Fanta See
As soon as I make it to the first-floor hallway, I’m greeted by a chaotic seascape of packages like some precarious modern
art display. The package box in the lobby is overflowing, and apparently the wreckage has made it all the way to Carmen’s
door now.
It’s only been a day since I was last in this hallway visiting Norm, yet this is what Carmen has accomplished.
My irritation grows with each step I weave through the clusterfuck of a hall and—
Shit.
I almost lose my footing as I stumble on a sneaky package of Carmen’s.
My knuckles wrap furiously against his door, yet I manage to keep the bite out of my voice as I call sweetly, “Carmen, it’s
Mona! Can we chat a sec?”
A full minute passes. I know he has to be in there. Unfortunately, I’ve become somewhat cognizant of this man’s routine. His
breakfast hour at the diner is up, and his rusted Ford pickup truck is still in the parkade.
If Jamie can’t finish up the inspections tomorrow, the viewings Lana wants to arrange can’t happen. And if all these packages
are still here, the viewings won’t go well anyway.
This whole arrangement was meant to show Lana what I could do. If I can’t wrangle a few unruly tenants, why would she trust
me to represent her business?
This is Carmen’s fault, not mine. All his avoidance.
All his bullcrap. It all piles up like the packages against the wall.
I shuffle one of the cardboard boxes into my arms and return to his door.
“Carmen, I know you’re in there!” I knock with my free hand hard enough to shake the door and rattle some old dust embedded in the hall walls. “I have a special delivery for you!”
Finally, a sound creaks behind his door. It nudges open only as far as the security chain allows. He peers through the gap,
his gaze wary and uncertain. “Hey there, Mona.” He smiles at me, calm and unbothered, as if his composure alone could dissolve
my anger. “You can just leave that in the package box.”
“Package box is full.” I hold the box out to wedge into the gap in his door. “These will have to go in your place.”
Maybe it’s my expression that shows I’m not willing to back down, but he unhooks the chain and holds out his arms to accept
the box. A wave of his Old Spice scent reaches me, and the familiarity of it hits me like a brick wall—it’s the same deodorant
my dad used. Carmen steps back slightly, dropping the package onto a nearby table. I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I
try to regain my composure.
“I’m also going to have to ask you to collect all the stray packages,” I continue, with a little crack in my voice.
Carmen shifts from one foot to the next. “Oh, right, sure. I’ll get on that when I—”
“I need all the packages removed right now,” I cut in, voice curling with ire.
His gaze locks with mine, his fingers twitching restlessly against his thighs. For a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed
too far and if this is going to get ugly. Then, without a word, he steps into the hallway and shuts the door behind him with
swift finality.
“You know, Mona,” he hiss-whispers. “I don’t think people around here like how you’re getting up in our personal business.”
“I don’t care about your personal business,” I respond as serenely as I can. “I’m trying to keep this building in order for Irene.”
“And did Irene ask you to booby-trap the laundry room with underwear?” he spits, raising his eyebrows. “Should I tell Irene
about that?”
I glance toward Norm’s door, hoping he’s got those big earphones on, before remembering his gaming hiatus. Dammit.
Behind Carmen's reddening face, I see his suite is cluttered with junk, every surface buried under chaos. Then, on the counter,
my eyes catch on something familiar.
“How about I let Irene know you’ve been messing inside the garbage bins?” I fire back, gesturing toward the garish, fish-shaped
pepper mills I spotted in the trash the other day. “Are you the one screwing up the sorting? You know, we got fined for that.
Maybe I should let Irene know how that happened.”
He holds my stare, his fingers twitching against his thighs. We’re in a stand-off. This is risky. I could’ve pushed some button
to set him off.
But after a long pause, he pushes his door wide and silently backs into the apartment.
“Very well, I’ll just be a moment. No need to wait around while I tidy.” He crouches and manages another box into his arms.
He definitely has something he’s hiding in his suite. I suppress my mind’s attempts to wander into deranged territory.
“That’s not all,” I continue. “I actually came here because I looked into your lease terms, and since you’ve been given ample
warning about the electrician appointment, we’re going to have to let him into your suite at the appointed time tomorrow,
whether you’re around or not.”
Carmen freezes on the spot with the packages he’d gathered. “Are you saying you’re going to break into my apartment tomorrow?”
