Altan was happy to be back at work. He was making more money than usual and he was euphoric over the hustle and bustle of the carnival. Not only did he stand out, striding between the crowds, yelling as loud as he could ("KAHVE! 25¢! GET COFFEE HERE!"), but he had become another attraction. People still believed he was a gypsy, but they didn't expect from him the things they had before; he was the funny little man with the colorful, jingly cart and spicy drink, a drink that, if you were brave enough to consume it, would increase your longevity and bring about a prosperous future... or so people said. Altan was clueless to the rumor, and he could care less that people asked strange questions like, "So, is it true?" or "How much do I need for it to work?" Altan would just smile and nod, smile and nod.
Altan's exotic charm was not the only thing attracted attention. The side of his cart had been plastered with political signage and he had a live chicken, endlessly squawking (he'd found it sitting in front of the Tower), sitting in an old, rusty bird cage that had been tied down to the front corner of the cart. All sorts of people confronted him throughout the day: people who supported the local candidate, those who did not, people who thought he was selling the chicken, people that yelled at him for encouraging the cruelty of animals, and people who would just gawk as he passed by, wondering where such an odd entity with its entourage materialized from. By the end of the day, though Altan thrived off of humanity, he had had enough.
Altan stopped answering questions and ignored all comments and insults shouted his way. The only people he paid mind to were the gawkers; they were the only people showing no movement whatsoever in this mass of motion. They were almost completely immobile, and they stood out to Altan like neon signs. There was a girl with a frizzy, blond wig, a man who was overly dressed, and a girl who looked like she'd just escaped a fire. At this moment, they all embodied what Altan desired - stillness.
Wearily, Altan made his way back to the Tower and dragged himself inside. He'd gotten so used to the chicken that he'd forgotten that it was still tied to his cart. The doorman made exaggerated movements and screamed at Altan to "get it out!" before the super heard it. Altan hastily grabbed the chicken and threw it out the door, not wanting to displease the doorman. Altan called for the elevator and it clattered down, screeching to a halt, and its doors opened. Altan saw there was someone else inside, so he waited for them to exit.
"Well, are you coming in or not?" Altan's head snapped up - it was Edith Evans, the lady who'd helped him out of the elevator the other day.
"Oh, how's is your ceiling, Ms. Evans?"
"I could tell you if you just got on the elevator," The elevator door was trying to close and it kept rebounding off of her thin arm.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, excuse me," and Altan backed in, careful not to roll the cart over Edith's toes. The door slammed shut and the elevator began to haul them upward.
"Still dry, thank you."
"What?"
"The ceiling, the thing you just mentioned," Edith gave him a "what's-wrong-with-you" look.
"Oh, yes, very good." They didn't speak again until Altan got off the elevator on the fifth floor.
"Can you fix heaters?" Edith had flung her arm out to stop the door from closing.
"Well -"
"Come by my apartment tomorrow at six and see if you can't fix mine. No one will want to buy that... is it coffee? after five will they? Won't be able to sleep. I'll expect you."
The elevator door shut and rumbled upward. Altan stared at the door confused. Well, he'd never actually fixed a heater before, but he was not one to stand people up, especially not a lady. Sighing, he pushed his cart down the hall, ready for sleep.
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Be Still, My Beating Heart
ReplyDelete9:00 AM
I woke up with a cold this morning. I've got puffy eyes, the sniffles, and I feel like a hedgehog is nesting in my throat. I entertained the idea of skipping work, but I have a lot of paperwork to get through. The last time I had a buildup of paperwork I put it through the shredder and told my boss that my cats got at it, but I don't think I can do that again. He might get a bit suspicious.
9:10 AM
Even tea isn't helping much. I bet having such a cold, damp apartment has made me ill. I would sue, but that would call attention to me. My daughter might find me.
Macy is being blessedly quiet today. She did sort of madly hop into the library in order to avoid the still-lingering chickens in the front yard, but I can overlook a few oddities.
10:30 AM
A young man just wandered in here. He looks vaguely familiar; a recurring library visitor, I expect.
"Have you got any books on two?" He doesn't look like he quite knows where he is. Not that I can complain--I regularly get lost in the grocery store. All those aisles. It could happen to anyone.
Er. Two? Two what? "Well, we've got One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. If you're interested in that kind of thing." I very much doubt he is. He looks a trifle old for such books.
"No, just the number two." Charming. A lunatic. Doesn't this town have any normal people in it? Besides myself, of course.
I feel quite huffy that he's so interested in the number two. "The number three is better, you know. There are plenty of books on the significance of the number three. It's a religious number--you know, Father Son Holy Ghost and whatnot--and it's traditional in fairy tales. You never hear the story about the Two Little Pigs, or Goldilocks and the Two Bears. Three is the perfect number." He's not listening to me. How can I tell? He's left, that's how. He's gone and wandered off into the shelves. Well!
Two indeed. I suppose I should have recommended A Tale of Two Cities.
10:45 AM
Except I hate Charles Dickens. I refuse to recommend him to anyone.
