CHAPTER ONE - IN THE END, SHE WAS RIGHT
April West
October 2017
I hate to admit it, but in the end my mom is almost always right. Not always nice, but always right. I am not like my mother at all. At least that's what most people think. The April West that I show to the world is not the strong black woman everyone knew my mother to be. Sure, it worked for her, and of course I feel her storm inside me more often than I’d like to admit. But I keep that genetic tempest in check. I prefer a more subtle approach to get what I want. We all use what we've got, right? Well, I've got hair that looks good natural, a bright smile that seems genuine even when it's not, and big eyes that recall the doe-eyed Disney heroines. It all comes together to form what most people immediately perceive as the face of a sweet and innocent young woman. It's convincing, even if it's just a mask.
My Shirley Temple act usually gets me through just fine, but the are certain times when pretending to be nice is a just waste of time. Now is one of those times. I am sitting at work in front of the computer screen. My dimples and perfectly white teeth don't really do me much good when I am hidden behind the semi-anonymity of an email address, a staged headshot, and a canned bio on the agency website. It's here that I allow some of my mom’s brutal honesty to work in my favor. Wannabe novelists send me their manuscripts, and I treat them with dispassionate disregard. My mother was not one to coddle. She was blunt, and that translated into a certain kind of efficiency. She gave everyone the straight up truth. No sugar coating. I was no exception. She knew I wasn't all sugar and spice and everything nice. She understood my game. Hell, she scripted it. I suppose that's why she's coming to me now. As I sit here in front of my computer pretending to be someone I'm not, I hear her in my head.
Her track record is pretty good, so I should be appreciative for her consultation. Even so, I still hate it when she’s right. Or rather, was right. She's been gone nine years and I can still hear her voice in my head. April, don't act like a saint ‘cause you ain't. She knew me better than I knew myself. Dead and buried nearly a decade, and here she is chastising me as I type out my latest rejection letter. When I bring up the Word template I can hear her gravelly voice speaking to me, a long brown More cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, Just send the damn letter. The writing is terrible. That book’ll never sell, just like that one of yours never did. She's right, of course, not about my book, but the manuscript that I'm about to reject. So I bring up the Word template:
“Thank you very much for the chance to read the sample of <INSERT MANUSCRIPT TITLE HERE>. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to pass. I don't have a passion for this project. I would not be the right agent to represent it on your behalf. Thanks again for the opportunity and I wish you all the best, April West”
God I love that. I love clearing my plate of another worthless submission. I didn't always feel this way. I used to hate this part of my job, dashing the dreams of aspiring novelists. But I have evolved. I even have names for all the rejection letter templates. I call that one the ‘no passion’ letter. Hmm…pet names for dream-crushing letters. Maybe mom was right. Maybe I am kinda cruel.
Sure, I used to hate killing the dreams of the talentless masses who submit their precious manuscripts to me. I mean, it's not really their fault that they can't write a compelling and marketable story. It might look easy, but it takes years of honing one’s craft to really get it right. I should know, I'm still rewriting my second novel. And the first one didn't even sell enough digital copies to turn a profit. Despite popular opinion, writing a successful novel takes talent.
After years of slogging through countless pages of unimaginative drivel, abysmal grammar, hackneyed plots and hopelessly clichéd characters, I think of my rejection letters as a public service. It's bad enough to read a crappy book, but it's worse to think that you have a talent for something that you clearly do not. I've come to resent the people who force me to sift through gigantic haystacks in search of that one tiny needle. I get paid by the needle. No needle, no paycheck.
So when I opened the package on my desk this morning I literally laughed out loud. A hard copy submission? Really? Wait, let me be more specific, an unsolicited full manuscript delivered on actual paper in single spaced, 10 pt Times New Roman! It was such bad form that I simply had to read the first few paragraphs. As I mentioned, I get a sick sense of pleasure from snuffing out the tiny flickers of hope that wannabe authors entrust to my talented eye. I mean, c’mon folks. I've earned it. I'm a (somewhat) successful literary agent in Manhattan, not a high school English teacher.
