And so began a passionately torrid affair between Catelyn and this modern-day Tiberius on his rocky cliffs of Capri. She had pledged herself completely to this new pursuit, throwing her soul and her body into this relationship, even if that meek inner voice continued to whine with its constant dubiosity. Though he was obviously an experienced, older man who had spent his time dabbling among ladies, she exposed him to some of the fun activities that didn’t so readily come to mind for those of his generation, like voyeurism and exhibitionism in particular. He showed some reluctance at first, but it doesn’t take long before he eventually acquiesced to the infectious enthusiasm of a persistent young woman. On several dates at dinner and with a tablecloth of decent size, she had guided his hand up her skirt, letting his fingers explore their way around her as others dined only a few feet away. One night, she went down on him in the back of a late night movie theater (though it almost didn’t count since it was yet another SNL movie that left the entire room empty). She convinced him to have sex in a number of bathrooms, including those of Jersey City bars on a late night during the work week. One time, when they had been in the city, it was the public restroom within the Museum of Sex. As she explained it to him beforehand and afterwards, it was a rite of passage for the sexually adventurous. (Though she decided to be tasteful and omit the fact that it wasn’t the first or second or even third time that she had inducted another member into that society.) Even though it took an even longer amount of time, she eventually persuaded him to move their titillating trists to outdoor spaces.

On one Saturday of spectacular weather so fine that it scorches itself into one’s memory, they took a trip down to the marina adjacent to Liberty State Park, where Ciro kept a 34-foot sailboat named Rubicon and joked about how he so often crossed it. (Since Catelyn wasn’t so much of a history buff, he had to explain the meaning of such a terrible joke to her.) Even though it would have been more convenient to keep such a boat in the marina of somewhere closer to West Guttenberg (like Edgewater or Englewood Cliffs), this marina in particular was a place where older men respected the privacy of fellow owners and, as Ciro described it, “knew how to keep secrets”. With deft hands and without her aid, he maneuvered the boat into the Hudson River, where he taught her the basics of sheeting in the sails and running the helm. They jibed and tacked the whole day amongst the busy traffic of the river, and she let out a slight scream with laughter as she took both of their lives into her hands, dodging both the mammoth ocean liners and the nimble, cavalier speedboats. (Like everyone else on the river, she found herself hoping that the former would accidentally squash the latter, since the DB factor of the speedboats seemed fairly high.) When the evening began to fall and with barely enough light to see, the Rubicon found itself near the craggy Jersey coast, just past the George Washington Bridge (or the GWB, as the locals like to say) and its famous miniature lighthouse. After dropping anchor, they brought out the food for a small picnic on the bow, and since Ciro was such a history buff, he explained to Catelyn the irony of the GWB and Fort Lee, given how Washington and Lee hated each other in life but now their respective bridge and town would be linked together for posterity. (She didn’t really care about history all that much, but she wasn’t about to admit such and appear less intellectual.) They ate and drank for a while on the polished deck, waxed on philosophically like drunken college freshmen whose arguments yearned to even ascend to something considered sophomoric, and then they fucked awkwardly (since balance is required on the bow) until the moon could be seen peeking out voyeuristically from behind the skyscrapers. Afterwards, while lying on their backs and staring up at the nocturnal canvas that could offer no stars to compare with the light from NYC, he admitted that it had been a longstanding dream to have sex on a boat, ever since he had seen one video with Traci Lords. She laughed and nodded as if she recognized the name, though she didn’t have a clue.

And in time, she exposed him to more than simply how to play outside the sheets. During one conversation about travel, she confessed that she had never left the country, and the only destination vacation was a booked trip with her friends on AirBnB to Fire Island. When he inquired as to the nature of AirBnB, she explained through an analogy, stating that it was like a ZipCar for apartments owned by people. When ZipCar failed, she patiently tried to iterate through an applicable list of consumer-facing technologies, until it eventually included all of them: Etsy, GroupOn, Kickstarter, Tumblr, MySpace, Twitter, Facebook. Ciro had heard people speak of them, but he knew nearly nothing about them.

As a millennial, it was beyond her comprehension. He smiled at her: she had yet to understand the nature of the Palisades, how time had stood still here despite the accelerating hands of the clocks on the eastern side of the river. “You’ve never been on Facebook? Even once?” When he shook his head, Catelyn had to pursue the line even farther. “You mean that you used no social media in your mayoral campaign last year? At all?!?” After shrugging his shoulders, she vociferously pointed out that he was ignoring younger voters, and she begged him to let her start the social media accounts for his administration. He consented, and over the next weeks, she worked tirelessly to establish his presence online. Learning as she went, Catelyn got his accounts verified in the case of both Facebook and Twitter, and she even took a stab at creating a subreddit for the mayor’s office of West Guttenberg.

After showing him the results and the positive feedback that she had cultivated from her more benevolent posts (like the announcement of a new dog run being built), His Honor was more than impressed. He promoted her as a full aide to his administration, and he granted her the honorary title of Social Media Manager, the first in the history of West Guttenberg. So overwhelmed with the opportunity and so gratified with its bestowment, she didn’t even mind the inevitable jealousy and lost friendships that would ensue with the other aides, how they would all complain and plot behind her back in grievance for having been overslaughed by the mayor’s new tart. Again, it was destiny that had brought her here, and she wasn’t going to look back over her shoulder. She was now both his professional and romantic companion, and they were unstoppable. And so, during one of their postcoital conversations, she thought nothing of it when she asked if he remembered the night of their first meeting and the group of men who had huddled quietly around him. At first, Ciro balked and tried to change the subject, but unlike the girl from only a few months ago, this new Catelyn felt empowered and wouldn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.

After a few minutes of her cajoling, Ciro finally said, “There’s business that I do that…you may not like. But if I tell you this…you cannot repeat it. In fact, if I tell you about it, then I expect you to help me. When I tell you, you’re in, and then, we do it together. Understand? Are you sure that you want to be included? Because afterwards, there’s no going back.”

