A Flophouse—NIGHT
The elevator is on the fritz. It takes me to the top, where the fuses blow and the lights go out. The doors open and a redheaded girl is diving for the fuse box and telling me she will fix everything quickly.
Back downstairs, I find Andrea in the hall; she is kneeling, going through her backpack and crying. I ask what is wrong. She wipes away tears.
“Today is the day my mother will die.” Her mother is terminally ill and slipping away, she must call for an update and is looking for her cell phone. I offer change for the one in the hall and she says she needs no help. Always stoic.
I grab her and she hesitates then lets me hold her tightly, sobbing. I feel sorry she must smell my green sweat shirt that smells of sweat and motor oil. Then after she seems to stop crying, I let her make the call and tell her I will step away for privacy, but will be close for support. I step into the lobby and the desk clerk asks me if I know anything about the wonky power, and I explain.
“There’s a girl on the top floor. She is taking care of it.”
“No, you have to go to the very top to ask.” He responds mixing metaphor and reality. I respond.
“I went as far as I could without climbing the antennas on the roof.”
He protests again, and then gets the joke. Meanwhile some black guys are splicing together some rap music on a strange reel tape recorder. I think it is no wonder that there is so little originality in music now.
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