"Not even a SCUFF!" Henry straightened to his full height, which, when he wasn't slouching from his neurotic disposition, was actually a full twenty inches taller than Reggie.
"Well, I mean, it's not as bad as Vickie's..." Reggie pleaded as Henry walked deliberately to the doorway of the bathroom. Reggie, not sure how to read his tenant's mood, followed cautiously while rebutting. "You should see her--" Reggie was cut short by Henry's stern look. He followed the slender, sickly white forearm with his eyes and then past the small slightly redish fingers off to the ultimate destination he was gesturing toward: the tiny hairline crack where the ceiling met the wall over the mirror.
"Whu--" Reggie started laughing in a superior chuckle, shaking more dust off the thousand curly black hairs protruding from the collar of his mottled white tank top. "Why, Henry, There's nothing there!"
Henry's eyes flickered with an intensity, that Reggie couldn't quite place, for a moment at something just behind Reggie's left ear. A second later Henry swept into the bathroom with a theatrical aire. "THIS IS NOTHING?!" The emaciated, pinkish finger hovered inches below the crack.
"Well, I mean... look, Henry," The Superintendent dropped his tone as if he were inviting Henry into the greatest confidence. "Cracks like that show up all the time. I mean, you probably have some in every roo--" Before he could stop himself, Reggie knew he had blown it. There was no chance of recovery now. Of what, he wasn't exactly sure, but returning to "okay" was not something he could do at this point. Henry looked livid. His breathing was starting to quicken and he was doing something very odd with his pink, chapped fingers. Something like a practiced dance, only more forced and slightly jerky.
Regginald F. Gallo was employed by the Hawker, Scott and Dunn real estate company. More specifically, he was employed by Tito, his cousin, who worked in some capacity for Hawker, Scott and Dunn. Reggie was roughly 5'6" and nearly 250 pounds. The pathetic amount of hair lying placidly over his large round head was more than made up for by the veritable carpet of black tendrils covering, presumably, the rest of his spherical viscerae. R. F. Gallo was not the following: a ladies man, a neat freak or, and most importantly at this point in the story, a quick study of personality.
6.11.2009
6.10.2009
300/ d. day 6
The Subway was a time of forced solitude for Victoria. A chance to ignore the ping in her ear. The methodical rumble of the cars over the tracks always brought her just to the edge of Nirvana. But not today. Having one's bathroom wall explode tends to distract the mind a bit. She had to run despite the horrible mess and nagging question of what exactly happened. What could she do? She thought to herself as she grabbed her keys, twenty minutes earlier, from the hall table and skipped down the stairwell. After all, isn't that what Reggie was for?
"Reggie." Victoria mumbled to herself with a shudder.
Within the walls of the office at The Bugle, Victoria was on top of her game. Nothing, not even an imploded wall, could distract her from the tasks and excitement of her day. No sooner had the doors opened up at Bleeker Street than the tall brunette shot from the humming car, determined to have a normal day despite the abnormal start. With a fresh reinsertion, the blue light at her right ear was blinking happily, sending digital information and, probably carcinogenic, electromagnetic pulses into her right frontal lobe. She was talking rather loudly about lunchplans as she rounded the corner and nearly bowled over a bleery eyed stockbroker.
As she crossed the street to the mid sized building she felt the usual swell of exactly the opposite emotion Henry was currently dealing with wash over her. She was home.
The opposite emotion to what Henry was feeling at that exact moment would have been elation, excitement, anticipation and purpose all rolled into one. Henry was dealing more with revulsion and nausea. With a twinge of loathing, I must admit. Though it would be many years and many more therapy sessions before Henry would acknowledge those kinds of feelings.
Henry was helping himself up from the floor of his hallway in the studio apartment just below Victorias. His bathroom was still in perfect condition-- so far as Reggie could see.
Reggie was the current reason for Henry's, uh, uneasiness. Reggie, who epitomized everything Henry thought of as filth: sweaty, fat, hairy and odorous, was currently dripping God only knows what all over Henry's hall floor.
