My Year With Mosby, Chapter 1

[MalReynolds]

There was, oddly enough, a sense of complacency in the apartment building that sat on the lower tip of Manhattan, overlooking the Jersey Sound if you were fortunate enough to be facing the sound. The apartment in which he lived featured an odd balcony, the only one in the entire complex, which faced out over the West Side Highway, a vestibule he would often adorn himself upon to watch traffic or trash trolleys in the water. It was white; a stark contrast to the rest of the building, and his deck furniture didn’t quite fit, being somewhat larger after an import from the east. Only four floors off the ground, he could still look down at the street and yell at passerby, people who weren’t quite busy enough already and they would look up to see him in his chiffon robe, garish mustached face and meerschaum pipe, puffing away and winking.

I hadn’t quite been invited to the City in a long time, so when the invitation to dine with Mosby came in the mail I was more than a little curious as to what exactly the pseudo socialite could want out of an ex-tennis player like me. He had explained to me many times before his complete and utter contempt for not only sports, but “The animals that force themselves to play them constantly for the betterment of their souls.” Mosby was always quick to add, “Except you, Nathan, except you. Exception to the rule and all that.”

Mosby and I had met at a University, although looking back I’m not quite sure which one it was, considering both of us dropped out at the same time to take real estate courses which turned out to be a bust. We had attended classes frequently and came to the decision at simultaneously that perhaps a greater education wasn’t part of the grand plan when it came to the whipper-will nature of life we both seemed to cherish. It had often crossed my mind that perhaps if things had started out differently I might have somehow ended up in his position, but I never dwelled on it for a long period of time; I was successful in my own right as was he, and I wouldn’t trade what I had for anything he owned.

Mosby led a fairly lonely life, reserved, sitting often in his apartment when not pestering real people on the street. He had a wife for a very brief period by the name of Shannon, a number far younger than him with golden hair that fell to her waist, and it was during their marriage that I was never once invited to the City to dine or stay. There is only so long that you can live by yourself before you need company, I suppose, and Mosby the widower wasn’t used to being alone constantly.

I phoned back.

“Ah, Mosby?”

“Nathan?”

“Yes, yes. I’m going to be busy this next week, I’m afraid. I’m not going to be able to stay with you.”

“That’s very tragic.”

There was a moderate annoyance in his voice, as if he had been in the middle of something when his phone rang. I continued on, hoping to push his agitation.

“Indeed. Although, I think, if you were to reschedule, then I would be able to stay for an extended period if you’re still looking for my company.”

“Well, when are you free?”

I paused, having to think. I stared at the ivory, unmarked calendar sitting above my desk, taken aback. His annoyance was gone.

“Week after next.”

“I have some terrible news about Shannon, Nathan. I’m afraid she’s passed away.”

“I didn’t even –“

“So, a week? How long will you be staying.”

“I don’t have any engagements for quite a period.”

“Excellent. I’ll ready the guest room.”

The line clicked, but I held the receiver to my ear. Mosby had somehow turned it around, and I was agitated at myself more than him. I should have known that it was a rocky period, the invitation hadn’t at all been as random as I thought. Mosby always prided himself as a deep thinker, someone who could write a book one day filled with all the wit and witticisms of his life that would be a great seller; everything in his life was deliberate and sad.

And so it came that on the unnamed day in an unnamed year I boarded a small aircraft from LAX, pushing myself into the first class section as an unnamed pilot began the final checks. I sat, flipping idly through some cheap magazine that they used to weigh the plane down and keep others complacent, staring across the galley at the window, which a large gentleman had shut earlier to keep the sun from his eyes. I desperately wanted to see the outside world; my inane fear of flying and slight claustrophobia were not at all helped by the lavish surroundings of my placement, but as the plane began to roll, I started to breathe again, letting my head fall back and my eyes close.

There wasn’t much to dream about; I had left behind a studio apartment that was decorated with a number of people ranging from twenty five to thirty at all times, lounging around, staring from the windows or smoking cigarettes from long filters, something they would do only when they were not around any form of ventilation. If anything, I had just shut these people out temporarily, unless one of them had found some way to get into my abode, and upon reflecting, it was entirely possible that one of them had made a copy of my key which I was so frequent to lend.

There was a solitary regret in boarding the plane that day, although I had no idea I would be departed for nearly as long as I was; there was one small detail I had overlooked, one I had failed to call or acknowledge. Cathleen was her name, and the impact she had upon me was so great that my unusual night departure was out of character to a large degree, and if Mosby hadn’t been in such a plight, I don’t think I could have overlooked her.

Mosby, in the passing days before my departure, had rephrased his plea several times, increasing in urgency and frequency. On Thursday, as I was packing, I kept the receiver to my ear and listened to him babble on for short bursts about needing someone up there, an old face, an old friend. He was crying desperation through cords, tired of being alone, faced with another year of isolation; his constant cries brought me away from myself long enough to see that the man was very alone, a position I had been in before, empathy taking over my brain.

There was a squat yellow pumpkin in the JFK parking loop, exhaust chugging out of the dual tail pipes. An equally squat, equally yellow man leaned on the hood, a red and black checkered cap casting a shadow over his eyes, giving him the appearance of an off color raccoon. He was holding a hand made sign, cardboard and black ink haphazardly in one hand, scanning the crowd back and forth every few seconds.

“Edmund.”

