A short, short story partially based off my real neighbors. Is the title too weak? Let me know what you think.
The woman upstairs is vacuuming again. It is the third time today. Self-consciously I look at my own beige-colored carpet littered with cheerios and crushed cracker crumbs. I could pull out the Bissell but then I’d have to pick up the dirty laundry Tony leaves all over the apartment. If I pick up his dirty socks I might as well wash them.
Which reminds me that I have run out of fabric softener. A yellow post-it on my fridge has a list of items I need from the store. Things like sandwich bags, tomato soup, light bulbs, and cereal. I rummage through my junk drawer looking for something to write with. All I can find is a broken purple crayon. I add fabric softener to the list and listen to the woman upstairs vacuum.
Perhaps she has a compulsive disorder that requires her to vacuum up the slightest speck of dirt. I’d love to turn her loose in my apartment. It might actually be clean for a whole day! Or perhaps her husband is a perfectionist that demands his house be spotless at all times. I have never officially met the people upstairs. But now that I think about it he does look awfully stern.
Restless, I think about taking the trash out. It is starting to smell from the carton of eggs that fell out of my fridge the other day. My pale blue linoleum floor is still sticky where the yolks oozed like splattered brain matter. I’ll never understand why Tony balanced those eggs on top of the jar of Pace picante sauce. Finally, I muster up enough self-motivation to slip on my red flip flops and grab the offensive bag of trash.
Outside it is glaringly bright but even with the cloudless sky it is surprisingly cold. I hurry to the green painted dumpster and heave the black Hefty bag in amongst my neighbor’s trash. I notice Shelia from D-21 getting her mail. I wonder if the only shoes she owns are high heels. Her black curly hair, is as always perfect, plastered down with a can of Pantene aerosol hairspray. She is wearing a bright pink sweater that clings to her figure and ridiculously tight white denim capris. I don’t have to see her face to know that she is wearing too much eyeliner and her signature fire-engine red lipstick.
I hurry inside as she turns towards me, shuffling through her junk mail and bills. I told Tony once that I thought she was a prostitute. He laughed at me. “No seriously,” I protested. “Here are my reasons why,” I held up my fingers as I ticked off my list, “First of all, look at the way she dresses. I mean, she wears daisy dukes and stilettos to the grocery store. Secondly, the only time I have ever seen her leave her apartment is for groceries or to go bar-hopping on Saturday nights. Also, she has a brand new Audi, a Chanel handbag, and I know for a fact that she has three pairs of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. The clincher, there are different men in and out of her apartment all day.”
“Maybe she is dealing drugs,” Tony suggested sipping on a can of Pepsi.
“Aha,” I raised my hand for emphasis, “You could think that. But if that were the case wouldn’t she have female customers as well? Have you ever seen a girl with Shelia?”
“Okay,” Tony conceded, “If she is doing so good why is she living in a place like this?” He made a good point. Not like we live in a dump or even a bad neighborhood. But if Shelia is a prostitute and a prosperous one at that, why doesn’t she move into one of those ritzy new lofts they built across the highway? I know it is a mean thing to think, but I still have my suspicions.
As I sit on my battered brown couch pondering this the phone rings. It is Holly from the third floor. “Hey,” she says pausing and I know she is puffing on a Camel, “you got any shortening I can borrow?” I look above the stove in the cupboard and see a dusty container of Crisco.
“Can shortening go bad?” I ask searching for an expiration date on the blue container.
Holly exhales loudly, “I don’t think so. I’ll be down in a minute.” Click.
Hurriedly, I shove my husband’s dirty laundry in the laundry room and shut the door. I straighten some papers on the table and glare at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. I even spray a bit of Lysol to cover up the lingering smell of rotten eggs. Holly knocks briskly on my door and I greet her with the Crisco in hand. Naturally, she pushes her way in and her two-pack a day scent follows her.
I watch her platinum blonde head disappear as she rummages through my fridge and helps herself to a beer. I’m not even sure why there is beer in our fridge. Tony and I both hate the taste of beer. Holly props her spandex clad hip against my counter as she takes a swig. “God, my fucken’ Mother-in-law is coming over for dinner. I promised Mark I’d make something real nice.” Holly scowls. Her skin looks orange like a spray-on tan gone horribly wrong. “I can’t stand that woman. You know what she said last time she came over for dinner? I had everything perfect and she bitches about me not having lace doilies under my vases. Who the hell even makes doilies anymore?” I watch her nearly chug the beer before she belches loudly. She deftly tosses the empty bottle in the trash. “Thanks for the Crisco.” And then she is gone.
I spray more Lysol to cover up her cigarette scent. Glancing at the digital clock on my microwave I realize it is already four-thirty. My cupboards don’t offer too much in the form of a gourmet dinner. Settling, I pull a pound of raw hamburger from the fridge and a box of Hamburger Helper from the pantry. Macaroni Casserole, one of Tony’s favorites. As I fry up the hamburger I hear the woman upstairs vacuuming again.