Even the title of this hard copy manuscript was a cliché that was just a little too obvious to be ominous. It was called, She Walks Alone At Night. But to my surprise, the writing actually stirred something in me. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't great. Certainly not enough to respond with an offer of representation. But the prose seemed personal, almost familiar. It wasn't the characters, or the setting, or any specific details, but I could swear I recognized the tone. I'm not ashamed to say that it unnerved me. According to the query letter, the story was about female literary agents who get slaughtered one by one as the killer exacts his revenge for their callous dismissal of his life's work. No surprise there. People try all sorts of tricks to get agents interested in their work. The plot seemed like a B rated slasher movie. Hardly worth my time. But the first few paragraphs got inside my head, so I had to keep reading for a few chapters. The first chapter was called, Exquisite.
EXQUISITE
The Day Before the Day
The Killer
Her chest was exquisite. No, that adjective is banal and unworthy. Her chest was not exquisite. It was so much more than that. It was as if her chest had been adorned by the dreams of young boys and the hopes of teenage girls. Bejeweled by youth itself. Simply put, her chest was, well, let me reflect back. I can’t seem to put into words all of the wonder and the splendor of her chest. It was simply beyond description.
I call it ‘her chest’ because of how neatly she fits inside it. Of course the pieces had to be disarticulated, and the skull was the final challenge. But I've learned a lot over these last few weeks. It gets easier. Or rather, I become more skilled. More adept. And now that she's all packed away inside her chest, the container radiates with warmth. It radiates with power and with glory. The other chest, the anatomical feature, had been aesthetically pleasing, it's true. Pleasing, but not exquisite. It had been attractive, I suppose, at a certain point in time, long ago. But that breast is different now. Desiccated. Now that breast is contained inside her chest.
When I described this chest as bejeweled by youth itself, I was being serious, if not literal. It was my hope chest—the hope chest of my youth. The teenage dreams, the painted scenes, the splendor of its wooden beams. Only now has it arrived in the realm of the physical. Before it lived in the abstract world of my mind. Back then it was imaginary, but it held my very real hope that someday she would be inside it.
And now, finally, it has come to pass. When I open the cold steel latch it sticks a bit. The iron on iron hinges groan and complain from years of rust and neglect. And finally the hand-carved, lovingly-sanded and nearly air tight sealed wooden chest opens. The fresh, Pollack-inspired patterns of dried blood are visible on the outside. The blood of a woman. Like I said, bejeweled by the blood of youth itself. The arterial blood spatter is the final artistic touch. It is the whimsical design that my precious work of art had been missing, and I hadn't even realized it.
As I open the chest I smell sweetness. It is the remnants of her flesh. I break the seal on the lid and gasses escape from the preserved tissue. The gasses have a faint, sweet smell. Almost like dried fruit. As my eyes take in the beauty of the contents, I see how coagulation can turn supple fabric into stiff plates of armor.
The tables have turned. I am in control now. But in the end she was right. She always said revenge could be so sweet. It even smells sweet. She wasn’t of much use before. She's so much better now. She was less — far, far less in life than what is now contained inside her chest.
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CHAPTER TWO - DESKS AND CHESTS
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April West
Halloween, 2017
We've heard all the jokes before, April East and I. My name is April too. April West. We’ve heard the wicked witch jokes, the spring flowers jokes, the old Three Dog Night, “Pieces of April” reference. Of course there are the never ending comments about the East Village and the West Village. New Yorkers are oddly geographically inclined. I think it has to do with the grid street pattern above 14th. But weirdest of all, we always get the ‘are you related’ question. When has anyone ever heard of sisters with different last names and the same first name? And April E. is white. I mean, some people are straight up stupid.
