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joegodaIt was just another day at work. Fixed about a thousand problems cause by the minds of about a thousand other folks. Ah well... it's a living.
I don't do much, or at least much to brag about. I sit at a desk and answer phones, look up trouble tickets and solve problems for a major cellphone company. Someday I may retire. Or... maybe not.
Regardless, today was just another day. At least, it started out as just another day.
I drove home and parked my pristine 73 VW SuperBeetle in it's normal space, dropped the orange 'Caution' Cones with the faint hope that nobody would dent the shiny new blue metallic paintjob. It's a faint hope because I know that by tomorrow, all sorts of things could happen to it. Such is the way of life. Cause and Effect. Chaos and Order. Luck of the draw? Tain't no luck to it, chum. It's all skill, baby.
I bounded up the stairs to the front door of my tiny brownstone, which was nestled on a wonderfully tree-lined street and snuggled in among some real building giants. I'm talking the twelve story jobs that tend to appear to lean in on anything nearby, as if peering over a shoulder with their highly reflective multiple eyes. It's a good thing buildings don't have legs, or else these would really creep me out.
My little three story building is just high enough, thankyouverymuch, and it has a personality to match. A little Jewish grandfather of a building, with it's creaky arthritic doors and it's saggy windows. The sort of building that will slip you a twenty when you need it, quietly whispering not to let your mother know where it came from and to not be such a schmuck about your money the next time. I liked my building, and I'm pretty sure it liked me.
I shoved my key into my mailbox lock because my mailbox is a stubborn critter. Sometimes it opens with the ease of Open Sesame, and sometimes it just sits there, complaining of a headache, telling me to come back later. Like next week, maybe, when the sun is shining higher and there isn't any snow on the ground.
Today, when I shove my key into my mailbox, the skinny fake gold door with my apartment number on it sprang open with an audible shunk, as if to say "Surprise! Look what I got for you in HERE!"
What was in there was a single envelope. It was smallish, not your standard Official notification of prize winning size at all. And it was blue, which always makes me suspicious. Blue envelopes come from relatives sending greeting cards. Blue envelopes come from past and near forgotten relationships asking for money or worse, a second chance. Blue envelopes carry the blues.
This one was a nice sky blue, the after the rain sky blue, or the early morning aren't you glad to be alive sky blue. The blue was interspersed with faint clouds, floating across the four inch by four inch face, and the flap on the back had a little rainbow arcing from one side to the other.
My suspicion grew stronger. I didn't know any thirteen-year-old girls. I didn't have any daughters. I didn't have any nieces. Not that I know of, anyway. The Universe, in its wisdom, did not see fit to let me breed. Probably a good thing, from the Universes viewpoint. Me? I wasn't so sure.
The address on the front, my address, 4690 Hillside Lane, was written in a neat script. Handwritten it looked like to me. But, at 52, I've seen computerized fonts that could duplicate even my scrawl, so who could know? There was no return address, which raised my thinning, but still wildly bushy eyebrows. The postmark was from this city, so it was at least mailed local.
I shook the envelope because it seemed to be off balance in my hand. One end seemed heavier than the other. I heard the sound of something inside going 'shook, shook'. My fingers traced the slight bulge of the whatever it was. Not a clue, there, bud, my fingers reported back. You're just gonna have to open it to find out.
Mysteries bug me. They always have. In school, I was voted most likely to push a button marked in big red letters "DON'T!!!!", just to see why not? My brother once joked that he and a friend of his were going to rig explosives on a high-tension tower and test that theory once, just to see my face when it went boom. Thankfully, that never happened. Still, it would have been pretty amazing, don't you think?
Using my really old key, a key that was made in 1932, I let myself into the apartment building through its high security wood framed glass door. That's a joke, son. If the wind blew too strong, it would blow the door open. I mean, this building was OLD, Jack, with a capital cobweb.
The entry way was a four by eight room, with black and white linoleum for carpet. A yellowish light, which burned night and day and had not been changed since Taft was president, hung by a double wire from the ceiling.
Bugs didn't enter the building they were so afraid of this light. One zap and that would be it, Stan. Dead bug. I've actually seen a bug trying to slip past the light and just as it looked like the Bluebottle was gonna make it, a thin finger of bluish white zapper reached out and got him. A brief flame and a whuff of smoke was the fly's memorial, which I guess is better and more spectacular than what most flies get. It was sort of the Viking funeral for a fly, I would say.