It’s destiny…and there was never any question. There was never any going back. And with that thought, Catelyn slowly nodded before giving the answer that would be the most influential decision made in her entire life. “Absolutely. Yes. Now…tell me everything.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

After snippets of susurrous conversation at her desk, Catelyn and Ciro finally made the arrangements for a date in the city, away from the prying eyes of West Guttenberg. He reserved a table for them at the 21 Club on the night of the upcoming Saturday, and he and his driver would be at her apartment beforehand to pick her up. Immediately after accepting his offer and complimenting his choice in restaurants, she quickly did a search online in order to learn the story of this establishment (of which she hadn’t the slightest clue), going to Yelp first and then Wikipedia and then scouring any other link to be found. With every subsequent click that revealed a bit more about this staple of the Big Apple, another wave of intimidation crawled all over her, making her shift uncomfortably and eventually causing her to break out into a cold sweat. Even though she wasn’t some dumb honky girl like the others back home, she was far from sophisticated, and she had yet to step inside and confront the grandeur of such a place. (As a young girl who would sneak away to watch Sex and The City, though, she was fairly sure that she remembered the episode shot inside it…which made her panic that much more.) And once inside such a place and lost in its various expectations of protocol, she was bound to commit some form of gaucherie and make a fool of herself. She was just sure of it…and then what would her potential beau think of his new dulcinea? She was in the midst of an email requesting another restaurant from him, since her diet required a gluten-free, vegan fare (which was an unimaginative, bold-faced fabrication)…when she suddenly stopped herself short and took a stand against her fearful insecurities: she was going anyway, and she would not make a fool of herself. Now, she just needed a plan…

First and foremost, what to wear? Catelyn owned nothing that especially spoke of class, but she had always daydreamed of certain clothes, especially a certain cocktail dress and matching bag that came from Kate Spade (along with a few other accessories). But that ensemble (along with shoes) cost a small fortune, with money that she didn’t own. Or did she? She still owned the car that had brought her small crew of friends to New York City, and after they had left her behind, she had kept their eastbound wagon, sitting inside of it on a few occasions while drunk and having a few good cries that were nostalgic of times now past. “I’ll always keep it for the sake of those memories,” she always told herself. However, that was only half of the truth: Moheomga also served as her contingency, her lifeboat to go back home to Pennsylvania if times became too much to bear. (She had named it with the Korean word for ‘adventurer’, when she had asked for the translation from the Korean car dealer.) Whenever she found herself in the backseat of that car, in those lachrymose moments with the taste of gin in the back of her throat, she had often thought about getting into the driver’s seat, turning on the engine, and following I-78 all the way back home. But now, was it the time to decide the fate of poor Moheomga, once and for all? Should she run from this affair that seemed like a delusional fantasy and seek some other path, in the driver’s seat of her faithful iron horse…or should she sacrifice her loyal steed for the sake of furthering this one adventure? Once again, she found herself inebriated and sobbing in the backseat of her four-wheeled Artax, and after shedding a good many tears, she thanked her companion of everlasting loyalty for all the dependable company…and then she gave her kiss and her rolling tears to the back of the driver’s headrest as a final goodbye.

Having liquidated her prized possession and with cash in hand, she bought all of the necessary gear for her date with both Ciro and with destiny. With Saturday’s arrival (and having barely slept the night before), she awoke in sixth gear and raced around madly throughout the day, preparing for the night ahead. By the time that Ciro and his driver arrived in the classic Lincoln towncar, she felt somewhat secure in her choices of adornment, and though still nervous, she came downstairs and (probably for the first time ever) hopped into the car with some sense of actually being beautiful. Based on the reaction of Ciros’ face, she wasn’t the only one that thought so.

And apparently others shared the very same opinion. She turned a few heads at 21 Club upon the couple’s entry, and even though she had arrived with apprehension cawing from her shoulder, it slowly started to recede in volume with the quick glances from other men around the room and with the subsequent drinks that followed. At their table, the anxiety returned for a while with the attentive service that’s normal for any reputable dining but that was completely foreign to Catelyn. She almost died when Ciro gently laughed at her question about the necklace around one of the more bossy waiters…but it’s to be expected that a small town girl from Pennsylvania would be unable to identify the tastevin around a sommelier’s neck. We all suffer such misadventures when we wander away from our comfort zone; it’s an almost essential component of every memorable experience. If one journeys to Montreal and attempts to employ French by telling a native J’aimerais bien manger beaucoup des poutines (but mistakenly uses putains for the last word), one might become asphyxiated since all the adjacent air will be drawn for the ensuing laughter. (Not that this raconteur would be familiar with such a scenario.) These small things at the expense of oneself make the world a more entertaining place, for you and for everyone else. In those moments, we absolutely hate being in such a predicament, but we learn to love them upon reflection and replay them within our mind to reminisce the timeline of our short lives.

But aside from a few token embarrassments, she eventually shed her anxiety as the night went along exceedingly well, as she and Ciro drank and ate to their hearts’ delight. They talked and joked for hours on length, and at the end of their meal, they were taken on a tour of the restaurant’s secretive cellars from the Prohibition era and to the secret dining hall from that age past. With all of the wine in her head, the night swam past her so quickly; she momentarily thought that she would drown in it all. They returned to his car and driver, and with her lower leg now over his, they drove back to the Palisades via the Lincoln Tunnel. She felt in such an optimal mood that she confessed all of her paranoia preceding their date, laughing and joking about it with him the entire ride back. When they finally arrived back at her building, they briefly kissed along with giving each other a quick “Good Night”, and placing her hand upon the door handle, she let it rest for a few seconds before she turned back to him. Smiling, she said, “Why should it end here? I’ve always wanted to see the house of the mayor.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

And so, wearing her lucky pantsuit from the Angel Street Thrift Shop that rode the fine line between respectable and trendy (and which was her first adult purchase upon moving here), Catelyn played hooky from her normal part-time job on a Thursday and instead arrived at the city hall, waiting patiently in one of their lobbies decked in its fashionably retro (i.e., outdated) design of lightly-colored wood panels and brass fixtures. (One advantage of classic designs is that the money usually spent in updating them can best be put elsewhere…like in one’s pockets.) In those few minutes before her appointment (and instead of playing Candy Crush), she made the best use of it by quickly creating her first iteration of a LinkedIn page and by practicing her answers with online questionnaires. But after a quick, brusque interview with the secretary of the mayor, she hadn’t expected a response of any kind, and she honestly didn’t expect any sort of notification, having been on the receiving end of silence many times before. So, it was much to her surprise when the offer of employment finally came: her first day would be the Monday of next week, if she chose to accept it.

