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Feb. 18th, 2004 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaI completed three stories about some thoughts I had about an apartment building my writing group is held at. One concerns the high amount of old people who live there. The second concerns the lax security that happened because I was young, female and relatively harmless looking. The third was wondering if it was possible to make an elevator into gas chamber. The ending is abrupt, since I have to do research on the process of poisoning, the smell and how can one person get toxic gases legally (or not).
Assume content is PG-13.
The company running the apartment gives Ms. Kinnear the option of leave in lieu of rent. The super knows she was there when the apartment was rent-controlled, long before he started work here, but other than that, he never really knew her. He only seen her a few times, with her pixie cut white hair, long face with wrinkles and a frown, long and thin fingers and a stoop. She would leave in the morning, come back at night and sleep. Never gave him trouble. He heard stories about her, but nothing big, just would stare out of her window on full moon nights.
He calls up the stairs, "It's almost time, Ms. Kinnear."
As he walks up the stairs, the super blinks at sudden noises. From the top of the stairs, it sounds like a bass drum. In the middle of the corridor, he can hear more of a choppy, dying electric fan. He looks at the dust playing around the setting sun, showing up the fading door numbers. Maybe with new tenants and more money, he can afford paint, maybe carpets for the corridor. Spruce up the place.
Getting closer, he hears growls. Growls? Don't tell me she has pets too, he thinks. He doesn't remember any complaints about her and pets. Most old ladies with no one to take care of them hide a stray or two, but Ms. Kinnear never did.
The super hears new sounds as he comes closer. Crumpling paper, the thud of cardboard boxes, and the faint scratches against the floor joins the dying fan. He almost sighs. The sounds of moving, the noise's not so strange after all. Ms. Kinnear may be hurrying out already. He feels a stab of pity, wondering where she will go, but he tells himself she might have some friends who are helping her out. Maybe she has a nice condo in Florida.
The super knocks on the door. Ms. Kinnear opens it a crack, her green eye with yellow whites popping out. "It's time, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am, do you need help?"
"I will be out soon, but I have some things to say."
"Ma'am, it's five minutes to six, and we clearly agree that ..."
She flings the door open, and the super sees everything. Sure, there are boxes packed and marked neatly. Whose packing them is another matter. One has a long face, narrow eyes and a pointed chin but no mouth and no nose. He was a blank mask of a face. The other has the snout and beady eyes of a dog and the fangs of a tiger. They are blacker than any black person the super ever met, just pure black muscle in their arms and legs. They both stare at the super, flapping bat-like wings. He realizes there is no electric fan in the apartment.
He backs away slowly, blinking his eyes several times, trying to convince himself he was hallunicating, or perhaps huffing paint fumes? He is about to run when Ms. Kinnear said in a clipped tone that belie her age, "They won't hurt you."
Walking back in with unsure steps, he realizes the two things have some things in common with Ms. Kinnear. She has the same long fingers as they do, and she has the same stoop too.
She clears her throat and says, "I have three minutes left, so I will make it short. Twenty years ago, I underwent a transformation. I was tired of sitting in one place, never mind the New England winters. For twenty years I tried to live like, well, you, really. I've always been homesick, but then I became really sick. Too sick to work, in fact."
"Lady, I'm sorry--" He stops, not really sure what to say to some strange beings and an old woman.
"No apology was asked for, so none is needed. My old friends came by when I agree to move, and did what they could. I'm just telling you I'm doing something I should have done long time ago." She ruffles her hair, puts in a big book that looks like a late-night horror movie Ye Olde Tome of Forbidden Knowledge into the box, and nods at the things, her companions.
She takes off her faded yellow sweater. Bat-like wings push out of her back and tear her dress. Her face becomes longer, the wrinkles deeper, and her frown grows angrier. She turns as soot-black as her companions and looks at them. With their nod, she tears off her housedress and runs out to the ledge of the window.
She pushes with her feet off the ledge, floating on her now-enormous wings. Her companions walk to the window. The faceless one jumps and pumps his wings into the sunset. The dog-faced one gives a salute and a snort and follows.
The super stares at the window in shock, but comes to long enough to see the boxes, neatly ducted taped and marked, are still in the apartment. "Jesus," he mutters, "do they still expect us to move this crap?"
He never tells of the incident, saying only Ms. Kinnear packed her things and left them in the apartment. He gives the books to the library, the clothing to a homeless shelter and the rest of it to Goodwill. He keeps one thing, a snow globe of one of those old churches, with arches and all that. Gothic, he heard they are called. He doesn't know why, but he likes it.
