Greetings From The Flipside Part 7

He opened the last one. It came in a slightly smaller envelope. When he pulled it out, he immediately recognized it. It came from his shop. It was a card he'd designed himself. He remembered taking the picture . . . it was of a creek at dusk. The water glowed a beautiful amber and reflected the fall leaves that shaded it. Small logs drifted in its water. A vine grew up one tree. A tiny b.u.t.terfly floated just above a rock. He didn't have to open it. He knew what it said inside: "The silence inside a perfect day Will help you find your way"

He sat back and stared at it, then her. It was going to take more than a pretty picture to get her out of this mess. But whatever it took, he'd try to make every day he could, while she was in this awful mess, as perfect as it could be.

And maybe he could do a little better than just silence.

GREETINGS FROM MY LIFE.

The train slows, then stops. I cannot believe it, but I am about to step right into Grand Central Station. It makes me smile because my friend Becca's mother used to almost use it as a cuss word when we were kids.

"What is this? Grand Central Station?!"

But here I am, at my destination. The dream is alive. I quickly tuck my drawing pad and pencils into my bag and wait for the door to open.

As it does, I'm hit with a strange odor, then a foggy, muggy kind of air, thick like syrup and odorous too. The light isn't quite right, either. I was thinking everything would be awash in sort of an amber light . . . more natural light, maybe. I'm not sure. But either way, it is time for me to step off. And step off I will!

When people fall, they don't really make a splat sound, you know? I mean, why do we even say that? It's more a thud. And a grunt. And then I hear my pencils rolling from my bag, one by one. I can't see anything but shoes as people walk around me like I'm some kind of mud puddle.

It was the strangest feeling that caused the fall, a sharp, shooting pain through my foot. I don't know why n.o.body is helping me up. I manage my way to my knees. My heel throbs but it's the least of my concerns. I locate my bag. It's three feet away. I reach for it but can't quite get to it. One foot after another, each adorned with some pretty impressive footwear, stomps on it.

Like a slug, I crawl toward it, panting against the suffocating humidity that apparently hovers two feet off the ground. I reach my bag. Scramble for my pencils. Dodge spiky heel after spiky heel.

It feels like hours, but finally I manage to get to my feet after the train traffic has cleared and get my luggage. I blow air into my bangs. I'm sweaty. Shaken. But. I. Am. Here.

As I walk out of the terminal, I make myself smile. What did I think? NYC was going to be a cakewalk? It's tough here and I have to get my game on. I hold my head high and my bag close and I march on.

Until I have to stop and look at a map.

Thanks to craigslist, I have a good idea of where I want to live. At least judging by price and location. Thanks to Google Maps, I also have a good idea of where I don't want to live. I'm three blocks away from gang territory, but supposedly it's a safe neighborhood in Westside Manhattan.

Except . . . the apartment doesn't look so . . . Manhattan-ish. At least how I envisioned it. But again, I have to keep an open mind. I once read about a couple who lived in a 400-square-foot apartment in Manhattan. It's my new way of life.

I walk up the steps, dragging my luggage. I knock gently on the door. The door cracks open and an old man peers at me with one eye. I can see he has a gray beard and a mole on his nose, but that's about it.

"Who are you?" he grumbles.

I beam with friendliness. "I'm here to inquire about the apartment you have for-"

"No cats!"

"Excuse me?"

"No cats!"

Just at that moment, I feel something brush my leg. It's soft and furry. I glance down and there is a calico cat circling me like we're well-acquainted. I shake it off. "It's not my-" And as if it multiplies right in front of my face, another cat appears. Except this one is a tabby. ". . . cat. Cats."

I'm not a fan of cats. Don't judge me. I know it's uncool to be prejudiced, but the irony of it is that I always feel like cats are judging me. They seem like they can see right into my soul, but maybe it's me. Or maybe it's their green eyes. I don't know. It's just weird how they're circling me like sharks.

The old man is still looking at me. "No cats!"

And then I try some New-York-City humor. I watched some YouTube videos to help me prepare. It's not an easy sense of humor to grasp, mind you, especially if you're not from the city. But I feel pretty confident I can get this guy to crack a smile.

"These aren't cats. They're dinner." I say this all straight-faced and calm like I really mean it.

The door slams.

I don't fare well at the next place either. She's a brick, this oneaabout 4'11, solid as a concrete birdbath.

"I'm here to inquire about the apartment for rent."

Meow.

Not the lady, the cats. They're seriously circling me like ground vultures.

"They're not mine," I say, a scowl cast toward them while I simultaneously cast a pleasant, I'm-dependable-and-catless grin at her.

Her frown is severe.

"I'd be a great tenant. I'm not married. Not engaged. No boyfriend and no plans for one. I'm here in New York City, following my dream of becoming-"

"No single people!"