To get to the apartments from this linoleum fly trap, one had to climb a short flight of stairs, stairs narrow enough that nobody in the building owned a sofa, and a chair had to be shipped in from the roof. After the up, there was a brief down, which took you to the ground floor, which is where you were when you started anyway. So, why the stairs? Nobody knew. At least, nobody alive and kicking. I suppose someone might call up the spirit of the insane architect who planned the building and ask. It wasn't going to be me, though. No sirree. I don't play with dead things anymore.
My apartment was on the second floor, squeezed between the third and the first, which meant I had to climb another fat man's misery of stairs and walk down a permanently lit bright electric white hallway to a faded orange door marked 2E. The floor was hardwood, and nobody, wearing thick woolen socks and no shoes or having no feet at all, could wander those halls without being heard. They could try floating above the hall floor, but I'd want to see them try. Just so I could say I'd seem someone float.
Inside my apartment, which was, by necessity, sparsely decorated, I collapsed on my one and only easy chair. Yes, I had it shipped in through the roof, which is how I know that's the only way to do it. There is a old iron crane on the top of the building used just for that purpose. I propped my feet up on my orange crate dining table slash coffee table slash CD holder and stared at the envelope.
My apartment was one room. It was handily bedroom, dining room, and living room all in one. Granted, I didn't do much entertaining there, but it was clean and held everything I owned, except the VW. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in, not that I would ever try. The zapper in the entry way was a jealous mistress, after all. Still, it was mine and the rent was absurdly cheap. This was a hard place to get into and after seeing it, most sane people would just wander away, shaking their heads in amazed sadness.
The envelope wasn't saying anything to me, so I shook it again, and listened to the dingus inside tease me with its slithery 'shook shook' sound. I flipped the blue enigma to and fro, looking at front and back, and back to front, debating.
It was a short debate. I hate mysteries. Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. Maybe I should say I can't abide a mystery. Yeah... maybe that's what I should say.
I picked up my silver and gold plated letter opener with the dragon's head on one end from the depths of a pocket on the side of my easy chair and slid it under the flap of the envelope. The letter opener was a gift from an old friend. We found it at a little gift shop we were hiding out in and she bought if for me. I think she got tired of me cutting my envelopes open with a pair of scissors. I think she was afraid I might win some sweepstakes and cut the check in half. It was the last gift I ever received from her, and I never saw her again. She left me because, in her words, "My brain was different." It's hard to argue with the truth. Well, not really hard. But pretty stupid.
The dragon's head had red ruby eyes, and they burned at me in anticipation. Not wanting to disappoint a dragon, because, I mean, who would, I slit the top of the envelope from stem to stern. I replaced the dragon opener back in its cave and blew into the open mouth of the envelope.
Peering inside the envelopes now gaping maw, I saw two things. One was a long brass key. That was my shook shooker. There was a tag tied to it by a white bit of string. I pulled out the key and looked at the tag. 'Murphy Station' was typed on the tag using a Helvetica font. Okay. Murphy Station was a bus station over on Murphy Street. The key had the number 13 stamped on it.
Now, ignoring the odd implications of the number, it was clear that the key was for a locker, numbered 13 (and no, I'm not superstitious), at the Murphy Street Station. That was easy. Mystery number one solved. Well, partially solved anyway. There was the curiosity of what the locker held, but that was a different matter, something to be solved on a rainy day. And it was sunny outside so it wasn't to be today, that's for sure.
The other thing inside the envelope was an orange card. I plucked the card from the bluebird interior and looked at it. On one side of the card was the hand written message that read, "Looking forward". On the other side of the card was the professionally printed and very familiar lettering that read, "Get out of Jail Free!"
I turned the card front to back, just as I had the envelope, looking for some clue. The handwriting looked familiar in that not quite remembered familiar way. It was as if an itch was on the top of my brain, and not even my dragon headed letter opener could scratch the memory to the surface. It was there, just buried under a lot of other memories. It would eventually come to the front, in time. It just had to burrow its way out.
The card was mute, and just stared up at me. The little man in the top hat with the cane promised I could get out of jail. For Free! Free is always good. Almost always. I mean, a free stabbing would be bad, all things considered. But in general, free could be a good thing. But jail? I was only in jail once, and that wasn't a good thing. Just really, really boring.