He almost forgets it happened one spring day when he picked up the paper to read Red Sox scores. He catches a picture of the church in a snow globe. From what he gets, a gargoyle was missing twenty years. Police wasn't sure how someone could steal it, being it was the top of the church. Now, it is back. No one is sure how, but people are calling it a miracle.
Not knowing what to call it, he shakes his head and turns the page.
A blue-faced man dropped out of the elevator last Thursday. I remember because I had my first ice cream delivery that day. I press the button, the door opens, and a man drops on the floor. His pale, blue veined arm blocked the door. Through the elevator door, I could see his bloated face with frozen eyes. I clutched the ice cream even closer to keep dropping it. People give you shitty tips if you drop ice cream in fright.
The police kept me, asking me questions. I told them all I knew, but mentally counted the time. I work at an ice cream shop, and we just started delivering. We had a thirty minutes or less policy. I have no excuse even if the apartment building was two blocks from the ice cream shop, even in a cold and snowy winter like now. Fortunately, my customer comes out of another elevator and sees me with my two pints of hazelnut. She paid for them, even left me a decent type, considering the police delay.
I glance and read quickly "Heart failure." I am not sure if I believe it. When I go back there, they block off that elevator with the repair company looking into it.
On a cigarette break, I see a newspaper box with the loud headline of "Blue Man #2!" Another old man in the same apartment, the same blue face and same dropping dead when the door opens. Death listed as reaction to medication he was taking. I drag on my cigarette and shake my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think, "Blue? The fuck? That doesn't happen with heart failure."
Sometimes I like to go to the library after work. I pick one subject at random. Today, it's toxic gases. I read something about this gas used in the death camps. It turns faces bloated and blue. Like in the apartment building.
Oh shit.
I call the tip line, but the police are little skeptical. How can the gas get in, they ask. I have no clue, but I mention the elevator. It has vents, right? They said the elevator company says everything checks normal, and show the police their records.
Months later, and nothing happens. No dead bodies or anything. I am working for the summer and have more orders for ice cream. I even have a cooler to cart all the deliveries. In fact, I get one for that very apartment.
I am still paranoid, thinking of using the stairs. However, with the cooler in my hands and a delivery on the fourth floor, I have to use the elevator. While waiting for it in the lobby, I see two men with the elevator company uniforms walking down past me.
The elevator door opens and I walk in. Just before it closes, I swear I hear one of them say "Ten bucks it will only take half to knock out the ice cream girl."
Assume content is PG-13.
The company running the apartment gives Ms. Kinnear the option of leave in lieu of rent. The super knows she was there when the apartment was rent-controlled, long before he started work here, but other than that, he never really knew her. He only seen her a few times, with her pixie cut white hair, long face with wrinkles and a frown, long and thin fingers and a stoop. She would leave in the morning, come back at night and sleep. Never gave him trouble. He heard stories about her, but nothing big, just would stare out of her window on full moon nights.
He calls up the stairs, "It's almost time, Ms. Kinnear."
As he walks up the stairs, the super blinks at sudden noises. From the top of the stairs, it sounds like a bass drum. In the middle of the corridor, he can hear more of a choppy, dying electric fan. He looks at the dust playing around the setting sun, showing up the fading door numbers. Maybe with new tenants and more money, he can afford paint, maybe carpets for the corridor. Spruce up the place.
Getting closer, he hears growls. Growls? Don't tell me she has pets too, he thinks. He doesn't remember any complaints about her and pets. Most old ladies with no one to take care of them hide a stray or two, but Ms. Kinnear never did.
The super hears new sounds as he comes closer. Crumpling paper, the thud of cardboard boxes, and the faint scratches against the floor joins the dying fan. He almost sighs. The sounds of moving, the noise's not so strange after all. Ms. Kinnear may be hurrying out already. He feels a stab of pity, wondering where she will go, but he tells himself she might have some friends who are helping her out. Maybe she has a nice condo in Florida.
The super knocks on the door. Ms. Kinnear opens it a crack, her green eye with yellow whites popping out. "It's time, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am, do you need help?"
"I will be out soon, but I have some things to say."
"Ma'am, it's five minutes to six, and we clearly agree that ..."
She flings the door open, and the super sees everything. Sure, there are boxes packed and marked neatly. Whose packing them is another matter. One has a long face, narrow eyes and a pointed chin but no mouth and no nose. He was a blank mask of a face. The other has the snout and beady eyes of a dog and the fangs of a tiger. They are blacker than any black person the super ever met, just pure black muscle in their arms and legs. They both stare at the super, flapping bat-like wings. He realizes there is no electric fan in the apartment.
