Breaking Out (Part Two)

W.S. found an ad in the newspaper, “Third floor, one-bedroom, walk-up---middle apartment available.” “Perfect!” he yelled. “We can afford the rent. Let’s grab it.” We contacted the landlord, who said he would meet us early the next morning. And, he informed us that another couple had scheduled to look at it tomorrow afternoon. That presented a problem. W.S. had a class with a scheduled exam, and I had to go to work.

We had to be out of our potential landing pad by the end of the month, cheap apartments were hard to find, and we knew we’d lose this one if we didn’t act fast. So, W.S. said into the phone, “We’ll take it. I’ll drop off the rent on my way to class tomorrow morning.”

The outside of the building looked presentable, but the third floor walk-up stairs seemed a bit steep. With promises of beer and fried chicken, W.S. rounded up two fellow students to help us move. “Couldn’t you have found two bigger guys?” I asked. Little Stu must have weighed 100 pounds, and gangly Marty had a bad habit of falling over his own feet. After helplessly watching our mattress tumble down the stairs twice, I decided not to watch what was going on.

We had splurged on a pretty nice flea market sofa. It didn’t smell of mold or cigars. And we had purchased an overhanging lamp that needed to be screwed into the ceiling. W.S. wasn’t handy, but, “This I can do!” he happily exclaimed, screwing in the lamp, which he plugged into the outlet on the wall. We were finally home.

 After sending Stu and Marty on their way, we fell into bed exhausted; anticipating our first good night’s rest in months. Our bed was firmly braced against the wall and no airplane would be shaking our floor.

A light rain pitter-pattered against the window as I drifted off.  A few minutes later, I awoke to the unmistakable sound of overly heavy breathing. “You’re snoring,” I mumbled. Whereupon the snoring turned into rhythmic snorts. I rolled over and saw that W.S. was sitting up in bed, and now we were being entertained with a cacophony of sputtering, wheezing and an occasional whistle thrown in for variety.

“It’s not me,” W.S. groaned, ”I was kind of hoping that it was you.” “Well, I’m awake,” I said, “It must be the guy next door. Let me try a little knock,” So, I tapped on the wall, and was rewarded with blessed silence---just long enough to fall back to sleep before the symphony began again.

A few hours later, after our knuckles began to ache, we decided to move the bed to the other wall. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the snoring became a distant rumble. The sprinkle outside had now developed into a major deluge with intermittent thunder and lightning. Just as I was falling asleep---one more time, W.S. poked me, “Did you leave the water running in the bathroom?” “No,” I growled, “but if you are worried, get up and take a look.” Reluctantly he got up and went into the bathroom. Returning to bed, he said, “It’s okay.” “Good,” I replied, “Can we go to sleep now?”

When I awakened the next morning the sun was shining, W.S. was fast asleep, and no one was snoring from behind the wall. Life was good---except---except; I still heard the unmistakable sound of running water. “How can that be?” I mused looking out of the window, “It’s not raining outside.” At that, I walked into the living room and discovered that our hanging ceiling lamp had transformed itself, in the middle of the night, into a dangling fountain, and water was spraying in beautiful streams all over our new flea market couch.

W.S. the unhandiest of handymen had screwed our new lamp directly into the middle of the three-apartment rain gutter. Grabbing a bucket, I yelled, “I think we just lost our deposit,” as my chagrined husband came into the room and offered me a towel.

The next night, there was no sound from the other side of the bedroom wall---no snoring, no wheezing, and no whistling. “He’s dead!” said W.S. “What do you mean, he’s dead?” I asked. “Someone must have smothered him,” W.S. replied, “I’m sure of it."

“ I think this place is trying to tell us something,” I mumbled, ”Let’s move!” “Okay,” he replied, as we both drifted off to sleep, not realizing that this was only a foreboding of things to come.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dead men tell no tales.)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006