94

The dead escalators were the best way down into the subway, though they were palm-sweating steep. The ceiling had collapsed over the regular stairs. When she was in a desperate hurry, Clara hopped into the space between the former down and up sections and slid, her smooth-bottomed sneakers and gloves taking the friction.

93

I thought my mother's first reaction to my new place was going to be, "It's too dangerous to live there!" but it turned out she actually said, "You bought a what?" because she misheard me.

"A warehouse, Mom."

"Ahh. My God, I thought you said 'whorehouse'."

"Muh-ther!"

My mother did eventually get to the part about where that said warehouse is located, but by then she was so relieved I wasn't suddenly a Lady of the Evening that she forgot to harp on it.

Yes, the warehouse isn't in the best neighborhood, but there aren't any warehouses in the rich sections of the city, even if I could afford to live there. Living in a warehouse is much more secure than anything else, though. It has industrial doors and industrial windows and it doesn't look like much so people mostly ignore it. I, however, thought it was beautiful, and it is big.

There are three floors, and I don't live on the first floor at all. I have a freight elevator that I take up to the second floor where I keep all my junk under paint tarps. The best part is that I can ride my bike right into my apartment and never have to carry it! Yeah, I traded off having an actual kitchen, but that will come.

92

Usually, when you feel as if someone is staring at you, it is merely your own brain sending out electrical shots of paranoia causing increased heart rate and surface skin reactions that you interpret as eyes upon the back of your head. Julia began feeling that someone was watching her, however, when someone started watching her from across the street.

Having had a sound, scientific upbringing, Julia initially analyzed her body's reaction as a residual guilt over not marrying her former boyfriend and thereby disappointing her grandmother. It was, therefore, days before she even thought to look at the dull, blue-grey house opposite and wonder about its tenants.

91

Hamlet lived in a small world. His possessions were neatly organized in his room, mostly in shoe boxes and baggies. He carried what he needed for the day in a stiff, brightly-colored backpack. Hamlet's clothes were varied, but all looked like each other and were always well pressed. His sandwiches were small with the crusts cut off.

The bus arrived promptly between 3 and 3:15. Hamlet boarded, swiped his bus pass and sat in the middle, deftly swinging his backpack from his shoulders and holding it firmly in his lap. He looked around and noticed only details.

90

"I think John Pizzell is retarded."

Claire looked over her shoulder at Mike who was sitting at the other computer. "Why is that?"

"Because he refuses to spell check and uses random capital letters in his posts."

Facebook was really beginning to bother Mike who was a stickler for proper English. He couldn't even use abbreviations while texting, but, then again, neither could Claire. "Don't worry, Mike. It's just the breakdown of civilization."

"Yeah, but he's promoting his 'professional' business! He should really try to be professional." Mike closed the Facebook window in frustration. "Are people's brains really being rewired?"

Claire swiveled around in her chair. "Are you asking me to start a new study?"

89

The walls were beginning to close in. The books and piles of folders loomed. Scraps of paper were stuffed and taped in any available space. Dust and crumbs and the occasional dessicated insect littered surfaces. Even the back of the faded red sofa was dusty. Balls of cat hair tumbled under tables, gathering more and more until they caught on the edge of a throw rug or under the long drapes.

Lauren had once wondered how anyone could go more than two days without a shower, but she eventually found that five was her magic number. After five, she started to itch.

88

A woman stood in the art gallery, her back to the large windows facing the street. Her weight was on her left hip and her body made a slight curve. Her hair was not long, nor was it short. Her clothes were gender-generic and neutral in color. The woman stood still for long moments before suddenly shifting her feet or pushing on her hair and returning to her neutral, if slightly bent, position.

The art was blurry from a distance. Smears of color washed in art gallery spotlight. Small squares of canvas were dwarfed by large expanses of pristine white walls. There were no frames.

87

"What the hell am I suppose to do?"

Mrs. Kirby continued to shuffle paperwork. She sucked on her invisible braces and looked everywhere except at her client.

"I need to see a doctor. I ain't got enough money to see a doctor but you telling me I got too much money, somehow. How? How is that?"

Mrs. Kirby opened her mouth and closed it again.

"I don't even have nothing for them to take when I can't pay. My car? How am I suppose to get to work, then?"

Another service worker peeked over the cubicle divider and looked worried.

"You don't write the rules, is that what you wanna say? You just follow the rules? Is that it?"

Mrs. Kirby tipped her chin up.

"I see. You don't care because you got your nice job with benefits. Or you did care but now you don't because you think I'm mad, that all your "clients" are mad, at you. Is that it? I'm not mad at you excep' for the fact that you don't do nothing to help change the system. You don't ask questions. You don't even answer my questions!"

The security guard wandered in from the hallway and waited at the door.

"Mrs. Kirby, you should quit your job to-day. It has taken your soul. You ain't helping nobody, not even your own self. You are just like all these forms you make all us fill out and send back again and again when there's parts we missed. You a government form. Nothin' but, and just as soulless. Quit, Mrs. Kirby. Maybe I see you around when you found your soul again. Or maybe I'll be dead."

86

Cindy had a carefully crafted persona that become most obvious to the rest of the world when she began insisting her name was spelled "Sin-Dee," complete with the dash. Her persona-crafting, however, had begun in second grade. Cindy could pinpoint it herself, if she chose to (though she didn't,) as the moment her elementary school crush, Matt, said she looked like his mother.

In Matt's defense, Cindy did look like his mother, especially on that particular day. Cindy had been wearing a cream-colored cardigan with faux pearls sewn down the front. She had also gotten a new haircut--the "Dorothy Hamill"--that didn't suit her, but was the same style worn by Mrs. Anderson (Matt's mother.) Finishing the look, Clumsy Kelley had just dropped the box of loose crayons on the floor at Cindy's feet. The face Cindy made, combined with the fists-on-hips stance she took, struck the boy Matt so profoundly, that he blurted, "You look just like my mom does when she's mad."

Sin-Dee today has a penchant for black, several piercings and several more tattoos; however, if Matt would have walked by the bar where Sin-Dee worked on this particular evening and saw the look she was giving a patron who had just knocked the drink from her hand, he may have found himself again blurting, despite the tramp-stamp, "You look just like my mom does when she's mad."