I looked at the man, and he stared back, stared at my clothing, my long wool coat and leather gloves, my red scarf and business shirt, and immediately knew I was who he had been standing in the frigid air waiting for. He tossed the sign back into the passenger seat of the taxi and opened the back door as I walked forward, moving around to the trunk, the door shutting on its own weight but not clicking. He gave me a hand with my two suitcases, something garish and green that the small detail had bought me for my birthday a few years ago. They looked decidedly out of place next to a tire iron and a spare; the man slammed the trunk and re-opened the door, waiting until I was in and my wool coat was safely pooled around my feet before moving to the driver’s seat.

The cab lurched forward without a dithyramb from the driver or a complaint from the gears, the almost comically stereotypical pilot rolling a toothpick between his lips as if to say he was a great mogul, and my presence was an option, not a necessity.

I chose not to speak to the man, and he wisely detected my enmity, remaining quiet for the duration of the ride through Brooklyn, which was quite different than I remembered it from my youth. The buildings were shorter, the air filled with a white smog that emerged every ten or so yards from great pipes that rose from side streets. At the occasional crosswalk or stoplight I could feel the trains running under my feet, the grounds I tread suddenly not as concrete as they seemed. We pulled into the City, the driver weaving in and out of traffic at a torturous speed, cutting off visitors in fancy sports cars and gunning through crosswalks with a blatant disregard for human safety before pulling up in front of the building which sat almost at the very bottom of Manhattan. The cab driver pulled my bags from the back of the car and set them on the curb, whistling and holding his hand out for money and a tip, snapping his fingers impatiently. I stared down south, towards Battery Park, my eyes locked on the Wall Street Bull, bronze and rearing in the chilly air.

My father had some kind of superstition that he had tried to impart to me when we were still talking; he was under the impression that if he pressed his lips to the bull during his time on the island, the market would soar, and if he failed in his duties, the market would crash. Inevitably, he would make his way down to the park, regardless of where he was staying during each trip, to see the bull and kiss its forehead. It was all he could do, I think, to save the economy and ensure that the art department in the secondary school he taught at would still be there when he returned.

The driver received a large tip for my prompt delivery, although I would have most certainly appreciated a safer drive. The building Mosby lived in looked like it was a steel smelting house that had been converted at some point during the revolution of the city some fifty odd years ago. The foyer had marble flooring, the fluorescent lights overhead glaring off the rock, disguising any thank-you-ma’ams that sprinkled the floor. I approached the front desk, something large and oak, clearing my throat.

The man behind the counter was short, round and African American. He was wearing a spruced black suit that was slightly big on him, the sleeves coming to his wrist, but he wasn’t paying any attention to me. His head was ****ed to the side, his eyes were closed and his ear was pressed against the receiver of a sharp, white phone. His tag read, “Wagner,” a name of German, germane and strange descent, much like Edmund. He opened his eyes when I grunted and seemed discomfited by my presence, like I was some kind of nuisance, his eyes scanning me in a series of saccades, unblinking.

I was about to open my mouth, to speak, I think, when Wagner reached a finger out to silence me. I paused, my breath catching in my throat, my irritation reaching an apex. I blew the air out of my mouth in a long, undulated breath.

“Mosby,” I mouthed.

Wagner put his finger over the talking piece of the phone. “What?” His voice was higher pitched than I expected, sounding somewhat Hispanic.

“Mosby. I’m here to see Mosby. What floor?”

“Four.”

“Thank you,” I said, placing an emphasis on “Thank” and fumbling the “you,” an aristocratic stab that I shouldn’t have used, but the momentary vindication was incredibly rewarding.

The elevator crawled; I was taken aback a fair amount when the doors slid open and there was no smiling face of an operator, instead being met with tile, a sturdy security camera, and a broken back bar. Appearances, I remind myself constantly, can be deceiving. I set my bags down and press the button four and I was surprised that the button actually lights when I press it. The doors slid open again to reveal a green hallway with ceilings raised around 20 feet, the walls painted in a tan manner and lighting resembling that of a hotel. The doors are proportionate to the raised walls, a darker shade of green than the carpet.

There was a small bronze placard on the wall reading, “A-G,” with a right arrow under it, and “H-L” with an arrow pointing to the left. I was at a loss for which apartment Mosby actually stayed in; the caller ID had given no indication of apartment, nor had any of the e-mails he had bothered to send. Occasionally, I would get a metered postcard with the return address of the building, but his apartment was never listed, the information just out of reach.

I prepared to turn around and head back down, to ask the surly front desk sergeant which apartment Mosby was staying in when an odd man walked down the hall. He was wearing a red robe, long shaggy hair falling around his shoulders. His robe was open, he had not bothered with pants or an undershirt, instead settling on blue boxer shorts that moved with the angular singularity that only grime can bring. In his arms, he carried two white trash bags, his nails cutting into the plastic. It was as if this man was taking all his cues from Howard Hughes at his most paranoid, his bare feet dirty and shuffling down the hall. I couldn’t quite see his face under his hair or beard, and he slid past me without a word towards what I could only assume was a closet that housed the garbage chute. He emerged a second later, looking up at me; I was a curious fixation, having moved not an inch since he rounded the corner. He froze in his tracks, staring down the long hallway at my attire, before raising one hand and sweeping the hair from his face.

“Edmund? Nathan Edmund?”