I looked around my tiny one room apartment. Jail. Hmmm. I started to wonder when it was going to rain.
I don't do much, or at least much to brag about. I sit at a desk and answer phones, look up trouble tickets and solve problems for a major cellphone company. Someday I may retire. Or... maybe not.
Regardless, today was just another day. At least, it started out as just another day.
I drove home and parked my pristine 73 VW SuperBeetle in it's normal space, dropped the orange 'Caution' Cones with the faint hope that nobody would dent the shiny new blue metallic paintjob. It's a faint hope because I know that by tomorrow, all sorts of things could happen to it. Such is the way of life. Cause and Effect. Chaos and Order. Luck of the draw? Tain't no luck to it, chum. It's all skill, baby.
I bounded up the stairs to the front door of my tiny brownstone, which was nestled on a wonderfully tree-lined street and snuggled in among some real building giants. I'm talking the twelve story jobs that tend to appear to lean in on anything nearby, as if peering over a shoulder with their highly reflective multiple eyes. It's a good thing buildings don't have legs, or else these would really creep me out.
My little three story building is just high enough, thankyouverymuch, and it has a personality to match. A little Jewish grandfather of a building, with it's creaky arthritic doors and it's saggy windows. The sort of building that will slip you a twenty when you need it, quietly whispering not to let your mother know where it came from and to not be such a schmuck about your money the next time. I liked my building, and I'm pretty sure it liked me.
I shoved my key into my mailbox lock because my mailbox is a stubborn critter. Sometimes it opens with the ease of Open Sesame, and sometimes it just sits there, complaining of a headache, telling me to come back later. Like next week, maybe, when the sun is shining higher and there isn't any snow on the ground.
Today, when I shove my key into my mailbox, the skinny fake gold door with my apartment number on it sprang open with an audible shunk, as if to say "Surprise! Look what I got for you in HERE!"
What was in there was a single envelope. It was smallish, not your standard Official notification of prize winning size at all. And it was blue, which always makes me suspicious. Blue envelopes come from relatives sending greeting cards. Blue envelopes come from past and near forgotten relationships asking for money or worse, a second chance. Blue envelopes carry the blues.
This one was a nice sky blue, the after the rain sky blue, or the early morning aren't you glad to be alive sky blue. The blue was interspersed with faint clouds, floating across the four inch by four inch face, and the flap on the back had a little rainbow arcing from one side to the other.
My suspicion grew stronger. I didn't know any thirteen-year-old girls. I didn't have any daughters. I didn't have any nieces. Not that I know of, anyway. The Universe, in its wisdom, did not see fit to let me breed. Probably a good thing, from the Universes viewpoint. Me? I wasn't so sure.
The address on the front, my address, 4690 Hillside Lane, was written in a neat script. Handwritten it looked like to me. But, at 52, I've seen computerized fonts that could duplicate even my scrawl, so who could know? There was no return address, which raised my thinning, but still wildly bushy eyebrows. The postmark was from this city, so it was at least mailed local.
I shook the envelope because it seemed to be off balance in my hand. One end seemed heavier than the other. I heard the sound of something inside going 'shook, shook'. My fingers traced the slight bulge of the whatever it was. Not a clue, there, bud, my fingers reported back. You're just gonna have to open it to find out.
Mysteries bug me. They always have. In school, I was voted most likely to push a button marked in big red letters "DON'T!!!!", just to see why not? My brother once joked that he and a friend of his were going to rig explosives on a high-tension tower and test that theory once, just to see my face when it went boom. Thankfully, that never happened. Still, it would have been pretty amazing, don't you think?
Using my really old key, a key that was made in 1932, I let myself into the apartment building through its high security wood framed glass door. That's a joke, son. If the wind blew too strong, it would blow the door open. I mean, this building was OLD, Jack, with a capital cobweb.
The entry way was a four by eight room, with black and white linoleum for carpet. A yellowish light, which burned night and day and had not been changed since Taft was president, hung by a double wire from the ceiling.
Bugs didn't enter the building they were so afraid of this light. One zap and that would be it, Stan. Dead bug. I've actually seen a bug trying to slip past the light and just as it looked like the Bluebottle was gonna make it, a thin finger of bluish white zapper reached out and got him. A brief flame and a whuff of smoke was the fly's memorial, which I guess is better and more spectacular than what most flies get. It was sort of the Viking funeral for a fly, I would say.
