Chapter 15
AS I STIR the pasta I’m attempting to whip up on my mini stove, I’m still stewing over this Ed de Vries situation. Maybe the fame finally went to his head and he figured, New York? Pffft . . . I’m not really in the mood for a ten-hour flight.
Thankfully, I have a new plan now—Rudy. The Grinch Next Door, who would probably rather lose a kidney to our local organ trafficker than agree to perform Christmas tunes.
The water from my taps is all clear again, thank God, so I won’t need to knock on his door for my next shower. At least the shower I had at his place was surprisingly warm compared to the cold shower that was our very first encounter.
As I stir the contents of my enormous pot—there’s enough pasta in here to serve a lavish meal to an entire sports team—a thought flashes through my mind.
Maybe Rudy hasn’t had dinner yet. He might be in the mood for his first home-cooked meal since last Christmas.
Just as a thank you for letting me use his shower last night.
And maybe to butter him up a little for the question I eventually plan to ask.
I stare at the pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. Sure, my pasta is tasty, but it’s not so delicious that it could make someone cast aside his principles. Maybe I should add some fresh basil?
I hear the sound of footsteps walking up the hall, coming to a stop at Rudy’s door. I hesitate. Maybe this is too pushy. I already spent all of last night on his couch, although he didn’t necessarily seem to mind.
I bite my lip when I hear the jingle of keys. I can’t afford to mess this up. If I’m planning to ask him for a favour, at the very least I need him to like me.
I dump my ladle in the pot before running to the door, yanking it open just as Rudy’s about to walk into his place.
He startles. He’s wearing a tee that reads HAPPINESS CAFé—a name that doesn’t match the expression on his face in any way.
He smells like coffee, has dark circles under his eyes, and looks like he would kill for a cold beer.
Which is something I just happen to have in my fridge.
Hey. Sup. I keep my greeting as casual as possible, even tossing a check-out-how-chill-I-am nod into the mix as I lean against the door frame.
Rudy looks confused. What’s going on with you? he asks with a suspicious chuckle. Do you need someone to deal with a spider or something?
Semi-offended, I cross my arms in front of my chest. No. But good to know you’re open to that kind of thing.
I’d rather not, he laughs, shaking his head. Hey, I’m just about to order some food. Long day today.
Hang on! I shout, stepping out into the hall. I stop and look down at my shoeless feet, now in direct contact with the grubby floor.
And that’s when it happens.
I attempt to hop back into my apartment to put some distance between my bare feet and the hallway floor that could very well be host to an orgy of flesh-eating bacteria.
Instead, my door closes behind me with a loud click.
In silence that follows, I slowly turn around, blink a few times, and yell fuck so loudly that a little old lady a few doors down sticks her head out to see what’s happening.
Hey, watch your language, young lady, she hisses, pointing her cigarette in my direction.
Her hair is twisted up into a loose bun and she’s wearing a violently pink robe with fuzzy trim.
The face of a moody looking cat appears at her feet.
It’s probably wondering what on earth is happening outside its small apartment.
And watch your volume, the woman continues.
I don’t even have my hearing aids turned on and I could still hea—Oh no! Gertrude!
It takes me a second to realize that Gertrude is the long-haired pure-bred cat who looks like all her previous attempts at escape were derailed by running face-first into a wall.
Gertrude darts out into the hall. The woman clasps a wrinkled hand to her mouth, looking on in shock as the love of her life hits the road.
Then, narrowing her eyes, she turns to Rudy and me.
You! She points her cigarette first at us, then at the corner where the cat just disappeared from view. Catch her!
I hear Rudy stifle a laugh and for a moment I’m at a loss for what to do next.
And then I shift into action. I sprint after the massive ball of white fluff at a speed that could win me first place at the Boston Marathon.
But this fluff ball has zero intentions of being caught.
I hear Rudy running behind me, still struggling not to burst into laughter.
And bringing up the rear, the old woman has launched into an unsteady trot as she calls out directions like, Don’t grab her by the belly, she doesn’t like that!
All of this while Gertrude deftly dodges her way between any obstacles.
So, this is what our little cat-chasing train looks like: me in a mindless panic and guilt-ridden over my outburst, Rudy gasping for air since he stopped trying to hold back his buoyant laughter, and an elderly lady who still holds a shocking level of speed in those rusty hips of hers.
Once I’ve corralled the cat into a corner, I attempt to catch her with a swooping leap worthy of an Olympic gymnast, but bolts between my legs to escape. I channel my inner sailor with some more expletives only to be reprimanded again by the little old cat lady.
