The Complex (2 page)

No, Sam decides, he will not miss this dump.

Outside, somebody screams. Sound is a constant factor at the Pine Village Apartment Complex. It comes through the walls and the windows and echoes from the parking lot and other apartments and the alleys and streets. When the scream is not repeated, he assumes that nothing is amiss. Screams are a normal sound here at the Complex. So are shrieks, laughter, shouting in various languages, revving car engines, and booming woofers blasting the garbage that passes for hip-hop and country music these days. Sam remembers when hip-hop was Public Enemy and Ice-T, and when country music was Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. These days, every hip-hop song sounds exactly the same, and most country music sounds like eighties pop.

The police sirens continue to shriek and fade, shriek and fade. Then a car alarm begins to whoop. Sam considers getting up to check, but then decides against it. After all, his isn’t out there anymore, and in a few minutes, a thief breaking into one of his neighbor’s cars won’t matter. At least not to him.

He scans the living room, looking at his possessions. A plasma television which is only four years old and already shows ghost images in the upper right hand corner. A DVD player that was new back when most people still bought videotapes. The couches and coffee table, left behind by his last girlfriend. A few framed photographs—Sam signing books for some readers, Sam in a bar with some fellow writers, Sam and his first ex-wife, Sam and Sergio at the lake, Sam and Sergio and Sam’s second ex-wife. And books. Six cheap pressboard bookshelves bought at Walmart and put together over a long frustrating weekend, crammed with over two-thousand paperbacks, hardcovers, first editions, and signed limited edition collectibles.

In the bedroom, there are six more shelves, also stuffed with books, but these are all ones that have been written by Sam, along with comic books, magazines, anthologies, and other outlets that have featured his work. One shelf contains his literary awards, of which he has many. Last year, Sam was given the Grandmaster Award, one of the highest achievements a writer in his genre could receive. He’d been proud, but twenty-four hours after receiving it, he’d seriously considered selling the award on eBay in order to pay the rent. Awards were nice, but money was nicer. Sadly, a long time ago somebody in his field had apparently decided bronze and plaster busts were better than cash.

The bedroom also has a cheap, pressboard desk (purchased the same weekend Sam bought the shelves). His laptop and printer occupy the desk, along with stacks of miscellaneous papers receipts, and dirty coffee cups. The laptop is on its last leg. It takes forever to start, and the battery only lasts a few minutes when it’s not plugged in, and the question mark key doesn’t work. Anytime Sam wants to type a question mark into a manuscript he’s working on, he has to go online, find an image of a question mark, and then copy and paste it into the document. The bedroom also has a bed, which is nothing more than a cheap mattress and box spring on an even cheaper frame and headboard, haphazardly screwed together and shoved into one corner.

Sam realizes that the only things of value that he owns are the books and the handgun. Everything else is shit. The handgun will probably be taken as evidence after the police investigate his death. But what of the books? Will his relatives claim them? They’ve never shown any interest in them before, so why would they after his death? He imagines that whatever belongings aren’t claimed by his next of kin will be unceremoniously tossed in the dumpsters by the Pine Village Apartment Complex management. He’s seen this happen before, almost on a weekly basis. Someone doesn’t pay rent, the sheriff puts a notice on their apartment door, and they abscond in the night, leaving behind their belongings, which management then tosses in the dumpsters. He’s seen furniture, bedding, toys, and even electronics equipment thrown away in such a manner, and has also seen his neighbors dumpster diving for it all after management has left. He thinks about his books filling up a dumpster, and the illiterate tenants picking through them, looking for DVDs or videogames because nobody reads anymore. For a brief moment, this image is almost enough to make Sam reconsider his decision.

But then, shrugging, he reaches for the gun. No sense delaying the inevitable.

He wonders if it will hurt.

Before he can go any farther, the screams outside start up again.

This time, they don’t stop.

Two - Terri and Caleb: Apartment 2-D

“Caleb,” Terri calls, “where did you go?”

“I’m right here, Mom.”