I'm about to explain that (1) I haven't given the ring back yet so technically I'm still engaged. And (2) Statistics show that single people are better tenants. I don't have data to back that up, but I'm a.s.suming that's true. Either way, I think I've just been discriminated against.

I wander the streets, pulling my cardigan, looking for an address that doesn't seem to exist. Sweat has soaked my bangs. And now I have a third cat following me. This one is black with small patches of white around the ears and nose. Perhaps adorable on any other day but this. Now it looks less feline and more leech.

I glance across the street and see a man trying to put a "for rent" sign up in the window. I hurry across, dragging my luggage and my cats, causing a taxi to lay on its horn. The man doesn't notice me at first. He's still working on getting that sign up in the window.

But he looks like the nicest man. I know, naive to go by looks. But he's wearing a cardigan. The kind with the wooden b.u.t.tons. Again, no stats to prove it, but I'm pretty sure serial killers don't wear cardigans. Secondly, he's older. His back is hunched slightly. He's got a newspaper tucked under his armpit. He's got small tufts of hair growing out of each ear, but he's remarkably well groomed otherwise. He turns, notices me and smiles the kind of smile only dentures can pull off.

"Sir!" I don't mean to shout, I'm just excited and he's old. He turns down his hearing aid. "Sorry. I'm looking for an apartment."

He notices the cats. Who wouldn't? They're like a carousel around my feet.

"These are not my cats."

"They look awfully fond of you."

"New perfume. I think it's a little too catnip-ish." I can't think of another explanation.

"You seem nice enough. And I hate showing the place. You wouldn't believe all the crazies that show up when you have an apartment for rent." He pats my shoulder with a thick, swollen hand. "Your credit checks, it's yours."

"Thank you!"

"Come on inside."

I start to follow him, but suddenly my foot doesn't move. I glance down and the cats are still there, but none of them are holding my foot down. I try again, but it's stuck. With a lot of effort I pull one more time and then hear the strangest sound . . . like something coming unglued from something else.

I realize I've stepped in a glob of sap.

I quickly slip off my shoe and follow him in, but not without noticing that there is not a tree in sight.

Inside he is already seated at an old computer tucked in the corner. I hand him my driver's license and a sheet of paper with all the information he'll need to look up my credit.

Outside the cats are meowing their protest.

"Take a look around, see what you think."

With measured delight, I peek here and there. One bedroom. A tiny kitchen. A decent sized living room, at least large enough for a couch and a chair. The bathroom is swallowed up by a claw tub. The sink is crammed in so tightly it seems like an afterthought. But it's charming, nevertheless. Once I start bringing in some real money, I can think about getting something a little nicer. For now, this will do.

The man is now at the small kitchen table, barely big enough for three. Reading gla.s.ses are perched on his nose and several papers are spread out in front of him.

I sit down. "Well, the place is just lovely." It's not lovely, it's just what it is, but you shouldn't insult your landlord. Even I know that.

He peers at me over his gla.s.ses and then says, "You're dead, woman." I'm about to bolt for the door, realizing how stupid I am for a.s.suming serial killers are opposed to cardigans, when he adds, "This report here says you're deceased."

My head drops to the table with a thud. "And yet," I mumble, "I'm not even feeling woozy." It is no use explaining my predicament, that I'm dead/alive by way of my crazy mother.

He grabs my shoulder, shoos me out with his big, fat hands. "I'm sure this is a shock," he says flatly. "If you need to sit down, there's the curb."

"Come on. Do I look dead to you?"

"That's the problem with this country!"

"Zombies?" I can tell this is going south all the way, so I figure I might as well be witty.

"You're dead to me, ident.i.ty thief!" The door slams in my face.

I shout back through the door. "You think if I'd steal an ident.i.ty, I'd choose this one?" As if he's looking through the peephole, I make wild gestures at myself, trying to paint a picture of my mother, my fiance, my wedding day and other continued nightmares of my life. To the pa.s.sersby, I probably look like I'm seizing out. The technical term is conniption fit.

At my feet are four cats. The color of the new one doesn't matter. At this point, it's just a mismatched quilt of fur.

It takes me an hour to sc.r.a.pe all the sap off my shoe. I'm seriously regretting my perfume choice, but if I can just get in a building somewhere for the night, I'm hoping these cats will lose interest.

While I'm rolling the small stick up and down the sole of my shoe, I notice a sign for the YMCA. It's only a block away, and already I can hear the sounds of the kids outside playing. I'm exhausted. This was not how I pictured my first day going, but I realize that I've got to stay focused on the goal. So for now, I need a place to stay until I can figure out how to rise from the dead, government style.

I walk the block or so, dragging way more than physical luggage, if you know what I mean. The kind I'm dragging doesn't have wheels and a pop-up handle. It's heavy too. Real heavy.

I stand outside the YMCA for a long time, trying to decide if I have the stomach for it. Say what you will about my mom, her house was always tidy and my sheets were always clean.