Yeah, Bluebird. You’d better stop swearing. Rudy pants slightly as he adds to her scolding.
When I look back at him to make a snarky retort, I notice a delighted twinkle in his eyes.
Oh my God. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I snap at him.
. . . maybe. Either way, when it comes to my view right now, you won’t be hearing any complaints, he says, as his eyes drift down to my butt. I rush to cover my cheeks with my hands.
Look away! I squeal.
Nuh-uh. There’s a wicked grin on his lips and he keeps staring at my ass without a hint of shame.
You know what you can d— I’m interrupted when Gertrude suddenly reappears. As she passes by me in a triumphant trot, I notice a fuzzy object in her mouth.
Ewww! She caught a mouse! I shriek when the cat drops the thing to the ground.
Or at least it’s something that probably used to be a mouse, Rudy chimes in. It looks like it’s been dead for a while. He bends over to pick up Gertrude, as she begins to thrash and flail in desperate attempts to reunite with her semi-decomposed prey.
A creaky voice speaks up. You’re holding her all wrong. The old woman has finally caught up with us. There, there, Gertrude. Let’s go home.
She snatches the wailing cat from Rudy’s arms and wedges her into her armpit. And with one last angry glare our way, she turns to hobble back toward her apartment, calming her cat with gentle whispers as she goes.
Well, that was Agnes, Rudy tells me as he shakes his head. Crabbiest person in the whole building and completely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. But I’d still rather run into her in the middle of the night than the guy in 53. He runs a casual hand through his hair.
Number 53? I ask with curiosity.
The organ trafficker, he explains, pointing toward the end of the hall. Seems like a nice enough dude, but—
You told me that was never proven! I shout at him.
True, but no smoke without fire, right? he counters as we make our way back to our apartments. Speaking of smoke . . . He nods at the grey clouds billowing up from under my door.
The penetrating scent of burnt spaghetti sauce wafts toward me and I cover my mouth in shock.
My dinner! I run for the door and start ramming my shoulder into it repeatedly.
Gertrude’s great escape completely distracted me from the fact that I’d locked myself out of my place with the pot still on the burner. Never a great combination of events, but even worse in a building that probably hasn’t seen a fire inspection since Lincoln’s presidency.
You don’t have a key? Rudy asks, looking on with wide eyes as I flush two thousand dollars’ worth of rental deposit down the toilet.
I glare at him with a fierce what-do-you-think look in my eyes before rattling the door handle. In a way, it’s kind of comforting that I can’t just jimmy the door open, knowing that I live on the same floor as an organ trafficker. Correction: alleged organ trafficker.
Hang on, I’m getting Mary!
The gravity of the situation seems to have sunk in as Rudy runs to fetch the woman who let me in on my first day here. Within seconds, I hear a jangling bunch of keys coming my way.
Dear oh dear, Mary mumbles once she’s at my door trying out one key after the other. Oh jeez, it’s not this one either. I really should take the time to label them.
Hey, Mary? How about getting someone to take a look at the smoke detectors, too. It’s kind of weird none of them are going off right now, Rudy interjects as he points at the ceiling.
All in good time, dear boy. All in good time . . . Ah, there we go!
When Mary swings open my door, we’re met by an odorous cloud of burnt tomato, oregano, and garlic.
Coughing, I run over to the stove, turn off the gas, and take in the sight of the jet black sauce welded into the metal pot.
The plastic spoon I left sitting in the pot has completely melted and is giving off a phenomenal stench.
As I survey the still life of distorted plastic and cremated pasta sauce, I can’t help but realize how lucky I am. This could have been so much worse.
I feel a hand touch my shoulder and look up. Rudy might have seemed amused earlier tonight, but his eyes are full of compassion right now.
You okay? he asks, sounding concerned.
I take a deep breath—immediately regretting that move since I’m probably pulling more noxious chemicals into my lungs in this single moment than a chain smoker would inhale over the course of thirty years. I make my way over to the window.
Yeah. All good, I mutter. As I open the window, fresh air pours into the room. So much for buttering Rudy up with a meal.
Didn’t I tell you to just order food?
I turn around and notice his tentative smile. An effort to lighten the mood.
I don’t exactly have any other options now, I sigh. I’m out of pots and pans.
We’re silent for a moment. Rudy looks a bit lost at first, before casually gliding his hands into his pockets.
Pizza? he finally suggests. At my place? Not to be a dick, but your place smells like crap right now.
As I look up at him with a slight sense of hope, I feel the corners of my mouth slowly curl up. The thought of spending the entire evening in this foul smell isn’t exactly enticing.
I’d like that. Thank you.