"Well, looky here, your bathroom's got nothin' wrong with it." Reggie finally exclaimed, gesturing over the tennent's shoulder. "There's not even a scuff on the wall! When you called this morning, I thought you had some major catastrophy, er sumthin'."
Henry was jolted out of the beginning stages of his nervous breakdown. "Catass--". He blinked at Reggie with indifference as the words sank in. "Catastrophy?"
"Yeah. You were nearly hysterical on the phone: 'come quickly, something awful has happened!'. For Pete's sakes, Henry, you could have at least made it look like something happened!" Reggie waved his hand in the air, sending bits of plaster and dust into the kitchenette. Henry fought back the urge to chase after it with the dustbuster.
"Not even a scuff?" Henry straightened. Reggie's face changed to that of a Septuagenarian first attempting to use the internet. After all, this wasn't exactly where he was trying to go with this conversation...
"Reggie." Victoria mumbled to herself with a shudder.
Within the walls of the office at The Bugle, Victoria was on top of her game. Nothing, not even an imploded wall, could distract her from the tasks and excitement of her day. No sooner had the doors opened up at Bleeker Street than the tall brunette shot from the humming car, determined to have a normal day despite the abnormal start. With a fresh reinsertion, the blue light at her right ear was blinking happily, sending digital information and, probably carcinogenic, electromagnetic pulses into her right frontal lobe. She was talking rather loudly about lunchplans as she rounded the corner and nearly bowled over a bleery eyed stockbroker.
As she crossed the street to the mid sized building she felt the usual swell of exactly the opposite emotion Henry was currently dealing with wash over her. She was home.
The opposite emotion to what Henry was feeling at that exact moment would have been elation, excitement, anticipation and purpose all rolled into one. Henry was dealing more with revulsion and nausea. With a twinge of loathing, I must admit. Though it would be many years and many more therapy sessions before Henry would acknowledge those kinds of feelings.
Henry was helping himself up from the floor of his hallway in the studio apartment just below Victorias. His bathroom was still in perfect condition-- so far as Reggie could see.
Reggie was the current reason for Henry's, uh, uneasiness. Reggie, who epitomized everything Henry thought of as filth: sweaty, fat, hairy and odorous, was currently dripping God only knows what all over Henry's hall floor.
"Well, looky here, your bathroom's got nothin' wrong with it." Reggie finally exclaimed, gesturing over the tennent's shoulder. "There's not even a scuff on the wall! When you called this morning, I thought you had some major catastrophy, er sumthin'."
Henry was jolted out of the beginning stages of his nervous breakdown. "Catass--". He blinked at Reggie with indifference as the words sank in. "Catastrophy?"
"Yeah. You were nearly hysterical on the phone: 'come quickly, something awful has happened!'. For Pete's sakes, Henry, you could have at least made it look like something happened!" Reggie waved his hand in the air, sending bits of plaster and dust into the kitchenette. Henry fought back the urge to chase after it with the dustbuster.
"Not even a scuff?" Henry straightened. Reggie's face changed to that of a Septuagenarian first attempting to use the internet. After all, this wasn't exactly where he was trying to go with this conversation...
6.08.2009
day 4 (editorial entry)
ok, so this may not be 300 words...
this is all pretty crazy. i have no idea what i am writing one day to the next. think i might have to make a few caveat's. after all, would this be TW without a list? (TW. you know: terriblywitty... work with me people!)
first being that i need to take a weekend or something... every day might be a bit insane.
also, i think i might have to mix it up a bit. you know, change stories. which sucks for you loyal readers, i know, but i am not sure how long i can keep up a story i am inventing as i go... not sure that i even like the characters i am writing... and what is with that Obsessive Compulsive guy?
and finally, i might wander into non-fiction from time to time. frankly this 300 a day thing isn't for other people to read in the first place... so, if i make a post about tiling back-splashes or applying for a equity line of credit or something, don't be alarmed. i am just refreshing the hard drive, so to speak. and i might shift gears within the fiction. change to a different story... different characters... sci-fi or romance. whatever floats my boat that day. capice? think of it as a pot-luck of prose (i can pretty much guarantee there will be no poetry). although, that might be a bad connotation. after all, have you ever been to a good pot-luck? there's always that green bean thing and pasta salad... and they ALWAYS defile the jell-o with pears or pineapple or some other contaminate.
