Chapter 2 - A Cold Realization

I stumble out of Lucky’s and turn down Wabash street towards my apartment. The wind has picked up now and spring has yet to hit the city so I pull my hood up over my head, plus this allows me to not make eye contact with the passersby, those who have jobs and people who are making judgments about me from my dirty, unwashed blond hair, stubble face, and overall homeless look I have come to feel so comfortable with. I just know that when I get home Maria will be there sitting on the couch leaning forward towards the coffee table my mother gave me staring at the computer answering emails from her cushy “work from home” job, judging me for smelling like whiskey at 3pm and wondering why I am home early. For a brief second, I contemplate not going home right away and at 5 o'clock show up pretending that I am coming home from a productive day at work and that I might actually be able to help out with the rent this month, but I am an overly honest person and decide that no matter how drunk I am that I have to come clean.

Maria and I live above a Deli, seems fitting that my outlook of shady transactions behind “employees only” doors could actually be occurring right below where I live on a daily basis. We live in a good part of Central City on the corner of Union and Main, and I am grateful for Maria’s well compensated job because otherwise I’d be living in a studio in the ghetto of Cottage street, or worse. I walk quickly with my hands in the pockets of my hoodie past the Deli owner who is outside sweeping at nothing and shivering from the brisk air. “Hey kid” he says cheerfully as I walk around the back of the building towards my stoop.

“Hello Mr. Demarco.” I say, even gloomier than I feel. He says something inaudible to me because I am walking so fast and the wind has started to blow harder. I just respond with a loud “yep!” as I almost leap up the first two steps to the door. The key to our apartment never goes into the lock correctly and I fumble with it for a few seconds before twisting the handle and entering the first floor of the apartment building. The lobby, if you want to call it that, is the same way it always is, the weird musty smell of dust and salami, that hippies bike chained to the banister of the steps going upstairs as if someone would actually steal the piece of shit, and the weird brown paint on the wall that is so old it seems as if the building caught fire and no one bothered to repaint it. I hate the stairs leading up to my apartment, there is no easy way to walk up them without sounding like a herd of buffalo, they are so old and rickety that with every foot that hits the unpainted wood it makes a clear stomping noise and every time a foot gets lifted it makes a loud creak that even the customers at the Deli can hear. I continue on up the steps and walk as quietly and softly as possible so that Maria wont hear me, though it is nearly impossible to do so. I come up to the third floor of the building and walk down the hall to our apartment, its easy to find because it is number 319 but the 1 is missing, fell off years ago when we were still in college, half excited to see her and half scared of what she will say about my recent job failure. I have to use yet another key to unlock the door and enter the apartment since Maria is always afraid of a break-in even though we live on the “right side of the tracks”, as she puts it, but this key is easier to use and I quickly but quietly turn the handle and go inside.

“Maria? Baby I’m home.” I shut the door more forcefully as now there is no need to be quiet, she obviously notices that I am home. The kitchen is the first part of the apartment as you enter, and as usual, the dishes are cleaned and drying on the dish rack next to the sink. I toss my keys on the counter and walk down the short hallway to where the living room/bedroom opens up to the spot she normally spends her days answering the emails and writing the critiques for financial companies that she advises. It’s a small apartment; the bed is jammed up against the far wall opposite the couch but next to the TV which swivels to point towards either the couch or the bed. We didn’t mind the size because it was near the subway and…well…it was ours. It was an expensive place, but before we graduated our parents helped us with rent and it was still cheaper than living on campus at State. As I enter the apartment I can’t help but notice that the TV is not on or swiveled towards the couch, which is odd because I know that Maria can’t get a minute of work done if her Court TV isn’t playing at full volume. After I notice the TV, I look over the couch where I expect her to be sitting Indian style leaning in towards the laptop, when instead I see nothing but an empty place where she normally sits. I think this is strange but I quickly associate this with her going out with a client or meeting a friend for coffee or something, until I see the note in my ass groove on the couch:

Your editor called, he said you left your favorite pair of cheap-ass sunglasses on his desk (fuck, I really liked those glasses, they made my head look smaller) after you called him a asshole for FIRING you for not doing your job. As it turns out, your not the person I met while we were in school and your inability to maintain even the most mundane of jobs has proven to me that you will never be able to provide the things that I need to be a happy woman in this relationship. I am leaving, I have packed my things and am moving in with a friend. I told the landlord that I was moving out and that you are now solely responsible for the rent. I just can’t sit here while your life slowly dwindles away and you continuously count on me to survive. You have to go out into the world and rely on yourself before you can ever turn into a man. In fact, I don’t think you are even capable of that, so I went ahead and called your mom and told her of the situation.


Best of luck, you deadbeat loser.


Maria

P.S. The dog is dead.


I flip over the piece of paper this is written on and realize it is a copy of the electric bill which has a total of $140, and I think to myself “shit, I don’t have $40.” I can’t believe that Marco is dead so I bend down and clap my hands while yelling “here, Marco, here boy!” only to hear nothing back. I walk over to the bed to ponder taking a nap before my Ukrainian landlord kicks the door in and evicts me by tossing me out the window. I pull the sheets back and see my dog, poor puppy Marco lying in my bed frozen as the ice rink at Central City Park. Just then, the phone starts to ring, I look over at the caller ID which says "Momma Dukes". I sigh, hang my head, drop my pants, take off my hoodie and throw on some old dirty khakis and a polo shirt, grab my black wool coat, and let out quiet “fuck” under my breath as I leave my keys on the table and walk out the door.