Nervously excited, she arrived at city hall, clad in a new ensemble that she had put together over the weekend using her modest wardrobe. With a modesty that was in no way insincere, she took her apprenticeship earnestly, and she took all of the secretary’s lessons (and all of their inherent, boring minutiae) to heart. The secretary, though far from inconsiderate, definitely fell short of amiable or helpful, doling out only small snippets for time to teach anything. Catelyn would have been in dire straits as a nascent civil servant, but as it turned out, several of the aides for Mayor Massaco were especially sympathetic men. That, or they were horny for a young girl…in the end, she didn’t care as long as she could get the paperwork done right. They would spend the time to teach her the proper protocol of handling civil issues and the various ways how one can steer clear of legal transgressions, much like a veteran captain knows how to navigate the dangerously shallow neck of a river. In time, they became her colleagues and friends. And so, when they invited her to attend a holiday party thrown by Mayor Massaco, she obliged their invitation, spent all of her meager savings on an acceptable outfit, and came without any preconceived notions to the doorstep of Rumba Cubana, nearby in old Guttenberg.

Scenic with its eagle’s eye view of the Hudson River below, the restaurant with its rushing valets and its bustling crowd created an atmosphere that was still foreign to Catelyn’s small town sensibilities, even after her years of residence. Though it wasn’t immensely fancy, it was nonetheless impressive to her when the staff escorted her through the restaurant’s main dining area and into the back room for private parties. Her colleagues welcomed her into the fold, and with a Cuba Libre in one hand and a crispy empanada in the other, she quickly abandoned all pretenses while regaling her comrades with her best jokes, becoming more comfortable as the minutes sped by. And when she spotted Mayor Massaco across the room, she decided to take advantage of her liquid courage by crossing the room and formally introducing herself to her boss at large.

Like any inebriated young woman possessed with the benevolent spirits stored in bottles and invoked by music, Catelyn paid no attention to nuance or subtext, for a good mood abolishes the awareness of all negative potential. Even though His Honor was exchanging words with an encircled group of somber, older men, she was confident that they would welcome the company of a perky girl with a figure and a nice smile. And, strangely enough, she happened to be right. After a few pleasantries and polite anecdotes, the confidential circle dispersed extemporaneously, and much to her own surprise, she found herself in the exclusive company of her municipal superior. It was only then that her newfound confidence absconded away, and she realized how she might have just overstepped her bounds. She began profusely apologizing…but Mayor Massaco would have none of it. Instead, he complimented her candor, and after learning of her hometown, he relayed his earlier adventures as an enlisted man in central Pennsylvania and asked if the old Air Force office was still located around Mechanicsburg. “My first name is Ciro,” he explained, “But my friends call me C. And since I now count you among them, I expect the same.” And after nearly an hour of conversation, Catelyn felt that she had a new confidant in life.

In the weeks that followed, His Honor would usually talk with his secretary, but he always made sure to drop by Catelyn’s desk as well, just to spend the time for a small chat. It became custom for either he or an aide to extend her an invitation for various after-work activities. One week it would be karaoke at the local Irish pub, another week it would be to bravely descend the cliff’s steep staircase (since the Palisades spit on the cowardly proposal of a funicular) and dance in a supper club along the river. Each consecutive week, though, the numbers of their small band began to dwindle, with various members giving reasons for absence. And eventually, there came a time where it was just three of them: Catelyn, the mayor, and an aide. After several drinks and playing the part of a raconteuse, where she recalled the ribald stories of young women like herself and her hometown pals, it was when the tertiary member of their crew excused himself for the bathroom when Ciro finally made his confession: he had developed an affection for Cateyln and would like to see her exclusively.

Catelyn didn’t have much in the way of wisdom, but she knew the various cliches associated with this kind of situation and how people would react to it if she did indeed accept his offer. How they would say that she had daddy issues, how they would say that she’s probably a fan of Fifty Shades of Grey, how she was trying to sleep her way to the top, how Ciro might have done something like this before…she was aware of all the likely scenarios and consequences. She was young…but she wasn’t stupid. Despite all of that, though, she knew one thing with even more intimacy: she was lonely and without a great deal of options. Without knowing it, the exodus of her friends, her relocation to this strange neighborhood, and the quiet of her spacious apartment had finally made a dent in the armor that fit tightly around her. After the past year of solitude, she had finally started to reconsider her decision, thinking that maybe she was on the same fuse of her friends but with a delay. Confused, she found herself unable to grab a hold of any conviction born of introspection…but she came to a decision anyway. No young woman wants to admit a mistake, and she’ll run miles in shoes lined with broken glass before even entertaining the thought. And though he was the oldest man that she had dated (but not by much), he was still attractive to her, with his peppered hair that favored white and his large frame that only carried a little more weight than needed. And it didn’t hurt that he was an intelligent man with power at his fingertips. “This was fate,” she told herself, “And I was meant to be here, at this moment.” And with the forethought of expediting a response before the aide’s return, she whispered ‘Yes’ and gave him a quick, tender kiss.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

“Wait a minute…are you telling me…you’re not actually going down into those tunnels? Are you out of your mind, Doctor Jones?” asked Joe, his voice rising to a higher octave and teetering on the edge of incredulity.

He not nuts. He crazy! My inner commentary in the voice of Short Round probably wasn’t that far from the truth…Organized quickly after my rendezvous with the Austrian sisters, our plenary meeting had full attendance in the living room of Donna’s place, with all invitees before me: Donna standing behind the kitchen partition, Rhonda and a lively Octavio on the couch, a visibly shaken and pacing Joe, and me. Much to my pleasant surprise, we had managed to convene without Huiwen’s presence. In my eyes, the meeting was already a success due to that fact alone. After listening to my plan, though, I could tell that Joe had to come to a much different opinion about the current forum.

I appeared to consider his question thoughtfully, in order to give my proposition more gravity than it probably deserved. “Yes…and, ummm…maybe.”

“I don’t think that it’s all that crazy,” Octavio commented, smiling much like anyone with youth would in the face of audacious schemes. “Actually, I think that it’s kinda dope.”

Joe closed his head and shook his eyes, much like a bucking maverick might attempt to rid itself of the annoying cowboy atop him. “You’re going down into those tunnels…to find what exactly? And how exactly would you find it, whatever that is?”

Donna cleared her throat. “Yes, I have to agree with Joe. It seems a bit crazy.”

“Listen, Pete, I get it, you want to find some sort of proof, but you don’t know if anything is down there,” said Joe boisterously. “Hell, even Donna agrees with me, and that should tell you something! We need real proof, not some urban spelunking. Let’s find that first before you get yourself arrested for something so stupid!”

“I know that it seems crazy,” I replied, “but I think that it’s a good lead to find the smoking handgun. As for actual proof, something we can stand on…we already got it.”

Both Joe and Octavio straightened their posture and bolted upright in response, while Donna, the model of sophrosyne, commented with the arch of one eyebrow. For her, it was the same as doing jumping jacks in place.

