For some odd reason, the mayor of our town had decided that a few given streets needed a particular makeover. Luckily, ours had been one of them. Some additional trees had been planted (whose species was selected to withstand harsh winters, little soil, and the constant deluge of dog urine), the sidewalks were cleaned and repaired, and the streetlights had been replaced with contemporary models. These miniature lighthouses shone so brightly that some nights were better illuminated than some days. Those stellar beams proved their magnificence as they glinted off the polished belt buckle and snap of the gunslinger’s holster. He waved his arm and shouted Spanish curses at the fawning trio, who had been boldly staring us down only moments ago.

“I’m thinking that I should call the cops now,” assessed Brian, with a confused and somewhat wet Canal standing by his side. The poor pooch shook the rainfall off of his coat, tilting his head up and sideways toward his towering master. It was obvious that he was patiently waiting for his master to start moving towards the dry, warm interior behind the lobby door.

Copying Canal, I tilted my own head as I scrutinized our supposed vigilante. “Hmmm…you’re too late,” I interjected. “They’re already here.”

Taking a second look for herself, Rhonda looked down the street and recognized the same person in those dark clothes. “Well, look at that…it’s Captain Richie.”

As if he could detect the announcement of his own name (but likely following the gaze of his intimidated audience), Captain Richie turned around and spotted us under the weeping night sky. Subtlely, he adjusted his frame into something less menacing, and he flashed a broad smile in our direction as he waved amiably at us. We waved back, and just as I considered walking down the street towards him, he turned quickly and ushered the trio through the open door, giving the one woman a not-so-friendly push through its frame. Just as well, I thought. I’m not certain that I should be talking to any cop in my pajamas. He briefly turned to us in order to issue one last wave, and then he escaped into the embracing shadows himself. The whole encounter couldn’t have taken more than 30 seconds.

“Well, that was weird,” commented Rhonda, while she simultaneously patted Canal’s head and looked at him adoringly. Oh, I know that look, I thought. There’s a puppy in our future for sure.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Must have been some sort of domestic disturbance issue. Maybe this has happened before and he knows them? More importantly, I didn’t even know that Richie was fluent in Spanish.” I paused. “Speaking of weird…Brian, you didn’t happen to see a naked white chick running around out here, did you?”

Brian, still focused on the other end of our block, finally became aware of my seemingly random question. “Wait…what…naked chick? Huh?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Forget that I asked. You got leaks in your place too, right? Oh, and I forgot to ask before: you planning on being on the board?”

“Yeah, I got leaks worse than yours,” he said through gritted teeth. “And am I gonna run for the board?” He shrugged. “Maybe…I heard that Babbu wants to be on the board.”

I laughed. “But where’s he gonna find the time? Isn’t he still running that social media campaign? What’s the name of his site…KirpanWedgiesAreHateCrimes.org?”

“Oh, trust me, he’ll find the time,” answered Brian. “That guy’s an insomniac. I see him going in and out of the building in the dead of night. Along with that Chinese lawyer/escort…”

“Chinese lawyer/escort?” Rhonda asked with fascination.

“Hmmm,” I pondered. “Lawyer/escort? That sounds like my version of a superhero.”

Brian nodded. “Yep. I talked to her once in the elevator, and Babbu knows her law firm. She’s definitely a lawyer…but about half the time that I’m out here with Canal, I’ve seen her being picked up by a different guy in a different car on that corner.” He pointed down the street.

I raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Well, I’m not sure if that makes her an escort…but from what my Chinese friends tell me, that isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”

“What about you?” Brian asked. When I raised the either eyebrow as well to clearly emphasize my confusion, he clarified his question. “What about you being on the board? You seem pretty sensible.”

I grimaced. “I don’t know…to be in charge of this loony bin? There’s no reward in being the mayor of Crazy Town. I know, I know…that’s even more of a reason to be on the board. Man…this place has got bad juju. There’s just something wrong with this building…”

Embracing its frontier spirit, the people of Little Peru had stumbled upon a symbiotic way of dealing with some of their smaller pest issues. Instead of practicing cleaner habits (which, aside from a strict regimen for laundry, were not employed), they had invoked better sanitation by fostering feral cat colonies throughout the neighborhood. We had learned the colony nearest to our building had been proclaimed los bastardos by the locals, and at this point, one calico bastardo nonchalantly wandered out of the alley that was a few steps from our entrance. Unfortunately, the normally placid Canal took notice before any of us, and likely suffering from the delusion that mangy feral cats must taste like filet mignon, he bolted with fervor towards the bastardo, dragging his unhandled leash behind him.

