Greetings from the Flipside (10 page)

He talks over his shoulder as I trail. “Each week, you pay in advance and leave a credit card on file for IVs, antibiotics, and bed pans.”

I laugh. Well, at least he has a sense of humor. But by the way his eyes cut toward me, I realize he isn't joking. Or he's a master of the deadpan delivery. I swallow and continue to follow.

We arrive at a door in the very tight hallway. The room says
11
above it. As he unlocks it, I notice an old woman, probably in her seventies, hunched over a mop, cleaning the floors at the end of the hall. She has a janitor uniform on.

“Welcome to paradise, Ms. Landon.” Morris flips on the switch. We both stand there gazing into the closet.
Closet
is not the right word. It's slightly smaller. More like a very roomy file drawer. It's the smallest livable space I have ever seen. A hot plate in the other. A desk so small I think it's been sawed in half, sits with a chair pushed against it. And there, on the wall right in front of me, is a Murphy bed. I've always had a fear of Murphy beds. Doesn't everyone?

“Showers are down the hall.” He squeaks away as I have flashbacks of junior high gym class.

It is late afternoon, but I'm only going by my watch. The room has a small window covered by small gray shades. The sun seeps through the sides. I decide I should unpack. Set on top of my now wrinkled clothes is the plastic bride and groom from my cake.
Mom
. I toss it in the wastebasket, which is also very small, like it belongs to an elf. I guess people in these circumstances have very little to throw away.

I have left my room door open. The air seems to circulate better out in the hall and I'm also starting to get claustrophobic. No one passes by for a long time, and then I hear footsteps. I look toward the doorway just in time to see her. She is a young girl, dressed in a plain T-shirt and baggy shorts. Her hair falls across her shoulders but is tangled. She glances in at me and I glance at her. Our eyes lock. She seems to see right through to my soul. I blink and she is gone.

A couple of hours later, I stand at the doorway of the showers. There are four, all with off-white shower curtains. The tile is stained in nearly every part of its grout. I thankfully brought flip-flops. A roach skitters across the floor. I am completely racked by fear but I'm also equally as terrified by my own body stench. So I take a step forward.

One shower is taken. I can see the feet under the curtain and they look a little cavewoman-ish. But there is singing. It kind of sets me at ease. It's an old hymn I remember singing in church but never knew the words to.

I manage my way through the shower. You've never seen an armpit scrubbed so fast. I'm back in my bedroom, hair wet and combed back from my face, sitting with the door closed on my very lumpy Murphy bed. It squeaks with every move I make. And it has to be said, there is a balancing act to these beds. One false move and you're a goner.

The next day, I oversleep. It is eleven a.m. and I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours. I order Chinese takeout, eat in my room and try to figure out the subway map. There are a lot of dots and lines and color-coding that is supposed to make sense. An hour goes by and I finally manage to find the subway route I think I should take to get to the address that is on the back of the Heaven Sent card, when I realize I am within walking distance.

A knock at my door causes me to jump out of my skin, and that is just enough to throw the whole thing off-balance. Before I know it, the old Murphy bed is calling it quits on me, closing up fast. I'm trying to save my map and my Chinese food when I should've tried to save myself.

The next thing I know, I'm inside the wall.

* * * *

So.

One is forced to examine one's life when trapped in the wall by a Murphy bed. Strangely, it's the perfect analogy for how I felt in Poughkeepsie—backed against a dark wall with nowhere to go.

Now, you're probably wondering at this point why I'm not screaming my freaking head off. Well, I was. But then someone came to rescue me. The same person who knocked on my door.

She hasn't gotten to the rescue part yet. She's currently in my room eating my food. I only know this because I can hear her slurping the lo mein noodles.

“So,” she says, “what's your name?”

“Kid . . .” I am assuming it's the young girl who passed me earlier. I don't really know, but her voice sounds kid-ish. “Would you get me out of here?”

“Of course I'll rescue you. Just as soon as you answer my nine questions.”

“Can it be three?”

