A Norm Moment
When I enter the main floor lobby on Wednesday, my annoyance immediately bubbles. Carmen’s package box is seriously overflowing,
and several other boxes litter the floor. Not only that, there’s a bunch of random objects in the box now, like a couple of
foam pool noodles and what seems to be the head of a mascot of some kind. It’s like he’s decided this is simply another storage
area for him, just like the entirety of the storage unit and what I’m sure is in his apartment. I sigh. I’ll have to talk to Carmen about it during his electric inspection on Friday.
Right now, I have to focus on my true mission in this hall.
“Norman Olivers” is a sadly common name. Over fifty profiles populated on Facebook when I searched it this morning. Still,
I clicked through them all. Most of them were random dudes not from the area, or who obviously didn’t look like Norm. I scrolled
until I found the profile of a mid-fifties self-described “Wannabe Sugar Daddy” from Coeur d’Alene. After that, I decided
against social media stalking, lest I ended up finding photos of wiry white pubes as a result.
Back to my field investigation, then.
Truthfully, I can’t get Jane’s miserable expression out of my head.
I don’t know why this is so incredibly important to her, but clearly it runs deep.
And honestly, Norm’s raised enough red flags at this point that I think it’s worth checking out.
When I went into his suite a few weeks ago, I felt pretty sure he wasn’t a serial killer. But a panty thief? Maybe.
My knock lands on Norm’s door, overtaking the sounds filtering through the ceiling of a TV blaring some daytime show with
an overly hyped audience. The walls here really are so paper thin, it’s unbelievable any of us could manage to keep a secret.
I hear movement, but he doesn’t answer immediately. I wait and notice the distinct scent of hot dogs wafting from the apartment
at the end of the hall, which makes sense since it’s close to lunchtime.
It hits at once. If I’m smelling Fighting Couple’s hot dog party (or whatever the fuck they’re doing in there), and not the
usual vile scent of Norm’s apartment, then Norm must have cleaned out whatever was causing the smell. And at least that’s
one problem solved.
I knock one more time. The audience on the TV upstairs screams like they just got told they’re about to be millionaires or
that they’re going home with a free cookbook.
Just as I’m about to give up, the knob jangles and the door creaks open.
“Hey, Norm!” I hold up the grease-darkened paper bag I’d picked up from Sami’s. “I brought lunch.”
His eyes widen at the sight of me. He’s in a black golf shirt, black sweats, and bright white socks. “Sorry, what?” He rubs
his forehead with the back of his hand.
I hold up the bag again, hoping it might tempt him the way I’d wave a piece of chicken in front of Ernest’s snout. “I brought
you a BLT and fries. Sami says that’s your usual.”
“Why?” He looks mildly horrified.
“I believe I owe you an apology for how terribly things went with the electrician.” His tense expression softens slightly,
a hint of understanding replacing the terror in his eyes. “So would you maybe want to have lunch with me? It doesn’t have
to be here.”
“Oh.” He stiffens. I get the feeling the guy can’t do conflict in any way, and perhaps that’s the only reason he props the door open for me. “Okay.”
I follow him in and push the door shut behind me. I confirm, the rancid odor that overwhelmed me the last time I was here
has been completely eradicated. We creak across the wooden floor to his living room. He motions for me to sit on one side
of the floral-patterned sofa.
I settle in and take out my sandwich and fries and notice his gaming chair is tucked away neatly under the desk. The surface
is tidied, all the half-filled glasses are gone.
I hand him the bag, and he pulls out his sandwich—a steaming, greasy concoction wrapped in paper. I notice the bandage wrapped
around his palm. “Hey, how is your hand?”
“It’s okay now,” he says. “I, um, just have to stay off my gaming controller until the stitches can come out.”
I nod. “Oh, that’s a bummer.”
He takes a small bite, then casts his eyes down at the sandwich thoughtfully. “I guess I kind of needed a break,” he mutters.
“I’m still really sorry it was such a shit show with that guy that day.”