“Canal!” roared Brian. “Get back here now!”

With Brian in the lead, all three of us pursued the barking chaser, following him into the alley on the northern side of our building. Having only the width of two people, the dim alley really served no purpose other than to provide an access door on its side for our electrical closets and boiler rooms; the only likely people who had explored this dingy concrete corridor were plumbers and electricians. At its end, there was a wooden fence that marked the border of a neighboring building’s yard, and as Canal began to close the distance between himself and his intended meal, the agile bastardo writhed and escaped through a miniscule gap under the fence’s bottom. Sitting at the fence and robbed of his trophy, we caught up to the whining Canal, and Brian reclaimed the leash once more.

“Bad dog!” reprimanded Brian, with an aggressive yank at the harness around the thick trunk of Canal’s body. “Goddamnit, Canal, I swear…”

“Holy shit…”

I had heard that particular whispering tone in Rhonda’s voice before. By nature, it was easy to startle her. Sometimes, she would need to put the wee in the wee hours of the morning, and waiting patiently outside the bathroom door for my turn, my mere unexpected presence upon her exit was enough to make her shriek and undergo palpitations. However, you couldn’t really regard such amusing fits as actual fear. This tone, however, carried a palpable dread to it. Somewhat concerned myself now, I followed her line of sight to its end and immediately felt a slight shiver crawl up my spine. “Woah…now that’s fucked up.”

Years ago, while touring an ancient cave in southwest France, a guide had pointed us to the handpainted Paleolithic images on a nearby wall, and he explained the theory that our ancestors might have used the flickering of a torch in order to animate them. Using their latest technology of fire, they might have been able to convert these smeared drawings into the primitive version of a flip book. So it seems that the classical elements can bestow life in more than one way, and in this soaked alley, water took the place of fire as it ran along the wall and performed a similar form of dark arcane magic. In a spot at almost eye-level to our small group, we stared at the faint yet clear shape in the concrete wall of a human hand with fingers spread. This outline, though, was not the analogous signature of a Hollywood star or a proud mason; in this case, it was convex rather than concave. As the rivulets ran vertically through its fingers in the dim light, tricks were played on the eyes, and one could swear that those fingers were desperately waving for attention, for help that could wrest its owner from this hulking condensed prison. My imagination couldn’t decide whether its intentions were benevolent or hopeful of pulling some company into its lonely cell.

Shuffling next to us, Brian followed my finger and nodded gravely as I pointed to the specific patch of concrete that was sure to provide a year’s worth of nightmares. “Well…that is definitely not Han Solo. But you were right…there’s definitely something wrong with this building.”

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

Accompanying what can only be described as a lupine snarl, a gruff voice prodded at our backs.

“What are you two doing here?”

After you’ve chased a naked apparition in your pajamas and find yourself interrogated on a rainy street in the wee hours of the morning, I can testify that you will start to question the surreal nature of the last few minutes…in fact, you will begin to place serious consideration on the theory that you’re still in your bed and that you’re having dreams triggered by the twilight consumption of greasy pupusas. However, just as it was addressed in the movie Total Recall, nobody sweats in a dream…and my sweaty butt clipped those supposed wings that belong to Morpheus. As the voice repeated its question, I immediately became sober under the expansive awning, shaking off the sort of inebriation that comes from late-night fatigue.

“You hear me? What are you two doing here?!?”

If I was going to face death or injury, I’d rather surrender my mortality knowing the face of my demise. Not knowing what to expect, Rhonda and I turned to confront our questioner, and I was pleasantly relieved to recognize the volatile yet friendly company before us.

“Brian! Hey, how’s it going?” I asked, relieved that I would live to see another day. “We came out to see what the yelling is all about. And I see that you’re taking Canal for a late night walk. What’s up, pups? Did you have another late night emergency with your bladder?”