To get to the apartments from this linoleum fly trap, one had to climb a short flight of stairs, stairs narrow enough that nobody in the building owned a sofa, and a chair had to be shipped in from the roof. After the up, there was a brief down, which took you to the ground floor, which is where you were when you started anyway. So, why the stairs? Nobody knew. At least, nobody alive and kicking. I suppose someone might call up the spirit of the insane architect who planned the building and ask. It wasn't going to be me, though. No sirree. I don't play with dead things anymore.
My apartment was on the second floor, squeezed between the third and the first, which meant I had to climb another fat man's misery of stairs and walk down a permanently lit bright electric white hallway to a faded orange door marked 2E. The floor was hardwood, and nobody, wearing thick woolen socks and no shoes or having no feet at all, could wander those halls without being heard. They could try floating above the hall floor, but I'd want to see them try. Just so I could say I'd seem someone float.
Inside my apartment, which was, by necessity, sparsely decorated, I collapsed on my one and only easy chair. Yes, I had it shipped in through the roof, which is how I know that's the only way to do it. There is a old iron crane on the top of the building used just for that purpose. I propped my feet up on my orange crate dining table slash coffee table slash CD holder and stared at the envelope.
My apartment was one room. It was handily bedroom, dining room, and living room all in one. Granted, I didn't do much entertaining there, but it was clean and held everything I owned, except the VW. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in, not that I would ever try. The zapper in the entry way was a jealous mistress, after all. Still, it was mine and the rent was absurdly cheap. This was a hard place to get into and after seeing it, most sane people would just wander away, shaking their heads in amazed sadness.
The envelope wasn't saying anything to me, so I shook it again, and listened to the dingus inside tease me with its slithery 'shook shook' sound. I flipped the blue enigma to and fro, looking at front and back, and back to front, debating.
It was a short debate. I hate mysteries. Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. Maybe I should say I can't abide a mystery. Yeah... maybe that's what I should say.
I picked up my silver and gold plated letter opener with the dragon's head on one end from the depths of a pocket on the side of my easy chair and slid it under the flap of the envelope. The letter opener was a gift from an old friend. We found it at a little gift shop we were hiding out in and she bought if for me. I think she got tired of me cutting my envelopes open with a pair of scissors. I think she was afraid I might win some sweepstakes and cut the check in half. It was the last gift I ever received from her, and I never saw her again. She left me because, in her words, "My brain was different." It's hard to argue with the truth. Well, not really hard. But pretty stupid.
The dragon's head had red ruby eyes, and they burned at me in anticipation. Not wanting to disappoint a dragon, because, I mean, who would, I slit the top of the envelope from stem to stern. I replaced the dragon opener back in its cave and blew into the open mouth of the envelope.
Peering inside the envelopes now gaping maw, I saw two things. One was a long brass key. That was my shook shooker. There was a tag tied to it by a white bit of string. I pulled out the key and looked at the tag. 'Murphy Station' was typed on the tag using a Helvetica font. Okay. Murphy Station was a bus station over on Murphy Street. The key had the number 13 stamped on it.
Now, ignoring the odd implications of the number, it was clear that the key was for a locker, numbered 13 (and no, I'm not superstitious), at the Murphy Street Station. That was easy. Mystery number one solved. Well, partially solved anyway. There was the curiosity of what the locker held, but that was a different matter, something to be solved on a rainy day. And it was sunny outside so it wasn't to be today, that's for sure.
The other thing inside the envelope was an orange card. I plucked the card from the bluebird interior and looked at it. On one side of the card was the hand written message that read, "Looking forward". On the other side of the card was the professionally printed and very familiar lettering that read, "Get out of Jail Free!"
I turned the card front to back, just as I had the envelope, looking for some clue. The handwriting looked familiar in that not quite remembered familiar way. It was as if an itch was on the top of my brain, and not even my dragon headed letter opener could scratch the memory to the surface. It was there, just buried under a lot of other memories. It would eventually come to the front, in time. It just had to burrow its way out.
The card was mute, and just stared up at me. The little man in the top hat with the cane promised I could get out of jail. For Free! Free is always good. Almost always. I mean, a free stabbing would be bad, all things considered. But in general, free could be a good thing. But jail? I was only in jail once, and that wasn't a good thing. Just really, really boring.
