It
was that same dream yet again, falling from the thirteenth floor; that woke
Mitch from his slumber. Bleary-eyed, he rubbed
the sleep from his eyes and rolled over.
The glowing red numbers on his alarm clock read 8:45. He sprang from his bed in a panic. The alarm never went off, though he was
certain he had set it the night before. His tiny apartment was bitterly cold.
Despite the landlord’s insistence that there was nothing wrong with the
furnace, his thermostat registered 61 degrees.
Flipping the switch and cranking the dial did nothing to coax warm air
from the vents. Furious, Mitch stalked
to the bathroom and turned on the space heater. After gathering his toiletries,
he turned on the faucet in the shower full-blast. Huddled over the ceramic box he rubbed his
hands and waited for the room to fill with steamy warmth before disrobing. The heater crackled and hissed then, after a
loud pop, promptly died. Mitch muttered
a curse and slammed his fist down on the top of the heater. He stepped back for a moment, as if expecting
it to miraculously start working again but it did not. Yanking the plug from the outlet, he tossed
the unit into the hall and slammed the door.
Parting the shower curtain, he tentatively stuck his hand under the
spray and abruptly pulled it back again.
The frosty water was not inviting.
Since time was not on his side, Mitch quickly brushed his teeth, combed
his hair, swiped some deodorant under his arms, and pulled on clean
clothes. He spritzed on a little extra
cologne and hoped it would suffice as he sprinted to the elevator.
“Just my luck,” Mitch sneered as he
rounded the corner and realized the elevator was blocked by a moving neighbor’s
mattress and box spring.
With
no time to waste, he crashed through the doorway to the stairwell and leapt
down, clearing two or three at a time.
Panting and out of breath, he reached the bus stop only to be left
behind in a grey cloud of fumes. With no
other option he flagged down a cab and rattled off his work address, better
known as the nether-regions of Hell. One
traffic jam after another sent his blood pressure to its boiling point. Finally, at 10:45 the cab pulled up to the
curb. Mitch dug through his pockets only
to realize that, in his rush, he had forgotten his wallet.
“Oh my God!” He exclaimed angrily. “Could this day get any worse?”
The
cabbie was not sympathetic and demanded payment immediately. With no other choice,
Mitch scurried inside to beg his friends to loan him cab fare. His pals were all short on funds so he was
forced to accept help from Anne, a dour, unpleasant woman whose sole motivation
was to humiliate Mitch at every turn.
After a few choice words, the cabbie left and Mitch clocked in two hours
late. His backside had barely touched
the seat in his cramped cubicle before his manager summoned him to the office. Anne scurried from the manager’s office with a
smug smile plastered to her pursed lips.
“Hateful witch,” he sneered though
no words dared to escape his mouth.
Instead
his mind reeled with the fantasy of one day telling everyone in that
God-forsaken dump how he truly felt. His
daydream ended the moment Mitch slumped into the chair across from his
manager. The name plate resting on the
manager’s desk read Devin Milton yet Mitch always believed it was a typo. It
should read Devil’s Minion, he decided.
“Mitch,” Minion began, “I think we
need to talk about your time card.”
Every
syllable after that was ignored as Mitch struggled to keep the look of sheer
disdain from his face. The daydream was back,
only this time he was pummeling Minion “Fight Club” style while his coworkers
cheered.
“Did you hear what I said?” His
manager shouted, snapping Mitch back to reality.
There
was no need to lie: his blank stare had answered for him.
“No, I didn’t think so. You show up two hours late and no phone call. Then you have the nerve to harangue money
from your colleagues. We’ve talked about
your tardiness before, Mitch and now you’re being downright disrespectful. You've left me no choice…pack up your things. You’re fired.”
A
torrent of hate-filled profanities spewed from Mitch’s lips, unleashing the
pent up frustrations from his eight years in Purgatory. In response, his manager picked up the phone
and called security. Escorted by two
burly men, Mitch gathered his meager belongings and placed them in a cardboard
box. A moment later he was standing
outside on the curb, shivering. A damp
snow had begun to fall making the sidewalks slick and treacherous. Tromping through the slush to the bus stop,
he realized his bus pass was still at home in his wallet. He sighed; a dejected, bitter sigh then
turned to walk home. In mid-turn, his
foot landed on an icy patch and slid.
His awkward and painful fall was “The Three Stooges” worthy. Cold, wet, and aching, Mitch hauled himself
to his feet only to slip again, landing directly on top of his box. The few trinkets that hadn’t shattered in the
first fall were destroyed in the second.
Using the remnants of a broken picture frame, he scraped away the ice
exposing the splotchy brownish-grey pavement. With safe footing, he rose and
stalked off, leaving his box of broken junk on the sidewalk.
An hour later, Mitch arrived at his
apartment building only to find that the Board of Health had condemned the
building. The front door was chained and
locked tight. The notice taped on the
door proclaimed the landlord had failed to appear at a condemnation hearing and
the building was declared a health hazard.