Facing us, Brian and his large yellow mastiff were standing under the wide expense of a black Apartment 5 umbrella. The Steelkilts’ dog Canal had been given his eponymous name due to being found near the Erie Canal in upstate New York, tied to a tree with numerous cigarette burns on his little puppy body. After several years of healthy eating, that wounded little puppy was long gone. Canal, which had entertained the thought of shredding us only moments ago, was now all smiles and eagerly came forward to lick our hands. Much like his towering owner, Canal had an immense size to him…but unlike Brian, he was more inclined to show affection.

“Yep,” Brian commented, looking down at his beloved pet. “He kept whining until I got my fat ass out of bed. And he would have done it all night, too!” Looking up, he nodded his head in the direction of the boisterous bunch down the street. “So, you heard them too, huh?”

“Who can’t hear them?” joked Rhonda, crossing her arms tightly in front of her for warmth.

“Do they have to carry on like that?!?” Brian paused. “I hate yelling…” Cocking his head to one side, Brian pointed with the hand that held the leash. “Well, look at that…looks like they finally stopped fighting. Now they’re looking at us.”

We all turned to look down the street, observing that the feisty love triangle had called a temporary truce. The ensemble stoically pointed themselves toward us, ignoring the light spatter of precipitation falling on their heads. Now that isn’t creepy at all, I thought.

Here, though, I should probably tell a little more about the inhabitants of Little Peru. Little Peru actually wasn’t a town full of Peruvians. For hundreds of years, Little Peru had actually been a neighborhood of Irish and Italian immigrants across the Hudson river from New York City, but several decades ago, a municipal agreement with the state and the feds had led to a wave of incoming Peruvian refugees. In accordance with precedence found in other nearby real estate, the Europeans fled the town, and the Peruvians had set up shop…but not for long. As the Peruvians prospered, poor Caribbean immigrants had arrived, and the blue-collar Peruvians had left in order to upgrade their lives in the Jersey suburbs. Almost every decade, the cycle repeated itself, where one Hispanic demographic took the place left by another’s exodus. Of course, some of each outgoing mass stayed behind, ensuring that another layer remained in this Latino melting pot. In the end, though, Little Peru wasn’t so much a town as it was a staging area, bereft of any sense of community. Eurocentric allotments like cathedrals and gardens became neglected and abandoned; they became architectural husks among the urban landscape of empty Tecate cans, chicken bones, and tainted rice.

Unlike other towns along the Jersey banks of the Hudson River, Little Peru had not become another affluent area that housed the upper class, with raised balconies facing the towering skyline of Manhattan. In numerous ways (some of which were charming), it was a piece of America that had reverted back to a frontier, recolonized by native Central and South Americans instead of indigenous North Americans. You could find possums and racoons wandering the backyard lots, and live chickens darted from the pollerias and down crowded streets as they fled for their lives. Living within the isolated bubble of this town, many locals had never set foot outside its borders to visit the rest of their host country; they were more than happy to stay within a comfort zone that offered ubiquitous Spanish and a copious number of barber shops, all with televisions that blared Univision and dubbed Chuck Norris movies. Though the people of Little Peru may not have heard of the word gentrification (probably since most of them knew only a little English), they looked at any white person as any Comanche warrior would back in the 19th century. They saw us as potential harbingers of unwanted change, and I had heard the disgruntled mutters of more whites (in both English and Spanish) while passing sidewalk fiesteros. In order to embrace our new home, Rhonda and I had started to make purchases in the local shops and to speak a little Spanish, and some of the local population had warmed to such gestures…but like they say, you can’t win over everybody. Consequently, there were some who stayed cold to the touch. The three stoic folks on this drenched street had those cool unwelcome eyes, and they used them to stare us down. You can give me the evil eye all you want, I thought. This is my home now just as much as yours. And if you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourselves with a can of Goya beans.

“They’re a regular bunch of friendlies, aren’t they?” joked Brian.

The Mexican standoff (or polyethnic standoff, to be politically correct) was broken when the stoic three whipped their heads towards the swinging front door of the adjacent apartment building. Through the frame and down the street, we heard a booming voice command them from somewhere inside.

“Mira! Deja de gritar!”

