Yet another short story. Please Enjoy!

As always email me with criticim or edits.

Drywall
START

The same woman with the rainbow umbrella, black leather boots with skinny jeans tucked in, and a green peacoat gives me the same disdainful look as she did an hour ago. She probably works around here. I've held this park bench for too long anyway.

The small of her perfume warms the cold air. I wonder if she can feel my eyes as she walks quickly by, slowing down after she's a safe distance away.

She's right. The bench could use some air. I get up and trudge to the nearby bus stop. It's empty except for a young man wearing a pristine suit, black pants still creased down the center with no evidence of sitting, the silver of a watch peeks out from behind the left sleeve. He stays standing, careful not to touch anything that could be dirty, eyeing me without turning his head as I walk up. I'm surprised he doesn't have a car.

"You know when the next bus shows up?" He asks nervously.

"Not sure what time it is," I reply.

His wrist flashes, "5:40."

"Either 5:45 or 6:00 I'd guess. Not sure why there's no schedule posted."

We wait as the sun dips between the clouds and highrises painting the sky a golden orange. Her nervously checks his watch and looks at the incoming traffic, hoping to catch the bus before it arrives.

The brakes squeal and the doors release their steam as the bus pulls up. He swipes his card and nods to the driver as I fish with cold hands for the loose change rotting in the bottom of my pocket. I dump the five quaters and two dimes in the coin counter and pull the ticket from the printer.

I claim a seat in the back near the heater, a welcome bit of luxury. I stare out the window as we're thrown into Friday's gridlock.

The blown out speakers screech, hiding the bus driver’s true voice, “ Next stop 86th and Truman.” I slowly get up from my seat as the bus comes to a stop, bracing myself with the back of a seat, and shuffle to the door in the back. An old woman's bird-like eyes follow me as I pass her. She probably thinks it’s odd to get off after one stop.

I step out onto the damp concrete, look around and start my pilgrimage to the closest bar. It’s only a couple blocks from here.

The bar’s crowded enough for me to remain anonymous but still find a seat at the end of the counter near a wall covered in old film pictures of young people drinking and wearing colorful clothes. A stark contrast to the current aging quietness.

The bartender makes eye contact with me and makes his way over. “What can I get for ya?”

“A shot of Jim Beam and the cheapest beer you’ve got.”

“Sounds good.”

The shot hits my empty stomach washed down with Busch Light. The pink glow from the windows turns black the last heat of the day leaving. After another two shots, I put twelve dollars on the counter, and thank the bartender.

The draft of crisp late fall air stings my nose as I push open the door to the bar. My body warmed by cheap beer and Jim Beam. I need a cigarette. Leaning up against the cold stone wall wicks the heat from my body. I pull a matchbox and a half empty pack of Camels out of the inner pocket of my coat. My slowly numbing hands fumble with the matches, scratching one against the stone. The warm smoke fills my lungs.

The door to the bar opens, spilling its amber light into the street. A tall lanky man in an oversized wool coat slowly steps out. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he walks towards me. His leather boots leave a light trail of dried mud on the stairs.

“Can I bum a cigarette?” His overful pockets rattle as he descends the small staircase. I’m surprised that he doesn’t have any himself.

“Sure, you need a light?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

I offer him the matchbox and the pack of cigarettes. The brief light from the match illuminates his gaunt face. He leans up against the wall next to me and exhales slowly. Cars headlights stream light into the street exposing our identities. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

I’d like to keep this interaction short. I know him all too well. Not his name, or job, but his infidelity, his odd escapades, his random trinkets, I’ve seen him bring people over to his crowded studio apartment, men, women. Some come back multiple times, some are gone forever by the next morning. I’ve seen him mix colorful potions. I’ve seen him quietly slip powdered pills into some of them. They drink together and laugh until one of them slowly turns lifeless. All from the blue tarp shelter that I set up in the parking garage across the street. Investing in binoculars gave me the darkest play that one could ask for.

“It’s getting colder ain’t it.” He breaks the nervous silence.

“Yup, happens every year,” I reply. Forcing us back into car watching silence. I wonder what I’ll catch tonight. Who will he bring over? What plan does he have?

“I haven't seen you before,” I say. “You from the area?”

He keeps staring at the street and blows smoke out of his nostrils.

“Nope, I’m just around for the weekend. Here ‘till Monday morning.”

“Nice.”

The harsh smoke from the burning filter stings the back of my throat. I flick it into the gutter, sparking as it hits the road.

“Well, it’s about time I head home,” I mutter.

“Thanks for the cigarette.”

I saunter off and light another cigarette to stave off the cold walk back to my parking garage. Nobody parks on the third level so no one cares if there’s a tarp covering the space between the concrete barrier and the electrical box. The police come and kick me out every once in a while. Other than that, there’s very little human interaction. Mostly rats.

There’s no use in following him home. I’d rather cause him no suspicion. My mind wanders. What will I catch tonight?

When I returned to the tarp, it’s collapsed and my clothes strewn around the concrete floor, the 2 x 4’s that held it up, by the stairwell. If you’re homeless you’ll get robbed at some point. This isn’t the first time. You learn to never keep anything of value in your camp. My binoculars are safe, burning a hole in my pocket. That’s all that matters.