“You have proof?” blurted Joe. “Since when?”

Rhonda and I exchanged flashing glances, and with a quick nod, she rose from the couch and quickly exited Donna’s home.

“Where’s she going?” asked Joe. “Again…since when?!?”

“Just recently,” I answered quickly, knowing the ensuing maelstrom that was bound to envelop the room if I didn’t get my lips moving fast enough. “Now, listen, before everyone goes bananas, do me a favor…everyone is gonna stay cool, right? Because I need everyone to keep their cool before we go any further. Sooo…we’re good?” Though I received calm affirmations from both Donna and Octavio, I received only a reticent silence from our formerly-charismatic traitor to the enemy. “So, whaddya say, Joe?”

“I’ll try,” he responded dryly. “But like I was asking before, where did Rhonda go…”

On cue and on time, Rhonda opened the door just a crack, focusing her attention and whispers onto me. “So…are we ready?”

“One sec,” I said, holding up my index finger. “Okay, like everybody was thinking…we need proof, right? We need something substantial? So, that’s true. But we want something more substantial than simply something. What if we had more than that? What if we had someone, somebody who was on the inside of this whole thing?”

Now on his feet, Octavio pointed towards the door. “You got one of those twisted red suits to spill the beans? I’ll be honest, if you got one of those guys out there…”

“Shut up!” I yelled, preempting his outburst and keeping a finger locked onto his face. Preemptively cutting the wire leading to an impending explosion of threats, I could now easily spot his various tells. Despite all the maturity for his age, he was still his age. It couldn’t be helped. “You’re not doing shit…and, no, there’s no red suit who’s turned traitor. Sorry.”

Joe stared unwaveringly towards the door, waiting in suspense for the surprise guest that had become the belle of this ball. “If you got Richie behind that door, I’ll throw my shorts into Donna’s wok and cook ‘em up so that I can eat them right here.”

Detached and yet still unable to betray her annoyance, Donna spoke in a barely detectable tone of condescension. “I don’t own a wok…”

I shook my head. “Nope, I don’t got anybody like that. However, I know that this thing is a lot bigger than we all thought. Ever heard of Mayor Massaco?”

“Yo, I know that dude,” answered Octavio. “I’ve seen his campaign commercials on TV all the time, ever since I was a kid…he’s been around a long time, right?”

Even more acquainted and settled as a townie than even Octavio, Joe immediately smiled at the mere mention of the name. “El Douché? The mayor of West Guttenberg? The guy who has his hands in all the right pockets of the Palisades? You’re telling me that old bastard is mixed up in this, too? Not that it’s really a surprise…”

“Looks like it,” I began, “And, no, he didn’t have a lapse, suddenly developed a conscience and wants to spill his guts to us. So, no, he isn’t out there with Rhonda, either. However, there are people who work with him, some who know about the dirty details and who have access to some incriminating pieces of paperwork.” I couldn’t help smiling, once again basking in our good fortunes. “Now that kind of person, we do have.”

A silence ensued as our conspiring consortium held their tongues. Eager to turn the page, they remained transfixed and waited patiently, like a summer audience of Parisian children at the foot of a puppeteers’ stage.

“Okay,” I said to Rhonda. “I think that we’re all ready. Bring her in.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

Leaning against the chain fence, with the skyline as a backgrop and the rising sun warming my back, I pondered Ulva’s question. “Do I consider myself a Jäger…hmmm…so, are you offering to buy me a drink? Because I’ll be honest: much like Dave Attell has said, I don’t think that anything good has come from a shot of Jäger…?” I laughed at the puzzled expression on their faces. “Get it? A shot of Jäger? Heh? Guess not…Anyway, I don’t speak German, but I know what Jäger means. So, like you were asking: am I a hunter?” I smiled at a few faint memories. “Sure, when I was a boy. I had a .22 Savage rifle for hunting that was a family heirloom and a .25 pistol to finish the job, both passed down to me…but after I left West Virginia behind along with everything else, I’m sure that my no-good old man probably pawned them for booze and hookers, and they’re lost to me forever. And that was decades ago, so I’d say my hunting days are long gone. Why do you ask?”

Adela, despite her age, drank her coffee in the most coquettish way possible. “Ulva is trying to be clever, in her own silly way,” commented Adela, ignoring the furrowed white eyebrows and accompanying scowl directed towards her. “She is trying to ask vhether you have heard of Jäger Park.” Shrugging my shoulders, she leapt at the opportunity to continue, much like the dogs who were jumping onto their hind legs and begging for a drop of her liquid treat. “Ever been a little southwest of here, where there is a huge graveyard on the vest side of the Palisades?”

Even though I wasn’t yet adept at all of the spatial relations concerning my territory, I had ventured out and create a small map of the area in my head. That graveyard, in particular, was a hard one to miss. “Yeah, I’ve walked by there during one weekend stroll with Rhonda. And I remember spotting a big complex nearby, a big sprawling building and campus not too far away from it…that’s Jäger Park?”

“Yes,” Ulva answered, regaining her foothold on the conversation. “Jäger Park is a private park, and many years ago, it vas much larger. It went all the vay to Secaucus, if you can imagine. But they sold the land over the years, and now that big patch is all that is left…”

“Huh…and that big sprawling building?”

Ulva nodded. “Und Altenheim. A home for old people, especially for old Germans. And I suppose us Austrians, if ve asked nicely…” Ulva laughed at the mere suggestion of such prostrating, which I knew was as likely as a bloodless Saint Patrick’s Day in Hoboken. (Though, Saint Patrick’s Day in Hoboken doesn’t actually take place on the actual holiday of its namesake, since it doesn’t want to compete with its larger peer across the water. That way, the revelers get to drink twice as much, and both towns get rich off the carnal events dedicated to a saint. Everybody wins except humanity and the unfortunate children conceived that night to lushes.) “To be honest, I vould not go there if they begged me.”

“So, those entire wings on the north and east sides of the park…they have windows that look on the graveyard? That isn’t where they get buried when they pass away, is it?” I inquired, feeling a great pang of apprehension about the answer.

“Sadly,” Adela whispered, “For some, that is true.”

I shook my head. “Jesus…that’s like building a McDonald’s across from the grazing pasture for some livestock. Even though I appreciate a good joke, even something like that goes a bit too far…So, what’s the relation between this park and the abandoned tunnels?”