He backs away slowly, blinking his eyes several times, trying to convince himself he was hallunicating, or perhaps huffing paint fumes? He is about to run when Ms. Kinnear said in a clipped tone that belie her age, "They won't hurt you."
Walking back in with unsure steps, he realizes the two things have some things in common with Ms. Kinnear. She has the same long fingers as they do, and she has the same stoop too.
She clears her throat and says, "I have three minutes left, so I will make it short. Twenty years ago, I underwent a transformation. I was tired of sitting in one place, never mind the New England winters. For twenty years I tried to live like, well, you, really. I've always been homesick, but then I became really sick. Too sick to work, in fact."
"Lady, I'm sorry--" He stops, not really sure what to say to some strange beings and an old woman.
"No apology was asked for, so none is needed. My old friends came by when I agree to move, and did what they could. I'm just telling you I'm doing something I should have done long time ago." She ruffles her hair, puts in a big book that looks like a late-night horror movie Ye Olde Tome of Forbidden Knowledge into the box, and nods at the things, her companions.
She takes off her faded yellow sweater. Bat-like wings push out of her back and tear her dress. Her face becomes longer, the wrinkles deeper, and her frown grows angrier. She turns as soot-black as her companions and looks at them. With their nod, she tears off her housedress and runs out to the ledge of the window.
She pushes with her feet off the ledge, floating on her now-enormous wings. Her companions walk to the window. The faceless one jumps and pumps his wings into the sunset. The dog-faced one gives a salute and a snort and follows.
The super stares at the window in shock, but comes to long enough to see the boxes, neatly ducted taped and marked, are still in the apartment. "Jesus," he mutters, "do they still expect us to move this crap?"
He never tells of the incident, saying only Ms. Kinnear packed her things and left them in the apartment. He gives the books to the library, the clothing to a homeless shelter and the rest of it to Goodwill. He keeps one thing, a snow globe of one of those old churches, with arches and all that. Gothic, he heard they are called. He doesn't know why, but he likes it.
He almost forgets it happened one spring day when he picked up the paper to read Red Sox scores. He catches a picture of the church in a snow globe. From what he gets, a gargoyle was missing twenty years. Police wasn't sure how someone could steal it, being it was the top of the church. Now, it is back. No one is sure how, but people are calling it a miracle.
Not knowing what to call it, he shakes his head and turns the page.
A blue-faced man dropped out of the elevator last Thursday. I remember because I had my first ice cream delivery that day. I press the button, the door opens, and a man drops on the floor. His pale, blue veined arm blocked the door. Through the elevator door, I could see his bloated face with frozen eyes. I clutched the ice cream even closer to keep dropping it. People give you shitty tips if you drop ice cream in fright.
The police kept me, asking me questions. I told them all I knew, but mentally counted the time. I work at an ice cream shop, and we just started delivering. We had a thirty minutes or less policy. I have no excuse even if the apartment building was two blocks from the ice cream shop, even in a cold and snowy winter like now. Fortunately, my customer comes out of another elevator and sees me with my two pints of hazelnut. She paid for them, even left me a decent type, considering the police delay.
I glance and read quickly "Heart failure." I am not sure if I believe it. When I go back there, they block off that elevator with the repair company looking into it.
On a cigarette break, I see a newspaper box with the loud headline of "Blue Man #2!" Another old man in the same apartment, the same blue face and same dropping dead when the door opens. Death listed as reaction to medication he was taking. I drag on my cigarette and shake my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think, "Blue? The fuck? That doesn't happen with heart failure."
Sometimes I like to go to the library after work. I pick one subject at random. Today, it's toxic gases. I read something about this gas used in the death camps. It turns faces bloated and blue. Like in the apartment building.
Oh shit.
I call the tip line, but the police are little skeptical. How can the gas get in, they ask. I have no clue, but I mention the elevator. It has vents, right? They said the elevator company says everything checks normal, and show the police their records.
Months later, and nothing happens. No dead bodies or anything. I am working for the summer and have more orders for ice cream. I even have a cooler to cart all the deliveries. In fact, I get one for that very apartment.
I am still paranoid, thinking of using the stairs. However, with the cooler in my hands and a delivery on the fourth floor, I have to use the elevator. While waiting for it in the lobby, I see two men with the elevator company uniforms walking down past me.
The elevator door opens and I walk in. Just before it closes, I swear I hear one of them say "Ten bucks it will only take half to knock out the ice cream girl."
