leave tomorrow, before the next snow storm comes.

These neighbors are a part of the building, like the paint, windows, and walls. The pitter patter of their movements have always been a daily comfort. There has been no doubt in my mind that I'd eventually see them wither away into the floorboards. I prepared for that kind of sadness, but not this.

We agree to have dinner later. They have just enough food for one last meal, and they thoroughly insist I bring nothing. I melt back down into the crevices of what used to feel like home, but now an emptiness fills the air. It feels as cold as the outside, my pipes about to burst from the wind chill storming in. I try to nap it off, but my eyes crack open, thin ice in the middle of a frozen lake, and water bursts out.

After almost 10 years, everything about this place finally felt lived in, comfortable, known, like an everyday candle, the scent of various foods from different apartments — Mrs. G's famous homemade recipes, the family in 2A always pickling something, the single (and probably divorced) middle-aged man in 3B somehow brewing coffee at all hours of the day, and me, constantly baking desserts for everyone to try.

Then the stereo, usually a baby crying at the worst hour (now becoming a toddler finally) and opera singing from another building nearby, at least during 9-5 office hours. Drilling and hammering, courtesy of me, adjusting every little thing to make these square boxes we live in feel rounded and whole.

Sunlight suddenly drowns me as the day moves towards its end. I'm thawing a bit, forcibly, as there is nothing to do, but move on. Mr. and Mrs. G will live the rest of their lives in happiness wherever they are, and I will still call this home as long as I can, no matter who may eventually strum the strings of my ceiling.

Familiarity is fleeting. It's a privilege to find it, and even more of a rarity to appreciate its tenderness while it's there. My life has been nothing but a complete lack of permanence, but the elderly couple in 2B will always be a part of this soundtrack. This song may come to an end, but the daily recordings will always continue, whether we want them to or not.

I bring my polaroid camera and a small bag of snacks for their travels. In all these years, we have never taken a picture together, and I am determined to have at least one. I arrive a bit early to their doorstep, and I smell the aromas from the outside for the last time. Before I could knock, Mr. G opens up.

"Early like usual, so always on time. Come, set the table with me."

*This is a fictional story, inspired by Jazz by Toni Morrison, this month's book for conversation pits