All Leroy Pickler ever wanted was to be famous. He didn't care about anything else. He never cared much for school, and he dropped out when he was fifteen. His youth was spent playing his guitar to the country songs he wrote during the time he was supposed to be in school. He just knew that one day he'd make it big, even though nobody else except his second cousin Cullen even remotely thought he had a chance. After Cullen moved to Baltimore to get out of Paintlick, Kentucky, it suddenly dawned on Leroy that in order to make it big he'd have to get himself known by folks other than his 3-5 supporters in Paintlick. One morning he decided he was ready to get out of Paintlick for his first time, and knew the only place for him to go was to go live with Cullen in Baltimore. He was sure he wouldn't mind. He had mentioned having an empty couch in his last letter. He heard him talk about some bar, and Leroy knew it'd be a great place to start his gig. Leroy wanted to make a life for himself other than taking over the family farm and he knew if he stayed longer, he'd be sucked in. He hopped on a greyhound in his overalls with his guitar and the little money he had, and headed for Baltimore without a bone of regret in his body. He walked on the bus and put the coins he had in the slot.
"Mornin' sir!" Leroy said as he tipped his cowboy hat to the bus driver. "The name's Leroy. Leroy Pickler. I'm headed to Baltimore to see my cousin and to start up my singin career. You know, you sure are nice to be driving us folks around like this. I sure don't know how in heck I'd be gettin' all the way up there without---"
"Have a seat!" Said the aggrivated bus driver. "We won't be gettin nowhere with you wasting mine and everybody else's time like this."
"Well sorry, sir. You sure are right but there's no need to get yer boxers in a bunch. After all, you are talkin to Leroy Pickler. I'm 'bout to be famous ya know. Oh, and here's where i'ma headin." He handed the driver an old envelope from one of Cullen's letters with the return address of apt. #808 of Washington Heights in Baltimore. He took a seat somewhat confused as to why the driver not to mention everyone was looking at him so funny. He was in for an awakening. He was venturing out of the walls of the pretty and friendly little town of Paintlick. He couldn't have been more ready to get out, though. He was just ready to start on his road to stardom. When the bus stopped hours later in front of Washington Heights, Leroy simply continued to stare out the window patiently waiting for his stop.
"Here ya are Leroy!" The driver chucked. "It's your stop!"
Leroy just laughed. There was no way it was his.
"Get out."
Leroy stepped out onto the dumpy street and stared up at the worn out building. It's not exactly what he pictured. But then again, he'd never seen much of anything but Paintlick so he didn't know what to picture. He wasn't quite a fan of elevators, so he took eight flights up the cruddy stairs to #808, he was ready to say hello to his cousin he hadn't seen in years, but even more ready to hurry and find out where this bar was. He just knew he would be an instant hit. After all, who wouldn't like Leroy Pickler?
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Cat Returns
I cannot take this much longer. What is it about that voice that does it? Perhaps the frequency or certain vibrational tone adversely effect my spiral ganglion. I should be observing without audio reception but I wished to test the microphone I painstakenly placed. Of course, he let me in the apartment, I being under the guise of a Mr. Axel Big Star. Never the less, it was still difficult to find a location with the most auditorial feedback. I really should have Brone take a second go through on the apartments I have checked, there should be footage of every room, otherwise it is as good as pointless...Ugh...Why on earth did I put it in his apartment, i'm fairly sure he is one of the few residents who does not indulge in criminal activity. Why on earth would a person who wants to become famous come to the ghetto...Is that my only motivation of suspicion?
"Yare yare." How boring, are there no cases which should baffle an intellect of a normal person, let alone myself? Perhaps I should have thought out this "tour" a bit more. That man really is going to get me killed. Speaking of which...
Clunk Clunk Clunk.
Someone is passing by? Let me see...interesting, it has changed again.
Knock Knock.
Perhaps I should give him his own key, he doesn't deal well with closed do---
BAM!
Am I dead? I feel no outer pain, of course that doesn't mean anything. The door was blown clean off its henges, perhaps an explosive? No, not loud enough, an extreme show of force only. I definitely dislike this complex. Was I wrong? Perhaps I have been discovered...Why is it so black? Of course, the door is on top of me, as well as something else from the shifting weight i'm feeling on my stomache.
"Yo, Michael you still alive?"
Nothing but a ne'er-do-well. Bum. Idler. Lazybones. Loafer. Sloucher. Wastrel. Ass. Brute...My legs should have sufficient strength to return the door. So-re, Once is once.
BAM.
Blocked it, of course he did. He has training in multiple fields of martial arts and combat, just a small revenge on my part.
“Brone, I was quite certain it was you.”
