By AT
During the late morning, I received a text from Tess saying that she had a box full of my stuff. I asked her what was inside and she didn’t respond. I thought about double-texting, but instead I went for a run down the block. I sprinted around for a couple of winding laps around an empty red track that looped along one of high schools located in Brownsville.
I breathed in the December wind and paced myself. I was pumping my arms up and down, kicking my feet up, and doing my best to create a long and straight stride.
I listened to some music: Deep House to Beach House, to Kanye West, to A Tribe Called Quest. When I reached the end of the track, I stopped running and hunched over my knees and caught my breath. Before I sat on the ground, I was feeling the wind knocked out of me. I checked my phone.
Tess had sent me a second text and told me: Drew I don’t know. Just your personal belongings. A Daft Punk vinyl. Your moleskin. A worn copy of Tender Is the Night. A toothbrush with missing bristles. A photograph of us at Coney Island, and a photograph of us at the World Trade Center. A photograph of me.
At least that’s what I thought she texted me.
I felt like I was falling deeper into a depression. But this time I caught myself. And I lifted myself out of the hole before it could consume me. I left the track, sweaty and red-faced, and jogged back to my apartment. I washed my body off with a steaming hot shower, and then I took a piss. I stared at the bathroom mirror, placing my hand on the glass to wipe away the condensation. And then I heard someone screaming in the alleyway.
I went to my bedroom, opened the window, and looked down. There was no one in the alleyway. I went back to the bathroom, stared at the mirror. I muffled my mouth with a bath towel and pounded the sink vanity. And then I screamed, I screamed, and I screamed, and then I screamed some more.
When I stopped screaming, my voice was hoarse and dry. I drank some water. It was cold and full of ice, and I almost choked on an ice cube. I spat it out. I wiped my mouth with a rag. And then I put on some clothes: a white tee, a flannel vest, washed out jeans, and some boots.
I left my apartment and went to meet Tess in Bushwick.
She lived in a tall green brick townhouse on Knickerbocker Avenue, across from Irving Square Park. Black trash bags were lining up the sidewalks. And halal food trucks waited for customers to buy their gyros and falafel. Her townhouse had a stone path leading up to a small wooden porch, and stained glass windows made out of red and purple panels. The rooftop was crumbling and some shingles jutted out, hanging over the door that had dents and bumps in the hard oak. I walked up to the townhouse and texted Tess that I was outside. Two minutes passed. Then three minutes.
After eight minutes, I was turning around and about to leave when the front door opened. Tess stuck her head out. “You’re early,” she said, with a grumble.
“No, you’re late,” I said. I just wanted to get my stuff and leave. But seeing her again made me melt. I was standing still, but inside I was shuddering.
“Want some coffee?” Tess asked, opening the door.
“Sure,” I said, as I went inside of the townhouse.
The main common area was small and attractive. It had a small wooden table, three folding chairs, a flat-screen TV, and exposed brick for the walls. A blue L-shaped sofa, an expensive-looking turntable with a stack of vinyl records sitting next to it. And posters hung from the ceiling of musicians: Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix.
As Tess brewed coffee in a black percolator, she grabbed two ceramic mugs from her kitchen cabinet and placed them on the wooden table. I sat in a chair and took out my e-cig, smoking it.
“Thanks,” I said, as Tess handed me a cup of black coffee. I took a sip of it and burned my tongue. I bit my lower lip and said nothing. I smiled to show I was composed and assured. Maybe this was going to be a bad idea. But I couldn’t leave, not yet.
Tess poured half and half and two sugars into her cup of coffee, then stirred it. She said, “How’s the coffee? I got it from the Farmer’s Market on Broadway.”
“It’s tasty. Thanks.”
“How’ve you been? It’s been a while.”
“I’ve been well. Thanks.”
Tess chuckled. “You just going to say ‘thanks’ all day? At least you’re still polite.”
“I didn’t come here to fight, Tess. I came here for my things. Can I get them, now?”
“Someone’s irritated.” Tess nodded and set down her cup of coffee on the kitchen countertop. She walked over to her TV and reached behind it. She lifted up a large cardboard box taped up from top to bottom. She was holding it against her chest and in her arms, as she shuffled over to me. She placed it on top of the table, but the box slid off and dropped on my foot.
I winced in pain and jumped up, startled. “Fuck me,” I said. “Fucking shit.”
“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry Drew,” Tess said, holding her hand up to her face. She was laughing for a bit, which made me pissed off. But I tried to smile even though my foot was hurting.
I picked up the box and set it back on the table. “Let’s see what we got,” I opened up the flaps of the box, and reached inside. I fished out a few cassettes from obscure indie artists, a sketchbook filled with rough drawings of ducks and hunters, a book on poetic sequences, a graphic novel, and a rotten green apple.
There were more things inside, but they were wrapped in small plastic wrappings or paper packages. I knew I should just wait until later to open up everything. I noticed there were teeth markings in the rotten apple.
I showed it to Tess and she made a face. Then I saw something moving in the box. I turned on the flashlight on my phone. I shined the light into the box. There was a small grey mouse curled up in the right upper hand corner of the box.
“Oh shit. A mouse,” I said, grabbing a rag that hung from the sink faucet.
“A what?” Tess asked.
Using the rag, I grabbed a hold on the mouse. I lifted it out of the box. “A mouse,” I said, holding it up to Tess. “Should we name it?”
Tess cringed and took a step back. There was a look of horror on her face. “Get that thing away from me. Drew. Stop. That’s not funny.”
I made a throwing motion towards Tess. She screamed. “It’s just sleeping. It’s not going to hurt you,” I said laughing out loud. I came closer to Tess, swinging the mouse by its tail, “Or at least I think it’s sleeping.”
“That’s not a mouse! That’s a rat. That’s a fucking New York city rat,” Tess said, pushing me in the chest. She ran away from me.
I staggered back and kept on laughing. I tossed the mouse out the door and into the street. The mouse woke up and scampered across the pavement, and scuttled into a rain gutter.
I went to the sink, washing my hands under a spray of cold water. As I dried my hands off with a paper towel, I turned around and ducked. Tess was hitting me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
I yelled. I touched the bruise blooming on my head. “Fuck you doing?” I said, as Tess continued to smack me in the face and chest with the newspaper. She hit me in the arms, then my knees, and went for my crotch. But she missed, as I dodged her beating. “Okay, truce, truce!” I said, smiling.
“Payback’s not so funny, is it?” Tess said.
I shrugged. “I guess not.”
Tess rolled her eyes and pointed to the cardboard box of my things. “You should get your things. I have a doctor’s appointment soon,” she said.
“Everything okay? You’re not sick, are you?”
“Yeah I’m fine. I’ve just been throwing up. For like the past few mornings. It’s probably nothing, but you can never be too sure,” Tess said, putting on her black pea coat, and slipping into her brown leather boots. She walked over to me and gave me a hug. Then she gave a peck on the cheek. I felt warm and great. I had missed her. “Take care of yourself, Drew. I mean it.”
“You sure it’s nothing?”
“Yeah, I’m positive.”
“Okay, well thanks Tess,” I said, picking up the cardboard box of my things. I walked out of the common area and left the townhouse, the door shutting behind me. I turned around and saw Tess looking out the window, peeking through the curtains. She waved and smiled. And I did the same, as I walked away carrying the box of my things.
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