But again, it's my dream. I'm here. I've made it to New York City. So I should do what it takes. I can't help but wonder how different this would be if Sam were with me. He'd know what to do. He'd find us a place to live.

After several inquiries about whether there is a bed available, I am introduced to Morris. How to explain him. No neck to speak of. Lips the shade of a ripe plum. They're fat, too, the kind that women pay thousands for, but that look awkward with no neck. His eyes are small. I notice for a man of around forty or so, there are no laugh lines. That's worrisome. His s.h.i.+rt is b.u.t.toned up wrong and one pant leg hangs higher than the other. He gestures for me to follow him, keys dangling from his hand, and for no reason that I can identify, he squeaks with each step.

He talks over his shoulder as I trail. "Each week, you pay in advance and leave a credit card on file for IVs, antibiotics, and bed pans."

I laugh. Well, at least he has a sense of humor. But by the way his eyes cut toward me, I realize he isn't joking. Or he's a master of the deadpan delivery. I swallow and continue to follow.

We arrive at a door in the very tight hallway. The room says 11 above it. As he unlocks it, I notice an old woman, probably in her seventies, hunched over a mop, cleaning the floors at the end of the hall. She has a janitor uniform on.

"Welcome to paradise, Ms. Landon." Morris flips on the switch. We both stand there gazing into the closet. Closet is not the right word. It's slightly smaller. More like a very roomy file drawer. It's the smallest livable s.p.a.ce I have ever seen. A hot plate in the other. A desk so small I think it's been sawed in half, sits with a chair pushed against it. And there, on the wall right in front of me, is a Murphy bed. I've always had a fear of Murphy beds. Doesn't everyone?

"Showers are down the hall." He squeaks away as I have flashbacks of junior high gym cla.s.s.

It is late afternoon, but I'm only going by my watch. The room has a small window covered by small gray shades. The sun seeps through the sides. I decide I should unpack. Set on top of my now wrinkled clothes is the plastic bride and groom from my cake. Mom. I toss it in the wastebasket, which is also very small, like it belongs to an elf. I guess people in these circ.u.mstances have very little to throw away.

I have left my room door open. The air seems to circulate better out in the hall and I'm also starting to get claustrophobic. No one pa.s.ses by for a long time, and then I hear footsteps. I look toward the doorway just in time to see her. She is a young girl, dressed in a plain T-s.h.i.+rt and baggy shorts. Her hair falls across her shoulders but is tangled. She glances in at me and I glance at her. Our eyes lock. She seems to see right through to my soul. I blink and she is gone.

A couple of hours later, I stand at the doorway of the showers. There are four, all with off-white shower curtains. The tile is stained in nearly every part of its grout. I thankfully brought flip-flops. A roach skitters across the floor. I am completely racked by fear but I'm also equally as terrified by my own body stench. So I take a step forward.

One shower is taken. I can see the feet under the curtain and they look a little cavewoman-ish. But there is singing. It kind of sets me at ease. It's an old hymn I remember singing in church but never knew the words to.

I manage my way through the shower. You've never seen an armpit scrubbed so fast. I'm back in my bedroom, hair wet and combed back from my face, sitting with the door closed on my very lumpy Murphy bed. It squeaks with every move I make. And it has to be said, there is a balancing act to these beds. One false move and you're a goner.

The next day, I oversleep. It is eleven a.m. and I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours. I order Chinese takeout, eat in my room and try to figure out the subway map. There are a lot of dots and lines and color-coding that is supposed to make sense. An hour goes by and I finally manage to find the subway route I think I should take to get to the address that is on the back of the Heaven Sent card, when I realize I am within walking distance.

A knock at my door causes me to jump out of my skin, and that is just enough to throw the whole thing off-balance. Before I know it, the old Murphy bed is calling it quits on me, closing up fast. I'm trying to save my map and my Chinese food when I should've tried to save myself.

The next thing I know, I'm inside the wall.

So.

One is forced to examine one's life when trapped in the wall by a Murphy bed. Strangely, it's the perfect a.n.a.logy for how I felt in Poughkeepsie-backed against a dark wall with nowhere to go.

Now, you're probably wondering at this point why I'm not screaming my freaking head off. Well, I was. But then someone came to rescue me. The same person who knocked on my door.

She hasn't gotten to the rescue part yet. She's currently in my room eating my food. I only know this because I can hear her slurping the lo mein noodles.

"So," she says, "what's your name?"

"Kid . . ." I am a.s.suming it's the young girl who pa.s.sed me earlier. I don't really know, but her voice sounds kid-ish. "Would you get me out of here?"

"Of course I'll rescue you. Just as soon as you answer my nine questions."

"Can it be three?"

"No."

"Kid. Please."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"It's getting kind of stuffy in here." I couldn't be sure, but I was guessing I was going to have major sheet marks on my cheek by the time I got out.