The Highline Grace
by Megan Frank
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
ONE
Down the stairs, through the lobby, and out the door.
The worst part of every day is the beginning sequence: down the stairs, through the lobby, and out the door. It’s the only part of my day that requires social interaction. Neighbors leaving for work at the same time as me, an overly cheerful front desk manager, a busybody of a doorman. With the amount I pay for this apartment, you would think everyone could learn to mind their goddamn business.
I stare at the inside of my front door, as I do every morning, still locked until the last millisecond. Through the peephole, a woman shuffles her young son down the hall. He forgot his lunch, so they have to turn back. Across the hall, an elderly woman exits her apartment carrying a wooden cane and a large, translucent red tote bag full of yarn and crochet hooks. I wait for the woman with her son to cross my vision one more time and let out a breath, then pause to avoid making a sound. It is safe.
Slowly and silently, I unbolt the lock and slither into the hallway. My faded charcoal canvas backpack, once a midnight black, sits unmoving against my back. A small crowd has formed by the elevator, which is why I always slip into the stairwell. Down the stairs, through the lobby, and out the door. The door at the bottom of the stairwell is in a suboptimal location near the front desk, on the opposite end of the lobby from the entryway doors. It’s worth it to avoid riding down in an enclosed space and being assaulted by bony elbows and hot breath.
The door opens before I can reach it, stopping me in my tracks a few steps above the ground. A man in his thirties, dressed only in athletic shorts and running shoes, jogs through the door, panting but smiling. Sweat drips down from his side burns, and I try to disappear into the railing.
“Morning, Neighbor!” The man waves as he runs past me on the stairs, uninterested in whether or not I respond. I do not.
I don’t move until I hear a door open and slam shut a couple of stories above me, assuring me that I’m once again alone. Then, I inch toward the door and put my ear against the cold, white metal. A desk phone rings, and I hear the manager answer with his signature greeting: “Thanks for calling The Highline Grace, New York’s little slice of Heaven. My name is Marvin. How can I assist you today?” That’s my cue. I open the door with patience in an attempt to avoid the inevitable creaking and enter the lobby.
“Good morning, Mr. Rockwall. Do you have a moment?” Marvin’s deep voice thunders through the lobby. He must have put the caller on hold. The giant man stands from behind the front desk and walks toward me. Regretfully, I stop to hear what he has to say.
Marvin’s meaty palm lands on my shoulder, knocking me off balance. He brings his face close enough to my ear that I can feel his stale breath on my cheek. He speaks in a whisper.
“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Sir, but we have not received your rent for the month. It was due last week.” He releases his grip on my shoulder, and I take a step closer to the door. The smile never leaves Marvin’s face. His dark skin only emphasizes the unnerving whiteness of his teeth and unnatural brightness of his squinted hazel eyes.
“I have the check upstairs,” I lie, backing away as I talk. “I’ll bring it down tonight.” Before Marvin can answer, I’m approaching the revolving glass door staffed by a willowy man named Jason, his curly red hair poking out of his Pershing cap.
“Good morning, Mr. Rockwall!” Jason’s voice is set a few octaves above Marvin’s. I push the door, but it moves nowhere. “Revolving door’s broken,” Jason says, pushing open the adjacent egress door. As I reach the exit, a poodle cuts me off. Behind the dog, an impossibly tall and gaunt woman holds its leash.
“Please excuse my Posie,” she says, gesturing to the creature already outside the door. Posie’s white curls bounce around in the wind tunnel that is a New York City block. Jason snickers and rolls his eyes. When Posie’s owner is out of earshot, he covers his mouth with his hand and whispers to me.
“That’s Mrs. Clark,” he says. “Total crackpot. The dog’s cute, though.” I leave without thanking him.
Parked in front of the building is the same black Cadillac Escalade I step into each morning. It takes me to my lab, where I conduct my research in peace and only communicate with my peers digitally. And then it brings me home, and I must do it all backwards: Through the lobby, up the stairs, and down the hall.