The six-year old stomps out of the truck, obviously enjoying the sound his feet make on the long metal ramp extending from its rear. Terri wonders what he’s pretending to be this time. The Hulk, perhaps? Or maybe a Stormtrooper from
Star Wars
? Mom logic says that it has to be a character who stomps.

Caleb carries a cardboard box. Printed on the side of the box in black magic marker with the particular, painstaking scrawl of a six-year old still learning to write, is ‘CALEBS ROOM.’ He hauls it through the open apartment door just as Randy comes back outside. Grinning, Randy ruffles Caleb’s hair.

“You’re pretty strong, little man.”

“I know,” Caleb says, not bothering to stop, and—Terri notes—also not bothering to look up at Randy. “I got my powers from a gamma-irradiated arc reactor. Now I’m Iron Hulk.”

Well,
Terri thinks.
Now I know who he’s pretending to be.

A police siren shatters the moment. It is followed by a second one, coming from a different direction, judging by the sound.

“Sounds like a busy evening,” Randy quips.

Caleb seems undeterred by the sirens. He reemerges from the apartment and continues to stomp around the parking lot.

The depth of her son’s imagination pleases and amazes Terri every single day. He’s in first grade, but reading at a third grade level. He does okay in math, as well. Indeed, the only thing Caleb struggles with at school is playing with other kids. He gets frustrated when the other little boys don’t want to play whatever it is Caleb wants to play, or don’t want to play it the way he wants to, and as a result, he often ends up playing by himself. And although he’s okay with the little girls chasing him on the playground, he doesn’t like it when they try to hold his hand, and he especially doesn’t like it when they tell him they’re going to marry him some day. Caleb insists that the only girl he’s ever going to marry is his Mommy. Terri sometimes worries about this. While it’s normal for little boys to want to marry their mothers, she thinks perhaps he should have outgrown it by this age. She also worries about his tendency to play by himself if the other kids don’t want to do what he’s doing.

Caleb is an only child—her only child. He has never known his father. In truth, Terri didn’t know Caleb’s father very well, either. He died before Caleb was born. Terri met the father, Mark, in college. They had five dates, and then she got pregnant. Mark was killed in a drunk driving accident before she ever got a chance to tell him. She reached out to his parents instead, but they wanted nothing to do with her. She has tried contacting them a few times over the years, wanting to offer them an opportunity to know their grandson. They have never responded.

Terri dropped out of college and had Caleb. They’ve been together ever since. They moved in with her mother, who watched him during the day while Terri worked, and then left for her job as a night nurse when Terri got home. And while that arrangement has mostly been pleasant, and while Terri will always be grateful to her mother for the help, it is time that she and Caleb lived on their own. There are little inconveniences—little battles—like when her mother contradicts Terri’s punishment or rules for Caleb. But there is also the fact that her mother is interested in dating a co-worker, a “nice male nurse named Dave”, and it’s hard for her to do that when her daughter and grandson both live with her. In truth, it’s hard for Terri to have any kind of social life either, not that she’s really been interested in one. For the last six years, her life has revolved around her son, and she’s fine with that. It rarely occurs to her to date, except when her friends try to convince her to sign up for one of the various dating websites or attempt to fix her up with one of their friends. Their Facebook profiles are full of pictures of them and their boyfriends, or, in an increasing number of cases, their husbands. Terri’s is full of pictures of Caleb. And a few of her mother. But none of her father. Her father died when she was six-years old. Terri grew up without a father.

Just like her son is doing now.

And that breaks her heart, and she keeps thinking maybe she
should
date again, that maybe she should begin the application process for, let’s face it, a father for her son. Deep down inside, she knows that’s what it would be. She can’t imagine loving someone else the way she loves Caleb. She can’t fathom somebody else sharing space in their lives, or a place in her heart. She doesn’t need a man in her life, but she worries that her little boy just might. Terri knows all too well how hard it was for her, growing up without a father. She has to assume it’s even more difficult for a boy.