“Oh? How could you tell?”
“Your shoes make a unique sound against the tile in the hall. Along with the frequency of your step and knowledge of your usually languid stride I would say you are exactly 6 feet and 3/8ths of an inch tall. Strange, did you grow an eighth of an inch this week?”
“Hah, maybe. Here take this, a gift from me to you.”
A small furry beast launched from his hand to attack my face...Assasination? Oh, it's heavy, a very nice piece for a women who "stuffs while you wait."
“Expertly crafted, done quickly but no mistakes, this is the work of Miss Victoria Lampshade.”
“So that’s her name, listen I need to know where there’s gambling nearby.”
“There are precisely eight places within a 100 mile radius, six of them illegal.”
“Just gimmie the closest.”
“Oscars Butchery, password 'new york strip,' the entry fee is 50 dollars. Why? Must you indulge in the cheap thrill of losing money for nothing too?”
“You know me; my eyes are too sharp to lose. Besides, the thief, eyes like the bluest ocean, will appear with the rolling dice.”
Is that someone I should know about? Don't look at me with a face that says I should know everything that some mystic predicts. I can only think of 17 people with blue eyes at the moment in this town. I'm not so greedy that I won't give you your little amusement, I should make a face of puzzlement.
“Chow.”
What do you mean, "chow?" fix this right away, I can't leave with all of this equipment in such a dangerous and unguarded complex. He left. Chasing his own bounties again? I'm fairly sure I have marked all the appropriate targets out for him, the others should only leave an negative effect on his wallet. Oh well. I suppose I shall have to call in someone to get me a better door, or does the Super take care of such matters. Anyhow I do not plan to leave this room without proper security...Perhaps...In a ritualistic fashion for those known to worship idols, this squirrel statue's spirit or soul may guard over this room. Unfortunately I have no reason to start thinking about religion or souls at the moment, that movie was quite interesting though...
Hm? An animal has found it's way to the second floor. A squirrel looking for it's lost sibling perhaps? How sad. Oh, a cat. A Tickled Tabby, perhaps? The sandish tan coloring and triangular pointed ear structure are similar. Emerald eyes. How strange, he looks to be the living equivalent of the character. What is this, he is staring at me. Ah of course, staring is considered a threat to animals, perhaps he is waiting for me to blink. I should, naturally cats inner eyelids should allow them to not blink much longer than a human. It's been about five minutes now, is there something he wants in my doorway? Ah, the squirrel would arouse the animals primal instincts, even if it is stuffed. Oh. He blinked first. He seems to be approaching me, does this cat agree with the unspoken rules of a staring game, submitting to the winner? Cat's are much more agreeable than dogs, they are quiet and watch things carefully. They know when to act and when to wait and watch. They have little habits that help them think, how adorable. To think that something would need a distraction to-
BSHAAA.
...My puzzle. The cat seems to have invited itself into my house as a guest...It is a better prospect than to imagine it sold as a paperweight at the stand outside. Perhaps I shall let it stay, of course a cat has the freedom to wander off on its own. Now let me see, which phone did I use to dial for...Ah. Let me just order a new door...
"This is Rue Kamina, A new door and titanium boltings are required."
"Yes, today."
"My associate."
"Thank you."
It is good to know that I still have credablity, or is it that I know things about people? It does not matter...A name should be appropriate if I ever wish to locate the cat again. Hm..........
"Baron Humbert von Gikkigen."
Oh, he has ruined a stack of papers. I forgot about the care a pet needs. Brone will definitely reimburse me for both of these problems.
"Hi, can I get you something?" Mandi asked the man in a button-up, plaid shirt with a cowboy hat on.
"Well hey there...uh...uh... Mandi," Leroy Pickler said as he squinted to read Mandi's diner tag pinned on the upper corner of her red uniform. "It's nice to meet you, my names Leroy, Leroy Pickler."
"You can call me Mac, is there anything I can get you sir?"
"Well there Mac, I'll have a sweet tea with an extra bowl of lemons."
"Sorry sir, we don't serve sweet tea up here."
"Don't serve no sweet tea? Dag nabit! Well then I guess just a coffee for now."
Mandi walked to the back of the diner and grabbed the burgers for table 8. She dropped them off at the table and headed back over to the coffee machine looking at the ticking clock on the wall. 6:57. She'd been working about 12 hours now and only had 4 more to go.
At 11:05 Mandi clocked out and grabbed her ham and swiss melt to-go. "Night Sammy," she said to the little old man sweeping the floors. She walked outside, dark again. Working as much as she did she barely ever saw the daylight except from through the plastic blinds of the five diner windows.
