Storytime: "Apartment 2C"

There are two types of writing classes that I've participated in: one in which I take a work in progress through the class, and another one where I did writing exercises (the beginners class). Every once in awhile, I'd take the beginners class over. I liked the routine of the exercises because I could just use them to explore facets of some of the gazillion stories I have laying around the house. I've actually generated fascinating material from the exercises.

The instructions for one particular exercise was quite simple: take a story of ours and write the beginning of the story. I had one that I'd particularly liked, Leaving Jersey, about a woman leaving an abusive boyfriend in a most unorthodox manner.

So this short vignette "Apartment 2c" is what I imagined was the very beginning of that main character's problems...

Now, there's a character in here, Elba, who my writing class just LOVED. She was a seemingly innocent jewish woman, but there was more to her than met the eye. Let's just say, uh, she was NOT one to messed with. We won't go into that. But she is the most colorful people I've ever written. She is loosely based on the landlord of the boarding house I lived in when I first moved to New Orleans 11 years ago (See "Mark Your Territory Part III") .

I've also posted another story excerpt involving Elba, one that was a bit horrific (see "No More"). I think I'd been reading a horror story about a dog during that time... Gotta watch what I read while I'm writing.

Anyway, here's my "beginning" of the story.



Apartment 2C

Elba didn’t know much about the young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

She’d moved in some six months ago, mostly kept to herself. A silent neighbor was fine with Elba. The last tenants were rowdy tattoo artists who played loud rock music all hours of the night. She complained to the Super, called the police even, but nothing was done. When their lease expired, it wasn’t renewed. They simply moved away.

And then the quiet young lady moved in.

“Her name’s Danielle Acosta,” the Super said one day while he and Elba were sitting out on the front stoop of the building, enjoying cool breezes brought on by the fall weather. “She lived over in Philly for the past 5 years. I thought she was Latino or something, but the background check said she was black.”

“Really,” Elba said, hoping he would continue. She wasn’t a gossiper like him. She liked to sit back and observe closely instead.

He lit a cigar and puffed a few times to get it to burn just right. “You know, I don’t ever ask about no race or nothing. Just couldn’t tell with her. Coulda been white for all I know. Anyway, she was in Georgia before that, down in Atlanta. She’s some kind of engineer over in Center City. Wanted to move out of the city because it was too expensive.”

“Is that right?” Elba asked. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with her.”

“She’s nice,” he said, and blew nasty smelling smoke up into the air. “Pays on time. That’s all that matters to me, you know.”

The Super was the nosiest gossip in Jersey. Elba knew if he knew anything strange about Danielle, he would tell her. She and Danielle were the only two tenants on that floor and that was good enough for Elba.

Elba never went over to introduce herself. She watched from the living room window instead. She had a good view of the whole street from there.

The girl, in addition to being quiet, was very consistent. She left every morning at seven o’clock sharp and caught the seven ten bus. She’d return around six in the evening, give or take a few minutes. She always wore casual shirts and khakis and a pair of what looked to be Rockports.

“Work clothes,” Elba said to herself while watching from her window one morning. “She doesn’t have a fancy office job. Engineer. Must work with engines or something.”

Elba also noticed that Danielle would sometimes leave in the evenings. “High heels. Short skirt. She got a boyfriend,” Elba murmured to herself as she parted the sheer curtains just a tad with her fingers to get a better look at Danielle. Danielle walked across the street to the locked garage where she stored her car, an old white Nova. She wouldn’t come back home until late, or sometimes not at all until the next afternoon.

Elba met that boyfriend one day out in the stairwell leading up to her apartment floor. She was laden down with bags of grocery just purchased across the street at Walter’s Stop-n-Shop. He brushed past her in his shiny green sports jersey and baggy blue jeans, damn near knocking her over. He didn’t even say excuse me. He strutted right up to Danielle’s door and knocked on it. Danielle opened it and he poured the charm on.

“Hey baby,” he breathed. It was followed by a soft giggle from Danielle before she yanked him through the door.

Elba scrunched up her face. “Leave him alone, honey,” she murmured to herself as she fumbled with her keys at her own front door. “Mr.Bad News, that’s what he is.”

He moved in with Danielle, and every night, the boom of loud rap music grated Elba’s nerves. She knew that the quiet Danielle wasn’t responsible for such madness.

Had to be the new fella.

But Elba didn’t know how bad “Mr.Bad News” was until she was standing in the bathroom one night a few months later, brushing her hair before bed. She heard a loud noise. She backed up from the bathroom mirror and was about to go out into the living room when the boom occurred again, this time shaking her whole apartment. She jumped when she heard a loud crash in her bathroom. She ran back in to see the crystal glass that she used for soaking her bridgework on the floor, smashed into a million pieces.

Elba knew those sounds all too well. Had been the brunt of them herself over the years.

Something wasn’t being thrown around. Someone was being thrown around.

And she knew that this someone was the nice quiet unassuming young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

It was about time for Elba to go over and introduce herself.