Scouring the ground, Ulva picked up a stick and threw it towards the grassy patch nearby, in order to put a stop to the dogs’ incessant begging. Falling for the ruse, the competitive pair chased after it, and as always, they began a tug of war for its possession. “It is called Jäger Park because it vas a place to practice hunting. It had horses to ride, and underneath the park, there vas a shooting range. It vas a destination for miles around, so much that the New Jersey railroad created a small line and station, just for it. Vhen the subway tunnels vere being dug, one of their first goals vas to connect them to the popular park…”

I heard an audible click occur, much like a joint in one’s leg when you stand and shift your weight from one to the other. Except, in this case, I heard it between my ears. “Wait a minute…those tunnels connect to the park, to the station underneath it? And there’s a way to get into that station?”

“When Adela and I vere there during Oktoberfest years ago, during vhich they still have a big party, ve valked around, since one of the older Germans liked Adela and vanted to take her out on a date. Like alvays, she got the attention from the boys…And so, he showed us around, including the shooting range and a locked door that vent underground. Vhen ve asked him to vhat, he did not know…but I knew the railroad logo on the door from old pictures. I knew vhere it vent.”

Could it be true? It was certainly possible…For much like the trolley lines of Jersey City now covered with layers of asphalt (and, more than likely, a few civilizations beneath the shifting sands of the Sahara), history has a propensity for entombed secrets, and people are more than willing to bury the past…which was always strange to me, since I’m so inclined to dig it all back up. For the vast majority, history seems to carry a sort of pejorative connotation, and once certain things meet their end of immediate relevance, they find themselves in the same category as spoiled milk. People are no exception. The names of 9/11’s honored dead on the walls of Union Square station have become faded labels that fall into the background for passing commuters, and on a modest and sparse stretch of lawn in Sleep Hollow Cemetery, a great figure like Andrew Carnegie rests in the ground with only the raccoons and their shit for company. So quickly all is forgotten…so why not a few abandoned subway tunnels and railroad stations as well? Since there are a few in Manhattan that must tragically endure the trespass of urban explorers and partying hipsters, why couldn’t the same exist here? And why couldn’t I be the one to unearth them from their isolation? Finally, unlike my other juvenile aspirations, my boyhood dream of becoming Indiana Jones might actually come true.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

The wily raconteuse smiled at my obvious ignorance of local history and its more coveted secrets. “Of course, Peter, you vould think that. And I could not blame you. Even many of its locals born here vould probably think the same. Tell me, did you know that trolley trains used to run along the streets of Jersey City and such?” As I shook my head, she continued. “Vell, it is true…the trolley trains stopped long ago, but me and Adela, ve vere here when ve saw them pave over the roads, burying the past with layers of asphalt. After a vhile, everyone forgot about them…but I did not.”

“Wow,” I said, captivated by yet another history lesson. “Really? I had no idea. It’s a shame that it’s all gone. I mean, it’s not as bad as that NYC proposal of tearing down Grand Central decades ago, but still…they could have left some of the trolley tracks, at least. Like what they did with the Highline in the city.”

“Yes, I vish they had kept them as well. And the telephone booths, I miss those too…” started Adela, now caught in a trajectory of nostalgia.

Ulva rolled her eyes with the annoyance commonly found among older siblings, especially when they must spend more than a few minutes in each other’s company. “Yes, Adela, ve know. And you vant people to still use alarm clocks instead of their phones…Nobody cares! As I was saying before interruption, this side of the river vas being built up around one hundred years ago. They got the trolley running first. And then they got the tube tunnels to Manhattan going…And then, Boss Hague and some others on this side started building tunnels here to connect with the subway in Manhattan, so that you could ride a train up the far West Side…”

At this point, I felt some fabric of reality being torn from the mural of New Jersey inside my head. As any Palisades townie can relay to an outsider, the Hudson River is more than simply a physical divider between New York City and the array of towns that form its opposing line, resembling some sort of municipal scrimmage. It also marks the demarcating point between two different cultures of habit, where space is introduced between two different types of people who need breathing room. Sure, there’s a PATH train with distinct stations in Manhattan that connect to New Jersey, but it is more of an airline tram than an actual subway, small in size and reaching only a handful of stops on its way to Newark. The suggestion of an actual extension to a NYC subway line, one that would fully integrate these two communities and states even further, to the point where this corner of New Jersey actually became the sixth borough, creating a scenario where one could pick up some smoked fish from Russ & Daughters and then catch the train to Weehawken and even Little Peru…It was enough to stun me momentarily. Though far from being technologically impossible, it seemed so much like the stuff of science fiction. Strange, though, how far civilization has come since a hundred years ago, where we can now unlock the various mysterious of the universe…and yet how far we have regressed when building a tunnel seems impossible due to bureaucratic concerns, agency corruption, and union negotiations. At times, progress resembles a pair of bratty children on a seesaw, where both little shitheads are intent to knock the other off.

In any case, Ulva could see the thoughts rummaging around in my head, since my slack jaw had descended far enough to allow visibility into my cranium. “Yes, that vould have been something, right? Who knows…maybe they vill decide to do it again. I read something about how Senator Schumer wants to make it happen. Maybe after the Hudson Yards are built…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted, knowing the risk inherent after witnessing Adela’s reprimand. “So, you’re saying that the Palisades’ cliffs have tunnels built into them, like some sort of anthill? That they’re even running under Little Peru…No joke?”

Ulva shook her head as she stroked Fünf’s neck and ears, as the dwarvish Herbert continued to annoy his larger companion by playfully nipping at his legs. “No joke. The deal fell apart, and the tunnels vere never connected to the city. And they’ve remained empty and forgotten for almost one hundred years.”

“Yes, they’re really quite something,” added Adela. “I had a boyfriend who claimed to have gone down into them long ago, using a secret entrance in the vall of the Edgewater Tunnel. He said that they are really quite something…”

“Yes…and he also claimed to have seen the Jersey Devil wrestling Bigfoot when he vent camping in the Barrens. And everybody knows somebody who has valked through the Edgewater Tunnel…but nobody has actually ever done it! Really, Adela, you vill believe everything anyone tells you…you need to find a new place to meet men.”