I look over at April E. She's filing her nails and pretending to read the manuscript in front of her. Like the rest of us she's sitting at one of the ugliest cheap metal desks you've ever seen. You know the type, the ones that will last forever. They say that diamonds are forever, but that's just marketing gibberish. I should know. I used to write copy for a living. It's really these cheap metal desks that last forever. After the nuclear holocaust the only thing left will be cockroaches, Cher, and an army of nondescript metal desks constructed in the capitalist capitol of the world, but with all the austere charm of Bolshevist utilitarian design. Function over form. Here I sit at one of these soulless desks every weekday, and most weekends. It's 3:00 o'clock in the afternoon. The shallow angle of the autumn sunlight is streaming through the tiny, wire encased window at the rear of the office. The fluorescent bulb over my desk is in its death throes, and it’s doing its best impression of a festive strobe light. It’s failing miserably. In fact, the incessant flickering is boring a hole straight into my brain. My late afternoon caffeine headache isn’t helping. The almost imperceptible flickering effect of the light on the manuscript in front of me is mocking me. “Go home April West,” it says.
My concentration is shot. I really should call it a day, but there's no way that the boss would let one of us leave before sundown. Of course I should be grateful, about the desk, that is. I've heard that there is a charity that provides desks to students in Africa. Apparently without this charity the kids have to sit on the ground. They solve algebra problems while sitting in mud. Mental note: when I get on my feet I'm going to give some money to that charity.
I look over at another of my coworkers, Nikki. She's scratching some gunk off one of the figurines on her desk, but her eyes are glazed over. Her attention is on the phone call she's having with her mother. The little figurine she's playing with is unidentifiable to me, as is most of her collection. There are about 15 of them lined up on the ledge surrounding her cubicle. I've always wondered about them, but I’ve never asked. They look vaguely World War II-ish, but they're not soldiers. As she leans forward to choose a new figurine I notice what she's wearing. I don't know why I take notice. It's a variation on the same theme that she wears every day. She's got on one of her signature pastel, sheared angora sweaters paired with a cheerleader skirt. She's all malt shop on the top and sassy school girl on the bottom. But it works for her. She's petite and cute. Her lips resemble a duck’s bill, but even that works for her. It gives her a quirky, playful smile. I think it’s because her lips are natural and she's only 24. I hope she doesn't move to Beverly Hills later in life and go for the 40-something full-tilt fish lips.
It just hit me. This hasn't happened to me since I was a kid. Am I comparing myself to a white girl? Am I jealous? She's a cute little white girl in a crew neck sweater. Men notice her, not because of exposed cleavage, but the girlish purity of the fully covered chest and her pointy little breasts. Of course the weirdly short skirt must be an intentional choice that's meant to keep men both confused and horny. I, on the other hand, am wearing a proud black woman’s weave, no makeup (I don’t need any), and a crisp, white, men's-style dress shirt that's unbuttoned low enough to get noticed, but high enough to keep my job. Sure, when I was younger I desperately wanted to be one of those little white girls that all the news shows go bonkers over when the pretty little thing goes missing. And yeah, back then it pissed me off that the local news crews never showed up when my cousin disappeared. But now I’m a grown ass woman. I've got my own power.
Nikki continues her phone conversation with her mother. It's the third one today. “Je sais, mommy, je sais. I know. I'll help you get him up onto the couch when I get home. It will just be a couple more hours. Il peut rester un moment sur le sol. It just might do him some good to sleep on the floor for a couple hours. Je sais, mommy, I'm sorry. I'll be home as soon as I can.
“Maurice?” I ask
“You mean the gigolo? Yeah, who else,” she says.
“C’mon, I think it's kind of cute that your mom had her mid life crisis at 60.”
“Yeah, sure, it would have been très sucré if she hadn't run off to Paris and brought home a 29 year old alcoholic.”
“I think it's sad,” April E. interjected.
“Judgmental much?” I said. “And of course you would. You ain't messin’ with no broke ass niggas.”
“Now why is it that you can say that to me, but if I respond in kind I'll get called a racist?” April E. asked.
“Do we have to go over this again?” I asked her. “You're not part of the disadvantaged minority that the word ‘niggas’ refers to. On your lips that word carries the weight of 400 years of lynchings, dehumanization, and subjugation.”
