Fishbowl (13 page)

And then there’s Connor, whom she finds exhausting in every way, both good and bad and sometimes both at the same time.

Faye inadvertently moans at the memory of him as she passes a plastic square affixed to the wall that reads “Floor 21.” She unscrews the lid from her water bottle and takes a swig. There are noises of other people in the stairwell. There are murmurs and footsteps and the muted metallic rings of hands slapping the banister. There’s the soft scraping sound of Faye screwing the lid back on the water bottle. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

She can’t tell if the sounds are above or below because the noises bounce around the concrete walls so much. She adds another satisfied sigh to the sounds. She smiles. Nobody could mistake that noise; it’s the full-bodied sigh of postcoital satisfaction, and Faye wants people to know she just had one of the longest, hardest, and most epic fu—

Faye stumbles midflight. A shot of adrenaline shocks her heart, and she grasps the railing. Her water bottle falls from her hand and bounces a punctuated clatter down the steps. She steadies herself and then chuckles at her distraction.

The clatter of her water bottle stops abruptly.

“Are you okay?” A voice comes from the landing below.

Faye looks down to see a large, round man standing there. He’s clutching a package to his chest with one arm and holds her water bottle in his other hand. His toes are slightly turned in, giving him a nervous, childlike stance, which is in conflict with his size, his scruffy facial hair, and his massive arms.

“Yes,” Faye replies, “I just lost my balance for a moment. Missed a step.”

“I know what you mean,” the man says. “That’s all it takes.”

22

In Which Jimenez Witnesses a Spontaneous Creation in the Blackness

The fire starts as a blue electrical flash the size of a pinhead. It’s a tiny, perfect nova with a halo of light and star’s arms stretching out in four directions. It emits a simple crackling pop. The noise reminds Jimenez of his
abuelita
’s old transistor radio. It popped and crackled the same way when she turned it on to listen to the news most nights after dinner. Within the elevator, it’s a modest sound considering the magnitude of its consequence.

The spark seems to float in the darkness of the elevator compartment, hovering in midair and geometrically reflected outward for an eternity by the mirrors. There, it makes its own cerulean constellation, an array of bright-blue dots stretching out to infinity, uncountable brilliant spots giving depth to the complete black. It’s a spontaneous creation in the dark. Had the mechanics behind its origin been unknown, it would have seemed miraculous in both existence and beauty.

But Jimenez knows the reason for it sharing this space, and he is scared.

When the reason for a thing’s being is illuminated, it doesn’t hold the same mystery it does when it is unknown, which is both a wonderful and a horrible revelation. It’s wonderful because it’s like peeking into the universe and understanding a tiny bit of its complexity. It’s also horrible because a little bit of magic is removed from the world with each discovery.

The electric shock that comes with the light causes Jimenez’s arm to seize. The current passes through his muscles from fingertips to shoulder, then travels a course down the side of his body to the floor, painfully locking them all for a moment. In that contraction, Jimenez drops the wires. He regains control over his arm and shakes it out to the side, as if to flick off the residual electricity and to reassert control over that which is his. What’s left behind is a burning muscle exhaustion that aches deep in his tissue. But Jimenez has little time to contemplate his arm.

Within seconds, the spark blossoms. The pinhead of light swells to the size of a match’s flame. The elevator doesn’t remain dark for long. The flame illuminates the elevator compartment in a blinding contrast of deep shadow and harsh light that bullies the colors from Jimenez’s vision and forces him to squint against its brilliance. It continues to grow from there, sprouting fingers and tongues, a living creature licking the space for anything to fuel its hungry growth. It travels a short way up the wall, feeding itself and leaving a black charred waste in its wake. It crackles and sparks as it goes.

Jimenez pulls his work gloves from his back pocket and swats at the flame. With each swipe, it seems the fire dodges to the side and works to defend itself, to grab the gloves and envelop them in a wave of flame. But it never seems able to gain a strong enough grasp of them. It flares in defiance and spawns bits of flaming debris that fall to the floor. Jimenez stomps on the debris while continuing to bat the fire with his gloves.

