3rd Floor Apartments by Sheila Zwiebel

 

The man from apartment 3L with the unshaven face and sweating forehead walked past two kids riding their bicycles down the uneven, slightly weeded sidewalk. He pulled his thick wool coat tighter around his body, and sighed after seeing his building just ahead. Today’s newspapers—two locals, two nationals—were tucked neatly inside the emptied backpack over his right shoulder. He reached his hand inside his pockets to make sure his keyrings were still there. He fingered them, counting the keys. They were fine. He patted his chest through his clothes to ensure that the money belt was secure. It was. He glanced up and down the sidewalks to see who else shared the street today. The old brown leather wallet in his pants pocket was safe also, for now. It was forgiving of its bulging contents; it contained his expired ID and was crammed full of non-sequential bills, but no plastic cards.

He walked up the stairs of the wide cement stoop and pulled open the squeaky metal door. The 3L man stepped one foot into the apartment building and glanced once more over his shoulder, squinting against the hot reflections from the parked clunkers out front. The narrow hallway seemed dim compared with the outside world. He pulled the mail out from his non-labeled mailbox and locked it up tight. As he walked toward the staircase, his good shoes tapped the thick yellow tiles as if someone were knocking to be let in. He looked up the long staircase and began his ascent to 3L.

 

 

The wife quietly closed the door to 3E behind her, so as not to wake her napping husband. She went downstairs, retrieved the mail, and hiked back upstairs to the apartment. She tiptoed into the spare bedroom and sat down at the antique roll-top desk. She opened the left drawer, pulled out the fancy stationery, and began to write.

 

 

The woman from 3D scoured the normal job postings, e-mailed more resumes, dropped notes to friends of friends, and placed a half-dozen cold phone calls. Unfortunately, the summertime skeleton crews in the school personnel offices left her with horribly tiny leads, no further information, and even less hope at finding a new position for the fall. No e-mails had been sent to her, and since the close of business was soon approaching, she realized that none would be coming anyway. After refreshing her e-mail inbox three more times, just to be sure, she looked at her watch and decided it was time to go downstairs and open all the pitiful form letter responses to her applications. Deep in the pit of her stomach, her growing ulcer pumped and burned. It tempted her to beef up her resume with the truth, with the details of her pedigree, and it promised her the sweet rewards of immediate positive replies to her submissions.

 

 

The man folded his heavy jacket and stuffed it into a box on the floor, far back into the closet in 3L. After cleaning his good shoes and bundling them in plastic wrap, he placed them too in the box. Then he took off his two best dress shirts and two favorite tees. He placed items in the small cardboard box and sealed it with tape like he did every single day. On top of the box, he piled old sneakers and worn bluejeans. He pulled the hanging clothes along the rod to conceal the box, and stepped back to examine the setup. He stared at it for a few moments and seemed content. He closed the closet door but didn’t let go of the handle; he pulled it open again to check the box. His breath quickened. He examined the pile of clothes on top and made a few adjustments. The top pair of jeans was too straight; the third pair down was a bit slanted. He stepped back again to check his work. Seeing that it was inconspicuous enough, he closed the door for good, although the closet would still call to him throughout the afternoon.

He re-secured the two deadbolts and other chain locks on the door. He looked through the peephole, twice, to make sure no one was in the hallway, and then hid his wallet, money belt, keys, and watch elsewhere around apartment 3L. In two days he would have to change these hiding spots. He blotted at his perspiring face and his breathing began to slow. He faced the door again and looked into the hallway, just one more time. He sat down crossed-legged facing the door, next to the stack of mail and among the floor-to-ceiling stacks of magazines and newspapers, and read the day’s news.