There’s a threatening edge to his voice.
“I’m saying I’m going to let the electrician in during his final appointed time whether you’re here or not.”
His eyes give nothing of his thoughts away, but his knuckles whiten around the packages.
This guy is used to getting his way for too long with Irene’s management. He could very well just call her right now and complain
and I’d be hooped, but I have nothing to lose if we don’t get the inspections sorted.
“I just need another week to get all ready for the guy. If Irene were managing the place she’d let me.”
It’s the shake in his voice, the sweat at his temple. His nervousness is making me all kinds of nervous myself. He’s probably
going to go to Irene and complain now. “I understand that, but that time was already given, and now that we’ve learned the
issue about the wires, getting this done in time is essential to prevent a more serious fire.”
His eyes flash and he seems to decide something. “Well, I may as well pull the Band-Aid off now. Come on in, we need to have
a proper chat.” He waves me over as he opens his door.
It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening. Against my better senses, I take a tentative step into his apartment. Immediately,
the air thickens with dust and an odd kind of dread.
I don’t know what I was picturing his place to be, but every surface is covered in items that are both random and out of place:
An old-timey sewing machine takes over the kitchen table. Piles of vinyl records are stacked on the counters. Shelves sagging
under the weight of a plethora of trinkets hold up the back wall where a normal person would put their couch.
But it’s the tightness in his fists, the fiddling of his fingers, that keeps drawing my attention. I have no move but to swallow
my fear and say, “You have such interesting things.”
Instantly, I make eye contact with a creepy-ass porcelain doll that seems to be sucking the souls from its surrounding area.
I thought this guy was sketchy, but this shrine to weird garbage—and his nervousness at me seeing it—puts my instincts on
high alert.
He smiles hesitantly. “Please, have a seat.” He splays his palm toward the one chair in the room that a person could feasibly
sit on, even though it’s a little stained and holey in areas where I pretend not to notice.
I don’t sit down, but he asks, “Can I offer you a drink?” He weaves to his kitchen and pulls open his fridge door. “Lucky
you, I have some Fanta.” He fishes out a half-full two-liter bottle and starts pouring it into a cup before I can even reply.
He holds it out for me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I accept the mug with the scratched Flames logo on it and politely
fake a sip before resting it on his counter. It looks flat and smells overly sweet and concerningly bright yellow.
He pours the last of the bottle into another mug and leans against the opposite side of his counter.
Maybe it takes a true man of culture to know that an old mug while in a musty apartment is the proper way to serve a Fanta?
“Well,” Carmen starts, suddenly looking sheepish. “You got me. I suppose it’s all over then.”
Again, he shakes his head, clearly stressed. He eyes the console in the corner where a TV would normally go. Instead, there’s
a tripod set up for a phone camera. A black cloth is stapled to the opposite wall and on top of it is a sign that reads:
#onemansjunk
I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I try my best to avoid looking at his IRL “junk” as his hands twitch nervously next
to it.
“What is all this?” I ask, though I’m afraid to know.
I feel his eyes on me as I once again make eye contact with that doll.
“My business,” Carmen says. “It’s the only thing I can do to make ends meet right now.”
With all his sketchy-ass ways of meeting people and having associates, I was hoping he was simply selling drugs. I stiffen, suddenly afraid to touch anything. This is probably some kind of low-rent porn situation that I don’t want to learn more about.
Unfortunately, Carmen keeps talking. “I find it’s best to be consistent. Every item I put on the marketplace is photographed
there before I upload it online.” He points to the little camera area. “I specialize in antiques and collectibles, but I’ll
take pretty much any junk off you for a fee.”
The relief is instant. Carmen is a junk dealer. “So . . . you sell used items?” Suddenly his name, #onemansjunk, makes all
the sense in the world and is actually quite genius branding (if still on the creepy side of the scale, but he’s always going
to be fucking like that, I guess).
“Those are creepy little freaks, aren’t they?” He nods to the dolls, trailing my stare. “I personally wouldn’t even give them
to my daughter. I’ve seen too many of the horror films to know what they’re capable of, but there are some people that’ll
pay a pretty penny for them.”
“Carmen,” I say slowly. “You can’t run a business out of your home. It’s a violation of your lease.”
“It’s more like a hobby. There’s no need to bring eviction into this,” Carmen says defensively. Then he snaps his finger like