“It’s fine.” He nods meekly before holding out his sandwich. “And thank you for this. It’s . . . nice of you.”
“My pleasure.” I smile.
I free my sandwich from the paper wrapper—a chicken Caesar wrap—and we start eating in silence.
Norm doesn’t seem particularly creepy right now, just painfully shy.
But then again, you can never be too sure.
Honestly, I’m not certain what I expected to find here—perhaps the stolen panties framed above his couch?
Obviously, Jane’s underwear wouldn’t be sitting out in the open, especially if he was crafty enough to swipe it unnoticed from a dryer.
I can’t exactly confront him and ask if he’s the panty thief, and snooping around his room isn’t an option—nor is it something I’d want to do.
But there has to be something I can figure out one way or the other.
He shifts to grab a fry and from the bag and his feet twist closer. His bright white socks are like little beacons and—of
course! I point to them. “Wow, I can’t help but notice your socks are so . . . bright.”
“Oh.” Norm looks at his feet like he’s only noticing he has them. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
“You washed them in our laundry room?”
“What?” His voice cracks with concern—maybe because of my weird line of questioning, but maybe because I’m onto him.
“Your socks. Do you wash them in the basement?”
“Um, yeah.” The tops of his ears redden. It’s just enough to convince me I really have to be onto something here.
“And how do you work the machine to get them so white?”
He stares at me for a second, aghast, before answering. “Oh, um, I use just a little bleach in that hole that says . . . bleach.
Maybe that’s it?”
I nod vigorously. “Brilliant! I’m going to have to try that too if those basement machines can deliver like that.” I smile
enthusiastically—okay, maybe a little manically. He grimaces and looks a bit like he’s going to shit his pants. “Do you know
when you washed those socks?”
“What?” He puts his sandwich back on the table.
“I just, I mean . . .” I stumble for some way to keep this conversation feeling normal. “Your socks look so fresh. I was thinking
you must’ve washed them recently.”
He slowly inches his feet away from me as he answers. “I don’t remember.”
“So you usually do laundry at night?”
He’s gone completely stiff.
“Yeah?”
“And do you like the laundry room?”
“Um, I guess it’s . . . okay.” He stares straight ahead as he talks now.
“That’s great! I’d been wondering how people are enjoying the building facilities lately.” I look directly at him. “What would
you say is your favorite thing about our laundry room?”
Instantly, his hands clench into fists. I maybe went too far—it’s not like he was going to confess. “Mona, I know what you’re
doing.” His voice has gone cold. “But you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
His tone draws a chill through me. I glance at the distance between me and the exit.
He watches me with his dark, observant eyes. “I’ll never let it happen again, okay?”
Oh my god, am I about to get a confession? “What do you mean?”
His eyes cast down. “The day of the inspection, I overheard the electrician . . .” His lips tremble insecurely as he speaks.
“I’m sorry. I guess I was too used to it to notice, but I shouldn’t have let it get so bad.”
Ah, right. Jamie had to open his big mouth and say it stunk in here. No, actually, he was agreeing that I said it stunk in here.
“Hey,” I start. “Thank you for doing all that, but I should’ve handled it better. Really, I didn’t expect the electrician
to be so rude.” I consider that for a moment, then add, “Though, honestly, I should’ve after the first ten minutes of being
in his presence.”
Norm’s lips quirk up a bit at this. “I don’t want to be a bother.” His voice cracks again, and this time I realize it’s not
concern about being caught—he’s embarrassed. “I guess I sort of sunk into a gaming hole when my mom passed.” His jaw clenches
around his words, stiff with fresh pain. “Things got away from me.”
His mother? I gaze around the apartment, taking in all the little figurines and old-lady furniture. The décor is starting to make a lot more sense.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say softly. “So, she liked birds, I take it?”
His eyes follow mine to the china cabinet. “Yeah.” He smiles like he’s recalling a memory. “My mom collected them. When I
was little, I actually thought they were pretty creepy.” He looks around himself, as if he’s just now realizing what his apartment
looks like.
