You're not going to believe this. I still don't believe it, either.
At around six o'clock I was cooking up spaghetti in the kitchen -- still in #5 -- and listening to this iPod I found in the desk drawer, and someone starts pounding on the window. I get scared so bad that I knock the pot of boiling water off the stove and it splashes wet noodles all over the linoleum -- burns the shit out of my legs -- and I throw the iPod away and run for the nearest weapon, the broom. Then this woman starts yelling, "Mark! Mark! Mark!" and yanking on the doorknob like a maniac. She's crying hysterically. The longer I stand there in the kitchen with the broom, the less powerful her pounding becomes... the louder her tears become. And right when I think she's done, she comes back full-force shouting, "Who's in there! God damnit! Get out of my fucking apartment!"
So mostly because she was making so much noise, but also because it felt wrong to keep her out of her own apartment, I took the chair away from the doorknob. I replaced the broom with the kitchen-knife, too, and held it pointed toward her when I opened the door. She burst in so quickly that she nearly got herself stabbed. I remember her looking at me for a split-second when the door was opening, but as soon as she could fit through the frame she was sprinting toward me -- she tackled me backward over the couch. Now she was screaming, "Where the fuck is Mark? Where the fuck is my boyfriend?"
I wrestled away from her and held the knife out -- and I don't think she'd noticed the knife until then, because she stepped away from me when she saw it. She asked me who I was and I told her I was Chris Fryer and that I lived in apartment #1 and that I'd dropped down from the roof. She settled down a little and apologized, told me her name was Nicole. She noticed the spaghetti noodles on the floor and apologized for messing up my dinner. I said, "I'm sorry for using your stuff," and she said, "I'm glad I could help." After that I asked her if she wanted me to leave. It seemed a little weird to stick around after wrestling... Nicole's pink t-shirt was dirty with sweat and blood and -- I think -- smears of grease. She looked, as much as any person can look, completely exhausted. For a while she just leaned back against the countertop and stared down at the floor. Then she started cleaning the mess. I watched.
But when she went to go fix the barricade, I joined in and helped. We didn't say anything to each other. She never answered my question. Unfortunately we noticed that a zombie had spotted us and was shuffling our way. I followed her back inside and we blocked the door with a chair and a heavy bookcase -- which I guess meant she didn't want me to leave. Nicole asked me what I thought we could do about the window and I didn't have any suggestions. She said we could probably take down the closet door. I said yeah, probably. So we did.
Now there's a closet door nailed up over the window. It doesn't block it entirely, but we used enough nails to protect against a hurricane. She didn't say anything to me until we'd finished the work and she was sitting on the carpet with a beer in her hands. She said, "I stayed in the car as long as I could. I was coming back from the store." I asked her if she drove here and she said she had gotten into an accident on the way and the car rolled into a creek off the road. I felt bad that she'd spent almost three weeks in a car while I'd been sleeping inside in a bed. She said, "Don't be sorry. You're lucky, that's all. Good timing." Then I asked her where her boyfriend might be and she started to cry and so we didn't talk about that anymore.
After a while she realized that I was carrying around Mark's laptop in Mark's backpack and she asked me about it. I told her about this blog. She read what I'd written. I don't think Nicole sees the significance of keeping a record like this. But I suppose your mind is in a different place after three weeks in the back of a Toyota Camry. Like a wild dog meeting a tamed dog -- I get the feeling we're not going to agree on many things. Nicole stayed up almost all night sitting by the window with the kitchen-knife in case the zombies broke through. I set up a bed with blankets on the floor downstairs (obliged to give the bed back to its rightful owner) and helped Nicole upstairs -- she was starting to complain about feeling really sore all over, probably from running across town to get home.
And that's what happened today.
At around six o'clock I was cooking up spaghetti in the kitchen -- still in #5 -- and listening to this iPod I found in the desk drawer, and someone starts pounding on the window. I get scared so bad that I knock the pot of boiling water off the stove and it splashes wet noodles all over the linoleum -- burns the shit out of my legs -- and I throw the iPod away and run for the nearest weapon, the broom. Then this woman starts yelling, "Mark! Mark! Mark!" and yanking on the doorknob like a maniac. She's crying hysterically. The longer I stand there in the kitchen with the broom, the less powerful her pounding becomes... the louder her tears become. And right when I think she's done, she comes back full-force shouting, "Who's in there! God damnit! Get out of my fucking apartment!"
So mostly because she was making so much noise, but also because it felt wrong to keep her out of her own apartment, I took the chair away from the doorknob. I replaced the broom with the kitchen-knife, too, and held it pointed toward her when I opened the door. She burst in so quickly that she nearly got herself stabbed. I remember her looking at me for a split-second when the door was opening, but as soon as she could fit through the frame she was sprinting toward me -- she tackled me backward over the couch. Now she was screaming, "Where the fuck is Mark? Where the fuck is my boyfriend?"
I wrestled away from her and held the knife out -- and I don't think she'd noticed the knife until then, because she stepped away from me when she saw it. She asked me who I was and I told her I was Chris Fryer and that I lived in apartment #1 and that I'd dropped down from the roof. She settled down a little and apologized, told me her name was Nicole. She noticed the spaghetti noodles on the floor and apologized for messing up my dinner. I said, "I'm sorry for using your stuff," and she said, "I'm glad I could help." After that I asked her if she wanted me to leave. It seemed a little weird to stick around after wrestling... Nicole's pink t-shirt was dirty with sweat and blood and -- I think -- smears of grease. She looked, as much as any person can look, completely exhausted. For a while she just leaned back against the countertop and stared down at the floor. Then she started cleaning the mess. I watched.
But when she went to go fix the barricade, I joined in and helped. We didn't say anything to each other. She never answered my question. Unfortunately we noticed that a zombie had spotted us and was shuffling our way. I followed her back inside and we blocked the door with a chair and a heavy bookcase -- which I guess meant she didn't want me to leave. Nicole asked me what I thought we could do about the window and I didn't have any suggestions. She said we could probably take down the closet door. I said yeah, probably. So we did.
Now there's a closet door nailed up over the window. It doesn't block it entirely, but we used enough nails to protect against a hurricane. She didn't say anything to me until we'd finished the work and she was sitting on the carpet with a beer in her hands. She said, "I stayed in the car as long as I could. I was coming back from the store." I asked her if she drove here and she said she had gotten into an accident on the way and the car rolled into a creek off the road. I felt bad that she'd spent almost three weeks in a car while I'd been sleeping inside in a bed. She said, "Don't be sorry. You're lucky, that's all. Good timing." Then I asked her where her boyfriend might be and she started to cry and so we didn't talk about that anymore.
After a while she realized that I was carrying around Mark's laptop in Mark's backpack and she asked me about it. I told her about this blog. She read what I'd written. I don't think Nicole sees the significance of keeping a record like this. But I suppose your mind is in a different place after three weeks in the back of a Toyota Camry. Like a wild dog meeting a tamed dog -- I get the feeling we're not going to agree on many things. Nicole stayed up almost all night sitting by the window with the kitchen-knife in case the zombies broke through. I set up a bed with blankets on the floor downstairs (obliged to give the bed back to its rightful owner) and helped Nicole upstairs -- she was starting to complain about feeling really sore all over, probably from running across town to get home.
And that's what happened today.
No comments:
Post a Comment