The Escalade rolls to a stop in front of The Highline Grace. I release my breath, attempting to expel the nervous energy from within, and step onto the curb. Jason is already opening the door when I approach the building.
“Welcome back, Mr. Rockwall. How was your day?” Jason resembles a marionette, permanent smile and rosy cheeks painted onto his long, thin face. I mumble something that sounds enough like “good” and enter the building.
Across the lobby, harsh overhead lights reflect off the whites of Marvin’s eyes, giving the effect that they are glowing. Like a cat hiding in a poorly lit corner. His voice startles me as I pass.
“Going to grab that check, Mr. Rockwall?” I turn to him, nodding, and pretend to answer a phone call.
Mrs. Clark and Posie step out of the elevator as I walk past, and Posie cuts me off once again. I almost trip over her. This time she stops and looks up at me, a fat drop of drool falling from her pink mouth onto my shoe.
“She must like you,” Mrs. Clark decides, winking as she says so. I dance around the dog awkwardly and shove myself through the door into the stairwell. Quiet consumes me as I take deep, calming breaths. I place my right hand on my chest as if putting pressure against my heart will reduce its rapid-fire beating. Eventually, it slows.
The walk up to the fifth floor is, fortunately, uneventful. A middle-aged man nods to me in the hallway, but I’m inside my apartment with the door locked in record time.
TWO
I stare at the inside of my front door, as I do every morning, check in hand because of course I didn’t bring it down last night. It didn’t exist until this morning, and I’m not one to insert an unnecessary trip to the lobby into my day.
The woman and her son pass by chaotically, papers spilling out of his backpack. My across-the-hall neighbor leaves with her crochet materials. I step into the hallway and walk to the stairwell. Inside, I wait until I hear the runner enter from the lobby, unwilling to bump into him again. After a minute, he arrives and jogs to the third floor, slamming the door behind him.
As I’m about to reach the platform for the second floor, the door from the hallway opens. A young girl steps into the stairwell and drops her backpack to the floor. Her black leather combat boots and sparkly purple tank top create an ironic juxtaposition that I sense is deliberate. Her black jeans look like they were sent through a shredder before she put them on. She digs through her backpack for what feels like an eternity and pulls out a tiny music player, no more than an inch wide. As she’s placing her headphones over her ears, she looks up and notices me. Her face forms something close to a smile, but I can’t be sure.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Lily. Who are you?” I’m frozen on my step. I’m prey who knows a predator is hunting them, but it’s too late to do anything about it. There’s nowhere to run or hide.
Lily flings her backpack over one shoulder. “Whatever,” she says as she turns and skips down the stairs. I don’t follow until she has gone into the lobby.
A broad woman with short, blonde hair sits behind the front desk where I expect Marvin to be. I approach her cautiously.
“Is Marvin here?” I ask, straining to get my voice above a whisper. The woman frowns.
“Marvin no-call no-showed this morning. No one’s heard from him.” She shakes her head, realizing she’s spoken too honestly with a resident. “How can I assist you?” I hand her the check.
“My rent money. Marvin said I could bring it to him today.” I feel how strangulated my voice must sound in the cavernous foyer. The receptionist asks for my name as she inspects the check. “Tavian Rockwall.” She writes something on a notepad and assures me she’ll get everything sorted, so I make the trek to the front door.
The girl from the stairwell is tying the laces on a pair of roller skates.
“Tavian, huh? Weird name,” Lily says, and she blows a bubble the size of her face with her bubblegum. I ignore her and almost make it to the Escalade when Jason starts to speak.
“I see you’ve met the newest tenant. She just moved in with her mom. Strange kid.”
I shut the door to the Escalade behind me.
No one opens the door for me when I return to the apartment. It’s a blessing, but it still feels odd, and I find myself standing outside the closed door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before opening it myself. The only person in the lobby is the receptionist, the same one from this morning. A ping chimes from the elevator as it opens, and Mrs. Clark walks out.