ok. pot-luck is out. how about grab bag? smorgasboard? potpourii? lottery?
anyway, i will let you work that out. me? i'm the one responsible to bring you back. with words.
well... it was nice knowing ya.
ok. so... sorry to disrupt whatever level of involvement you had in the story about bathrooms.
one other thing: i just (as in three minutes ago) finished watching eagle eye. now, why can't i write like that? that was a sah-weeet movie!!!
ok. enough said, maybe i will reengage the story tomorrow.
oh, and one last last thing: i might not be hitting 300...you see; i write until i get tired, think i have enough, or come to a natural break in the, uh, action. i figure: the fact that i am writing at all should be enough for you people. i mean, what do you want from me?! i am only one wordsmith.
oops... i let in the beatus selfus uppis. a rare, but totally sarcastic animal with only one intention: to inflict pity upon the nearest bystander of whomever it parasitically attaches to. i need to go get some sleep and hope that the lack of wit or whatever platitudes i type will make it release its grip from me... please disregard any "poor me" undertones you might receive.
not that there are any people actually receivin-- dang it. ok, i'm really going now. not that you would care... um. and, forget that last comment...
this is all pretty crazy. i have no idea what i am writing one day to the next. think i might have to make a few caveat's. after all, would this be TW without a list? (TW. you know: terriblywitty... work with me people!)
first being that i need to take a weekend or something... every day might be a bit insane.
also, i think i might have to mix it up a bit. you know, change stories. which sucks for you loyal readers, i know, but i am not sure how long i can keep up a story i am inventing as i go... not sure that i even like the characters i am writing... and what is with that Obsessive Compulsive guy?
and finally, i might wander into non-fiction from time to time. frankly this 300 a day thing isn't for other people to read in the first place... so, if i make a post about tiling back-splashes or applying for a equity line of credit or something, don't be alarmed. i am just refreshing the hard drive, so to speak. and i might shift gears within the fiction. change to a different story... different characters... sci-fi or romance. whatever floats my boat that day. capice? think of it as a pot-luck of prose (i can pretty much guarantee there will be no poetry). although, that might be a bad connotation. after all, have you ever been to a good pot-luck? there's always that green bean thing and pasta salad... and they ALWAYS defile the jell-o with pears or pineapple or some other contaminate.
ok. pot-luck is out. how about grab bag? smorgasboard? potpourii? lottery?
anyway, i will let you work that out. me? i'm the one responsible to bring you back. with words.
well... it was nice knowing ya.
ok. so... sorry to disrupt whatever level of involvement you had in the story about bathrooms.
one other thing: i just (as in three minutes ago) finished watching eagle eye. now, why can't i write like that? that was a sah-weeet movie!!!
ok. enough said, maybe i will reengage the story tomorrow.
oh, and one last last thing: i might not be hitting 300...you see; i write until i get tired, think i have enough, or come to a natural break in the, uh, action. i figure: the fact that i am writing at all should be enough for you people. i mean, what do you want from me?! i am only one wordsmith.
oops... i let in the beatus selfus uppis. a rare, but totally sarcastic animal with only one intention: to inflict pity upon the nearest bystander of whomever it parasitically attaches to. i need to go get some sleep and hope that the lack of wit or whatever platitudes i type will make it release its grip from me... please disregard any "poor me" undertones you might receive.
not that there are any people actually receivin-- dang it. ok, i'm really going now. not that you would care... um. and, forget that last comment...
6.07.2009
300/d day 3
Victoria was a no-nonsense editor for a high-powered editorial publication in New York. Ever since she was a little girl, she tried to see things in black and white. She would say it was easier to tell the good from the bad that way; to stave off pain. Teacher's often attributed this legalism to the loss of her mother at a young age, but Victoria knew that was just a red herring.