Terri frowns, wondering what some of her feminist friends from college would make of her musings. Then she decides that she really doesn’t care. Yes, she’s doing a fine job of raising Caleb, and no, he doesn’t
need
a father figure in his life, but—arguments about gender politics, patriarchy, and sexism aside—it would be nice if he had one anyway.

Randy would fit the bill. They’ve been friends—best friends—for years, but it’s no secret that he wants more from their relationship. She’s helped him through two break-ups with two serious girlfriends, and he’s helped her by listening and being there for her and Caleb, and one time they even fell asleep together on the couch while watching a movie, but they’ve never gone beyond that. She loves Randy, the way one loves a dear, dear friend, but her feelings for him are just that—friendship. She’s told him many times that there’s no chance of a romantic entanglement, no possibility of being friends with ‘benefits.’ Randy swears that he understands and is okay with it, but sometimes, Terri wonders if that’s really true. Sometimes, she feels guilty, feels that maybe she’s leading him on. He promises her that she’s not, that he’s just not into dating anyone right now, and enjoys just hanging out with her and Caleb. But Terri is concerned that, in doing so, he might miss his chance at something more with someone else.

She also wonders sometimes how she’d feel if he got that chance with someone else.

“You okay?” Randy asks, tromping down the ramp with another armload of boxes.

Terri smiles. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I got distracted for a moment.”

Shrugging, Randy returns the smile. “No worries. You look beat. We’ve been at this all day. Why don’t you take a break?”

“No.” Terri shakes her head. “I want to get this finished. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do tonight than help me move.”

“I can’t think of any.”

His smile grows broader. He takes the last few steps down the ramp, and stumbles. The top box on the stack he’s carrying falls onto the ramp with a loud clang.

“Shit! I’m sorry, Terri.”

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “It’s full of Christmas decorations from my Aunt Hildy. I never put them up because they’re too gaudy. If you broke them, you’ll have done me a favor.”

Randy performs a mock bow, and almost drops the rest of the boxes. He catches his balance, and they both laugh. There is a pause, as they look at each other. Terri feels a warmth of emotion in that moment. She suspects that Randy feels something, too. He starts to say something else, but then Caleb emerges from the open apartment door, and walks toward them.

“It’s getting dark, Mom.”

Terri glances up at the sky, and indeed, it is getting dark. Night is falling, and there is still so much to do. Luckily, they have already unloaded the big furniture. Some of their friends helped with that earlier. But there are still several rows of boxes to haul off the truck, not to mention unpacking, setting up the beds, and returning the truck to the rental agency so she doesn’t get charged for another day.

“Let’s take five,” Randy says. “Caleb, you’re in charge of making sure your mom takes a break.”

Caleb nods. He still doesn’t look Randy in the eye, but he’s grinning.

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Unless you want to sleep on the floor tonight, Caleb, we’ve got to get this done. And we still have to return the truck or they’ll charge us for another day.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Randy says. “You just make…”

He trails off, staring over her shoulder. Caleb is doing the same. Confused, Terri turns around slowly. At first, she doesn’t comprehend what she’s seeing. Across the apartment complex’s parking lot, there is a small strip of gnarled trees and crooked saplings. Beyond those trees are a vacant lot, and a row of garages with peeling paint and sagging roofs. A shockingly obese man plods across the vacant lot toward them. As she watches, he pushes past the trees. It is then that Terri realizes he is naked. She screams in surprise.

“What the hell?” Randy wobbles on his feet, still holding the boxes.

“It’s a tick-tock man,” Caleb says.

Terri doesn’t understand what her son means. She’s too stunned by the fat man’s appearance. He’s like those people you sometimes read about in news stories, so morbidly obese that when they suffer a medical crisis, it takes rescue workers and a construction crew just to remove them from their house. The difference is that this person is apparently still mobile, and not via a scooter or motorized device. No, he’s walking on his own two legs. Those legs are the size of tree trunks, and remind her of swollen, glistening sausage links. Terri suddenly feels queasy.