“Oh, yes, I – Mosby? Jesus, Mosby, is that you?”

He paused for a second to tie his robe closed before bolting down the hallway at a full trot, shooting his arm out and grabbing my hand. Yes, it was Mosby, his square face glowing under his facial hair, a smile spreading across his face and his eyes sparkling. We had never been on the best of terms, which made his open reception entirely bizarre to me. I had only decided to come up to New York because I had honestly had nothing better to do and it sounded like Mosby needed a favor more than I needed to offend him.

“Edmund, walk with me. Come on, come on, I’m right down the hall. Apartment L.”

“I didn’t know; no one had informed me which apartment you had lived in nor how I was to locate you once I reached your building. I’m afraid your apartment number was left off of the communiqué, as was the floor. Your building, however, was easy to find.”

“The cabbies in this town are something wonderful, aren’t they? Shannon loved them.”

My face blanched at the name of his deceased wife. As we walked, he shook his head. “I’ve come to terms with it, Edmund. There’s nothing wrong with it at all, mentioning her name. Nothing taboo about it at all. Although, I will say, I’m glad to have the company you offer, my good man, the days can get very long.”

I stared at his face, the disarray of his clothing. He wasn’t the man I remembered from… Yale, was it? Could have been, but he wasn’t the same man that would talk down to you for a laugh and then buy you a coffee so you wouldn’t carry any hard feelings. The benevolent firefly was gone, replaced by something I couldn’t quite place my finger on, outside of his obvious disregard for his own physical appearance.

“Mosby, what’s going on? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

“I didn’t feel like getting dressed today.”

“Today? It doesn’t look like you’ve taken care of yourself in a while, man.”

He walked up to Apartment L, a triangular piece of metal propping the door open at eye level. It was a new replacement for chains, I soon learned, that were safer; the triangle was swung shut over the door, and if anyone tried to open it, a small ball on the door would catch, and prevent the opening.

Mosby must have seen the look cross my face; he had a disregard for his possessions, or else he was extremely trusting of the other tenants in the building.

“I have to leave my door open, Edmund. I can’t very well carry a key in this getup!” He clapped my back, sliding the door to his apartment open.

It was bathed in shadows, the blinds pulled on all the windows. There was a television sitting in the center of the room on top of a glass coffee table, a sofa with no armrests on the wall in front of it. There was a single seater on the opposite wall, looking something like white vinyl. Immediately to my left when I entered the apartment was a kitchenette, the sink filled with dirty dishes and the floor coated with crumbs. In the kitchenette, instead of a wall, was a bar which housed a view of the living room. To the right was the bathroom door, slightly ajar, a pile of towels on the floor, the mirrors on the wall smoggy. There was a small ladder on the other side of the kitchenette on the far side of the bar, leading up to a cramped area with a low ceiling.

Next to the bathroom was a shut door, the only door closed in the entire flat. It was his bedroom, I surmised, and there was probably reason for keeping it closed. Although at the time, there were more pressing matters at hand than finding out exactly where I was going to be placed in the apartment; there was a smell, something small and fierce that was attacking my nostrils as I stood. I pulled the cap from my head, setting it down on my suitcase, wrinkling my nose.

“I can’t quite put a name on that smell, Edmund.”

“Perhaps you should crack a window…”

He clapped me on the back again. “Good idea, good idea. You always were an idea man. Shannon used to say that about you, but I didn’t ever think about it.”

“Shannon spoke of me?”

“Oh, yes. She said you – Well, she said you were an idea man.” He pulled the blind, letting light into the apartment; shadows danced over the furniture as clouds floated past. Across the small side street sat a church; according to a tourist guide, the church was one of the oldest in the country.

“Well, I hope I prove my worth.”

Mosby furrowed his brow. “It’s cold outside, but I don’t think you’ll get used to the smell. It snuck upon me so gradually... Have you seen the balcony?”

I laughed. I had imagined him puffing a pipe and sitting on lawn furniture on the balcony ever since he mentioned it in a particularly snarky e-mail detailing his success as a realtor, but I had never actually seen his balcony. He had attached some pictures, in them, he wore a thin moustache over his lip and always had his dark hair slicked back. The pipe was a device of my own imagination, something I had placed because it seemed to fit him. Or his persona. I know he owned several, but I had never actually seen him smoking any of them.

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s spectacular. You have to go through my bedroom to get to it, so if you’ll follow me.” He moved towards the unopened door and pushed it, the door momentarily getting stuck in the frame. His bedroom was very nice, very kempt. His king bed was made, and across from his bed sat a desk, chair, and computer, which was powerless. On the far side of the bed was a small door, which Mosby sauntered over to.

“Did you know this is the only apartment in this building to have this balcony?”

“I recall you mentioning that, yes –“

“Do you know why? Of course you don’t. This place was a steel mill before and they renovated it into these apartments… Which makes for the vaulted ceilings, I suppose. Shannon used to say that giants used to live in the apartments – “ He frowned before continuing, “But as it turns out, it was just the structure to allow the heat to rise.

“Now, why I’m the only tenant that has a balcony? At the time of the renovation, the overseer of the operation stayed in this apartment and decided that all of them should have balconies. He started construction starting with this apartment, but the funding fell through and he was only able to complete the balcony in here. It’s an extra three hundred a month, but it’s an excellent place to sit and rest.