She was always arguing with her father about grey areas whenever she had a moment with him. Many a night she went to bed feeling as though she won when her dad (an attorney by trade) ceded his defeat in preference of a peaceful dinner.
By college she had altogether alienated herself from the opposite sex with her rigid didactic and endless pontification. Second dates were an unknown terrain for Victoria. And she was perrfectly fine with that.
Don't misunderstand: she was beautiful, to be sure. In fact, she was stunning. Many unwitting upper-classmen made that perfectly clear in their attempts to impress the dark haired freshman. Only to find out, in no uncertain terms, that they were certainly not good enough for Victoria Honeywell. As she developed this stigma of being out of league for every male within a four hundred foot radius of her, at any given moment, it seemed as if her stunning beauty slowly traded places with a 'cold' attractiveness. The kind of beauty that attentive men, if there are any left, would shake their heads in pity over. Stark and calculating. Harsh features softened only by what little power her stifled x-chromosome could exert.
On the other hand, unattentive males, as in the case of that puny fraction of a man who always called her 'Vickie', would not notice the lack of warmth when watching her. All her movements and mannerisms seemed pefectly femanine. And her body was very well proportioned, which Victoria made certain to keep so. She might have driven off men, but she knew very well what an atheletic body could do for her when dealing with them.
After college she moved to the big apple to take a lower level copy-writing job with a second rate magazine. When the internet craze kicked into high gear, Victoria took that as her cue to move up the ladder at her pace. She started a marginally successful e-zine and leveraged that piece of work to land her her first 'real' job. The job that she was currently running ten minutes late for. Thanks, in no small part, to her bathroom wall caving in and destroying her shower.
She was actually running late, as she was telling her earpiece, because washing her long brown hair in the kitchen sink of that tiny studio apartment was not particularly easy. Though, she managed the task, as she did with everything she put her mind to, flawlessly. As if she washed her hair over the previous night's dishes on a regular basis.
She left her bathroom for that puny man with the wife-beater and gland problem to deal with. "Reggie will sort it out. And, frankly, it's better that I am not there while he attempts it." Victoria was talking at her earpiece a little louder than usual as she darted across the street toward the subway entrance. "MmmHmm, that's the one. Yeah: sweats in the dead of winter. My downstairs neighbor would have conniptions if he ever had to be in the same room with him. What? No, Harry or something. Yeah, OCD. Bad. As in, never comes out. Oh, God, I hope nothing happened to his bathroom... for his sake... Ooops, think I'm losing you: Subway... OK, you too."
She was always arguing with her father about grey areas whenever she had a moment with him. Many a night she went to bed feeling as though she won when her dad (an attorney by trade) ceded his defeat in preference of a peaceful dinner.
By college she had altogether alienated herself from the opposite sex with her rigid didactic and endless pontification. Second dates were an unknown terrain for Victoria. And she was perrfectly fine with that.
Don't misunderstand: she was beautiful, to be sure. In fact, she was stunning. Many unwitting upper-classmen made that perfectly clear in their attempts to impress the dark haired freshman. Only to find out, in no uncertain terms, that they were certainly not good enough for Victoria Honeywell. As she developed this stigma of being out of league for every male within a four hundred foot radius of her, at any given moment, it seemed as if her stunning beauty slowly traded places with a 'cold' attractiveness. The kind of beauty that attentive men, if there are any left, would shake their heads in pity over. Stark and calculating. Harsh features softened only by what little power her stifled x-chromosome could exert.
On the other hand, unattentive males, as in the case of that puny fraction of a man who always called her 'Vickie', would not notice the lack of warmth when watching her. All her movements and mannerisms seemed pefectly femanine. And her body was very well proportioned, which Victoria made certain to keep so. She might have driven off men, but she knew very well what an atheletic body could do for her when dealing with them.