Jimenez can see clearly now. The blackness is replaced by the firelight and by the reflection of it in the mirrors. The small compartment quickly heats up, and his brow beads with sweat. In the compounded light, he lashes out, swiping at the fire again and again. The flames growl and strobe with each stroke. They fade and flare and snarl at the attacks. Jimenez’s sleeve momentarily erupts in flame but is extinguished by a quick and violent shake.

The air rapidly becomes opaque in the flickering light. A cloud of acrid smoke rolls to the ceiling, at first a delicate, curling wisp, then an inch thick and then quickly a foot deep. Jimenez coughs and holds his arm across his face, the crook of his elbow to his mouth, breathing through the cloth. He relentlessly continues his assault with the other. The smoke is vile, industrial chemicals choking with burning plastics. It’s thick and biting in his throat, gagging him every time he tries to inhale. Hacking and sputtering for breath, Jimenez is forced to his knees as the cottony layer of smoke roils its way down from the ceiling of the elevator compartment. Short moments later, he has to crouch so his head is not fully in the cloud.

In a few more seconds, he knows, he will succumb to asphyxiation. It won’t take long, Jimenez thinks; this space is so small, and the air is so poisoned.

When they find me, he thinks, it will be with blackened work gloves in my hand and a charred sleeve. They’ll find me, my eyes red and swollen from irritants, and I’ll be either partially or fully charred, depending on how hungry this fire really is. They will say, “He fought a good fight, but it wasn’t enough.” Then they will ask, “Does anyone know who this burned man is?” And people will shrug.

When they go through my belongings, they’ll find all the artifacts of a lonely man without a family, without a love, and without a friend. They will pity me. The only evidence left of my life will be two frozen dinners in my freezer and the old romance novel on my nightstand, a worn copy of Dee-Dee Drake’s
Love’s Secret Sniper
. The old romances, when they are about love and not just sex, they’re the best.

His mind races while he tries to put out the fire, picturing a couple of workmen clearing out his apartment. They’ll hear the parking garage door rumble and feel its vibrations through the floor, and they’ll shake their heads sadly at the sound. All of my stuff will probably fit in one box, he thinks. Maybe two. Not even a yard sale’s worth. Combined, it’ll be a lonely testament to a life half lived and a death by asphyxiation in an elevator.

When they look for someone to give my pitiable life insurance payout to, they’ll find no one. It’s willed to a charity. When they look for someone to write my life into an obituary, there will be no one. There will be nothing left of my life to outlive me. And so I will fully fade away into the murky currents of time.

I can’t let them find that life, Jimenez thinks. I won’t.

He doubles his efforts, batting the flames twice as fast, pushing his gloves into the fire in a bid to smother it. His hand becomes a blur of motion in the hazy, strobing light. The fire grows dimmer and dimmer as he makes headway.

And then all goes dark. A subdued crackling comes from the wall, cooling down from where the fire fed from it.

There’s still no air.

Jimenez hacks and coughs. He wipes the back of his arm across his face. Tears stream from his stinging eyes, his body attempting to flush the irritants from them. Smoke is everywhere and his lungs scream for a breath of fresh air. Jimenez feels light-headed, and he can’t recall the last breath of clean air he had. Whenever it was, it’s now stale within him and due for exhalation. Yet he holds it because there’s nothing to replace it with.

Jimenez remembers the access hatch through the ceiling of the elevator.

In the airless black, he gropes his way across the floor and then up the wall. He finds the handrail that runs at waist height around the circumference of the elevator and follows it to a corner. Then he clambers up onto it, his butt jammed into the corner, his feet standing on perpendicular railings and his arm braced against the ceiling. He runs the desperate fingers of his free hand along the ceiling until he finds a seam. The hatch is almost directly above his head. He pushes on it, but it doesn’t budge. He hammers it with his fist, and after a few forceful blows, the little door releases and swings upward on its hinge.

Jimenez is too large a man to fit through the hatch, but after a few moments, his nose tells him that the elevator compartment is clearing. The smoke dissipates into the dark column of the elevator shaft. He can breathe again, which he does shallowly at first and then more deeply when he deems the air clear enough. It still stinks, but it’s not choking anymore.