“No.”

“Kid. Please.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“It's getting kind of stuffy in here.” I couldn't be sure, but I was guessing I was going to have major sheet marks on my cheek by the time I got out.

“Are you married?”

“Claustrophobic.”

“Does that feel anything like being in love? Oh, wow. I thought the lo mein was good, but the orange chicken is amazing.”

“Let! Me!
Out
!”

I didn't even hear her unlatch it. Suddenly I am falling and now I lay facedown on my mattress. I glance up. Yep. It's the same girl I saw before.

“Thank you.” I take in one breath of air after another.

She holds a piece of chicken on the tip of her fork. “Here. You should try this.”

I gather my maps and my pencils off the floor and everything else that was on the bed. “I gotta go see about a dream.”

I grab my purse, my sketchpad, the Heaven Sent card, stuffing everything loosely in my bag, but the girl doesn't budge.

“It's good to have a dream. I'll hang here. Hold down our fort, sit here pondering my dreamy non-boyfriend.” She plops down on the Murphy bed, but I open the door and wave her on out.

“Fine.” She sighs, the first indication she's really a kid. Her face turns pouty. “I didn't catch your name.”

“I didn't throw it.” She walks out. “See you later, Room Eleven.” And she swings out the door.

Within the hour, I am sandwiched between two people who did not scrub their armpits like I did. I decide to take the subway to get used to it. I should have walked. But finally I have arrived at my stop. I emerge from the underground into the light, squinting and trying to get my bearings.

It takes me a second to find North, but when I do, I'm only about three blocks away to the East. An easy walk without the baggage. I find myself walking more briskly than normal. The pace on the street is fast. The stream of people seem to read each other, walking in pace and never bumping. I try to concentrate so I won't be the odd man out. Their faces are very solemn. There is no acknowledgment of each other. I'm not a smiler, like I said. But I'm not a robot, either. It's hard for me not to express something when I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with someone.

Finally I arrive at 352 East 4th Street. I stand there gazing at the building. It doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the business district. It looks more like a doctor's office than a greeting card company. The sign reads
C.A.T.S.

“Huh?” I say this because I'm sensing a theme.

I look down at the address on the Heaven Sent Card. 352. Check. West 4th Street. Oh . . . I'm at East. Dang.

I trudge back from where I came, my head hanging in slight defeat. But the second I glance up, I spot it . . . the purple jacket. The same one that I remember from my wedding day. The person who . . . who what? Stole the car? It's so . . . vague.

I hurry through the crowd. Apparently I've hit a doctors' convention because a bunch of people in scrubs are in my way. Once I move past them and am in the clear, the jacket is nowhere to be seen. My eyes dart everywhere, but whoever it was has been swallowed up by the crowd.

Stay on task. That's what I must do. I march forward, toward
West
4th Street. When I arrive, I'm thankful to see the logo hanging outside. A cat meows nearby, sending me dashing through the front door.

Chimes that sound like heavenly harps greet me. Little cherubs hang from the door handle. Artwork from previous greeting cards hangs on the walls in the lobby. Behind a beautiful, ornate desk sits a young woman who looks like she just stepped out of an Ann Taylor catalog. Or an audition for
The Stepford Wives
. She's on the phone and I study her suit . . . it's highlighter yellow. Her scarf is yellow too, but it's more the shade of Pine-Sol. I can't see her shoes. I'm guessing mustard. Her earrings are two little sunshine balls.

“Heaven Sent. Sent by Heaven. Where may I send you today?” Her tone smacks of lemon meringue . . . sweet with just a tease of sour. “Sure thing, please hold.”

As she's transferring the call, the harp chime goes off again. I turn to see a man walk in, business suit, tie, confident enough to wear both. He's not a GQ model or anything, but he's got the kind of swagger that can grow on a girl. I'm trying not to notice but he's walking right toward me.

“May I help you?”

I step toward the desk, ready to introduce myself to the receptionist. And right as I do, I feel an incredibly sharp pain stab right through the bottom of my foot,
again,
as if I'd decided to wear my stiletto upside down. Except slightly more piercing.