After college she moved to the big apple to take a lower level copy-writing job with a second rate magazine. When the internet craze kicked into high gear, Victoria took that as her cue to move up the ladder at her pace. She started a marginally successful e-zine and leveraged that piece of work to land her her first 'real' job. The job that she was currently running ten minutes late for. Thanks, in no small part, to her bathroom wall caving in and destroying her shower.
She was actually running late, as she was telling her earpiece, because washing her long brown hair in the kitchen sink of that tiny studio apartment was not particularly easy. Though, she managed the task, as she did with everything she put her mind to, flawlessly. As if she washed her hair over the previous night's dishes on a regular basis.
She left her bathroom for that puny man with the wife-beater and gland problem to deal with. "Reggie will sort it out. And, frankly, it's better that I am not there while he attempts it." Victoria was talking at her earpiece a little louder than usual as she darted across the street toward the subway entrance. "MmmHmm, that's the one. Yeah: sweats in the dead of winter. My downstairs neighbor would have conniptions if he ever had to be in the same room with him. What? No, Harry or something. Yeah, OCD. Bad. As in, never comes out. Oh, God, I hope nothing happened to his bathroom... for his sake... Ooops, think I'm losing you: Subway... OK, you too."
6.06.2009
300/d day 2
Reggie knocked for a third time on the door of B7. "Hullo? Vickie? I'm going to let myself in so don't be alarmed or nuthin'"
Fumbling through his jailer's ring of keys he spun B7's key around and slipped it into the lock. Moments later the apartment super found himself looking down the hallway at a pile of plaster, lath and a shower curtain.
"Vickie!?" Reggie bounded down the hall to the rubble. He was panting as he started frantically moving the rubble from around the shower curtain. After a few minutes of searching he realized that there was no one beneath the debris. He sat back in a slump, panting. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a gob of plaster dust in a streak across his brow.
Henry jerked involuntarily as he heard what sounded like an elephant rumbling above him. He had been standing stock still watching the wall of his bathroom as if his entire life depended on it for the last hour and a half. He could, presently, hear scratching and the tinkling of bits of rock on wood floor above the bathroom door.
Henry glanced down at his watch. "Aw, crud!" He absently tapped the watch face. "Looks like I'm going to need to up my meds again..." He mumbled to himself. He pulled out a tiny moleskin notepad and a mechanical pencil and scritched across the page for a second. Then, almost as quickly as it had happened, he had the pad and pencil back in its place. His movements almost robotic.
He turned on his heel and made his way to the door pausing only long enough to glance back at the bathroom door. He turned the lock three times back and forth and wiped off the handle with a towelette that he procured from a box beside the mail slot. He took a deep breath and turned the handle.
Reggie pushed back the door without remembering whose apartment he was entering. The force he used was only a little more than usual, since he was still thinking about the apartment upstairs, but it was sufficient enough to completely level the tenent on the other side.
Henry let out a small yelp and fell flailing backward down the hall.
"Oooh, sorry 'bout that! Henry? You seen anything differnt lately?" Reggie seemed preoccupied as he reached out his hand toward Henry. Only the look of absolute terror brought Reggie back to his wits.
"Oh, sorry, er... Henry..." Reggie pulled back his plaster white hand. He shot a glance past the man positively shivering beneath him to the bathroom. He was shocked to see that there was no evidence of disturbance. "How--?"
"Wh-what... is that?!" Henry shook a trembling finger at the smudge of white plaster across his super's sweat caked head. "And..." Henry's eyes surveyed the huge figure of Reggie. When his eyes caught on his boots before talking again. "And, what have you been doing?!"
Fumbling through his jailer's ring of keys he spun B7's key around and slipped it into the lock. Moments later the apartment super found himself looking down the hallway at a pile of plaster, lath and a shower curtain.
"Vickie!?" Reggie bounded down the hall to the rubble. He was panting as he started frantically moving the rubble from around the shower curtain. After a few minutes of searching he realized that there was no one beneath the debris. He sat back in a slump, panting. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a gob of plaster dust in a streak across his brow.