“A few years ago, they were going to continue on and add more balconies, but there was that unpleasantness with the towers. I’m sure you read about it. This building was absolutely scoured with rubble, deep gashes running along it. They scrapped the plans soon after.”

I nodded.

“Well, come on then, out to the balcony!”

The door swung open outwards, and with a practiced move, Mosby swept a foot down and clicked the stops. A soft breeze began to ruffle my hair as I moved over beside the bed, stepping out on the concrete. The furniture was of the cracker-barrel variety, homespun and down to earth, very different from the furniture I had seen in the e-mails. Mosby caught my eye, beginning an explanation before I could even begin speaking.

“Shannon’s. I couldn’t stand to be around it after she left, so I threw it away.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“

“No bother, no bother,” he said, winking as the wind caught his beard. He pulled a deck chair from the right side of the balcony and pulled a pipe from a small wooden box by his feet. Without looking at me, he began to stuff tobacco down, the sweet smell crossing my nose and making my eyes water. I too pulled a chair and sat, overlooking the graveyard of the church next door. There were several tourists going to and fro from the side entrance of the church, examining graves, many taking photographs and others finding a brief respite on old benches that scattered the foot path, which wound back to the front of the church. A city bus was kneeling at the curb, letting out a group of nuns, who quickly marched into the church, keeping their heads down.

I turned my thought from the nuns back to my father and how often he had passed by this very building as he strode down the road to his annual meeting with the bull. Even after I had opted out of college, he had been taking his trips, and to my knowledge he still was; how many times had he passed by this very building while Mosby sat on the balcony, puffing away and yelling down? Had my father been one of the few yelled at by this man, this fixture?

After I left college, things went to the rocks between my father and I. We could no longer see eye to eye on many issues, and a running trait through my blood and family is a quickness to temper and a way with words. My father insisted that I must be German, for only a German could be as stubborn as I was, and I said the same of him. Almost ten years had passed, even when my career began to pick up, neither of us had the courage or the audacity to try and enter each others lives again. My mother and father divorced while I was still in an early school, she was no more an influence on his life than I was, and despite numerous meetings between us, my father was never brought up.

Mosby sat puffing his pipe as the clouds crossed the sky, casting odd shadows over us and the street, constantly changing. “The only constant is change,” I mused, watching Mosby inhale, the tobacco growing bright red, bright in its finality, before turning to dust. Mosby gagged, turning the pipe over and banging it against the edge of the balcony, dumping ash down towards the street, none of it actually touching the people immediately below. The wind picked the ash, blowing it down the street as it descended, and an updraft brought the ash up again before it disappeared from view.

“We have a roof deck here, you know,” Mosby said turning to look at me. “I can show you the roof deck if you’d like, but if you say yes, I have to put on pants.”

The thought of Mosby putting pants on had crossed my mind already, and it seemed as good as any catalyst. “Yes, I was actually thinking about the view.”

“I was going to run down to the corner store as it was and pick up something for drinks, and that, as you may well know, requires pants. But first, let’s go to the roof!”

“Wait, Mosby,” I said, stopping him. “Why aren’t you wearing pants as it is?”

“Because it’s such a hassle to do that every day when I don’t have to. A habit, I suppose.”

“Oh, well, I think maybe a coat would be in order as well. That robe of yours is flimsy and I can imagine how cold it will be in the draft on the roof. It’s unusually cold for a September.”

“Edmund, this is Manhattan. There is nothing but extremes everywhere you’ll go; the temperature is no exception.”

I stood in the living room, the smell was either dissipating or I was growing accustomed to it. I poked around the room slowly as I heard Mosby clattering with his dresser, looking for the bed upon which I would be sleeping. Even given the extended amount of time Mosby had spent in his room getting an outfit together, I still couldn’t quite find it. His door opened and he stepped out, brown moccasins covering his feet, a pair of loose fitting khakis and a blue polo shirt.

His face was still absurdly mismatched with his clothing; he looked like a homeless man that had stumbled upon quick fortune before losing it again.

We stepped out into the hallway, Mosby leading. I was trailing behind him after doubling back to drop off my heavy coat, and by the time I caught up, he was already at the elevator.

“The elevator system in this building is quite odd; they added the high rise portion of the building in the late eighties, but couldn’t figure out an economical way to extend the elevator shafts without taking all of them down, so they just built two new shafts. They start at floor one, but don’t stop until they reach thirteen, so to get to the upper floors, you need to change on floor thirteen or fourteen.

“Some people are still superstitious about thirteen. I’m not, but I still prefer getting off on floor fourteen. Floor thirteen used to be the lounge area and they have a bricked in fire place. It doesn’t really sit well with me, so I avoid that floor when I can.

“The other day, I was taking my clothes up to floor twenty one to do laundry, and a woman came on the elevator at floor thirteen. And then, do you know what she did?”

The doors slid opened and we stepped inside. It began to move very quickly vertically, throwing me slightly off balance.

“She pressed the button to fourteen, and then we walked down the hall to the high rise elevators. She must be new here not to know the high rise elevator works on thirteen. Either that, or it’s…”

“Your undeniable charm,” I said, finishing his sentence, a half smile spreading across my face. Self purported charm, he often boasted about it in college. It wasn’t until he realized that people actually were taking him for an egotist that he would trail off, “Undeniable charm,” becoming a knee-jerk. But it was true, and anyone that attended… Oxford? No, no, that’s not right – Well, they would tell you that he did have a charm, a sparkle in his eye and a manner in his speech that were hard not to smile at.

