The Hallway & Other Stuff

Stepping out from cell block – er, apartment 1218B into the blank-looking hallway I am greeted with a menagerie of wonderful sights and sounds. A passed out bum whose clothes have all turned to the same amorphous shade of brown-green, regardless of their original color. A woman in a wife-beater missing a shoulder strap standing at the end of the hallway. The loud, manic buzz of Telemundo coming from the open door of 1212B, competing with the Mexican man who lives there, who conversates on the phone in Spanish at all hours of the night. I can smell fried food in hallway, but I can feel it too – the heavy haze of oil in the air that seems to invade my pores. Damn, and I just showered. I inspect my shoes and pants. Spotless as usual. I take the stairs. I enjoy the brief quiet and solitude. Now, you may ask why I don't just stay in my apartment for quiet and solitude, but there's a distinct difference between sitting silently in a room and walking silently down a staircase. The difference is, with the staircase, you have a goal, a set destination, and it makes the peace and quiet all the more valuable. I like the echo of the squeak of my shoes. I like that I can tell when someone else has entered the staircase, like right now. The door shuts ever-so-slightly, but I can still hear it. Then I see the characteristic bowl-cut of an Asian woman rounding the corner of the switchback. She makes eye contact with me briefly, then looks at the ground. I can deduce nothing from her facial expression. She has an armful of groceries from the authentic Asian market nearby. We pass in silence, but it's an awkward, pregnant silence, not the reverent silence I have when I have the staircase all to myself. A twinge of annoyance passes through my skull. I try to dismiss it, let it fade, but it sticks with me, all the way until I get to Polaski Avenue. There, in the midst of the city, I feel enlivened. Cities are humanity's forests. Instead of underbrush and squirrels, we have newspapers and homeless people. Yeah, I like homeless people. There are a lot of them. But the city, man, the city. It's amazing. Sure, it's snowy and cold, but it still makes you feel alive to be out here. A bus rolls by. A guy on a bike follows. Concert posters tacked to a power-line post rustle in the wind. I catch the tail end of a conversation between two younger guys, who head off purposefully down the road. I mean, in a place like this, you can always find something to do. And, boy, have I got things to do. Lots of them. First I go to Lu's Garage to inspect unused engines. Some decent stuff. Then I canvass the city with posters, soliciting for volunteers and other materials. This, of course, all relates back to The Plan. I'm in a spending-money sort of mood – the cold makes me feel alive – so I step into the psychic's shop on Chester. I walk in, and she's perched on a stool like a pigeon. "Welcome," she says, "what can I do for you?" I read the sign: "Palm Readings: $5, I Ching: $10, Horoscope: $10.50, Crystal Ball Readings: $25.00." I choose the crystal ball. Go big or go home, right? As she's readying the implements, I make light conversation:

"So, what, exactly, is the crytal ball made of, and what makes it so magical?" She doesn't look up and answers seriously:

"Crystal deposits imported from the bottom of Peruvian waterfalls. This crystal ball was harvested from a waterfall in Machu Picchu in 1874."

Impressive. "So, how did you come to own it?"

"Bought it off Craig's List." Ah. "Stop talking now."

I say okay and she lights a fresh stick of incense, leads me behind a curtain into the back room, which smells old but nice, closes the curtain with a sweep, lowers the light, plops down with the crystal ball between us and begins the reading.

"I see...hmmmm...mmhmmm...oh dear...oh my...yes...

...

...

...oh?...a-ha..."

This goes on for a while, she sits there in quiet revelry, murmuring to herself. I get a little impatient and peek around to get a look. The crystal ball is filled with colors – yellow swirls, purple clouds...I think I spy the shape of a horse galloping...the design shifts and evolves, never staying the same, constant improvisation. I am enveloped in it. I feel as though I'm zooming forward. My mind is split into four sections, each one made of glass. Four glass panes, hovering in the air.

"AH AH AH!"

I snap out of it, looking up into the creased face of old Madame Maureen.

"Are you a licensed psychic?" she snaps. "There's a reason I'm sitting here and you're sitting there, you imbecile. You're not supposed to look into the crystal ball, that's my job." She stands and ushers me out of the room. She takes the twenty and the five I gave her and hands them back to me with a look almost of pity. "Keep your money," she spits out. Then her demeanor changes. Her eyes soften and she regards me once more with pity. "You poor, poor soul." She shakes her head and takes one last look at me. With that, I am ushered onto the street and the door slams behind me. I stare at it for a time, until the cold creeps up on me. Gradually, I become aware of my surroundings. I'm back in the city. It's gotten colder out.

"What a fucking bizarre incident," I mutter to myself. "Nothing a whiskey and a lap dance won't fix, though." I orient toward the Jaguar and start walking.