Henry jerked involuntarily as he heard what sounded like an elephant rumbling above him. He had been standing stock still watching the wall of his bathroom as if his entire life depended on it for the last hour and a half. He could, presently, hear scratching and the tinkling of bits of rock on wood floor above the bathroom door.
Henry glanced down at his watch. "Aw, crud!" He absently tapped the watch face. "Looks like I'm going to need to up my meds again..." He mumbled to himself. He pulled out a tiny moleskin notepad and a mechanical pencil and scritched across the page for a second. Then, almost as quickly as it had happened, he had the pad and pencil back in its place. His movements almost robotic.
He turned on his heel and made his way to the door pausing only long enough to glance back at the bathroom door. He turned the lock three times back and forth and wiped off the handle with a towelette that he procured from a box beside the mail slot. He took a deep breath and turned the handle.
Reggie pushed back the door without remembering whose apartment he was entering. The force he used was only a little more than usual, since he was still thinking about the apartment upstairs, but it was sufficient enough to completely level the tenent on the other side.
Henry let out a small yelp and fell flailing backward down the hall.
"Oooh, sorry 'bout that! Henry? You seen anything differnt lately?" Reggie seemed preoccupied as he reached out his hand toward Henry. Only the look of absolute terror brought Reggie back to his wits.
"Oh, sorry, er... Henry..." Reggie pulled back his plaster white hand. He shot a glance past the man positively shivering beneath him to the bathroom. He was shocked to see that there was no evidence of disturbance. "How--?"
"Wh-what... is that?!" Henry shook a trembling finger at the smudge of white plaster across his super's sweat caked head. "And..." Henry's eyes surveyed the huge figure of Reggie. When his eyes caught on his boots before talking again. "And, what have you been doing?!"
6.05.2009
300/d day one.
He brushed his teeth until they were bleeding.
"Aw, crud. Not again." He muttered to himself as he spat pink foam into the sink, "Sometimes having OCD is a bad thing."
the man reached for his perfectly folded, stark-white hand towel and added, "okay, most of the time OCD is a bad thing." the toothbrush landed in the spotless trash bin next to its wrapper. "no, no... all of the time."
not more than three feet above Henry, in typical urban fashion, Victoria stood in front of her mirror examining the effects of the previous 24 hours.
"Ugh. I am getting so old." She said into thin air while massaging the bags under her eyes. "I know! It's like when I was at the cafe' today. This girl sitting across from me said to her lunch companion that she was born in 1998. Born the year I graduated from college. Can you believe it??" Victoria turned her head slightly to reveal to the mirror the blinking blue light embedded in her right ear. "Oh, tell me about it!"
Suddenly Victoria lurched forward almost hitting her head on the mirror.
"What the--?" There was another jolt and Victoria was thrown back into the tub behind her.
Henry rushed back into the bathroom where he had just finished the morning ritual, that recently has been taking him 45 minutes instead of the usual hour, only to find that the plaster over the mirror was cracked slightly. A whimper of shock accompanied his hubcap sized eyes as he backed out of the doorway into the landing. He looked as if he had seen a viper slithering above the mirror.
Without losing eye contact with the hairline fracture in the wall, he groped for and found the hall phone.
Redial. Ringing. Ringing. "Mmm-Hullo?"
"Reggie? It's Henry. Please come quickly. It's... It's terrible!!"
Pause. Muffled sigh. "Henry. It's 5:45."
"And?"
"And, this better not be another one of your crazy 'a floorboard is shorter than it should be' complaints."
"Well, it was shorter. By three sixteenths of an inch. But that is not the point--"
"Hold on, I got another call. Just hold on!" The thick balding man reached up and pushed a button on his phone without taking it from his ear. "Super."
"Hello, Reggie? This is Victoria in B7."
"Oh, hey Vickie..." Reggie adjusted his white tank top slightly and ran his hand over the expanse of his head. "What can I, uh, do you for?"
"Yeah, hi. Look, I need you to come fix my bathroom wall." Victoria used the sink to help her up from the floor. "Something just... happened..."