The stoic three lost their composure, and with limp shoulders and vapid smiles, their voices turned to a sickening saccharine as they obviously apologized to the silhouette in the door’s frame. An outstretched hand silenced their incessant whining, and the rest of its accompanying body walked out into the street. Rhonda gasped at the figure in dark waterproof clothing, probably also taking note of what I had already noticed: the rather large handgun in a holster on his hip.

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

When Rhonda pulled the door open, I was expecting our nocturnal nudist to do something volatile; I was putting my money on some kind of spasmodic reaction, born out of panic and surprise. Instead, I hadn’t counted on the possibility of the truly unexpected. Unabashed, the stairwell revealed its great magic trick: it had made the acerbic vixen disappear. She had vanished, leaving a barren stairwell that flickered in tune with the fluorescent lights along its walls. Rhonda turned to look at me menacingly.

“Now, wait a minute,” I protested, “I’m telling you that she was sitting right here, third step up from the floor. I swear!”

Folding her arms in order to hide her clenched fists, Rhonda patiently stood her ground. “Okay…I’m not saying that you’re a liar. I believe you…but then where is she?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed, “Maybe she got up and went back to her own place?”

Rhonda shrugged. “Well…we tried to help, but it didn’t work out. Now can we go deal with the windows and go back to bed?”

“Sure,” I replied, nodding with eyelids that begged to be shut with nails, “I just hope that she’s okay. Let’s get back inside…”

Rising from the bowels of the stairwell, I was interrupted by the belligerent yell of a woman, along with the unmistakable sounds of breaking glass. Rhonda’s furrowed brow of skepticism suddenly softened at the audible evidence of my claims, and I couldn’t resist looking at her with a certain amount of swagger.

“Told ya,” I shot, as we both tracked the source of the noise and quickly descended the stairs onto the floor beneath us. The din echoed through the hallway as we quietly shuffled our feet across the tiled beige floor. Almost at the other end of the hallway, we could now hear clearly the sounds of an argument between a man and a woman. We reached the apartment next to the elevator, and we stood on either side of the door, pressing our ears close enough to the door so that we could eavesdrop on the maelstrom beyond its frame. Even though we only listened for a few minutes and despite the lack of eloquence present in the debate, we began to assemble the garbled bits of their disagreement and comprehend the nature of the conversation.

Rhonda looked at me questioningly. “Is that Mike and Lisa?” she whispered.

“Yeah, it’s them,” I whispered back. “Who knew that Crave Case was already married and that Lisa was his girl on the side? And he bought this place for them to be clandestinely carnal? I guess that he’s an O.G. after all.”

Rhonda shook her head. “Dumb girl…she can yell all she wants, but that’s a classic blunder: he’s not gonna leave his wife. She’s young…but she’ll learn.” She paused as another glass broke on the floor inside. “So, I guess that your rape victim isn’t inside there, huh?”

“Unless that was Mike’s wife,” I guessed, ”and then Lisa beat the shit out of her and tore off her clothes. Hmmm…now that’s my kind of girl fight…”

“You men are all such pigs,” she replied, curling her lips in disgust. “Okay, we’re done here. Let’s go home.”

Even though it disturbed me to leave such a mystery unresolved, my desire to sleep between my own sheets was far stronger. However, fate cares little about your health, and at that moment, another scream pierced the night…but not from behind the apartment door in front of us. This one was obviously outside of the building, somewhere in the street just beyond the lobby door. Unlike the cacophonic battle that continued to rage within Mike’s condo (which paid no attention to anything but itself), this particular cry didn’t originate from petty jealousy and mistaken notions of love. This utterance had a detectable note of panic, and both Rhonda and I were able to recognize it as just that. Our eyes locked and agreed on that point with silent affirmation.

My eyes rolled back in exasperation. “Is there a fucking full moon out tonight or what?”

“Is that your naked girl?” Rhonda proposed quietly.

“I have no idea. Maybe…”

“Let’s go then,” Rhonda insisted, “But let’s be careful.”