“Fourteen, men’s ware!” He said, jabbing me with his elbow and smiling.

It was a quick jaunt down the hallway to another double set of elevators. Floor fourteen was identical to floor four, save for an extra “1” on all of the wall plaques. The ceilings were still just as high; with the new addition to the building, I suppose management didn’t want anyone questioning why the first thirteen floors had vaulted ceilings.

“But here’s the kicker,” he said, as we stepped onto the elevator. “On floor twenty one, there’s another elevator that takes you up to twenty two – that’s the floor with the roof deck – and the ride in that elevator… Well, it’s strange. You’ll see for yourself.”

The elevator doors opened on floor twenty, a man and woman climbing aboard. Floor twenty one was different; it seemed that it was the management hall. Directly in front of the elevator seemed to be a small workout room with a fair bit of equipment, and a few signs hung on the walls pointing to the laundry room, management, party room, and a communal lavatory for the people using the gym or having some kind of get together. As the doors to the elevator closed, I heard the clacking of pool balls down the hallway.

“Your building has a pool table,” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes! That must have slipped my mind.”

The doors dinged and the couple took off down the hallway to their respective apartments while Mosby and I went in the opposite direction towards the final elevator. He pressed the button, which clicked audibly, and a loud bell sounded. The elevator was different; the flooring was the same color as the carpet in the hallway, not tile. There were only two buttons on the wall panel, and it looked like there was no camera on the ceiling. It seemed that the higher you rose, the more things became the same, mundane. We stepped inside, and Mosby motioned for me to press the button.

The elevator did not jolt; instead, I did not even feel it move in the least. If it wasn’t for the increased humming sound, I would have thought we had remained stationary. It was a full thirty seconds before the doors slid open, revealing a short hallway with stairs at the end, leading to a door which, from the amount of light pouring through, I assumed led to the roof deck.

“I think that’s the closest thing to magic you’re ever going to find, even in this city,” Mosby said, starting down the hall. “It takes almost as long for that elevator to make a one floor trip as it does the others to cover eleven, but I’ll be damned if I can ever feel it move.

“Shannon brought a bottle of water up here one time, to see if there were any movements that we were both oblivious to. The water didn’t ripple; it didn’t even move. She said the building was made by wizards.”

Mosby stood at the bottom of the stairs, the contrast in light making him little more than a silhouette.

“Mosby, how did…”

His voice took on an orotund, patronizing tone that I hardly recognized. “How did she die? If you’re going to ask a question, ask the question. There’s no sense in dancing around it.

“She was struck by a bicycle courier, and cracked her head on the sidewalk. A few people saw it happen, they said the man didn’t even slow down. They said it looked like she had just been knocked aside; stranger things have happened, but she didn’t get back up.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the man, wondering if he could see the pity in my eyes or if he was just as blind as I. There was an uneasy silence between us, in the hall filling the air, the scent of a woman, now dead, that had been loved. I wished desperately in those moments to be anywhere but the twenty second floor, closing my eyes. When I opened them, the door to the roof deck was swinging closed, and I stepped forward onto the stairs.

A beam of panic shot into my head; what if Mosby had decided to jump? It had been less than a month since his wife died, and I hadn’t spoken to him in so long. Could people have changed that much? I didn’t care to find out, but I pressed forward anyway, each foot fall becoming harder to pull up, cement lining the inside of my feet until I was at the door.

I saw the shape of a man at the end of the deck, the odd concrete squares at angles that made up the ground rushing to meet him. Mosby’s hair was blowing in the wind and the door was resistant to opening. When I stepped out, the ground dropped from beneath my feet and I fell to the ground, rolling over on my ankle. As I turned, before I made the ground a personal acquaintance, I noticed that there was a step down from the door to the deck.

The deck was lined by a green railing, the paint flecks falling off with abandon, onto the loose rocks and stone that lined the cement blocks. Before I could pull myself up, I felt a tugging at my sleeve; Mosby was standing over me, hand outstretched.

“There’s a step down. I’m sorry about that, that I didn’t say anything. I thought you might have looked before you stepped.”

“Well, no. I was trying to get out here as quickly as possible.”

And with the omniscience of a mind reader, he spoke quickly, “I would never jump.”

I nodded as he helped me to my feet. To the right were deck chairs with comfortable cushioning strapped to them. They looked as old as the building, the wood that comprised the chairs cracked, perhaps even petrified. At the end of the roof was a small old woman, staring in my direction, a book folded neatly in her lap. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing at me or just breathing hard in my direction, but as soon as our eyes met, she shuffled and turned back to her book.

“Are you good to walk? We can go back down, but the view is –“

“I can walk. I played tennis for six years; I can take a fall.”

Mosby clapped my shoulder and took point, stepping back onto the concrete squares and moving to the edge of the deck. I followed, a sharp pain shooting through my right leg that soon subsided. But with each subsequent step I took, I felt a definitive clicking coming from my right leg. I gripped the railing, some paint chips falling to the ground, limping up next to Mosby.

“I don’t have medical, but I think you should get your leg checked out,” he nodded, his hair blowing in the wind.

“I have medical, I’m just not sure if I’m covered in New York.”

Mosby shrugged. “Look, look. You’re not looking where I’m pointing, you’re looking at your leg. Look.”