"Uh... Happened?" Reggie, who, for no reason that he could see, just got a sudden burst of energy, was now waddling toward his bathroom. "Could you be, uh, more specific?" There was a pause. "Hullo?!"
"Yes. I am here."
"Henry!? Aw crud. Look, make it fast, I've got to go check out B7's bathroom."
"B7? But, that's just above me!" Henry's unblinking, wide eyes moved almost mechanically from the crack in the wall over the mirror to almost three feet above. He shuffled a few inches back from the doorway and regained his thought as if broken from a trance. "Hey, wait a minute! I called you first, you need to come down here and fix this whole mess!" Henry scowled at the receiver. "It's horrible! I don't know what I am going to do!"
"Alright, alright. I will take a look at your, er, whatever it is, when I get down there. In the mean time, why don't you juss go back to sleep."
"Sleep?! Why would I do that? I've been up for three and one half hours."
"Okay, Henry, juss relax. I will be there as soon as I can."
"Well you better be. I can't deal with this kind of mess much longer." Henry, still unblinking, lowered the receiver onto its base. He stood transfixed on the spot. Staring at the crack in the perfect plaster wall.
Well, the almost perfect plaster wall. Now, as he looked, he could see that there was a slight depression over by the lightswitch. And that corner! How could he have missed that?! The plasterer obviously hadn't been paying attention when he worked on this bathroom.
"Aw, crud. Not again." He muttered to himself as he spat pink foam into the sink, "Sometimes having OCD is a bad thing."
the man reached for his perfectly folded, stark-white hand towel and added, "okay, most of the time OCD is a bad thing." the toothbrush landed in the spotless trash bin next to its wrapper. "no, no... all of the time."
not more than three feet above Henry, in typical urban fashion, Victoria stood in front of her mirror examining the effects of the previous 24 hours.
"Ugh. I am getting so old." She said into thin air while massaging the bags under her eyes. "I know! It's like when I was at the cafe' today. This girl sitting across from me said to her lunch companion that she was born in 1998. Born the year I graduated from college. Can you believe it??" Victoria turned her head slightly to reveal to the mirror the blinking blue light embedded in her right ear. "Oh, tell me about it!"
Suddenly Victoria lurched forward almost hitting her head on the mirror.
"What the--?" There was another jolt and Victoria was thrown back into the tub behind her.
Henry rushed back into the bathroom where he had just finished the morning ritual, that recently has been taking him 45 minutes instead of the usual hour, only to find that the plaster over the mirror was cracked slightly. A whimper of shock accompanied his hubcap sized eyes as he backed out of the doorway into the landing. He looked as if he had seen a viper slithering above the mirror.
Without losing eye contact with the hairline fracture in the wall, he groped for and found the hall phone.
Redial. Ringing. Ringing. "Mmm-Hullo?"
"Reggie? It's Henry. Please come quickly. It's... It's terrible!!"
Pause. Muffled sigh. "Henry. It's 5:45."
"And?"
"And, this better not be another one of your crazy 'a floorboard is shorter than it should be' complaints."
"Well, it was shorter. By three sixteenths of an inch. But that is not the point--"
"Hold on, I got another call. Just hold on!" The thick balding man reached up and pushed a button on his phone without taking it from his ear. "Super."
"Hello, Reggie? This is Victoria in B7."
"Oh, hey Vickie..." Reggie adjusted his white tank top slightly and ran his hand over the expanse of his head. "What can I, uh, do you for?"
"Yeah, hi. Look, I need you to come fix my bathroom wall." Victoria used the sink to help her up from the floor. "Something just... happened..."
"Uh... Happened?" Reggie, who, for no reason that he could see, just got a sudden burst of energy, was now waddling toward his bathroom. "Could you be, uh, more specific?" There was a pause. "Hullo?!"
"Yes. I am here."
"Henry!? Aw crud. Look, make it fast, I've got to go check out B7's bathroom."
"B7? But, that's just above me!" Henry's unblinking, wide eyes moved almost mechanically from the crack in the wall over the mirror to almost three feet above. He shuffled a few inches back from the doorway and regained his thought as if broken from a trance. "Hey, wait a minute! I called you first, you need to come down here and fix this whole mess!" Henry scowled at the receiver. "It's horrible! I don't know what I am going to do!"
