Some Ragrats #3
railing and trying not to puke with every step, a burning plasticky tinge infuses the air. Notable, since the lobby normally
rotates between three odors: cabbage; weed; and fake-cinnamon cleaning product.
Someone else comes pounding down the stairs behind me and pushes around me, thrusting open the door to the lobby.
It’s funny how our guts can sense danger before our brains even realize. That odd, unsettled feeling I’ve had steps into overdrive.
Before I even see it, I know, somewhere deep in my soul. The lobby is completely disheveled. The dark wood end table is knocked
over, the massive old lamp that usually sits on it now shattered on the floor. Wilted flowers are scattered everywhere; the
vase they came from has mysteriously vanished. There’s an ancient armchair of unknown origin (a chair that somebody likely
has, or may soon, jerk off in, given its age). Flyers and stacks of books pour out of the cabinet that one might call our
building’s little library. The remnants of those papers and books are now littered across the room like a small tornado swept
them up and ripped them into shreds. What kind of monster would do such a thing?
I catch the neighbor (Divorced Dad in 4B) who’d so hurriedly pushed past me moments ago now paused, surveying the wreckage.
A flash of memory sweeps into my head: myself last night, stumbling into the lobby and bumping over the end table, causing
the lamp to fall and break.
But all this other mess . . . No, that’s not possible. Someone else must’ve come in after me and made it worse. That’s not me, I would never . . .
My breath halts in my chest. I know exactly who I sound like, and my throat threatens to close before I force myself to swallow
those thoughts down. Of course it was me; I need at least to face the truth. This is why I never get drunk—I know very well
it’s not something I can handle.
The broken vase I woke up to came from the table, and that’s why all the flowers were scattered. It was next to the lamp.
I remember being upset with this place, upset I’d be stuck here for the foreseeable future, even though I deserved to be in
a better apartment by now. I can’t believe I took my grief out like this.
Then I see what the neighbor’s eyes are caught on: the whiteboard attached to the wall, which the landlady occasionally posts
notices on about routine pest control visits and reminders to please sort recyclable materials correctly or the building will be fined. Now I see a new phrase has been scribbled across it, and the few words I catch on it are: vagina in the kitchen sink . . .
No! I hugely fucked up last night. And there’s a whole building of people who’ve just witnessed it.
In the upper corner of the room, a red light blinks steadily. The lobby camera. Fuck. Not only have I tanked my career, now
I’ve made myself a prime candidate for eviction.
Or worse. Vandalism could be classified as criminal. Arrest isn’t off the table.
A cold wave of panic floods through me, locking up my limbs. I have to get to that camera before Irene, the landlady, notices.
Does it record footage somewhere? Is it live-streamed? I veer toward the camera, desperate for answers, but a firefighter
with an impressively classic mustache charges toward me and blocks the space in front of me. “Everyone needs to get out immediately.”
“I forgot something important,” I whine. I try for a pleading expression, but he just heaves out a sigh like he’s used to this specific challenge. I need to think fast. “It’s . . . I have a pet I forgot!”
“We can get someone on it once you’re outside.” He doesn’t move.
“I really would rather help her to safety myself. She only trusts me.” I lock eyes with him, hoping to channel my desperation
into something convincing, but I can tell there’s not going to be any budging. You don’t grow a mustache that serious just
for shits.
The stairwell door behind us opens again, and another one of my neighbors (the one I creatively call Weird Girl Beside Me
in 4D) emerges holding a struggling cat. Yet another firefighter with a loud radio crackling on his belt is standing behind
her, hustling her out. Man, they really go hard getting people out of alarmed buildings.
“Ma’am?” The mustache is looking at me expectantly: “What type of pet and what unit?”
“Right.” I smile. “She’s black. Pretty small.” The firefighter ticks his jaw expectantly. I practically choke the words out.
“Her name is Alice. She’s a Black Moor, and I’d really rather save her myself.”
I try one last attempt to make my way past, and this guy actually yells, “Ma’am you’re not allowed to go into a building during
an active alarm to save a goldfish.”
I didn’t expect him to know what a Black Moor was.
I nod meekly and suppress the urge to cry. He notices and offers a conciliatory “Your life’s the one that matters most right
now.”
Given everything that’s happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, it feels more like a philosophical lecture than he realizes.
I look at the ruined lobby once more, then the camera, before I turn toward the door.
Is this my life? I guess, like everything else, it’s going up in flames.