The Altonevers (6 page)

She's told by him sternly with wagging
finger that she is to stay indoors and out of sight or she might be
captured. And to order as much room service as she wants, for her
own safety of course. Being new to experience of traveling and
having no context for where she is other than how sure she is that
she's actually experiencing it. She plays it safe, placing the do
not disturb on the door knob at all times. He's usually on his way
out, and when she asked about the weapon on his waist he just said
“Watching the weather can be dangerous” on his way out.

The light of the sun isn't constant
here, it glows dim and bright at a rate of ten times per minute.
Constantly throbbing through the clouds and coating the trees and
streets in its ebbing and flowing light of day. It's both cold here
and damp, each a bit to her disliking. Rolling across the ground
like tremors are the jollies. Un-gravity waves that rush through
the Alto for miles at time, miming the movement of a droplet into a
puddle, though spreading seismic waves through solid earth and
structures. Whatever thing they pass under, for the moment the
jolly passes under it, is free of gravity and thrown several feet
into the air, and brought back down to the ground just out place of
the place it came up. Because of this weather almost everything
here is fastened to the floor. She can’t help but think what their
kitchens must be like when one of the jollies strolls by,
conceiving it to be a lot like hot wack-a-mole with pots and pans,
to be a soup chef one must be able to catch falling boiling hot
fluid before their shoes touch the ground.

She gets up, checking the
door, making sure it's bolt locked so she’d know when he comes. A
jolly strolls past as she sits in the tub, in air seeing her own
face in the mirror of another existence, spurring her mind to
ponder of purpose and perspective, of who she is when out of the
context of everything she's ever known. And not forgetting being
alone in a room, locked away by the words of a man on a wanted
poster in a place she's never been before. Unsure of whether or not
to put trust on a man who says he's a weather chaser, with an ankle
piece.
She plops at the chair next to the
window, rocking with the rhythm of daylight. Seeing a mix of
steeples and flat roofs stretching as far as her eye can see. On
the street below is a butcher shop with a pig winking in the
window. A bakery with a sticky sweet smell that seeps from its
midday ovens, and a diner on the corner with a neon sign wrapping
across its top, reading restaurant. Afflicted by the introspection
of boredom and corrupted by anxious thinking, she takes to taking
the feathers from his pillow and throwing them with the tide of
passing jollies to pass the hours. Her only other company is a
bellhop when delivering lunches of watery looking food that’s
barely palatable to even regulars. Not caring for the bland always
buttery texture of the hotels room service, she instead goes on
seeing the sights through the window as a way to taste the rest of
the local scene, for as far as her eye can see anyway.

The bellhop explained that
they’re close to a lake of gravity, something tourists prefer to
see, to which Anna thought about for about a minute, then just
nodded her head.
For the past few days
crowds of out to lunch middle school kids have been catching her
thoughts. Pondering from her perch of who in group most resembles
who she was at that age. There’s a brown haired boy who stands with
the group, though is less conversational and less forceful than the
rest. Always last to follow, almost unwillingly, and often staring
into space, amazed simply by what’s around him. The others tease
him for it, though she smiles for him.

The doorknob jiggles and she jumps to
the peephole. Hiding the room key to catch him to speak to her, as
he's been in and out of the room at a mouse’s hours.

“
Who is it?” she
asks

“
It's me,
Cider.”

“
Talking apple
juice?”

“
Open up Carrots?” he puts
a finger over her enlarged pupil.

“
I want out.”

“
Let me in,” he says, and
she unlatches the door.

“
Well, look who's back and
in the day at that,” she says as he strolls in with an air of not
caring.

“
I've been
busy.”

“
Where's your
key?”

“
I lost it.”

She plucks the smoke from his lips,
then drops it in the water of a flowerless vase.

“
No smoking.”

“
Why'd you do that?” he
says as he sits next to the window in her bird’s eye rocking
perch.

“
I want to go out like you
do, and don't give me that it's dangerous stuff. You can’t keep me
cooped up here forever.”

“
I can, but I don’t intend
to, but,” he says.

“
But what?” she
asks.

“
Did you eat?”

“
Not yet.”

“
At all?”

“
Lunch,” she
says.

“
Yes, I’ll have a sandwich.
Pastrami please.”

“
NO!”

“
To pastrami?”

“
That's not the
point.”

“
Lunch,” he says
stridently, picking up the rotary phone from the night table, and
clicking the shaded lamp on.

“
Sitting in darkness,” he
says “wallowing will make you feel worse, lighten the room up. I
bet you’ll feel a bit brighter. Hello. Yes, room service.
Yes.”

“
No!”

“
Excuse me, I’m on the
phone.”

“
Why can't I go out?” she
shouts.

“
Because you could get
locked up for a thousand years, or worse. Okay, hold on a second
please.”

She turns for the door, he leaps away
from the phone, grabbing her legs and falling with her heels
flurrying against his stomach.

“
Stop, hey, what're you
doing?” he grunts.

“
This is bullshit,” she
shrieks and scrapes her way across the cheap carpet for the door.
He climbs up her flailing legs and anchors his weight, she shouts
from the bottom of her lungs,
“Help!
help!”

“
Stop you crazy
bi-”

“
What!?”

“
Anna, c’mon stop. You'll
get us pinched,” he says with rising pitch. The phone's of the hook
as they tussle on the ground toward the door. Cider alligator rolls
with his arms around her waist as a jolly rolls by, lifting. And
dropping the quarrelsome two to the ground.

“
Help! Rape, fire help
rape,” she shouts.

“
Shut up. I'm not doing
that.”