“And why don’t I get a straight pride parade?” our gay coworker, Andy said in an over exaggerated, whiny, mocking voice. Then he answered his own question with just a little too much venom, “Every day is your fucking straight pride parade!” Ouch, I guess Andy has a painful past of his own. Now that I think about it, his experience might not be all that different from mine. Different in degrees, perhaps, but not all that different in fact.
“I still think it's reverse racism.” April E. Grumbled, avoiding Andy’s comment and his glare.
“Oh girlfriend, you did not just pull out the reverse racism bull shit line,” I said. I knew she was trying to push my buttons. It's a game we play. Fortunately I know how to push hers too. Friends are no fun if they can't take as good as they give, right? April E. is not just a gold digger, she also pretends to be all prim and proper. I can make her squirm just by showing a little skin. So I pulled my shirt open a little wider and showed her my ample, ebony cleavage. I just wanted to force some big black tits into her face to drive home my point. “This is me. I’ve got a right to show my colors. I've earned it. And I didn't just get back from the Maldives, OK? I'm fresh out of white privilege. This ain't no tan.”
“Alright, alright, I get it. Can you get those things out of my face?” She averted her eyes, laughed and pushed me aside.
“Andy,” I said. Do you wanna get in on this?”
“No way,” he said. Y'all bitches are crazy. And yes, I can say bitches. You get allotted one use of ‘bitches’ for every time you've been called faggot in your life. I've got about 5,000 left to go.”
Just then Andy caught a glimpse of our boss, Chaaya. “Heads down,” he said. “I think she's on the move.” Our boss’s office is walled off from the riffraff by this super thick, ultra clear glass. She can see everything, but she hears nothing.
In stark contrast to the Spartan decor of the skunk works, as we like to call our own work area, Chaaya’s office is lavish. There are at least a dozen expensively-framed, limited edition prints on the walls. Each is a different size. Some are tiny with huge mats, and others are obnoxiously large with razor-thin frames. Chaaya carefully scattered elegant original watercolors in between the prints. She spends a ridiculous amount of time in the pretentious local Chelsea galleries. I like to say it's because she’s a wannabe who just wants to be seen as a part of the Manhattan art crowd, but I must admit that the bitch has an eye for art. The original works that she brings back to the office are indeed beautiful.
Here office furniture is no different. She filled it with a $10,000 sofa and $800 throw pillows. The focal point is an original Donald Judd desk that must have cost a fortune. The decor gives her office the look of a space that you might see on the 63rd floor of one of the ‘good addresses’ in midtown. An expensive rug sits under her desk, and it must have been specially designed to provide a smooth rolling surface for her extra-lumbar supportive roller chair. No tacky plastic roller mat for her. And then there are the flowers. For those Chaaya relies on the gay. It's Andy’s job to hit the flower district early mornings twice a week to pick out a few flowers for a simple, yet tasteful arrangement for her desk. Today he chose three tall ginger blossoms, two red and one pink. Somehow he arranged them together without a millimeter of space in between the curved blossoms. They almost look like three brightly colored newborn puppies curled up in a ball, huddling together for warmth while they wait for their mother to return. There's something incredibly natural and vulnerable about how Andy constructs his arrangements.
Chaaya walked out into the skunk works and surveyed her minions. “I'm leaving early,” she announced and walked towards the door. She reached for the coat rack, and began to put on her plush, white, couture coat. With her back facing the staff she asked me, “Oh West, could you pop by the dry cleaners after work for me? They close at 8pm. I've got a couple dresses there. Alan and I are going to the Met this Friday, and I don't have time to shop.”
I was partially ignoring her and partially engrossed in the manuscript in front of me. “What?” I said.
She didn't even turn to face us. Her shoulders dropped and she let out a sigh. I knew what was coming. “Nikki,” she said, standing with her feet firmly planted in a passive aggressive attempt to emphasize the fact that she was facing the door instead of the human beings that make up her staff.
Nikki looked at me and mouthed the words ‘I'm sorry’. Then she answered, “Yes?”