I wonder if there’s a place for German speakers to date online…like JDate, except that it would be called GDate. But naturally, GDate and JDate likely wouldn’t get along…

“But,” I began, attempting to distract the sisters from their lifelong rivalry and myself from tangential thoughts. “There is an entrance to these abandoned tunnels somewhere…”

Ulva placed her coffee beneath her nose, as she was often fond of doing. She seemed to love the smell of coffee even more than its taste, told in volumes by the calmly joyful expression on her face. If you hadn’t known of the beverage or its quality as commercial-grade at best, you would swear that she was savoring something sublime as expertly as any sommelier, and even Taiwanese tea masters might envy her keen ability to discern nuanced flavors. “You know, Peter, this town vas founded by Germans and Austrians almost two centuries ago. The Italians and Greeks vere here later, and then the many types of Hispanics came…but ve vere here first. Ve built its beautiful Lutheran churches and great cathedrals, before they later fell down. Ve built arenas and complexes to Germanic culture, long before any tunnels or trolley came around. Some of those buildings are still stand, and there are still a few German-speakers who live around here. And if you spoke German, you vould hear a secret or two about hidden doors that still exist…”

“And, let me guess…since you speak German, you might know a secret or two?” I asked, pleased once again at having the fortune of such acquaintances.

Ulva slowly and confidently drank a sip of her coffee before answering. “Ja…I might know a secret or two.”

“So, tell us, Peter,” interjected Adela, surprisingly and cryptically, “Since you grew up in the country, are you any good vith a rifle?”

“What she means to ask,” spoke Ulva, only adding to my confusion, “Is this: do you consider yourself a Jäger, Herr Bolton?”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

During the previous summer, in the first awful months of living in our new home, I had awoken early on a Sunday morning to the sound of heavy drops bursting on a window in our living room. Fearing yet again that rainfall was transforming our poor constructed windows into makeshift aqueducts, I investigated the living room and was relieved to see that the drops were on the outside of the frame, forming and then crashing from an air conditioner installed just above. Unfortunately, when one is stirred from their slumber with an induced shot of adrenaline and angsty despair, sleep becomes as distant as the closest galaxy, even as you lie still and impatiently wait for it to overtake you. If it’s late enough in the morning and the actual sun approaches the horizon, your circadian rhythm beats on your internal drum, and then a return to nocturnal visions becomes nearly impossible. Knowing that to be the case here, I decided to make the most out of the beautiful morning unfolding beyond the glass encasing, and without making too much of a stir, I left Rhonda and Flukeman to savor their fantasies of sneaking and pouncing. I went on a quiet stroll in order to explore my peaceful neighborhood, when it is even more quiet than usual and before the temperature climbs to the level of sweaty underwear. After grabbing a cup of coffee and having a few moments of walking by myself, my thoughts turned contemplative, as I’ve found they often do when you’re approaching the fall season of your life. (Even though one could debate the age ranges that constitute such an autumn, I would say that it’s fair to designate 55 as its end and the beginning of one’s winter, when death declares you fair game. That will probably change in the centuries to come, and you, reader of the distant future, might scoff at such an age or even at death. But I’d say that it fits for now.)

Simple yet honest considerations dug their way out of my subconsciousness as I walked under the buzzing Frigidaires hovering from windows above and passed the occasional dog-walker, one of the rare breeds of people who greet the sunrise. I wondered about the number of promises that the current Me had fulfilled at the request of my younger self, and I wondered if either would even recognize the other. My immigrant friends who had become naturalized citizens told me how they had changed as people in their new home country, how they could even mark such a transition when their dreams were no longer spoken in their native tongue. I had no clearly indicated marker, but in my bones, I knew it to be true. The past was now stirred in my immediate atmosphere, to the point where its smell coated the inside of my nose. As I passed by the dog park that clung to the cliff’s edge, I recalled faint memories of the family hound, long since dead like the rest. Much like the movie A Field of Dreams, I yearned to play with her one last time…and then, serendipitously, two playful faces had appeared in the fence next to me at that moment, barking their welcome to come inside and frolic alongside them. I accepted their canine invitation, and in the process, I met their two owners: sisters Ulva and Adela. Even though they were almost octogenarians, you would not expect such vitality from two women who had seen the passing of so many moons. Having lived through World War II in Austria and then migrating to New York City in the turbulent 1960s and 1970s, they had seen and experienced much over their lifetimes before eventually settling into Little Peru a couple decades ago. Ulva, the owner of the adorably feisty and small Herbert, had turned a bit bitter through suffering unrewarded risks and numerous failed marriages; her sister Adela was much like her Fünf, in that very little actually bothered them. For better and worse, against the opinions of their children who suggested a move to Florida, they had retired and then remained as steadfast citizens of Little Peru, through its various demographic transitions. And so, for a few hours every Sunday, I had the honor of being a temporary member of their family; I was bestowed with the gift of their company and regaled with epic tales from bygone eras. (For some reason, all history tends to sound so dramatically profound when compared to the present.) Through them, I had slowly accumulated a knowledge base about the history of my new neighborhood, learning about its politics and about its officials’ suspicious salaries that were double the incomes of their peers in New York City. And, though I would never have my original pup back, I also had the chance to play with my new ones, if only for a short while.

I examined the scribbled writings on the lids of the coffee before me. “Okay, so I think that this is the sweeter one, Ulva. And then that would mean the other has only cream and belongs to you, Adela.”

The elderly sisters graciously accepted their beverages and thanked me. As I opened mine and blew the bubble of steam away from its top, Adela looked at me with a sincerely affectionate concern. “So, Peter…how are you doing? Is that lawsuit in your building still happening?”

“Yes, how is that going?” interjected Ulva. “Is that German bitch still causing trouble?”

Contrary to all assumptions about the nature of central Europe, the two sisters had instructed me on the strained relationship between Germans and Austrians, how the latter considered the former to be pompously rigid and arrogant. So, when I had told them about the lawsuit and the German valkyrie Helga who helped to lead it, I found immediate sympathy from my audience. “Well, Hegla’s been pretty quiet lately, along with Bertha. Well…that’s not entirely true: they still complain about everything. But they do seem to be working on some sort of solution with their lawyer. It’ll probably involve some sort of compromise, like my public execution. If so, I’m inclined to oblige the request since I’d do anything not to suffer them. Plus, as Mark Twain said: ‘Never argue with a fool. Onlookers may not be able to tell the difference.’ And since I look foolish enough with my poor excuse of a beard, one that resembles more of my body’s attempt to grow a scarf around my neck…I think that I’ll do anything to look less stupid.”

As the two sisters chuckled, I took a sip of coffee. “Actually,” I began, “I’ve been spending more time lately on that pet project of mine.” Even though I hadn’t elaborated on the details of my amateur sleuthing about black market organs in Little Peru, I had confessed about dabbling with investigating some corrupt affairs of Captain O’Bannon. I wasn’t sure whether they believed me or not…but, in the case of such two charming commères, did it even matter to them? With no further need of details, I again found a receptive audience, and they were more than willing to listen and help when possible. “The plot definitely thickens…and much like a roux, you have to keep stirring in order to make sure that it turns out right. I’ve almost got the goods on O’Bannon…almost.”