“
Rape. Fire! Fiiiii-” he
muzzles her mouth with his palm, that she tries very hard to
bite.

“
Ahh, stop, fine.
Fine.”

“
Today.”

“
Whatever.”

“
No, today.”

“
Tomorrow,” he
concedes.

“
Okay,” she says after a
moment’s pause. He springs to his feet and hurries to the
receiver.

“
Hello. Yes of course. Of
course everything’s fine.”

“
She's fine,”

“
What? No, no, she's a
hooker. Yeah I know, wants to go out.”

“
WHAT!?” Anna yells with
red faced fury.

“
Yea, exactly. It's a shame
the work ethic these days.”

“
Yup Uhuh.”

“
Right. Anyway, can I get a
pastrami sandwich with mustard and pickles. Yes, a
lemonade.”

She stands ready to pounce, glaring at
him gravely with straight stiffened shoulders. Her horrified
expression leaps out at him in a second of static aired
silence.

“
What do you want to eat?”
he asks.

“
A prostitute?” she
snarls.

“
And a prostitute,” he says
to the receiver.

“
What color hair?” he
asks.

“
No…a soup,” she utters,
utterly giving up.

“
And a soup” he adds, “Eh,
ah, oh, a no go on the other. Right,” he says. Anna nods in
contempt of him.

“
No, thank you. You have a
pleasant day,” he says then clunking the clerks voice to the
dial.

“
I hate you.”

“
What? I had to say
something,” exchanging sneers before she swipes at his head and
misses.

He finishes his sandwich, as she
slurps down her soup. Wiping his mouth he walks for the
door.

“
Why do you have a gun?”
she asks. He says nothing, then takes the weapon from his ankle,
checking to be sure it’s loaded, and holds it handle first out for
her to take.

“
What's this?”

“
A gun.”

“
I know but why are you
giving it to me?”

“
So you can see that I mean
you no harm. Take it, if I threaten you, shoot me. And if someone
shoots at you, shoot at them, but don’t just shoot at them,” he
says softly. Anna takes the token comforted in knowing she can
point it at him anytime. Heavy to her hand so she sets it on the
dresser. Smiling, as he steps close enough for her to smell the
whiskey he's bathed in. He reaches out to feel her face, softly
stroking her cheek as he speaks, to lift her from her sorrow filled
face.

“
You’re safe with me, I
promi…”

“
Oww!” she shouts, wincing
away from his touch. “You burned me,” she snaps slapping at him
like a cat, but missing. Forgetting the lit cherry of his smoke
between his fingers he’s singed her face.

“
Oh sh, sorry,” he
says.

“
It's fine. Really,” she
sighs trying not to touch her stinging singing red singed cheek.
She takes her seat on the rocker, resting her elbow on the
windowsill thinking of tomorrow while watching for him to disappear
the next intersection over. Left back to the view of her perch, of
rooftops and water towers, and people straggling past through
another night in, of watching the world go by. Peering out in
anticipation of the breaking calm, and breathing in the breezy air.
Rubbing her cheek that burns like a bee sting hours later. Swimming
in the sensation of thriving, feeling alive in wondering what
tomorrow will bring. as she sits over the streetlights brightening
to suspend the descending dark of dusk.

He comes back inebriated, spilling
money onto the counter, then tipping onto his side, and sliding off
the bed with a flat thud.

“
What time is it?” she
asks.

“
You awake?”

“
I am now.”

“
Go to sleep,” he mumbles
face down in the old carpet.

“
We'll test the waters
tomorrow.”

“
Where will we go?” she
asks.

“
Somewhere...safe,” he
says, falling fast asleep as she lay awake, with her nose under the
blanket and her eyes wide open. So excited that she's getting
scared even in the safety of her sheets. Anticipating what lies in
what she sees from her perch while safely counting sheep, that jump
each time the fan creeks.

Like a hole in the
head

Throwing a paper airplane at the
brunette desk clerk is the bag boy, as the two pass through the
raggedy hotel lobby. Cider's happy to tell her the ins and outs of
blending in and getting around.

“
Do whatever they're doing,
the locals. And always move as though in a bit of a
hurry.”

“
To get around
quicker.”

“
No. So if you do get
noticed acting odd, odd to them anyway, they’ll think you’re in a
hurry and not out of place,” he says.

The two spill through a revolving
brass framed glass door into the open air, onto stairs, then the
sidewalk. He looks back with an animated stare, holding his hand
out welcoming her to join him. She’s standing stiff for a second on
the last step, then moving as though statically charged and readily
striding down the Alto's small city sidewalks. Her mind drinks in
the scents and textures fresh to her senses, she delightedly buzzes
around as a bee in a flower shop. Sipping the scene while nearly
skipping through the street, when hopping from street corners to
storefronts.

Already afloat in the
thought of the fresh air of another dimension filling her lungs,
she's swept into excitement as though in continual déjà vu and
slight vertigo, everywhere she looks she almost remembers something
she hasn’t yet had in her head. Her buzzing about brings back some
memories, of his old self. Of when he was green to the Altonevers,
of the youthful freedom of passing the street corner on a bicycle
for the first time.
It's a jolly day, with
the waves of un-gravity rolling by every few minutes. Making the
bricks jump and the people hop to stay on their proper paths.
Inhaling the bakery whose cakes and cookies she'd been lusting over
from her perch. The flesh of piggish beasts hanging in the butcher
shop window rise and fall, flailing around as though they're living
for seconds when the jollies roll by. Next door a man floats up
from his chair with half a face full of lather as the barber’s
razor sharply swipes his face clean, each oblivious to by the
habitual hop of their weather’s habit.