“Get away from there!” A woman’s
voice shouted. “That building has been
condemned! It’s not safe.”
Mitch
scanned the surroundings and noticed a sharply-dressed woman leaning out of her
car window, shouting to him. Slipping
and sliding, he rushed to the vehicle.
“You can’t condemn the
building! I live there,” Mitch
whined. “All my stuff is in there!”
In
a cold, professional, tone the woman apologized for his predicament but
insisted that it was unfit for human residence.
She proceeded to tell him that his landlord should have given him
notice.
“Well, he didn’t! Now let me in so I can get my things!” He
snapped.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the
authority to let you in. You’ll have to
obtain written approval from the Board of Health before you can enter. Sorry.”
She
waved her hand dismissively, rolled up her window and pulled away. Dazed, Mitch stood there watching her vehicle
fade into the distance. His snort of
derision quickly evolved into a loud, hysterical, almost maniacal laugh. Tears streamed down his cheeks yet the
terrifying laughter continued. Unable to
stop, he doubled over as the sounds emanating from his body echoed down the
alley. When the noises faded and his
eyes finally dried, Mitch had lost track of time. Whether he had been sitting there for minutes
or hours, he could not say but in his post-breakdown state, he hatched a new plan. He would break in and collect whatever belongings
he could liberate but until then, he needed to find someplace warm. He wandered to the nearest grocery
store. As the first wave of toasty air
enveloped his body, he breathed a sigh of relief. A snarky patron muttered, “Cold enough for
ya?” but Mitch ignored the comment, still savoring the delightful heat. As he meandered up and down the aisles, he
was offered samples of the tasty morsels that were on sale: port wine and
cheddar cheese dip on crackers, mini-quiches, non-alcoholic eggnog, cocktail
meatballs, cranberry scones and sparkling cider. The longer he chatted with the ladies offering
samples, the more they fed him. He
strolled to the hot beverages aisle in hopes of some coffee or perhaps hot
cocoa. The intoxicating aroma of freshly
ground beans drew him closer and he ducked around a display to reach his
destination.
“Whoa! Watch out!”
A
large jar of pickles slipped from the stock boy’s hand and crashed to the
floor, barely missing Mitch. Startled,
he jumped back.
“Oh no!” An elderly woman
gasped. “You walked under his ladder;
and on Friday the Thirteenth too. That’s
terrible luck”
The
woman made a sign of the cross over her chest and scurried away nervously,
unwilling to absorb a double-dose of bad luck.
Mitch rolled his eyes at her and stepped out from underneath the ladder
only to have another jar crash down on his head, followed abruptly by the stock
boy and his ladder. The store manager
found both Mitch and his employee sprawled on the floor surrounded by shattered
glass and cucumber spears, stinking of pickle juice. The rotund man barked into his handheld radio
for the cleanup crew and safety team leader. Armed with a first aid kit, a
middle-aged woman tried to wipe away the blood from Mitch’s cuts, instead she
only managed to rub salty liquid into his wounds. Once he convinced the manager that he was
fine and would not be suing the store, Mitch left the store and walked back to
his apartment building. The sky had
turned a deep, inky, blue and the temperature plummeted below freezing but
still he trudged on. Hidden under the
cover of darkness, Mitch crept around to the back of the building and snatched
a landscaping brick from the border. He
peered cautiously around for witnesses before hurling the brick at a
window. A spider web crack crept across
the glass and for the first time all day, he smiled. Bolder now, he grabbed another brick and with
all of his might smashed it against the fractured glass. He removed his coat,
folded it over and used it as protection from the shards as he crawled through
the opening. Finally inside, Mitch knew
the building like the back of his hand.
Even in the dark, he expertly navigated the stairwell and finally
reached his floor. Never before had his
front door looked so welcoming.
Relieved, he inserted his key in the lock and opened the door.
“What do you think you’re doing,” a raspy
voice hissed.
Mitch
froze. He had assumed he was all alone
in the building but his inner voice reminded him what “assume” stood for.
“The loot is supposed to be all ours,”
a second voice chimed in angrily.
Thieves. His inner voice stated the obvious. Run. This time his inner voice was the voice of
reason and his legs gladly obeyed. The
hallway echoed with the sound of pounding feet, angry shouts and bullets ricocheting
off the walls but the only sound Mitch could hear was the hammering of his own
heart. He crashed through the door to
the stairwell and was met with two more scoundrels charging up the steps. With no way down, he dodged the men and raced
up to the next floor. His pursuers were
hot on his heels so he climbed higher and higher until his only option was the
roof. He slammed the door behind him and
tried to wedge it closed but the thugs were able to force their way
through. Mitch tried to plead for his
life but the bullet tore through his chest with such force that he toppled over
the roof’s edge. The feeling was so
familiar, just like his dream. The
building had twelve floors but the rooftop made thirteen. Falling
from the thirteenth floor on Friday the Thirteenth, his inner voice
announced before it all went black.