“I can’t vait until you’re done with the story,” Adela pronounced, supportive as always. “I vant so to read your story in the Jersey Journal!”

I held up my coffee as a toast to her enthusiasm. “And I’ll make sure that you get the first copy when it gets in there! I’ve gotten some good leads…but I still have one big problem: no actual proof. Miguel and I were able to get into our boiler room of the building…but we didn’t find anything. I’ve looked around elsewhere, but for some reason, it’s nowhere to be found. He seems to conduct this clandestine business of his in some sort of secret lair…and I don’t have the faintest clue where it would be.”

Just as Ulva began to speak, a wrestling jumble of Fünf and Herbert tumbled into her lower leg, causing a string of guttural curses in German. “Herbert! Fünf! Get avay…I’ll throw you off the cliff if you do that again! Little shits…as I was about to say, you’ve said in the past that this funny business of O’Bannon involves something about medicine, right?” As I nodded, she continued. “Well…then if I vere him, I’d choose to go down to the retirement home. And, then, from there, I’d do this funny business in the abandoned subway tunnels under Little Peru.”

Slurping another injection of caffeine which hadn’t yet quite made its way into my bloodstream, it took me another few moments before the point of her words actually pierced my consciousness. “Which retirement home are you…wait a second…tunnels? No subway tunnels have ever run along the Hudson waterfront in Jersey. They’ve only existed across the river in NYC…!” I paused as I stared at them. “Right?”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

After a night of restless sleep with the nefarious demon Anxiety and wiping away somaticized sweat, I awoke groggily and bleary-eyed on an early Saturday morning, to a familiar sensation and subsequent conundrum. Arrrgggg…is that just some gas…or is that something more? On most occasions, as an amateur methane meteorologist, I’m fairly adept at predicting the strength of such storms, and my natural barometer (among other sensors) can give me an accurate picture in most situations. Unfortunately, on a dawn like this one, the waters were a bit murky so to speak, if such a phrase isn’t too gauche despite its relevance. Comfortable in my current position and trapped between the two sleeping bodies of Rhonda and my furry friend Flukeman, I now had to weigh the potential risks and rewards of my options. Hmmm…it definitely feels like gas…but there seems to be a bit of something else going on there. I could have momentarily played with the dials and tweaked a release valve, just to study the reaction and obtain a little more data…but as I had learned from past occurrences, such a simple measure could lead to disastrous results. Yeah, I’ve lost that bet before. And it’s not pretty. So, erring on the side of caution, I conducted a set of agile gymnastics in order to both leave the bed and not disturb its present occupants, and I made my way to the bathroom. After my successful sojourn, I was on my way back to peaceful slumber when I noticed the clock on the wall (which has ironically become a bit of an anachronism with each generation that follows). It took a second or two for my crusty brain to fully decipher the message being relayed by those two hands, which at that moment seemed to be as complex as a semaphore tower. The time was now 8:15 A.M., it appeared to say…

I finally opened my eyes at the realization of being tardy, experiencing a moment of panic not unlike when a college student suddenly becomes aware of a forgotten exam. “Awww, shit! I’m going to be late! She’s probably already there and waiting!”

Skipping the morning shower, I rushed back into the bedroom and surreptitiously dressed myself, not wanting to awaken Rhonda. With a quick pat on the slumbering Flukeman and with keys in hand, I quietly made my way out of our home, and with a need for haste, I ran down the stairs of the northwest stairwell in order to promptly exit the building. Per the weekly ritual that had been established, I grabbed three coffees on the way from Dunkin Donuts, stacking them into a large paper bag. Even though Little Peru doesn’t have a taste for most fast fare of the American diet, it still resides in the northeast corner of New Jersey, where a law dictates the installment of a DD every 1000 feet. One can claim that Puerto Rico is the home of Burger King and rum, and upon a similar observation, it can also be said that New Jersey is the home of the tomato and Dunkin Donuts (or White Castle, depending on who you ask). Their coffee and stations’ gasoline are the two types of fuel that drive all traffic on the turnpike. Rejecting the chain’s experimental failures labelled as pastries and with my hot beverages in hand, I briskly walked down the empty streets of quiet Little Peru, heading towards my rendezvous near the cliff’s edge. For the most part, I didn’t encounter a soul except for the odd Hispanic hipster on a skateboard (who wears a Goya shirt instead of the standard Wonderbread one) and the ubiquitous Hispanic mothers who bear the Sisyphean task of pushing their family’s laundry cart to the local laundromat. After a few quick turns, I finally came within sight of the small dog park that was my destination. Snugly inserted between the driveways of two adjacent homes, it was a small rectangular plot that hugged the edge of the cliff, only a few dozen feet in length and less than that in width. Trees served as bookends on either side, with one half of the park being dirt for its canine visitors; the other half had benches and concrete for those who walked on two feet, with the seating turned towards the view of the Manhattan skyline and the Jersey riverfront one hundred feet below. When I got close enough, I recognized two fuzzy faces staring at me through the gate, letting out barks that beckoned and welcomed me to their version of a clubhouse. Ah, they’re both here this time. Spotting the second dog, I realized that I was wise in bringing the third coffee.

“Okay, guys,” I shouted at a moderate volume, so that I wouldn’t awaken those in nearby homes. “I hear you, Herbert and Fünf. I’m almost there.”

With rampant pawing and crowding of the entrance, I managed to push my way past wagging tails and closed the gate behind me. They were an interesting pair of pets, to be sure. The smaller one Herbert was an odd-looking dog; he was a mix of a weiner dog and some sort of hound, whose body and inherent kinematics seemed to be the result of some mad scientist’s assembly. Having an exuberant personality, he somehow remained lithe and springy, despite a compact body and toothpicks for legs. His companion Fünf, on the other hand, was a towering figure of a dog and a bit more subdued. Unlike his hopping playmate and being more like a drunken friend at the end of a long night, Fünf preferred to lean against the legs of his companions and communicate his brotherly love with a sloppy smile and kind eyes. With the bag containing coffees in one hand, I leaned down to pat their familiar heads.

“For a second zere, I didn’t think that you ver going to show up! We were just about to leave. Fünf, get over here and leave Peter alone. You too, Herbert! Get over here!”