Jimenez pops his head through the hatch. A dim light creeps through the cracks in the second-floor elevator door a short distance above. In the shallow light, not more than an arm’s length from the opening, Jimenez spies a breaker switch angled horizontally toward the elevator’s roof. He blinks to clear his eyes and then squints at it. It’s greasy and dusty on the underside, which, he reasons, is the opposite of what it should be. He wedges his arm and shoulder through the hatch and flips the breaker. The elevator lights flash on, and the compartment hops once as power surges through it again. The sound echoes up the hollow black expanse above him.

Jimenez lowers himself back into the elevator and swings the hatch closed behind him.

A few more moments and Jimenez is left with nothing from the incident but a foul taste in his mouth and the tang of burned plastic clinging in his nose. His gloves are grilled, and his shirtsleeve is charred, but the skin underneath, though a little pink, is otherwise unharmed.

He examines the panel. Things are charred, but everything still seems connected to where it should be. He replaces the cover and screws it into place. Most of the evidence of the fire is hidden, save a dissipating smear of charcoal sneaking from under the corner of the panel.

Then, he pushes a button.

The doors slide open.

Jimenez sighs and sniffs his clothes. He needs to change. His sleeve is scorched, and he smells like an industrial fire. He pokes the panel a few times, depressing the button for the third floor. It fails to illuminate on the first press but does so with the second.

The elevator doors slide closed again.

Jimenez smiles and waves a hand feebly as if it will clear the bad smell out of the elevator. He puts his hands into his pockets and leans backward to admire his work. In his pocket, his left hand encounters a folded piece of paper.

He pulls it out and reads, “Leak under kitchen sink. Apartment 2507.”

That should be easy.

23

In Which Garth Encounters the Evil Seductress Faye and Completes the Long Journey to His Apartment

Garth can’t take another step. His leg muscles fire tremulously, twitching awkwardly from overstimulation.

I’m going to feel this tomorrow, Garth thinks to himself, wondering if he’ll even be able to walk or if he’ll be crippled with fatigue when the sun rises on the morning.

He leans against the wall, the concrete cool through the sweat-damp fabric pressed to his lower back. He grips the black plastic bag in one hand and places the other against his hip in an attempt to stretch the cramp out of his side. This is the twentieth floor. Only five more to go and already Garth has sworn several oaths to get in better shape, tone down the beer consumption at night, and sign the organ donor form from his life insurance company should he survive his ascent. And, like the same resolutions he swore for the New Year, he’s certain he will fulfill none of them. He recognizes them for what they are, coping mechanisms.

Garth’s attention is drawn upward by a scuffling shamble and a short exclamation. A beautiful young woman at the top of the flight misses a step and stumbles. She starts to topple forward, her body leaning precariously beyond balance and threatening to fall headlong down the concrete stairs. Garth lunges forward to catch her but realizes he’s too far away. At best, he will be able to slow her tumble by the time she reaches the base of the stairs, but she would have to suffer several bounces first.

Luckily, the woman’s hand darts to one side, grabs the railing, and she’s able to regain her footing. She loses grasp of her water bottle, however, and it rattles down the stairs to come to rest at Garth’s feet. The woman pauses with arms outstretched and legs awkwardly splayed, but manages to remain upright. Then she stands and takes a breath. She seems to chuckle at her misstep, as if chiding herself.

Garth picks up her water bottle before asking, “Are you okay?” With his other hand, he hugs his package to his chest.

The shocked look on her face tells him she hadn’t seen him. She recovers from her momentary loss of composure and replies, “Yes, I just lost my balance for a moment. Missed a step.”

She continues down the stairs toward him, one hand gripping the railing now. She moves with graceful fluidity, one foot landing in front of the other, her ankles nearly touching with each step and her hips swaying like a model’s on a runway. Even though she wears canvas deck shoes, blue jeans, and a wrinkled pink nightshirt, she is stunning. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, but it looks like it shouldn’t be any other way. She isn’t wearing makeup and doesn’t need to. Her skin is smooth and evenly toned, her beauty entirely natural. She looks like she may have just climbed out of bed but could have thrown on a gown for a formal night on the town as easily as she had thrown on a pink nightshirt to clamber down a dingy stairwell.