“It sounds like West is at 60% today. Can you handle this for me? I'll give you the cash tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Nikki replied.
I used to think, What is it with the 60%? It's one of Chaaya’s favorite belittling comments. But honestly, I'd never really thought it made much sense. Why 60%? Why not fifty or even ten? Sixty is such a random number that seemed more comical than insulting. That is, until I realized that she saves that particular verbal dagger exclusively for me. She uses other subtle insults to keep the rest of the staff in their place. Then I put the timeline together, and I almost punched the bitch in the throat.
Chaaya took her long-overdue citizenship test a couple years back. She had been coasting along on her first husband’s birthright and the green card that came with it. But all good meal tickets come to an end. He left her with the business, more money than she deserved, and her place in New York society intact. But citizenship was something that she had to earn. The federal government is staffed at the low levels with people that look like me. And it's one of the few places in America where privileged rich bitches are treated just like everyone else.
Chaaya had to study for the citizenship test. No way around it. Presumably her studies took her to the depths of American history. Places that are much deeper and darker than the lyrics of Hamilton. And somewhere along the way she must have learned the original text of the US constitution and how it handled slavery. And somewhere along that same road she must have gotten the misguided idea that it would be clever to refer to my efforts at work as being approximately 60%. That fucking bitch was making an oblique reference to the 3/5ths Compromise. She had been living for all those decades on her green card, comfortably numb to the nuances of legalized discrimination in the history of these great United States. All the while she enjoyed 100% of the benefits of the country that my great, great, great grandfather built for her.
Nikki and I turn back to face Chaaya’s direction just before she turned around. She plastered one of her signature fake smiles across her face and said, “I'm sorry ladies, I don't mean to be a bitch. I’m being a bitch, aren’t I?” She rearranged the fake smile into an emoji frowny face.
I stole a quick glance at Andy, but he didn't even register the slight. Maybe being called a lady isn't even an insult to him.
The fake smile returned. “It's just that we’re a team, remember?” Chaaya said and did a half-hearted, clenched-fist, old lady cheerleading move. “We've all got to work together to make our Q4 numbers. We all want our bonuses, don't we?” She turned to walk out the door and dropped the fake smile just a fraction of a second too soon. As she walked out the door into the corridor the skunk works became a little less skunky.
The afternoon dragged by. Andy is a speed reader, so he got done early and headed out to the latest trendy bar in Hell’s Kitchen to meet, or rather to snare, his nightly fuck. Around 6:00 PM Nikki took off to babysit her mother and the Parisian gigolo. We told her we'd cover for her. Even 6:00 PM would be considered leaving early if Chaaya were to call the office to check in on us.
After Nikki left it was just April E and and me. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk. It takes a little jiggle, but my muscle memory is so efficient that I barely even notice anymore. My bottom drawer is called The Orange Grove, and it's my tiny piece of Eden in the wasteland of what Chaaya calls collaborative shared workspace. The hallmark of collaborative shared workspace is low overhead, in other words, more money in the boss’s pocket. Here in Pullman Literary Agency it also means noisy conversations between Nikki and her mom, and the funky combination of smells from April E’s comfortable shoes, Andy’s gym bag, and our boss’s curry flavored BO. Chaaya is of Arabic and Indian descent. We call her Princess Jasmine. I know it's racist. But she really is a hateful bitch. I feel guilty about it, but April E. thinks it's hilarious. And I guess I kinda do too.
The Orange Grove is precious to me. I keep a bag of fresh oranges in my bottom drawer at all times. I say it's because of my diet, but that's only half true. I do eat them. But whenever I need a pick me up, I open the drawer and let the clean pungent smell of fresh oranges surround me like a force field.
“Go home April West,” April East said to me, breaking the silence.
“What?” I said, barely registering her suggestion to pack it up for the day.
“You opened The Orange Grove. You're done for the day. Besides, P.J. left hours ago. And I won't snitch,” she said with a giggle.
I smiled. “Packing up now.”