Without looking up and still in the midst of showering affection on man’s best friends, I responded to the calling voice. “Nah, no need. It’s okay. They’re just trying to say hello! And good morning to both of you, ladies. I apologize for running a tad late.”

A second voice, softer than the first, offered a response. “Oh, don’t vorry, Peter. We veren’t going anywhere. She just likes to be dramatic.”

Standing up straight once again, I turned my attention to the two ladies sitting on the bench in front of me. They were bundled in large coats as defense against a rather cool December morning and the arctic winds that slithered like vines up the face of the cliff. (Unlike his European cousin Eurus, the east wind of the Hudson never brings warmth but does remain unlucky for everyone, since it seems to have a nasty habit of only pursuing its duty in the tormenting thrall of winter. When needed most in the sublimating heat of summer, it seems to follow the crowds and head out on vacation.) Almost engulfed by their wardrobe, only the top portion of their faces were framed and visible from the puffy hoods of their down jackets, through which I could spot the glimmer of their kind eyes. Placing my own coffee on the seat next to me, I pulled the two remaining ones from the bag and held them before me.

“Ladies, you should never worry about my potential absence. Trust me: I wouldn’t even dare to miss one of our meetings.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion. For those who wish to read previous chapters of The Condo Chronicles, the Table of Contents is available.

I unsheathed a smiling grimace that would surely put fear into the heart of all children, including the overgrown one in front of me. “Does it matter why I want to know?”

“I don’t know,” answered Lance, employing a coyness by rote that had probably worked on his older relatives and nannies. “Does it?”

“Is this a game of 20 questions? Or did you just learn about the Socratic method the other day in model school?” Though I do wish that you were fond of the other Socratic method: drinking hemlock. “How about this: why don’t you stop fucking around with me and go get the artist of this masterpiece?”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” muttered Lance, before returning to his apartment and audibly redirecting his frustration and ennui towards all nearby revelers. Amy, meanwhile, remained on the ground, enjoying some other dimension unavailable to the rest of us.

Rhonda chuckled in the man-child’s absence. “Man, you really do hate spoiled brats…”

“You will never really know just how much,” I responded, wondering if Lance would have the perseverance to complete his quest or, surrounded again by flashing lights and shiny things, if he would just return to the party. “So, Miguel…how’s it going in the building nowadays? Did all of those leaks disappear by an act of God, like I was praying for?”

Miguel shook his head, amused at the thought. “No, amigo…it’s getting worse. Two other units now have a problem where the water gets into the concrete, into the building’s…” He paused as he sought for the right word. “…structure…and then dries out under the wooden floors, making all of the boards…” He then gesticulated with his hands and formed the graphical form of a sine formula. “…wavy.”

“Yeah, that’s called warping the wood. Sometimes, you can let that dry out, and it’ll mostly go back to its original shape. But sometimes…sometimes it never goes back to normal. So good to know the building is still in good shape! It’s also good that this lawsuit still hasn’t been resolved, since we wouldn’t want to fix anything right away anyway. And Brian and Babbu still resent me for not including them when Mayor Dwek visited us?” To which Miguel nodded begrudgingly. “Well, that’s about to be expected…hey, it could be worse, right?”

“Well, you’re in an especially rotten mood,” commented Rhonda. “How did your meeting with Joe and Donna go?”

I lowered my index finger and aimed it at the floor beneath us, noting this metaphysical moment in time and space. “Something like this. It’s been one hell of a day…”

The music had turned off in unit A6, and in place of the electronic symphony, the chattering voices and various salutations served as the precursors of the eventual departing cavalcade. On top of the usual cries of whining disappointment and a lone shout of no quiero, I heard the last remnants of conversations that had just previously been enshrouded by the pumping speakers. There were a few voices that seemed to be incessantly repeating the word society as part of some pseudo-intellectual discourse, while an inebriated girl punctuated her assessment of a friend’s beauty with “She’s a sexy bitch! Go ahead and smack that ass!” Some part of me actually wanted to bear witness to this spectacle of an exodus, and in my snarky disposition, I envisioned a procession of hipsters walking in formation out the door, attempting irony yet again by marching with only shakos and nipple tassels as clothing and beating large marching drums in unison. I was lost in such visions of independent cinema when I saw Lance’s head pop back into the hallway and look in my general direction.

“I’m sorry, man,” shouted Lance, attempting to be heard from the roaring din pressing against his back. “I couldn’t find Neve.”

“Who?” I asked, caught off guard while still in the midst of my daytime reverie.

“The girl who drew that pair on the wall over there. We can’t find her. She’s…” Lance said, before being interrupted by a loud crash behind him. “What the hell was that? I gotta go, man.” And with that, Lance closed the door behind him, and he began to berate someone over something. I assumed that whatever had broken retained only sentimental value, since I couldn’t envision him in possession of something truly valuable or in taste.

Rhonda turned to me. “Well…what now? Now, if you don’t mind telling me, why did you and Miguel get all hot and bothered over those two figures on the wall? Did you want an autograph?”

“You don’t remember, do you? I told you about it before. Remember when Miguel and I were in the basement, when that little punk stole something from…” I abruptly halted my explanation, as my other senses screamed for their attention. “Wait…do you hear that? It sounds like…crying?”

We stood in silence, as our small band transformed into a listening outpost. Recognizing the realization upon each others’ faces in unison, we distinctly heard the faint sobbing of someone nearby. In the past, having been annoyed by fire alarms of absent neighbors that chirped yearningly for a battery like a hungry young chick, it had been difficult to pinpoint the offending home with the acoustics of the hallway, until I had developed a method of pressing my ear against each door and plugging my other ear with a finger. Out of habit, I started to do the same right then, and understanding the logic of my insanity, my comrades adopted my practice as their own as we now investigated the source of this muffled sadness. As we stepped over the roiling Amy and made our way further down the hall and towards the northwest stairwell, it suddenly became clear to all that the sobbing seemed to be coming from the hall’s end, in the stairwell itself. Not wanting to get too excited at my suspicions but unable to contain my excitement, I bolted towards the door with abandon, and I swung its door nearly out of its frame. There, in the stairwell, was the same young blonde woman from so many months back, sitting in almost the same way as when I had first saw her. Unlike our introductory session, though, she at least now wore bra and panties, and her squinting eyes now shed slow tears that curved in rivulets down her cheeks, dropping down onto her breasts. The lips, though, formed the same snarl of dissatisfaction at being disturbed in an obviously vulnerable moment that covets solace.

“What the fuck do you want?” she hissed.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.