He gripped my shoulder and pointed out, away from the building.

There were two building between the Jersey Sound and where we stood, but they were shorter than our building; I could easily see over both of them. I stared out, down to the long stretch of road that lined the west side of the Island before staring out into the water, watching trolleys float back and forth. And in the smog, I could barely make out the small curvature of our lady liberty, holding an unlit torch.

Then Mosby motioned to the sidewalk; it was straight down, and I could see the edge of the balcony jutting out from the building. There were people walking around below us, oblivious to the idea that there were two people watching them. I focused on one man with a red cap as he danced across the street, picking up his pace and running in front of a large hole in the ground.

“Ground Zero,” Mosby said.

I nodded. It looked like construction had begun, but it still looked like a large hole in the ground. There were several dozen trailers inside the gated area, and men running back and forth, opening the gate, waving drivers through, picking up supplies, busying themselves.

“Were you in the City when it happened?”

Mosby shrugged. “No. Shannon and I were out of town, and at the time, living in the East Egg off the Long Island Sound. We were visiting her parents in Vermont, and the brought it over on all of the channels, even local. At first, I thought it was some kind of joke, but then Shannon kept telling me that ‘They can’t play a joke like this.’

“There was a brief period of terror when her parents’ TV broke. It was just unfortunate timing, I’d say, but it looked like the stations had all shut down, like something else had happened. I was glad to be with someone that day.”

“As soon as I heard the news, I thought about you two. I know we hadn’t spoken much, but we did try to keep in touch. What happened when the TV came back on?”

“Well, we were relieved. Very. And then we got drunk and passed out on the sofa. I woke up thinking it was some kind of bad dream, but they just kept replaying that footage on TV over and over. Why would they do that?”

I sighed. “In case someone didn’t hear. Or if someone thought it was a bad dream, I suppose.”

I paused. “That, and ratings. Everyone in the world was watching.”

“How deeply cynical of you.”

“If you actually want me to believe that every reporter out there that day was on the air for someone else, then I call you naïve.”

Mosby frowned. “Idea man.”

I nodded. “Have you been to Lady Liberty yet?”

“I’ve lived here for eight years, what do you think?”

“Well, that all hinges on my next question; can you dodge taxi-cabs?”

“Fairly well, I think.”

“Then no, you haven’t. A true New Yorker.”

Mosby turned and motioned for the two seats farthest away from the old woman. I sat down, sinking into the fabric which was by far more comfortable than I had at first anticipated.

“I was locked out here when it rained one time,” Mosby sighed, staring at the clouds. His hair had pooled behind him, and his hands dangled limply down, brushing the ground.

“You’re not allowed out here past eleven, and you’re not allowed out here with an open drink. Someone had propped the door open at 12 and I had a beer in my hand. I knocked the prop out of the way and the door slammed behind me.

“I think I stumbled over to the chair where you’re sitting now, sat down, and fell asleep. I woke up two hours later, and the rain was coming down hard. My beer was completely ruined, and I couldn’t get the door open. I piled the cushions up and tried to make a fort… The building staff wasn’t very pleased, but I was happy with my ingenuity.”

I smiled. “MacGyver would be proud.”

He chuckled, moving his hands behind his head, staring at the clouds. Eventually, his eyes began to close.

“Mosby, before you fall asleep, I should probably know where I’m sleeping. I couldn’t see a bed in the place.”

His eyes shot open. “You’re right. Let’s go back to the apartment.

“I’ve named it ‘The Troubadour.’”

“You should get a wall plaque with that name on it.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that already,” he said, smirking and climbing to his feet.

The return trip was just as long, but made even more awkward by the appearance of a new couple who chose to ride in both sets of elevators with us. The only time they stopped kissing was in the hallway between elevators, when they both had to walk their own steps, but as they waited for the new elevator, they entangled themselves in each other again. It was a private public display of affection, and when the door opened for floor four, they both took off in separate directions.

The man walked down the hallway in the direction of The Troubadour, and the woman took off down towards the trash chute closet, entering the apartment before the corner. The man, however, entered the apartment next to ours. As his door shut, I could hear him greeting his wife with a chipper tone.

Mosby slid the key into the lock as two more people rounded the corner, stopping, taking a step back, and finally stepping forward when Mosby looked at them.

“Hello, Jason,” the man said to Mosby.

“Frank Addison, Georgia Addison, meet Nathan Edmund. He’s going to be staying with me for a while,” Mosby said, motioning for me to shake their hands as he turned his attention back to the key. “I’ve gone so long without locking the door, this key is becoming quite tricky.”

With his attention away, I shook both their hands and watched their eyes disdainfully trace over Mosby. Georgia sighed, bringing a hand up and whispering something to Frank, who nodded.

“Nathan, you were a tennis player, weren’t you?”

I nodded.

“I saw – We saw you compete twice when we were in Los Angeles a few years ago. Before we moved here.”

“Oh, did you? Was I fabulous?”

“No, no – Well, your form was good,” Frank said, smiling, “But you lost both matches.”

I chuckeled. “Game and set,” I paused, looking over Frank. Although he couldn’t have been a day over forty, he looked and moved like he was sixty. His wife was by far younger, by at least ten years, but what she lacked in age she made up for in weight. Not fat, per-say, but statuesque and utterly bizarre next to the tall old lank of a husband she had. As Mosby continued to fiddle with the key, they both sighed.