"Alright, alright. I will take a look at your, er, whatever it is, when I get down there. In the mean time, why don't you juss go back to sleep."
"Sleep?! Why would I do that? I've been up for three and one half hours."
"Okay, Henry, juss relax. I will be there as soon as I can."
"Well you better be. I can't deal with this kind of mess much longer." Henry, still unblinking, lowered the receiver onto its base. He stood transfixed on the spot. Staring at the crack in the perfect plaster wall.
Well, the almost perfect plaster wall. Now, as he looked, he could see that there was a slight depression over by the lightswitch. And that corner! How could he have missed that?! The plasterer obviously hadn't been paying attention when he worked on this bathroom.
6.04.2009
300 a day.
So, I just started reading a few books on writing. With the tanking economy and my client base dwindling to nothing, I decided to brush off the old English degree and see what my rusty cogs are capable of churning out. The hopes is that it will make a dime or two and I can go back to playing video games in peace. (that screen shot is for you, ben...)
Since I have this screaming good PC and a lousy GNP to blame not being able to make mortgage payments on, I figure I am good for at least 10 hours a day of Starcraft, MYST, Rampart or Zelda. Heck, I'll even do a little Breakout if the mood hits...
This will, in the long run, save me a lot of money. Considering how much bling I crammed into the X-Men game on my Junior Senior trip just to see nightcrawler dance on top of the Juggernaut before running out of cash and having to start the whole thing over. If my parents knew about that, they might not have paid for me to spend the entire last quarter of my senior year of college playing Starcraft. (longest stint: 26 hours straight. win? uh, no... but man was it FUN!)
ok. now that you know how unfathomably lame i am, I might as well stop right here. however, I should really finish my story first.
well, yes, as a matter of fact there was a point to this post... and don't seem so surprised!
writing book.
oh, right:
so in one of these books about writing it mentions making a quota for yourself to write each day. most other books say ten minutes or 3 hours or whatever. this book said to give yourself a certain number of words.
so. my goal is to post at least 300 words a day. I figure that i am verbose enough to fill that... if at all possible, they will also be coherent sentences, but i am not promising anything.
unless i have a huge amount of free time (economy scapegoat anyone?) i most likely will not be littering the prose with links, images, lists or recipes. (yes, I cook. sheesh! what do you think i am?!)
so, in the very probable chance that you will be thoroughly disappointed by this news I leave you with one last thing:
up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a, start.
Since I have this screaming good PC and a lousy GNP to blame not being able to make mortgage payments on, I figure I am good for at least 10 hours a day of Starcraft, MYST, Rampart or Zelda. Heck, I'll even do a little Breakout if the mood hits...
This will, in the long run, save me a lot of money. Considering how much bling I crammed into the X-Men game on my Junior Senior trip just to see nightcrawler dance on top of the Juggernaut before running out of cash and having to start the whole thing over. If my parents knew about that, they might not have paid for me to spend the entire last quarter of my senior year of college playing Starcraft. (longest stint: 26 hours straight. win? uh, no... but man was it FUN!)
ok. now that you know how unfathomably lame i am, I might as well stop right here. however, I should really finish my story first.
well, yes, as a matter of fact there was a point to this post... and don't seem so surprised!
writing book.
oh, right:
so in one of these books about writing it mentions making a quota for yourself to write each day. most other books say ten minutes or 3 hours or whatever. this book said to give yourself a certain number of words.
so. my goal is to post at least 300 words a day. I figure that i am verbose enough to fill that... if at all possible, they will also be coherent sentences, but i am not promising anything.
unless i have a huge amount of free time (economy scapegoat anyone?) i most likely will not be littering the prose with links, images, lists or recipes. (yes, I cook. sheesh! what do you think i am?!)
so, in the very probable chance that you will be thoroughly disappointed by this news I leave you with one last thing:
up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a, start.
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