“It’s so damn cold out,” he moaned to nobody as he climbed out of his car. It was much colder than it should be. Especially for this time of year. What was it, July? August? He was pretty sure it was August. In the busy season, he could never really keep track of the month. He had a hard enough time just figuring out where he was supposed to be next.
With swift, deliberate motions, he moved to the back of the car. The trunk was already open; he must’ve already unlatched it. The routine was getting too familiar. Pull car up to curb. Reach down, pop trunk. Turn off car. Grab keys and get out. Blah, blah, blah. It was boring enough doing it, without having to think about it, too.
He looked up. He was already standing in front of the apartment building. It was a cold, gray granite, made sickly green by the erratic flicker of a nearby light. His gloved fist clenched tightly around the handle of the briefcase.
“The winds of change blow tepid through your life,” he recited, in a sort of monotone. It was his fortune. Splotchy red ink tossed onto some thin, cheap paper, and stuffed inside of a stale cookie. When he first saw it earlier that day, he’d just assumed that its’ author had a loose grip on the English language. Now, he was having his doubts. He made a mental note to look up the word tepid when he got back home.
Inside the cold, gray granite building was a cold, gray granite world. A world without primer, apparently. “This is depressing.” He stared at an apartment door. It was old, and wooden. Inexplicably, it’d been painted gray to match the walls. “Anybody who lives here must pray for death.” In his head, he corrected himself; more likely, they think they are already dead. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small slip of paper. Apartment four. This was it. He closed his eyes and sighed.
The inside of the apartment was exactly as he imagined it would be. Slightly underfurnished. Bare walls. Putrid smell. Dishes in the sink. This is how people live, he thought to himself. He placed his briefcase gently down on a small table near the door. Click. Click. It seemed to unlatch itself. His routine was kicking in again.
Two bedrooms. Opposite each other in the hallway. Which one? The left one. He crept up to it, turned the knob slowly, and pushed through. Squinting through the darkness, he could make out the vague outline of a bunk bed. Kid’s room. “How tepid,” he thought to himself. He cringed, and realized he still didn’t know what tepid meant.
This time, he went into the master bedroom. Ridiculously underfurnished, he thought. Just a big queen bed, a night stand with a glass of water on it, and some pictures taped on the wall. In the bed, he could faintly see an outline of a large, portly man. Here we go. A slight gust of wind swept through an open window and into the room. He chuckled quietly. It was not a wind of change, although for all he knew, it could have been tepid. What the hell did that word mean? That knowledge was in his mind somewhere. He had a four year degree. He’d always gotten great grades in English. Tepid. Tepid. Tepid. It was losing what little meaning it had. Suddenly, the man in the bed coughed and rolled over. He raised his hand swiftly, and fired two rounds from the pistol he was holding directly into the man’s forehead. In his last throes, the man in the bed flailed his arm out wildly to one side, spilling the glass of water.
He looked over at the spilled water and cocked his head. Wait! That was it! Tepid! Like tepid water! Tepid means warm! The fortune made no sense. “Great,” he thought to himself. He’d spent the whole night obsessed with something that was just poorly translated.
He looked at his watch, and let out a sigh. Running late. He had to get back out there — back out into that hellish cold. He trudged back into the hallway. It was going to be a shitty day.
Tags: Narratives
When are you going to finish this one!!??