“No you're not. You keep staring at that manuscript. Throw it away. We don't take snail mail submissions. If Princess Jasmine sees you with that she dock you 10 samosas out of this week’s pay.”
“Ha ha.”
“But seriously,” she said, “a hard copy submission? Really? What does that tell you? Let me guess, it's from a retired high school English teacher who thinks she's an undiscovered Hemingway, or worse yet, the new JK Rowling. Let me see that thing.”
I showed her the front of the manuscript, and she literally LOL’d. “Seriously? It's called She Walks Alone Last Night? I take it that the manuscript was sent from one of the flyover states where walking alone is supposed to make a woman feel vulnerable. Please. Every woman I know walks alone at night.” She picked up her iPhone and pretended to dial. “Hello, Jake, could you meet me out front. I'm positively terrified to walk to the subway stop alone tonight. Could I get a big strong man such as yourself to escort me?” She finished her little routine and dropped the phone on her desk. “Give me a fuckin’ break.”
“You're right. I know. But I don't think it was sent from outside The City. Look at this. The dedication page has a picture of the front of our office.”
April E. Snorted, “Cheap Gimmick. The author could have gotten that from Google Street View.”
“And something about the first line of chapter three grabbed me. It reads, ‘When you stop dreaming you die.’ Not bad for a murder mystery, right?”
“First of all, you read three chapters? You're starting to worry me. And secondly, honey, please tell me that you don't think that's a solid opening line to start a chapter. It might as well have begun with, ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, or maybe, “Emily just loved The Big Apple until she bit into the worm’.
“You really don't think that opening line is original and kinda catchy?”
“In fact, I don't. That line isn't original at all. It's ripped off verbatim from that ‘80s movie, Flashdance. And the line is even less ominous than the title and the ‘scary’ photo. Total gimmicks. Take that thing home if you really want to read it. My guess is that the writing will be laughably melodramatic, and the author is using cheap tricks to get us to read her stuff.”
“You're right,” I said. I hesitated for a split second and then tossed it in the shred bin.
“So did he talk directly to your chest again?” April E. asks me.
“Who?”
“Creepy Don. You met with him for like an hour today. How much of that time did he spend looking anywhere above your neckline? And I know we’re all scrambling for clients, but do you think he’s really worth it?”
“Your probably right. And what is it with that guy? Well, I guess I should ask what is it with every guy. Every guy except Andy, that is.”
"Oh my God,” she exclaimed, “he's worse! Have you seen the way he drools when the UPS guy comes in. It's way worse than Creepy Don. It actually makes me a little uncomfortable.
“Of course it does,” I said. “Everything makes you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn't make you feel weird? Andy literally stares at the guy’s crotch. He doesn't even try to be subtle.”
“I think it's their mating ritual," I replied, and shuffled a stack of papers on my desk. "The word ‘subtle’ is not in the gay man’s lexicon.” I paused for a second and considered my gay coworker. “Such a waste though. Andy is hot. And he has an uncanny ability to weed through the crap-tastic queries we get. He can always find that one manuscript that will actually turn a profit.”
“You know they hate it when you say that," April E. says to me.
“What?”
"'Such a waste’. Girl, you're lucky he’s not here right now. I got read to filth by this little hottie in Hell's Kitchen one time. I think he opened with something like, 'Miss thang, standing there in your simple fish conservative ensemble and your last year's, um, I mean your imitation Manolos'. He was brutal. I thought I was giving him a compliment, but his little rant went on for a full minute. It ended with something like, 'And I can assure you it is not wasted!' He paused, looked at me over the rims of his designer glasses and said, 'The library is closed.' Then he spun around on one heal and walked right up to some gorgeous model looking dude, grabbed his ass, and stuck his tongue down his throat.”
"I see we're doing so much better at not letting the little things in life get to us," I replied.
"Bitch."
"Whore."
"I wish. Damn, it's been a while! If the UPS guy played for our team I'd be just desperate enough to go for it.” April E. replied.
“See, E., that's exactly why men have it easier. Doesn't matter gay or straight, they never consider sex to be desperate,” I told her.