Like you have to tell me, I thought. Even more careful than before, we traversed through the building, making our way down the stairwell next to the elevator and applying only the balls of our feet to the ground. If you’ve ever attempted to sneak out of your house as a teenager, you’ve acquired such skills of stealth, and in a few cases, you might have perfected your craft. You never think that such skills might come in handy again later in life. In fact, you’d probably bet all of your possessions on that one…but as I’ve learned on more than one occasion, that bet would be a mistake. Upon reaching the lobby, Rhonda and I peaked through the clear glass panels of our heavy lobby door from a number of different angles, looking at a mostly abandoned stretch of sidewalk and asphalt. However, down the block to our left and on the other side of the street, we could faintly distinguish a few people facing each other in the front of an small apartment building. Even though we couldn’t understand the Spanish conducted between them, it was obviously a disagreement. Probably about something important at 3 in the morning…like how Jarrito is so much better than Inca Cola, I joked to myself.

“Let’s go back,” I suggested, content with the knowledge acquired about the commotion outside. “It’s obviously not her. Let them argue about whatever…”

I could tell from the expression on Rhonda’s face, though, that we weren’t done here yet. Fully awake now, her voyeur self was invested in this present situation, and she had the curiosity of a cat. Damn both her physical nose and her feminine yet feline nose for trouble.

“I can’t see what’s going on through this door,” she surmised. “Well, I’m gonna step outside in order to get a better view down the block.”

Before I could even attempt to argue against that proposition, she bolted out the door, and I quickly followed behind her. We stood on the sidewalk just outside our lobby door, finding shelter from the drizzling rain under the large blue awning. It seemed that Mika and Lisa’s conflict had absorbed the power of the storm, and the previous torrent had withered during our wandering through the building. With a better view now, we could identify two Hispanic men in the midst of a drunken argument, and between them, a young woman was desperately attempting to shield one from the other, using her own body as an escutcheon. The slight downpour, though only a modicum in comparison to before, prevented us from hearing the exchange only a few hundred feet away. Both Rhonda and I were so engrossed in concentration at the flurry of Spanish curses, we didn’t immediately notice the sound of beastly growling behind us.

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

In general, stairwells tend to be the black sheep of a building, especially in a condominium. A meticulous amount of detail is dedicated to many interior portions of a building: the lobby, the elevator, the hallways, the apartments themselves. When a real estate agent guides a young couple through a building, the agent is more than happy to show them each of the previously mentioned areas…but rarely will an agent take these hopeful purchasers through the stairwell. Typically built with lesser materials, the stairwell is a neglected branch in terms of basic maintenance and care, much like a derelict grandfather that’s been stuffed into a backroom amid soiled diapers and unwashed dentures. Its dingy floors and poor illumination invite the visits of those who seek the comfort of shadows, like lazy addicts who seek quick relief from a smoke. Even though our condo building had hatched only a few months ago, our stairwell was already beginning to emerge from its pupation stage, with faint nicotine stains on the wall and dehydrated stains of unrecognizable goop on the steps. It certainly wasn’t the kind of environment that would entice anyone to strip down and physically bond with it …which made it all the more confusing why a young woman would decide to strip naked and place her ass on what could only be described as a petri dish.

Yet there she was on the stairwell perpendicular to me, with legs bunched tight and crossed arms. Even though a part of her face was shadowed by her disheveled blonde hair, I thought that I could make out a mark on her cheek. With her visage now turned towards me, she gave me a truly malevolent glance, blue eyes piercing through running mascara; it didn’t help that the pervasive fluorescent lighting gave her white skin a ghastly sheen. In that moment, I never felt more that I should have a nazar on my person, as protection from her potentially arcane scorn. In fact, based on her scrutiny, you would have thought that I had done something truly egregious by walking into the stairwell; it seemed like the kind of expression that a woman would reserve for a pervert caught in her bedroom, donning her panties on his head. In an state of shock, I reached up to touch my crown. Nope…not guilty.

Squinting with hatred, she repeated her last statement in a slur of increased exacerbation, adding a snarl for emphasis. “What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m busy? Well…what are you waiting for?!? Get the fuck out of here!”