Frank stepped forward. “Remember, Jason? You have to turn to key towards the wall, and then the lock clicks.”

“Oh, thank you kindly Frank.”

“It’s not a problem,” he muttered, grabbing the arm of his wife and moving past Mosby. I could see Frank shaking his head as Mosby stepped into the apartment.

“It was pleasant meeting both of you,” I called after them, but they had already disappeared into their own apartment, not fumbling with the lock.

“Do they not like you?” I asked Mosby.

“Nonsense, they like me plenty. They’ve never said an unkind word to me, and they sent over a nice basket of fruit and mixed drinks when Shannon died. Why would you ask that?”

“No reason.”

“Speaking of mixed drinks,” Mosby said, motioning to the bottles of liquor that sat over the bar, “Would you care for one?”

“I don’t really drink, Mosby, you know that.”

“But it’s your first day in the city! You’re going to deny one tiny drink? One tiny drink and I’ll show you where your bed is.”

I sighed. “Sure. What kind of drink did you have in mind? I don’t want anything too strong.”

“I’ve taken a liking, currently, to lemonade mixed with vodka.”

“I hate vodka,” I said, “It tastes like lighter fluid.”

“What does lemonade taste like?”

“Lemons.”

“Exactly! You can hardly taste the vodka,” he moved over to the sink, reaching into the cabinet above and removing the final two glasses.

“I’ll take care of those dishes for you, if you’ll make something to eat later,” I offered.

He shook his head, removing a bottle of vodka from the freezer, tossing it from hand to hand. “I can never get over how cold the bottle actually is.”

Mosby turned the bottle over, pouring more than a healthy portion into each glass. He left the bottle on the counter, moving back to the fridge and removing a plastic container of yellow liquid, pouring a good dose into each glass. He finally removed a plastic knife from a drawer, and stirred both drinks.

He grabbed both, handing me one and taking the other.

“And the good doctor said, ‘Bottoms up!’ and lo, it was good!”

I took a sip and was reminded immediately of paint thinner. I grimaced, taking another sip, before setting the glass down on the counter.

“Your bed is up the ladder. In the loft.”

I moved out of the kitchen and into the living room, grabbing the railings of the ladder and pulling myself up the rungs. My head was still reeling from the first sip of paint thinner lighter fluid, so I took it slow.

The loft had a ceiling about four feet high, a good two feet shorter than I was. In the corner sat a small twin bed with a nice comforter pulled over, and on the other side, a nice side table with an old fashioned alarm clock.

“The bed belonged to Shannon’s cousin,” he said.

I moved over to the railing and looked down into the living room. “It’s quite homely up here, if not a tiny bit cramped.”

“You’ll get used to it. Now come, finish this drink. We can watch some television. I think I have an old video game system lying around here somewhere if you’d be interested in playing that for a short while. I cannot tolerate it for any more than half an hour, the incessant beeping and booping will drive me up the wall.”

“Well, perhaps I should play the video game, drive you up the wall, and then stay in your bed while you’re trapped in the loft.”

“An ideas man,” he said, as I grabbed my drink.

There was little else I remembered about that particular night, although when I awoke on the sofa, there were two video game controllers resting on the floor in front of the television, which was replaying static silently. I rubbed my head as everything came into focus; the table was littered with a few more glasses and two plates. I took the extra glasses to be water glasses, and the plates for the dinner I assumed we had eaten. My hands were rubbery, a tell tale sign of dish-washing liquid, so maybe Mosby had held up his end of the bargain.

I sat up quickly; too quickly, and the pounding in my head grew worse. I stood, moving to the kitchen, grabbing my suitcase, which was still resting by the door. I opened the front panel, and took my tooth brush with me into the bathroom, where I quickly rooted through Mosby’s medicine cabinet looking for any kind of analgesic or aspirin. Finding none, I recessed into violent teeth-brushing, something my dentist always warned me about. “Do it too hard and you’ll brush the enamel right off, and then where would you be?”

When I removed myself from the bathroom, I found Mosby in the kitchen making something over the stove. He was in his robe again, but it was tied, and he was holding a spatula.

“Eggs,” he said, looking over.

“Christ, I drank too much last night,” I said, frowning. “I don’t think I’m hung-over, quite, I think I’m still drunk!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised; you only just passed out about two hours ago.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting down at the bar in the living room. Mosby pulled two plates out of the dishwasher and slid eggs onto them both.

“What’s on the agenda today?” I asked.

“Well, I never got around to the corner store yesterday. So that. And then I think I might get drunk again.”

I paused, taking the fork from my mouth. “And that’s all?”

“No. You can get drunk too, and we can try wiring that video game system again. We didn’t quite get it last night.”

“What about work?”

“I haven’t had to work in ten years, Nathan, just like you. I have money.”

“Then shouldn’t we do something eccentric, like throw it from some roof somewhere?”

Mosby frowned. “No. I’m fine with doing what I’m doing.”

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll show myself around the city. Do you have a subway map?”

He nodded and pulled one from a drawer.

It was odd traipsing about the city without a guide, and knowing that Mosby was back at the apartment downing bottles of rum alone nagged on my conscience. I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy anything, not that there was much to enjoy that early in the morning. Central Park was even unnaturally bland, filled with my guilt.