“You're right. But you know my rules.”
“April E., my dear, everybody knows Miss Mona’s no-no rules. Let's see, never go out with a guy you haven't Googled. Never go out with any man in a union. And always check the watch and the shoes. Have I missed any of your little gold digger tricks?”
“Ouch, am I really that bad?” She asked.
“Nah girl, I'm just kidding. It's been a minute for me too. It's the sexual frustration. But don't worry. We've both got a solid book of business. Two of your authors just went to print last month, right? We’ll be the breadwinners in our families.”
“You know it takes two incomes in this city.” April E. reminded me.
“True that.” I said. “Well, listen. I think I've done all the damage I can do for tonight. I should head out.”
“Watch out for the Halloween mob,” She warned me.
“Are you kidding me. That's one of the only perks of working in this shithole office in Chelsea. I love the Halloween parade. If I had half the imagination of those people, I would, well, I don't know. Maybe I'd really put in the effort and finish my second book instead of trying to market the manuscripts of the talentless.”
“Be careful. You know the drug dealer rule. Never partake in your own product.” She warned.
“Ha ha, yeah I remember. Well it worked out for the Wicked Witch of the Upper West Side.
“You better watch yourself. I wouldn't put it past her to have installed nanny-cams in our cubicles.”
“Nah she's too cheap. And too lazy to go through the footage.”
“Wow, you're feeling bold tonight.”
I smiled at her and shrugged my shoulders. “I think the Halloween spirit has got a hold of me. I'm feeling adventurous.” I said as I walked out the office door.
“Have fun with the Halloween freaks. And don’t forget that tomorrow is The Día de Los Muertos celebration in the Mexican cemetery. We’re going this year, you promised,” she called after me.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” I yelled back. As I walked through the corridor I found myself smiling. I was feeling a little full of myself for calling out our bitch of a boss. The only reason she has anyone to represent is her ugly ass-rich husband. But, I guess that's what second husbands are for.
I took the ancient elevator down the three levels to the ground floor. The 1970s ‘ding’ that happens at every floor is gonna drive me insane one day. But the NYC fire codes require that the exit from the stairs has an ear splitting alarm on it.
The elevator hit the ground floor with a jolt. One last ’ding’ and I was free. I stepped out of the the clutches of old Otis and opened the lobby doors. As I walked out onto 22nd Street. I was immediately hit with cool air and the smell of street meat, alcohol, and nervous anticipation. No really, you can actually smell the anticipation. It's more of an energy, sure, but it tingles the inside of your nose and, if you take a moment to notice, it smells almost like the ionized antiseptic smell of a lightning storm approaching. Or maybe it's all in my head. Yeah, probably. It's the curse of working in as a creative.
The sun was down and the crowd was starting to gather for the Halloween parade. The jostling and shoving was just beginning. I looked around at the first costumed party goers making their way toward the parade route. There's always one costume that manages to shock me each year. I remember in ‘92 when I asked my mom, “Why does that man have a fake brick attached to the side of his face?” I didn't realize until years later that he was dressed as Reginald Denny. Brutal, but clever.
As I turned onto 7th Ave I was caught up in the full mob of costumes. Of course there were about a thousand Trumps. Totally uninspired. I did see one skeleton thin Kelly-Anne that was spot on. How does anyone get their hair to look like they stole it from the decapitated head of Jane Mansfield? I was thoroughly enjoying the view when I thought I spotted Creepy Don a block behind me. I couldn't be sure, but I kept checking over my shoulder just in case. And that's when it happened.
“Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I just slammed right into you. Are you OK? Hey, it's you! Now I'm really embarrassed. Seriously, did I hurt you? I wasn't looking. I thought I saw this guy behind me, and I've been trying to make my escape. How have you been? I haven't seen you in ages. I thought you moved out west. OK now I'll let you talk. You know how I babble when I'm nervous.”
“I'm fine,” he said with a laugh. “No harm done. I think I outweigh you by about a hundred pounds. I barely felt it.”