11:03 AM
I'm taking a break. The library's quiet today, so I doubt there will be any emergencies in my absence. I like it back here in the employee lounge; no one is allowed back here but Macy and I and my boss, and he never shows up unless he's angry. I can look out the window to the back of the library from here; usually it's just a view of the empty parking lot (a scene of depression), but it's got the carnival now (a scene that invokes suicidal tendencies). I can see a girl in a big, horrendously yellow raincoat getting onto the ferris wheel; normally I don't single out people to watch like this, but it's hard not to single her out. She's like a single ray of sunlight in a dungeon; the yellow against the stark grey sky is brighter than anything else outside. The gaudy lights and colors of the carnival have been dulled with splattered mud and grey light and fog; even the royal purple tent of the so-called medium looks less royal and more like an old bruise. Uffda, I'm making myself ill.
11:10 AM
And I'm sick to begin with. I think I'll go back to the library counter now.
5:30 PM
I ran into Mr. Yilmaz in the elevator and he agreed to fix my heater. Wonderful!
5:31 PM
He's coming at six tomorrow.
5:32 PM
Oh god. What will I wear?
5:33 PM
I shall not forget to put in my dentures. I shall not forget to put in my dentures. I shall not forget to put in...
5:50 PM
My dentures.
12:00 AM
I can't sleep. Be still, my beating heart.
12: 04 AM
Only not really still. As in, dead still. Dead being the operative adjective.
5:33 AM
ReplyDeleteI still feel a little sick, but I must bravely forge through the day. It is my duty as a public servant of the library. People depend upon me. I must be a good example.
5:40 AM
I hate the world.
6:45 AM
I shall have to go by the grocery store today after work; all I have is crackers, cheese, apples, and some canned food. And milk and tea, of course. If Mr. Yilmaz sees the inside of my refrigerator whilst he's fixing the heater in the living room--you never know, with foreign men--then he might think I'm strange.
6:50 AM
On the other hand, he's foreign. Perhaps cheese and crackers and apples is a normal diet in Turkland.
6:55 AM
Turkey. Took a moment for my geography knowledge to kick in. Either way, I'd best just get some food. In case he's hungry. I ought to be hospitable. After all, he will be fixing my heater.
7:oo AM
Good lord, Zeppelin--one of the cats--is stuck in the lampshade and he hisses at me if I try to get near.
Ah. I see what's happened. There was a moth flitting about around the light bulb and Zeppelin...oh dear. He's much too fat. Hence his name, of course--perhaps "Blimp" would have been more appropriate, but somehow that sounded... insulting.
7:03 AM
He's broken my lamp! Furry bastard! I tried to help him out, but nooooooo, he had to go and break the dratted lamp! And he's still stuck in the lampshade.
7:12 AM
I have succeeded in wrestling Zeppelin from the lampshade. I just grabbed the lampshade itself and shook it like mad and he--eventually--popped out. Now I have to clean up the mess and get to work on time.
12:40 PM
Work has been boring. The only (relatively) high point was when a woman named Marie came in and returned Lord of the Flies. She was in here yesterday, when she checked out the book, but she doesn't strike me as the reading type. I tried to offer to help her find some book that might interest her, but she said no and left.
12:43 PM
I've plotted dinner for tonight just in case Mr. Yilmaz stays for dinner.
12:45 PM
Which he damn well better, because I've spent all morning plotting and it's going to take all afternoon to cook it. I've written down some foreign-looking recipes from a cookbook I got in the World section, and I'm still looking. I hope he appreciates my cultural sensitiveness.
1:12 PM
Couscous? Idly? Dosa looks good. I'll make dosa. It's Indian food, but India is fairly close to Turkey. It's on the same continent, at least.
3:20 PM
I've left the library to Macy and I'm getting the ingredients for dosa. I hope it's foreign enough.
Gabriela had gone almost a week without any troubling visions. She made a loose routine of sleeping in the abandoned warehouse in a nook on the first floor, well away from the stairs. She was making enough money playing jazz on Mercy street to eat three meals a day and had even bought a couple of old blankets to sleep on. The weather was starting to warm up. She got up around sunrise and bought a cup of coffee from Mr. Yilmaz. She could almost hear him thinking she was too young to be drinking it. I think I did hear him say that, she thought, but his mouth was closed. You can't hear a thought though. That's—crazy. She shook her head and kept walking.
ReplyDeleteAs she neared her favorite spot on the corner when she heard clucking. She turned around. A chicken was following her. Gabriela kept walking. She stopped. It stopped. She moved. It followed. The next time she turned around, there were three. As she reached her corner, a fourth came down the street and fell in line. I don't know much about chickens, Gabriela thought, but this can't be normal. She decided to ignore them.
As Gabriela played, two more came out of an alley and one came down from a roof. Seven large chickens were sitting at her feet and listening. The butcher, limping and bleary-eyed, peered out of his shop window and stared. Gabriela saw a lurching movement in the corner of her eye and spun, still playing, to face Dave the butcher who had come out of his shop with a cleaver. He grabbed a chicken. Gabriela stopped.
“Wha-?” she said. He slammed the bird against the side of a building, hacked off its head, and grabbed another. “No!” She pulled the horn to her lips and blew a high, sweet, fiery blast that rattled the window of Jory Rae's and scared the pigeons in the trees. A piece of a cracked window on an upper story slid out of its frame and shattered on Dave's head. He fell, and Gabriela could see blood coming from the gash. She ran away.