“Has anyone seen my Posie?” she asks, frantic. “She’s not in my apartment. Someone must have taken her!” The receptionist does her best to calm the woman down. “Maybe she escaped,” Mrs. Clark continues. “Where is the doorman? James, is it?”
“Jason left for lunch and never came back,” the receptionist responds before slapping a hand over her mouth. “But I’ve been here all day, and I haven’t seen your dog.”
I don’t care to see how this escalates, and I sneak into the stairwell. When I pass the door to the second floor, I pause, hovering for a moment around the entrance. Then the allure of my isolated apartment draws me up the steps and down the hallway.
THREE
I stare at the inside of my front door, as I do every morning, though something is off today. The woman and her son never pass by. Perhaps the boy is sick. But then, the time for the elderly woman’s exit comes and goes, as well.
After prudently allowing a few minutes to pass, I unlock the door and open it slowly. The pressure in my head rises as I stick it into the hallway. There is nothing to my left or right. There is no crowd at the elevator. Warily, I step into the hallway and head toward the stairs.
The stairwell is exceptionally quiet. Ominous. As I open the door to the lobby, I recognize that, for the first time, I hope to see Marvin. In Marvin’s seat is the same receptionist as yesterday. She looks more unkempt today, like she has been sitting there all night. I look towards the front door and notice Jason is absent again, too.
“Where is everyone?” I ask the receptionist. Her reaction is delayed.
“Hell if I know,” she finally says. “I had to work the overnight shift, too.” This time she doesn’t bother feigning shame for gossiping with a resident. I start toward the door but am startled by the stairwell’s heavy metal door smashing open. Lily pours out of the doorway and edges past me to the bench to put on her roller skates. Her eyes are bright red, her cheeks puffy and tear stained. Against my better judgement, I go over to her. She doesn’t make me ask what’s wrong.
“My mom left again,” she says. “She was here when I went to bed. She used to have the balls to tell me when she was using. Now, I don’t know if she’s dead in a ditch somewhere with a syringe sticking out of her arm.” I don’t know what to say, but I can sense that this little girl needs something from me, so I sit down next to her and put my arm over her shoulder. It’s a clumsy gesture, but she nestles her head into my shoulder and cries anyway. When she’s done, I let myself out the front door and into the Escalade.
The lobby is completely empty when I return home. I juggle with the possibility that the receptionist got tired and went home, but it doesn’t bring me any reassurance.
Instead of darting to the stairwell, I sit on the bench that Lily uses to put on her skates. I sit and wait for I don’t know how long, for I don’t know what. A person, or even a sign of a person. Neither comes.
On my way up the stairs, I stop at the second floor and enter the hallway. I go down the line of identical doors and knock at each one. No one answers any of them. I approach one door with a small table holding a bouquet of flowers in a vase. Lilies, I think. I knock a few more times at this door. And then I go home.
FOUR
I stare at the inside of my front door even though I know no one is out there. Then, I step into the empty hallway. I don’t bring my backpack anymore because I know my work is done.
Still, I take the stairs because it has become routine. On the second floor, I grab a dead lily out of the vase and stick it behind my ear.
The lobby’s atmosphere is discomfiting. A soft buzz echoes throughout the vestibule, proof of machines still trying to sustain an ecosystem that no longer exists. The lights remain on, but a few have burned out. The AC blasts cold air even though it is December. Christmas Eve, I realize when I look at the calendar sitting on the front desk. I’m not sure how I’ll track time when it runs out.
A pair of roller skates sits next to Lily’s bench. Not an exact replica but good enough for a memorial. I place the lily on the bench.
A light fixture flickers inside the revolving door. A lightning bug trapped inside a glass jar for eternity, or at least until it dies. My new normal consists mostly of things dying.
Six months have passed since I’ve seen another person. I stopped going to the lab when the Escalade stopped showing up. No peers are left to share my findings with, anyway. Instead, I step onto the desolate streets of New York, unafraid for the first time in my life.
| SPECIAL EXHIBIT FIVE: Return to “Night Flight“ | Begin Gallery Two: Concealing with “Industrial Accidents” |