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Authors: Kevin P. Keating
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the door, Mrs. O’Neill turns and says, “Best of luck tomorrow night, Coach!”
“Oh, you horrible, horrible …” Kaliher whispers.
In the darkness, without daring to light the candles, he sits cross-legged at the end of the mattress and runs his hands over his head. For a long time he does nothing at all, just stares into space and listens to the lunatic laughter of the other residents, the chanting, singing, crying that comes night and day through the dusty vents. In this madhouse, there is never a moment’s peace.
Though he is aching and drained of energy, he somehow finds the strength to get to his feet and staggers to the bathroom. Thankfully, there is no mirror in here, no way for him to inspect the dark circles under his eyes, the new lines that have formed on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. He hunches over the sink. Using the crusty remnants of an old tube of toothpaste he brushes his teeth, but no matter how hard he scours, gurgles, and spits, he cannot get rid of the putrid taste of toenails, sour and bitter like old lemon rinds, that clings to the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. When he can no longer tolerate the dirtiness on him, in him, and around him, he stands in theshower under an icy spray of water. There is no soap, no exfoliating scrub, no shaving gel, none of the fragrant lotions he once enjoyed as a happily married man. In fact, very little remains of his old life except the mattress on the floor where Mrs. O’Neill occasionally positions herself and groans with unbridled pleasure.
Reluctantly he returns to the bedroom, but when he tears off the soiled sheet he notices a twenty-dollar bill wedged between the mattress and the wall. How he overlooked it he does not know. With a little whimper of gratitude, he holds it up to the light, smells it, rubs it between his fingertips, and after several minutes of meditation decides that this must be an act of divine providence, irrefutable proof that God is watching over him. Quickly, before some new disaster befalls him, he gets dressed and hurries out into the cold October night. A celebration is in order. It’s happy hour at the local brewery. One-dollar pints of lager and stout.
Kaliher shivers and pulls the collar of his jacket tight around his throat. Already the weather is beginning to turn. Forecasters are predicting a hard winter. As he hurries along the sidewalk, he moves aside to let a young man pass, another hapless bohemian, judging from his tattered jeans and T-shirt with a large, grinning skull. Maybe he’s a musician or a fledgling poet choking on a bolus of foolish fantasies, the old childish dreams of fame and fortune. But there is something different about this kid, something vaguely familiar. Though he can be no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, he looks world-weary and soul-sick. His left eye is bruised, his lip swollen. He has seen hard times, harder than most perhaps, and in his wake he leaves a long, messy trail of despair.
The kid glances up at Kaliher. There is a flash of recognition between them. Could he be a student from the Jesuit school? The boy looks away, picks up the pace, and disappears inside the building. Kaliher considers warning him away from this necropolis of dead dreams. But what’s the use? People never change. Besides, like everyone condemned to stay at the Zanzibar Towers & Gardens, this kid probably has it coming to him.
The city echoes with the wail of sirens. A police cruiser races by, its lights flashing. Gripped by a vivid premonition, Kaliher stands rooted to the street corner, mesmerized by the baffling array of kaleidoscopic color dribbling over the windows of the apartment building. It’s almost like someone has knocked over a thousand cans of paint from the rooftop, thick globules that hurtle into space and then vanish in the darkness only to reemerge an instant later in striking new patterns. A sign! While he watches this mystifying cascade, tastes its
“Oh, you horrible, horrible …” Kaliher whispers.
In the darkness, without daring to light the candles, he sits cross-legged at the end of the mattress and runs his hands over his head. For a long time he does nothing at all, just stares into space and listens to the lunatic laughter of the other residents, the chanting, singing, crying that comes night and day through the dusty vents. In this madhouse, there is never a moment’s peace.
Though he is aching and drained of energy, he somehow finds the strength to get to his feet and staggers to the bathroom. Thankfully, there is no mirror in here, no way for him to inspect the dark circles under his eyes, the new lines that have formed on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. He hunches over the sink. Using the crusty remnants of an old tube of toothpaste he brushes his teeth, but no matter how hard he scours, gurgles, and spits, he cannot get rid of the putrid taste of toenails, sour and bitter like old lemon rinds, that clings to the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. When he can no longer tolerate the dirtiness on him, in him, and around him, he stands in theshower under an icy spray of water. There is no soap, no exfoliating scrub, no shaving gel, none of the fragrant lotions he once enjoyed as a happily married man. In fact, very little remains of his old life except the mattress on the floor where Mrs. O’Neill occasionally positions herself and groans with unbridled pleasure.
Reluctantly he returns to the bedroom, but when he tears off the soiled sheet he notices a twenty-dollar bill wedged between the mattress and the wall. How he overlooked it he does not know. With a little whimper of gratitude, he holds it up to the light, smells it, rubs it between his fingertips, and after several minutes of meditation decides that this must be an act of divine providence, irrefutable proof that God is watching over him. Quickly, before some new disaster befalls him, he gets dressed and hurries out into the cold October night. A celebration is in order. It’s happy hour at the local brewery. One-dollar pints of lager and stout.
Kaliher shivers and pulls the collar of his jacket tight around his throat. Already the weather is beginning to turn. Forecasters are predicting a hard winter. As he hurries along the sidewalk, he moves aside to let a young man pass, another hapless bohemian, judging from his tattered jeans and T-shirt with a large, grinning skull. Maybe he’s a musician or a fledgling poet choking on a bolus of foolish fantasies, the old childish dreams of fame and fortune. But there is something different about this kid, something vaguely familiar. Though he can be no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, he looks world-weary and soul-sick. His left eye is bruised, his lip swollen. He has seen hard times, harder than most perhaps, and in his wake he leaves a long, messy trail of despair.
The kid glances up at Kaliher. There is a flash of recognition between them. Could he be a student from the Jesuit school? The boy looks away, picks up the pace, and disappears inside the building. Kaliher considers warning him away from this necropolis of dead dreams. But what’s the use? People never change. Besides, like everyone condemned to stay at the Zanzibar Towers & Gardens, this kid probably has it coming to him.
The city echoes with the wail of sirens. A police cruiser races by, its lights flashing. Gripped by a vivid premonition, Kaliher stands rooted to the street corner, mesmerized by the baffling array of kaleidoscopic color dribbling over the windows of the apartment building. It’s almost like someone has knocked over a thousand cans of paint from the rooftop, thick globules that hurtle into space and then vanish in the darkness only to reemerge an instant later in striking new patterns. A sign! While he watches this mystifying cascade, tastes its
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