My mind, under more normal circumstances, would have been able to process such events with a bit more alacrity. However, given the hour and my frazzled mood due to our leaking windows, being ridiculed by a nude angry woman tipped the scales of my fragile state; consequently, my usual articulate self evaporated as my brain blew a fuse. Instead of inquiring any further, I simply whispered a meager sorry, accepted my banishment with my tail between my legs, and closed the door to the stairwell with all the poise of a gloved museum curator. Only after taking a few steps back from the door did my psyche eventually regain some sense of itself. Wait a minute…you can’t just leave her in there. What if she’s a rape victim? What if she needs help? What if she’s delusional from intoxication and despair? Coming to grips with the situation, I decided that I might need a little help with this one, and I hurriedly walked back into my apartment nearby. As I entered my abode once more, Rhonda was busily placing the needed towels along the window sill and along the floor. Hearing the door open, she turned towards me with a questioning look, furrowing her brow at the garbage bag still in my hand.

“What’s happened?” she asked, studying my face.

“I just ran,” I began, “into a naked chick sitting in the stairwell.”

Rhonda stared back at me with skeptical incredulity. “You know, if you don’t really want to take the trash down, just say so…”

“I’m serious! She’s just sitting there, with running mascara! I think that she might be some sort of rape victim! Go grab a Bible and I’ll swear on it!”

“But we’re atheists,” Rhonda reminded, “And we don’t have any Bibles lying around.”

Exasperated, I tossed the garbage bag to the side as my hands tried to do the talking for me. “Okay, go get your Kindle, and I’ll download it. Or download something that you care about, like Twilight…”

“I don’t think that it counts on the electronic version of a book…” Rhonda commented.

I didn’t pay any attention to her interruption. “…and I’ll swear on that! Just come with me and see! I’m not fucking around!”

At this point, I could tell that she was starting to reluctantly take my word for the truth, despite the compulsion to dismiss me. She turned away from the window in order to face me. “You’re not joking? There’s a naked woman in the stairwell who’s crying?”

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying. I think that she has a black eye. I’d go to her, but if she’s been assaulted or raped, she probably doesn’t want to talk to a dude. She certainly didn’t want to talk to me! So, please, come out there with me.”

With a heavy sigh, Rhonda capitulated with only an indication of shrugged shoulders. “Okay, I’ll come…but you better not be fucking with me! And if that chick is actually out there, she’s probably some dumb slut who picked up the wrong dude at a bar…and even though I’ll help her, I’m going to give her such shit…”

“Okay, whatever,” I replied, “Let’s just help out. Come on!”

After quickly throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Rhonda joined me at the front door, and together, we creeped down the hallway towards the stairwell. Hmmm…maybe I should have also put on some real clothes instead of these pajamas, I thought to myself. After all, I wouldn’t want to disappoint all of my fans. I momentarily chuckled at the thought as we reached the stairwell’s heavy door. Rhonda looked back at me for verification, motioning towards it with one hand. I nodded, and with a loud thud from the door handle’s torque, she yanked it open.

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

“Hey, honey…Are you awake? Did you hear that?”

In truth, I had been awake for a while before she had even asked me that question. Recumbent under the covers of our bed, I had been stuck in a half-lucid state for the past few minutes, in that rare frame of my mind where you can have an enlightening conversation with your subconsciousness. As always, I had entered this trance slightly discombobulated, questioning my temporal conditions. (It wasn’t unusual for me to awaken with such odd notions.) Perhaps the last few decades of my life had only been a dream? Had I dreamt through my twenties to only emerge and repeat my youth in middle age…so that (as mentioned in True Detective) the future was behind me, as it had always been? Or perhaps I was currently having a vision of the future from the slumber of my teenage years? Or maybe I should dive back into the abyss and dream again, so that I could fly through passageways like a diving hawk and then compare dreams with Rhonda when we awoke? I would always get past these notions, though, and my mind would wander into some other odd, tangential direction. I was in the midst of exploring another hidden corridor when Rhonda repeated the same question from before.

“Peter! Wake up! Do you hear it?”

Just keep pretending that you’re asleep, advised a subconscious voice. She’ll eventually go away. I laughed at the thought. Clearly, this new apparition from my depths didn’t know Rhonda all that well. I struggled to open my eyes and turn my head towards her, with the same effort that a newborn chick invokes to overcome its shell.

“Ehhh…huh? What sound? Where?”

Rhonda pointed at the doorway in conjunction with her answer. “From the living room. I think that it’s happening again.”

We waited for a few moments, so that I could get a chance to hear it for myself. Yep…I heard it. Pleep…plop…pleep. That goddamn motherfucker was back. “Yeah,” I grumbled, “I hear it. I’ll take of the living room. You check on the other rooms.”

