Chapter One - Coming Home from Catz
Chapter One - Coming Home from Catz
Walking to my apartment on 9th Street, Cleveland, I took the stairs to my floor. It smelled of urine and had a stench of mold, which is common to these older buildings. The elevator was out, and it was two in the morning. I just finished serving bar at “Catz,” and I hate coming home at this hour. There are always a few people drunk or passed out on the stairs, and there is always someone from the East Side looking to make a score on a petty stickup. The cops, what’s left of them, simply don’t care anymore. They turn a blind eye to crime to avoid getting sued or shot. The local politicians gave the people what they wanted, “equality.” What they got was lawlessness.
There’s another reason why I hate coming home at this hour. It’s on account of my neighbor, Mr. Simmons. He's always up, and I can hear him cursing at whatever movie he’s watching at this hour. Why is he always up? Doesn’t the man get any rest? Mr. Simmons is retired, mid seventy, overweight, always coughs from smoking Pall Malls, and is the most unpleasant person I ever met. He doesn’t just talk to you. He barks at you. It’s always some intense argument you never started nor want to be a part of. He uses his voice like a battering ram as if you are the door he wants to pummel open to make a point about some past grievance. I wish it was just a simple complaint like the weather is bad, or the pizza delivered was cold. Instead, it’s “The kids nowadays are little sh--s and should be shot,” “Your generation is killing this country,” or “Our government is run by communists, drug addicts, and perverts.” My favorite is “This country is getting raped dry by your garbage.” This last rant was often followed with “At least we had the mafia! They kept the bums off the streets, the hookers in the alleys, the politicians and cops paid off, and the addicts six feet under,” then laugh, often followed by a smoker’s coughing fit. That was his only joke and liked to tell it… a lot. Come to think about it, Mr. Simmons is right about the streets. He convinced me to wish the mafia was still around to clean things up. It is only a matter of time before East Side hits me up coming home from Catz.
Mr. Simmons always leaves his door open, most of the time with the security chain still attached. I suppose he doesn’t worry about anyone breaking in while he’s home. He probably keeps a shotgun under the bed. You can see a nine tucked under his boxers. Every time I come home, at this hour, I peek inside. He’s usually just sitting there in his skivvies, with his house coat wide open. Facing the door, he sees who’s coming and going. His TV is against the wall next to the door. Beside him, to his right, is a nightstand with a lamp, an ashtray, and usually a dirty dish with whatever he is eating. To his left is a small table, with a large one-gallon glass mayonnaise jar filled with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies, mostly pennies. Every time I walk by, he sees me. And I see him. I don’t know why I look. Call it curiosity; I don’t know. I fear looking into his eyes. And occasionally, our eyes make contact, which causes him to shout, “Martin! Come here! Martin! I got something I gotta tell you! Get in here!” And so not to be rude, I come in, and we talk. Rather, I listen, and he battery rams me with insults, attacks, and complaints. “Not tonight!” I always mumble, yet reluctantly enter his apartment. The chain that goes across his door being missing should be a clue for me to not look in. But whether I look in or not, when he sees me coming, and that chain is left swinging, I get called in.
This time tonight, “not tonight!”, his chain is down. I don’t hear his TV, and the hallway is quiet. There's a heaviness to the air, like a weight, pressing down on my chest. Far off in the distance, I heard a gunshot, followed by the siren of a cop car or an ambulance. When it comes to sirens, I can never remember the difference. Then a cold breeze blew past me, and the air went still again. It’s been unusually hot and humid this past week, with thundershowers in the afternoon. Humidity in the air made everything feel heavy, but this was different. It had a smell to it. It smelled like horror. I don’t want to pass Mr. Simmon’s door. I don’t want to look inside. I find myself dead in my tracks, wondering what’s going on. Something’s just not right. After a minute I worked up the courage to walk up to his door, and slowly push the door open while still hiding in the hall. I’m not looking inside, and I call, “Mr. Simmons?” No answer. I call again, “Mr. Simmons?” There was nothing. The light down the hall flickered, then went out. I heard footsteps, and a man approached the door from inside the apartment. My chest began to pound, and the door opened. There stood someone I hadn’t seen before. “Are you Martin?” he asked.
Cautiously, I answered “I am. Who are you?”
“Come in! We’ve been waiting for you. I’m Officer Jackson and I’m with the Cleveland P.D.” the stranger said. He showed me his badge, and I entered the apartment, closing the door behind me.
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