Mandi breathed heavily as she rounded the corner of the sixth floor. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Seven. She flung open the door and walked down the hallway, figiting in her purse to find her key.
"Yeah!! Get 'em!" She heard her dad scream through the door as she jangled her keys in the lock. The door creaked open, only for mandi to find a knocked over beer can pyramid, and her dad in the recliner, beer in hand, screaming at a fuzzy wrestling match on the 13 inch TV. All Mandi wanted to do was walk past him, sit in her bedroom to eat her already-cold sandwhich, and attempt to get some rest; but the "What the hell are you doin'?" grunted from her dad stopped her in her tracks.
"What do you mean where have I been? The diner," she said as she rolled her eyes.
"Well where da hell is my dinner? And where have you been all night, damnit?" he slurred. "Yeah!! Come on!" He returned his attention to the fake wrestling.
Mandi turned and continued walking towards her room, she figured he was too drunk and into the wrestling to even care.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you! Walk off on me, after not being here all day and night, make me worry bout you."
"Ya right like you worry about me, I'm going to sleep." Mandi took another step away and her dad pushed himself up off the recliner and stumbled towards her, stepping on several beer cans. Crunch. Clank.
"I said I was talkin to you!" He grabbed her wrist with a strong grip and pulled her back so she whipped around dropping her to-go bag from the diner. Mandi said nothing in response, she just stared up into his fading eyes with a fear of this reoccuring scene. "Now when I'm talkin to you, you answer me damnit! Who tha hell do you think you are anyways, you're just like that damn mother of yours."
"Don't you dare talk about my momma like that. She was too good..." Mandi's yelling was quickly stopped when the sticky hand swiped accross her face. Nothing else needed to be said. She picked up her to-go back and walked to her room. He wiped his mouth and returned to the recliner. The fuzzy TV lit the apartment, and yelling of fans echoed through the night. She knew that's exactly what a coment like that was asking for, but she couldn't let him talk about her like that.
Grumble.
I cannot imagine a time where I've been hungrier in my entire life. I think this is the third... no, fourth meal in a row that I have gone without.
Grumble.
"Yes, yes, I heard you the last five-hundred times," I replied.
Grumble.
"Please, go bother someone else! I've had enough of you!"
Grumble?
"Beat it!"
And just like that, it stopped. It was as if my stomach had given up on the thought of food, as if it knew that its pleas were useless. Now I walked in complete lonely silence down the street. It wasn't long before I started to miss the heated conversation I had with my belly. It even got to the point where I begged it to grumble just so I could have someone to talk to--to share my misery with.
A totally unexpected response occurred: Meow.
I gasped, afraid I had finally descended into the realm of insanity, but was relieved to see that behind me stood a small kitten. It was now that my stomach decided to re-enter the conversation, but this time, I only heard its low voice shout "Get him!" At that moment, I pounced at the cat, completely controlled by my starvation, yet the cat had sensed that something was strange and quickly evaded my grasp.
"Get back here!" I shouted, sprinting down the street after it. As I ran, I bent down and grabbed a handful of rocks, throwing one after the other at the bite-sized kitten. One actually managed to hit its target on the bounce, but the kitten survived the attack unscathed and scampered off into the graveyard. I stopped and gasped for air, disappointed that along with breakfast, an opportunity for lunch had been missed as well.
However, not long after I had caught my breath, I noticed a crowd of men outside the bakery across the street. They weren't very spectacular men, to be honest. Many had tattoos littered across their bodies and none of them looked very intelligent (trust me, when you walk the streets as much as I do, its an easy trait to spot in people).
Out of curiosity, I made my way over to the crowd to see what was going on. It was rather funny, because no one really seemed to notice me since I blended in so well. Before I could ask someone why there was a gathering, a man with a tense expression on his face (most likely the baker) opened the door to the bakery and beckoned the group in. Given this opportunity, I would have swiped some bread, had the baker not given me a loaf free of charge.
The group followed the baker into a different room, so I quickly took my leave, unnoticed and bread in hand. I was so excited that I almost dropped the loaf in the middle of the street! (Not that it would have mattered, I would have eaten it anyway!) I sunk my teeth into the hard crust and almost cried out for joy as the warm bread descended my throat to my deprived stomach, who no longer moaned continuously.
With high spirits, I walked back towards the park. The bus was just arriving at the bus stop, and only one man got off. He wore a cowboy hat with blue overalls and held a guitar in his right hand, displaying an extremely quirky smile across his face.
Its that kind of personality that gets you screwed in this city, I thought to myself. I wouldn't be surprised if I saw him out here on the streets sometime soon.
Without taking time for a second thought, I chomped into my bread and aimlessly continued walking down the streets of Washington Heights.
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
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