The tarp is easy to set up. Last time they took my 2 x 4’s and I had to steal more from the nearby Home Depot. There’s no time to waste, he could come back at any moment. Curiosity fills the cold void left by sobering up. The binoculars peek out from the tarp and stare into the floor to ceiling windows across the street. I keep watch patiently waiting for him to return.

It takes two hours for the door to swing open into the apartment, the hallway light flashes into the room and is obscured by the two figures entering. The lights flicker on, the glare from the street dissipates revealing the inside. A brown leather loveseat faces the full sized bed that sits under the windows. The counter sits out of vision behind. Posters cover the walls. The homely lights create a false sense of security.

Who’s tonight's victim?

A middle aged man, shorter than him by about six inches. I can’t tell if he’s stocky or he has a couple layers on. Dark brown hair, five o’clock shadow contours his round face, paint stained pants that he probably bought second hand, slight limp that leans him to the left every other step, I can hear his smooth quiet voice.

The evening goes as planned. They squeeze into the love seat, they drink their silly potions, they talk, they laugh, they kiss, they drink more, he gets up to make more drinks, they drink more, they feel each other, one passes out, he gets up and hits the lights. The play ends abruptly as the glare from the street curtains the stage. Paint stained pants are never seen again, feuling curiosity that seeps into my dreams.

///*///*///*///

I know it’s five am when I wake up. The routine of homelessness wakes you up early every morning. It’s too dangerous to leave yourself vulnerable when people start walking the streets. The lights are still off when I check the binoculars in the morning. The blinds now cover the windows. I wait for him to draw them back at eight when his alarm goes off. Despite all the people in and out, he remains alone in his apartment every morning.

Curiosity replaces breakfast.

As the sun breaks the cold sky the binoculars get put away. Retreating to the deepest pocket in my jacket. The glare on the windows from the pink sunrise keeps me occupied as I wait for the blinds to move.

The blinds slide across the windows right on time. He cracks a window and starts a pot of coffee. While it brews, he goes to the bathroom and disappears for a couple of minutes cleansing himself of the night before. He pours himself the coffee, lights a cigarette, sits in a chair below the open window and flicks the ashes onto the street below. Once he’s done, he gets up, puts on his boots and leaves the apartment vacant. I watch him emerge from the front door of his building and round the corner.

I descend from the box seat of the theater and cross the street to the building. 45987*. The code lock beeps green and the deadbolt hisses open. I enter the lobby and shuffle to the stairwell. I make my way up to the third floor. The right floor is easy to find, the correct door on that floor is much harder. The esoteric maze of hallways, and fire exits numbs your mind.

Today I try my luck on doors 324-331. Picking the locks has gotten easier after testing rooms 300-323.

Door 327’s lock clicks, the tension pick turns and the door swings open on poorly oil hinges. I’m greeted with familiar posters, the loveseat facing the bed, and a bathroom on my left. Everything feels backwards, the top of my tarp is visible across the street through the smoke stained windows.

As I step in, a small gust of wind from the still open window slams the door behind me. A little too loud for comfort. I walk into the apartment, foreign from a new angle.

I start opening drawers, slowly and methodically at first, getting faster as nothing but clothes, shoes, cds, and random wires greet me. I move to the cabinets that contain dusty plates and bowls, half-drunk bottles of liquor, translucent orange plastic containers, and stale bread.

The fridge doesn’t have any food. Just more colorful glass bottles and a six pack of Coors.

The freezer has a frozen pizza that’s covered in a layer of ice and tv dinners.

His sheets are on the floor by the foot of the bed, revealing cardboard boxes that line the underside of his wooden bed frame. Finally something new. It’s Christmas. I slide the first box out and slowly fold open the top. My heart pounds in my chest. Diving through the packing material and old clothes brings me to a collection of earrings. None have their pair.

The next box has a pair of paint stained pants.

I continue opening boxes feverishly. Most are filled with old junk and trinkets.

The bottom of the fifth box has a pair of binoculars. I don’t touch them.

The sixth box is surprisingly light. Nothing’s inside except some styrofoam packing peanuts to keep its shape.

As I stare into the bottom of the box, I hear the distant click of the door. What’s he doing here? This isn’t his schedule. In panic, I slide between the boxes and into the dust under the bed frame.

I squeeze myself against the baseboard heater under the windows. The slow steps approach the center of the room. His boots, covered in mud, track onto the carpets. An earthy smell fills the apartment.

I close my eyes and I grab the knife in the breast pocket of my coat.

He steps on the box spring above me, bending the wooden slats of the bed frame towards my face.

A dirty hand slips between the wall and the mattress and grips my wrist. I yell. There has to be neighbors that can hear me. He yanks my arm away from me and twists it backwards, releasing my knife onto the mattress.

I yell again. This time it’s cut short by my body being pulled from the floor and pressed between the wall and the mattress. The air is forced out of my lungs.

Sharp fingernails dig into my neck. I pry his fingers off with my free hand. He twists my bound hand further backwards, releasing a loud crack from my shoulder.

My scream gets cut short by a punch to the back of the head that leaves a dent in the drywall. I try to cover my head with the free hand but the next punch shoves me deeper into the wall. I cough after inhaling the chalky dust that fills the air. It dries my mouth and throat. A third punch steals my vision and numbs my contorted arm. Consciousness starts to fade.

I wildly swing my free arm, trying to block the incoming assault. The light fades as I’m shoved into the sixth cardboard box.

END