Broadside Hamdy Elgammal
I was alone at the warehouse that Sunday morning when all this, for lack of a better word, started. After college I careened from one dead-end job to the next, avoided people, drove long trips on my own where I drank boxed wine and listened to the classical music station on the radio. Years passed. Soon enough, too soon, I found myself in the studio apartment I now call home. My hair greyed behind my ears, my toenails turned the color of dead leaves. These days it seems as if all my memories are stuck in a file cabinet that’s being consumed by a slow, persistent fire. Sometimes I don’t know if the moment I’m in is now or ten years ago. That Sunday morning I woke up, darted out of bed, brushed my teeth, ate some dry Cheerios straight from the box, washed them down with a glass of milk. I left for the warehouse. As I exited my building, I saw Mrs. Green, the octogenarian who lives in 2B walking her brown cat near the building entrance. Mrs. Green’s bathrobe was wide open, exposing her t-shirt with a large print of a cat’s face. Her grey curly hair had streaks of deep blue dye where it sprouted from her forehead. “Good day to you, Mrs. Green,” I said. “And to you!” Mrs. Green said, beaming a smile at me. She let go of the cat’s leash, walked towards me and linked my arm in hers. “Rick,” she started. She smelled like cat food and burnt olive oil. “It’s Paul.” She paused, blinking twice at me. “Okay Paul,” she said. “Do you know what happened in 4A?” “4A? You must be talking about another apartment.” “No, 4A.” 26
Jersey Devil Press