I yelp. I reactively grab my foot and in doing so, drop everything I own, including what little self-worth I have left. The pain is gone, but my cards, my pencils, my sketchpad are all scattered across the floor. I drop to my knees, fumbling to gather it all, trying to keep myself from crying. I can't rent an apartment. And now I can't even properly introduce myself to a company I'm dying to work for.

“Oopsie,” the receptionist says. “Did that hurt?”

The question was,
what
hurt me? I hadn't turned my ankle. I didn't step on glass. What
was
that? Probably some mutant heel spur gene that runs in my family.

“I'm fine. Really.” We can't see each other. She's on the other side of the desk. I'm on my hands and knees, fishing for my red pencil that has rolled into a shadow.

“Fine, huh?”

I look up. The shadow has a source. It's the guy in the suit.

He squats beside me. “I'd like to hear how you define great.”

“The view from here is . . . it's . . . well, breathtaking.” I don't get to finish my witty punch line about the aesthetics of the linoleum because he's holding the Heaven Sent card that I brought in for the address. I stand up, brushing myself off, trying to hold the gigantic mess of papers in my hands. “I'm hoping to meet the ladies who wrote that card.”

“Looking for an autograph?”

“Well, um . . .” If it gets me in the door, sure. “My mother, actually, she got the card for this . . . occasion. An occasion where people get cards. So, if you could introduce me to the ladies . . .”

“You're looking at them.” He smiles, opens his hands in a “ta-da” motion. “Jake Sentinel. I didn't realize I had such a lovely fan.”

“I'm Landon.” It's the first sign that I'm shedding my old life. New town. New job. New name. Hope always seemed so . . . overly expectant. I shake his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere. I would even work for you.”

He keeps his eyes on me but addresses the receptionist. “Heather, can you make sure the children's home received the new Christmas line? I promised them five hundred.”

“Sure thing, Jake.”

“I need a job.” He lets go of my hand, gives me a polite smile, and walks toward the elevators. I quickly follow. “I just moved here. And besides my stellar talent for embarrassing myself, I've always wanted to write greeting cards. If you'll let me show my samples . . .” They're clutched in my hands at the moment.

“People don't just come here and start writing cards.” He pushes the button.

“Oh, I'm all about blazing a trail.”

“Seriously, they don't just commit pen to the papyrus and start writing.”

“But I'm mad with a pen. And papyrus. If you'll look at these . . .” I hold up both of my hands. It's a grand mess of cards and papers and pencils, any one of which could fall to the ground at any second.

He glances hopefully at the elevator but the doors don't open yet. “Look, I worked under my father for six years before he let me write a single card. When he retired, he left me to do the writing because he trusts me to continue our message.”

“I kind of don't have six years. I have rent. But no cats. I illustrate too.”

“My dad's sisters, Pearl and Ruby, do that.”

“And how they've mastered those puppies and kittens.”

He doesn't catch the sarcasm in my voice. His face actually brightens. “Haven't they? The kids, they love Pearl's tabby cat. There's nothing like coming up with cards that make a child smile.”

The elevator doors open. With one step, he is inside. They are closing.

“I'd be a devoted employee!” I have no idea why I'm shouting, but that's how it's coming out. “I have no life right now! Literally!”

“It was nice to see you . . . Landon.”

Swoosh
. They are closed.

I just stand there staring at the door. I can feel Heather's yellowishness burning my backside like the actual sun is sitting there.

To my surprise, the bell
dings
and the doors open right back up like I've said the magic word. Perhaps it took pity on me.

Jake is standing there.

“This is all I can do.” He puts a wad of cash in my palm, stuffing it between one of my cards and my drawing pad. “I
hope
you can find the best job, you know, where you can use those talents. Let me know how you weather.”

Then, like he was swallowed up by the elevator, he is gone.

Where did
that
come from? Let me know how you weather? Saying
hope
like it's got some magic power?