I rode back to the apartment, and Mosby had gotten an early start. He had been to the corner store; there was a large bag folded and tucked behind the garbage can. Mosby was in his room, on the balcony, smoking his pipe; I could see him when I entered the apartment, but he didn’t hear me.

The fridge was still threadbare, but the cabinets were slightly stocked with packaged chips and canned soups. The freezer, I saw, was empty save for one brown paper wrapping from a marketplace that I took to be a steak.

“Help yourself to anything you find,” he called out from the balcony, “I made it to the Duane Reade.”

I nodded, but there was nothing that I really wanted.

As the hour grew later in the day, I began to fix myself drinks and look at his computer. There were a few plugs missing from the back, nothing a simpleton like me couldn’t fix in some downtime, but to what end? I was just trying to occupy myself so I wouldn’t get too drunk, or too depressed with Mosby.

In the end, I put my drink in the fridge and went to lay down in the loft, my sleepless night catching up with me as the sun began to set behind the skyline.

And I awoke the next day to Mosby making eggs and fixing himself a drink in his red robe. I climbed down the ladder; the table with the television was pushed slightly back and the controllers had disappeared from sight.

“Don’t you want to go out and do something?” I asked, going into my suitcase for a fresh shirt and towel. “Why don’t we go out once I finish with my shower?”

Mosby sighed. “You can.”

The water pressure in the shower was incredible; it was unlike anything I had felt before, making my custom nozzle in Los Angeles seem like a dripping faucet. I opened the door to the bathroom fully dressed, maneuvering through the steam, to be greeted by Mosby’s face. His beard was catching condensation from the air, as was his long, tangled hair.

“We can do something tomorrow,” he sugguested.

I sat down in front of the television.

“Mosby, this isn’t what I had in mind when I came up here,” I said, watching him pace back and forth.

“What did you expect?”

“You’re a mess! You don’t do anything but drink and smoke all day, and pass out at night. If you don’t do something with yourself, I’m leaving. It seems like it wasn’t worth it to come here after all,” I said, raising my arms. “I’m glad I didn’t unpack.”

“You’re being a bit dramatic, Nathan,” Mosby said, turning to his room.

“I’m taking the early flight tomorrow, Mosby,” I called.

I didn’t want to leave him, but I was drinking again, and that could only lead to a downward spiral. I couldn’t stay with someone when all they would do is drink; I had been there before and it made me nothing but drunk and sad. I didn’t see Mosby again for the entire night, however, I did retire to the loft early, taking a lamp from the corner and using it to read some book I had found in the night stand.

In the morning, the sun hit me directly in the eyes; the blinds had been opened at some point in the night. I moved down the loft, over to my suitcase, which was on the opposite side of the room.

It was empty. I turned, looking under the ladder that led to the loft, and saw three clear, plastic shelves filled with my clothes. I frowned as I opened them, and found my clothes neatly folded in each of the three, divided; shirt, pants, and the last drawer containing my socks and boxer shorts.

I turned, looking into the bathroom, and saw one of the three mirrors slightly open, behind it, my shaving cream, razors and tooth paste.

The son of a bitch had unpacked me fully in the middle of the night.

I turned back to the kitchen, the dishes we had accumulated in the previous day now in the washer. The blinds were open because the window was open, again, and I began to notice just how clean and lit the apartment was now. In the middle of the night, Mosby must have came in, cleaned, unpacked my bags, and –

The door opened, and a man I hardly recognized walked in. His hair was cropped short, and he no longer sported a feral beard. His nails were cut to the right length, and his clothes looked impeccably neat and starched. He looked up from the flyer he was holding, and looked at me.

“Hey, Nathan. I cleaned up last night,” he said, smiling. He was once again wearing glasses, and had opted against a moustache. He looked like a thirty year old man again instead of an ape.

“Why did you unpack my bags? I told you I wasn’t going to stay.”

Mosby began to laugh. “You said you didn’t want me to sit around and drink all day, so I took your advice. I took a walk this morning down the block a few miles and I found someone handing out fliers for a film class, and after paying the fees, I enrolled in a few courses. How is that for not sitting around and drinking all day?

“They have equipment rental and a few extra courses. But it’s something to do, isn’t it? You were right, it does beat sitting around here.”

I was quite astonished.

“Besides, I didn’t want you to leave quite yet! But I have class in a few minutes, so I should really head back out,” he said, moving to the door.

It clicked shut. I looked at the plastic drawers, my medicine cabinet, and to my empty suitcase on the sofa. I picked it up, moving it over to the closet, and shut it inside on the top shelf. I then moved to Mosby’s room, took a pen and paper from his desk, and wrote a note.

“I’m going to the park. I’ll be back,” I scrawled, leaving the note on the table.

I walked out of the apartment proud, amazed, and slightly bemused.

Film school.

[FoJaR]

i'm sure it's a great plea, look how long it is!

[Tasuke]

Nevermind, everything i was thinking about was in the other thread. It's a good read, I like it when the story doesn't have a definitive plot. Plus, the Gatsby vibe makes it all the more enjoyable.

[MalReynolds]

I'm surprised that anyone took the time to read that - I'll always be surprised when anyone takes the time to read anything I've written - considering it was 22 pages long, 9,336 words.

Thank you for reading it. I'm almost done with Chapter 2, which is longer, but leans a tad bit more on dialouge, so the added length is artificial.