“Well, I'm so sorry anyway. So really, how have you been?”
“Good. I've been taking classes at NYU extension. Criminal justice. The whole writer, actor, model thing didn't really work out.”
“Oh come on, I've read your stuff. I thought it was really good.”
“Just not good enough to represent me?”
“Come on, you know that was Princess Jasmine’s decision. Oh crap, I'm sorry, that was totally racist. I babble, remember. And that's your—well you know how we all feel about Chaaya. It has nothing to do with her heritage. Well, almost nothing,” I admitted. “We’re just jealous of her money and connections. She really did well for herself. And I'm sorry, I'll shut up now.”
“It's OK. Don't worry about it. The past is the past,” he said. “Anyway, yeah maybe the classes will actually help be become a better crime writer. So I guess I haven't completely let go of the wannabe writer thing.”
I wanted to be encouraging, but the only thing I could think of to say was, “well, keep the dream alive. What did they say in Flashdance? ‘When you stop dreaming, you die.’ Right?”
“April West, how the hell do you know that movie? We weren't even born when that came out.”
“Are you kidding me? It's a classic.” He gave me the side eye and I confessed, “OK, I haven't actually seen the movie. I read that quote in a submission that I received today. The first paragraph was this whole jumbled mess of movie quotes and bad grammar.”
“Sounds about par for the course.”
“Hey, are you headed to the East side?” I asked.
“Why yes I am April West.”
“Never gets old,” I said and nudged him with my shoulder just to let him know that I was kidding. Besides, he was a straight man walking the streets in Chelsea. And an ex-wannabe model to boot. I don't have April E.’s hang ups about dating men that aren't rich.
“Will you walk with me for a bit?” I asked. “I really wanna avoid the guy that is back there in the crowd. I think he might be following me.”
“Of course. Just one condition. We have to pop in to this space that I'm thinking of renting. It's not zoned for residential, but it's cheap. I'm on the fence about whether or not I should take it. Will you give me your opinion?”
“Of course.”
We walked along and commented on the Halloween crowd. It was actually nice. I was starting to wonder how I'd let this one get away.
“Here it is,” he said with an enthusiastic smile and pointed at a rusty metal door. The building looked like it was about to be condemned, but you take what you can get in Manhattan.
He must have seen the look on my face. “I know it's not Trump Tower,” he said, a bit less enthusiastically. “But just take a look inside.”
We walked inside, and the door shut behind us. I realized there was no electricity. I could barely see a thing. A street light just outside the door behind us cast a sliver of light through the cracks between the old metal door and the doorframe. The insulation that had once formed a protective seal was long gone. The missing insulation and dented metal door permitted a small amount of light and a whistling draft of cool air to enter the room. I froze for a moment while my eyes began to adjust to the near total darkness.
Then a wasp or something stung my neck. I tried to react, but no voice came out. I put my hand to my throat and it was soaking wet. Then he stabbed me again, this time in the gut. I fell to the floor. My face landed on a musty concrete floor that was gritty with subway dust, crumbled dry wall, and rat shit. I could smell piss and an old cigarette butt nearby.
“Have you stopped dreaming yet?” he asked me in a voice that I'd never heard before. I heard footsteps that seemed to be receding into the back of the warehouse and pacing around my body at the same time. I was laying on the floor and losing blood fast. He stabbed me again through the back and I was paralyzed.
They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you're facing death, but that's not true. My pupils were beginning to dilate and there was only one thing in my field of vision. No flashes of my childhood or of my loved ones. I felt the cool cement beneath me. And the sensation was comforting. The shaft of light from the crevice behind me illuminated the object on the ground in front of me. What I saw—the only thing I could see—was a close up view of a wooden chest right. I couldn't move, and my head had landed right in front of the thing. I could see the squirts of my own blood painting the chest in random patterns like a Jackson Pollack canvas. My last thought was not one of hatred or horror or regret. My last thought was serene. My last thought was about the chest. It was beautiful. My blood was beautiful. My death was beautiful. No, it was exquisite.
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