“At first it was nice to feel like—to have her stuff. And it was during Covid, so buying new things felt too hard. But it’s
probably time . . .” His voice fades off. He sounds a little haunted.
Norm is surrounded by his mom’s belongings, and I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to lose a parent in the way he has.
Is the grief more open, perhaps simpler?
Or is it harder to have a parent like mine, who left nothing but a hole I can’t close? That lingering hope for a chance, only
to realize it will never come. I force those thoughts back down, swallowing them before they can ignite the anger bubbling
just beneath the surface.
I can feel Norm’s eyes on me, and I can’t help but wonder what emotions must be written across my face. But something in my
gut tells me he’s not Jane’s panty thief, though I have no proof to exonerate. He just seems kind of . . . alone.
I suppress the vision of him tediously unpacking each bird from bubble wrap and setting them out all by himself.
“Losing a parent is tough,” I say, my voice steady at first. Then, after a pause and a deep breath, I quietly admit, “I recently
lost my dad.”
He nods like he already knows this—or perhaps he sees something in me, a shared understanding I’ll need to recognize now that I’ve become part of this unspoken club.
“It’s the little things they don’t prepare you for, eh?
” he says. “Like grieving is one thing, but going through expired prescriptions and old recipe books is another.”
“Yeah.” I nod, like I understand, but of course my mom must’ve dealt with all that stuff (or simply left it). My mind drifts
to the one box my dad gave me when I last saw him. And still, it’s buried deep in my closet, unopened.
Just then, Norm’s laptop dings on his desk. He meets my gaze, his fingers tightening around his napkin. “Thanks again for
the lunch,” he says, his voice sincere. “It was nice having a . . . talking to you.” There’s a warmth in his eyes that makes
me believe he means it—that he appreciated the company. He glances toward his screen and exhales. “I should get back. Time
to log in—our colleagues are waiting.”
His words halt me.
Norm walks over to his desk and jiggles his mouse. The logo on his monitor’s background is for Westmore Communications.
It’s been a long time since IT moved fully remote post-Covid. A long time since Norm worked in person at my office.
I can’t believe I missed this.
A memory floods my mind from six years ago, when I was still newish at Westmore and needed some help setting up my laptop.
An IT guy—Norm, I realize now, with longer hair that hung over his face—came by to help. It was awkward, or rather, he was awkward. Shaky, sweaty. He was wearing too-large jeans and a wrinkled polo. Corbin came to my desk while Norm was working
on the installation to gossip with me about some client he was helping our boss Carolyne with, and I didn’t even give Norm
a second glance until he interrupted us to let me know he had finished.
After he left, Corbin said, “God, it must be nice to just be the computer guy—working nine to five and not giving a fuck how
you look. Imagine if we showed up for a client meeting like that?”
He looked at me expectantly with a smirk on his lips.
I didn’t say anything, but I smiled.
I didn’t think Norm heard. He was far enough down the hall by then. But what if he did?
All these years later, I’d totally forgotten about him, even when he was living in my own building.
It’s like I’m talking to a ghost as I stand. “Hope you have a good afternoon. If you ever want to vent about work, call me.”
“Thanks.” He smiles insecurely before turning to his desk. “And let me know if the . . . if there are any other issues I can
help with.”
I pause at the doorway. He’s IT. He must have access to everyone’s emails. Does he know about my current situation?
As I open the door, Norm answers his cell phone. “Hello? Yep, I’ll be working on your data recovery.”
Norm’s right there, working for the office I love, while I’m about to go eat soggy fries in front of Alice.
On the other end of the line comes the sound of someone freaking out. He’s probably trying to finalize some big presentation
at the eleventh hour, and his computer crapped out. Those days feel so far away.
I close the door behind me, locking away the sounds of my old life.
I pull out my phone and confirm that the group chat is still a ghost town. Other than Olivia privately asking me how my Lana
thing is going (again), there’s nothing from my old life in my phone.
But I can recognize Corbin’s voice anywhere.