I sat up in bed and looked at the alarm clock. 3:13 AM…But, hey, who needs sleep? Mornings in spring are usually very pleasant, but only a farmer could appreciate it at such an early hour. Unconsoled by the thought that a distant migrant worker was sharing my fate, I swung my bare feet over the side of the bed and accidentally stepped on the tail of our cat. He cried in a startled panic and ran from the room. Good…now we’re all happy. Merry Fuckin’ Christmas in June. Blindly stumbling through the darkness, I eventually made my way into the living room. In the tranquil blackness that surrounded me, I could observe the beautiful skyline of Manhattan through those windows, despite the moderate rainfall that was pouring down…but at such an hour, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to appreciate anything. Fuck those fuckin’ windows. After smacking my hand against the wall a few times, I eventually found the light switch and invoked the necessary illumination. My eyes adjusted to the piercing light that insisted on stabbing my retinas, and I focused on my adversary across the room.

“There you are,” I drawled across lazy lips. “You bastard. I knew that you’d be back.”

It had been three months since our debacle of a condo meeting in the garage, and during that time, Rhonda and I had come to learn quite a deal about our new home. We had gained the knowledge about our walls, which were apparently thinner and less soundproof than we had hoped…since we were now privy to the nuptials of our adjacent neighbors. (Namely, that she was a typical moaner and that he was a heavy grunter.) We observed that the wooden floors, despite being beautiful, were so delicate that they could be scratched by a sudden gust of wind or breath. Most importantly, though, we had become well acquainted with the lesser strengths of our builders, of which window installation happened to be one. During any fall of precipitation, our home suddenly transformed into the cabin of a sinking ship, and during the first few encounters, it had invoked the same feelings of helplessness and dread that would befall dying sailors. If I wasn’t in my pajamas, I’d be more eager to abandon ship…after enough repetition, though, the dread of such an event had ameliorated to the point of simple sighs, since we were now resigned to our doomed fate. I could hear Rhonda behind me as her feet shuffled across the floor.

“So, I thought that they had fixed the windows for good?” she croaked with fatigue.

“Guess not…I’ll call Richie tomorrow about it. Fourth time is the charm, right?”

Rhonda shook her hood as the water dropped from the window’s frame and splattered against the sill and floor. A puddle had already formed directly beneath the frame. “It’s too early to try and be funny…uh…what’s that smell?”

I sniffed and smelled nothing. Curious, I scanned the room and found the likely culprit sitting by the front door. Her damn bloodhound nose…how does she do it? I noticed a standing bag of kitchen garbage resting against the front door, and I lazily flopped my hand towards it with the motor controls of a toddler. “Must be the garbage over there,” I guessed, “Though I can’t smell it myself.”

“You really can’t smell that? It’s filling the whole place…Tell you what, I’ll take care of the window if you take down the trash to the garage.” Observing my reaction that conveyed the simple question of Why me?, she explained her viewpoint. “I’m not dressed! I don’t want anyone to see me.”

I raised an eyebrow dubiously. “Someone is going to see you at 3:13 in the morning?”

I could see from her expression that no words should be offered in response. Her visage, which both pleaded and threatened me, gave me all the impetus to make the right decision. Desiring to avoid any chance of a murder-suicide ritual, I cursed under my breath as I walked towards our discussion’s subject. I yanked on the Leaning Tower of Pee-yoo, hoisted it into the air by its finger-strangling ribbons, and exited the front door with a sweet-voiced thanks on my heels. Still cursing the gift of her olfactory senses (and missing the cheek-warming comfort of my pillow), I reached the end of the hallway and opened the door to our nearest stairwell. I was halfway through the door when I came to an abrupt stop, startled by the fact that I wasn’t alone.

Sitting naked upon the stairs and sitting sideways to me, a young blonde woman was staring at the wall before her, her legs bundled tight and crossed arms covering her breasts. She seemed to be squinting her eyes as she slumped somewhat forward, in an apparent attempt to descry some hidden image from the concrete slab in front of her. Despite looking slightly cold, she seemed perfectly calm as she turned her head to regard me with an inquisitive glance. Her heavy eyelids refused to open, as if the mere thought of such travail meted out exhaustion. Instead, she lifted her hanging head in order to get a better look at me.

