2006.03.11

5 Blocks and 22 Stories

Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 11:17 am by Jeremiah Wittevrongel

Suddenly, I’m awake. The warm confusion of alcohol brushed aside by the cool air. Cool, but not cold; I’m dressed for it.

5 blocks and 22 stories. That’s how far I am from home. There’s a line of cabs waiting outside a bar. Ceili’s. No wait, the cabs are lined up for the bar next door. Last I checked it was 1:30. The bars will be closing soon.

I walk past the theatres. I would have been there earlier, but Dean had car trouble. The show will have to wait.

Now I’m walking past My Apartment. The dance club. It used to be Area 51, and it was Escape before that. At least I think it was. It’s hard to keep track. I wonder if it has changed at all inside.

4 blocks and 22 stories. A man runs past me. He’s talking on his cell phone. Loudly.

“I’m really tired. I’ll be there soon. Stay right where you are, Kate. I love you.”

3 blocks and 22 stories. The man runs up to a young woman, grabs her in a hug. She must be Kate. I hope she’s Kate. She jumps up, wraps her legs around the man. I doubt they realize anyone is around. I’m the only other person on the street.

When he called her, they were only half a block apart. He was speaking so loudly, I’m surprised she couldn’t hear him without the cell phone.

Happily reunited, they stumble into Ceili’s. No, this is the other Ceili’s. The one on 7th. It must almost be last call.

2 blocks and 22 stories. Kate and the man are gone now. I’m alone. The street is empty, but somehow warm and comforting.

I need to urinate. To save time, I cut diagonally across the parking lot. I wave my card at the sensor, but the door won’t unlock. Oh yeah. The sign. This door won’t be unlocked until 5:00. I haven’t come home this late in a while.

22 stories. The front door yields, thankfully. The lights in the elevator are all working. I can’t remember the last time that was true.

There’s a note under my door. “Yearly tenant file update.” Funny, I don’t remember getting a note like this last year. Not that it matters. I’m moving soon.

The warm air in my apartment catches me. I’m suddenly tired again. Goodnight.