I looked around my tiny one room apartment. Jail. Hmmm. I started to wonder when it was going to rain.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 07:27 am (UTC)Thanks for the bedtime story! Nitey Nite!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 03:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 03:42 pm (UTC)No correction here; just.... i LOVE this... i LOVE it!! *grin*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, when I shove my key into my mailbox, the skinny fake gold door with my apartment number on it sprang open with an audible shunk,... (( maybe some kinda punctuation to help that poor little "shunk" have a life of its' own? Like *shunk* or !shunk! or ~shunk~ or something to help set it apart as a sound, for the sake of the reader?))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This one was a nice sky blue, the after the rain sky blue, or the early morning aren't you glad to be alive sky blue. The blue was interspersed with faint clouds, floating across the four inch by four inch face, and the flap on the back had a little rainbow arcing from one side to the other.
(( *LOL*!!!! It's from me!!!!!! ))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I shook the envelope because it seemed to be off balance in my hand. One end seemed heavier than the other. I heard the sound of something inside going 'shook, shook'. (( oh SURE! 'shook, shook' gets punctuation! Bloody FAVORTISM!!)) My fingers traced the slight bulge of the whatever it was. Not a clue, there, bud, my fingers reported back. You're just gonna have to open it to find out. ((Need some kinda punctuation for finger reports, too, maybe?? Just sayin'!! *grin*))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The entry way was a four by eight room, with black and white linoleum for carpet. A yellowish light, which burned night and day and had not been changed since Taft was president, hung by a double wire from the ceiling.
(( you are creeping me out here... i am expecting roaches..... *shudder*))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ oh.. *L* Next line is about BUGS! *L*
My apartment was on the second floor, squeezed between the third and the first, which meant I had to climb another fat man's misery of stairs and walk down a permanently lit bright electric white hallway to a faded orange door (( of course, it *might* have been red... hard to know for SURE... *L* )) marked 2E. The floor was hardwood, and nobody, wearing thick woolen socks and no shoes or having no feet at all, could wander those halls without being heard. They could try floating above the hall floor, but I'd want to see them try. Just so I could say I'd seem someone float. ((Squeaky doesn't cover it, huh? ))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My apartment was one room. It was handily bedroom, dining room, and living room all in one. Granted, I didn't do much entertaining there, but it was clean and held everything I owned, except the VW. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in, not that I would ever try. The zapper in the entry way was a jealous mistress, after all. Still, it was mine and the rent was absurdly cheap. (( well DUH! *L* )) This was a hard place to get into and after seeing it, most sane people would just wander away, shaking their heads in amazed sadness. (( Sadness?? I should think SOME people would be sad not to get in, but MOST people would hurry right off, making a big production of lining-thru THAT ad in their list..... *L*))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Huh. There is something kinda heeby-jeeby going down here.... *shudder* You draw heeby-jeeby like a heeby-jeeby magnet, you know that? *L* Oh well. We all loves ya, anyway. We stand by ya. So there.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 04:00 pm (UTC)Yes, the punctuation around the onomatopoeica should be there, but I was writing!! I was working to get a bit of a story down and create a character sort of thing. This isn't even a story yet. Just an embryonic bit of a story.
The question popped into my head of what I would do if I got a "Get out of free Jail" card in the mail. No return address. Nothing else in the envelope. It was such an idea, I had to write it down. The character in the story has even defined himself to me yet, but of course, it's an aspect of me.
I do have an idea of where it might lead....
Love ya sis!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 05:32 pm (UTC)LOVE this snippet. You have the knack of making coming home and opening mail exciting and I can SEE it in my head, the whole thing. Love that you write in word pictures!
*hugs*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 09:46 pm (UTC)This was an experiment in writing, m'dear. I had been away from it for so long that I wondered if I could write like *this* again. When I play with the music of the words to draw an image I see in my head. I may continue it, because I like the poetry of this story so far.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-07 09:52 pm (UTC)I really do love how you combine words, my dear, I do!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-08 02:29 am (UTC)He could have his own Book, really. He's the guy that does all the pretty picture writing, because he's the one with the really disjointed viewpoint of the world. I like him. He's a good guy. I think he is, in reality, the me that most people meet when I'm not being Pockets. He would be the primary personality in this older me.
In short, I have this feeling that the Writer is really... me. And he... me... I am very gratified that my words bring you pleasure. Nothing pleases me more. Not even triple fudge brownies.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-08 02:40 am (UTC)Wow...better than triple fudge brownies! :>