“What 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.

Nearly a third of our gathering had now scattered to the wind, as the remaining contingent was continually encircled by our new furry attendees. Contrary to my previous thoughts, I was now hoping that Vinny would now brandish his sidearm and handle this problem accordingly. In fact, I was now irritated enough to be fairly lenient at the thought of arbitrarily executing people around the garage. Richie, on the other hand, was calmly attempting to approach the darker-colored shepherd when a woman’s thick German accent came from nearby.

“Ve are zo zorry! Zey are zo bad sometimes…but, do not vorry. Zey are very nice dogz. Just move very slowly around zem.”

A tall, pale lady of slender build and an older Arabic gentleman walked leisurely towards us, smiling and waving to everyone present. If they descried the annoyed looks on all of our faces or were aware of the present canine menace, they gave no indication of it. Their expressions seemed both affluent and a tad aloof, especially when it came to any inclination towards controlling their animal companions. They stopped near the loquacious dog who was continuing to proclaim his inherent dislike of Babbu, and the emaciated banshee focused her gaze on the two men in the center of this group.

“Allo, everyone. Und now I should introduce us, yah?” began the apparition, who had to raise her voice in order to compete with her barking wards. “Ve live in ze penthouse, and ve are…”

Up to this point, Richie and Raymond had kept a cool candor in the wake of the loonies’ procession, but there was no mistaking that their shared shroud of patience was beginning to wear thin. I assumed that we were all experiencing similar feelings, but it was the acerbic Babbu who took hold of the diplomatic mantle and spoke assertively on our collective behalf.

“Hey! Bitch! Get a hold of your stupid dogs! Before we have to shoot them!”

“Or get stabbed!” interjected Mike, motioning at Babbu. “Use your knife, bro!”

Sans her valiant steed, the vision of Famine opened her mouth in shock, placing a hand over her wounded heart. I was confident that her face would have become flushed if her thin frame had possessed enough blood to do so.

Donning a scowl, her husband stepped forward with a finger raised against Babbu. “That’s completely uncalled for, sir! You should show some respect to my wife…”

“I don’t give a shit! I’ll sue you if that dog gets any closer!” interrupted Babbu.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Along with the dogs, all became silent and turned to face a flustered Raymond, whose tone indicated that any and all patience had left the garage tout de suite. With a flushed face, he rolled one hand into a tight ball at his side while raising the other open, and he cleared his throat in a visible struggle to purge any hostility from his voice. As to where it went from his throat, my guess was that he was attempting to strangle it in the clenched fist at his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank all of you for coming…but I’ve decided to postpone this meeting for now. We’re now missing a considerable number of people, and it wouldn’t be fair to them if we continued it in their absence. So, I propose that we try again next week. Same place, same time. How does everyone feel about that?” When nobody responded after several thumping heartbeats, Raymond took the lack of response as an affirmation. “Very well. God bless all you. Richie and I will see you next week.”

With the stated sanction from Raymond, people suddenly snapped out of their shock-induced coma, and realizing their chance to escape, the crowd began to rapidly disperse in various directions. Even the dogs adapted to this new ambiance within the garage, and they lazily trodded back to their clueless owners, who were now chasing down Raymond. I grabbed Rhonda’s hand again, and I pulled her towards the nearest stairwell. “Come on, let’s get back upstairs before the National Guard shows up. Plus, this floor is turning my toes into icicles.”

She nodded her head as we both started walking towards the stairs. “Okay,” consented Rhonda. “But that’s why you should listen to me and start wearing two layers of socks. When are you going to realize that I’m always right?”

“Ven you make ze shoes for me from ze dogs,” I replied. “And did I hear her call one of them ‘Hasselhoff’?

Rhonda laughed. “Yes, you did.”

As we approached the door to the stairwell in order to leave the bleak interior tundra of our garage, we passed by one parking space that happened to be vacant. The clear space provided me with an unobstructed look at the garage’s concrete wall, and with only a passing glance, something caught my eye that was barely distinguishable. A miniscule spot blinked at me from the wall’s grey skin.

“What is it?” posed Rhonda, with a slightly concerned tone. She tended to be spooked at the possibility of any and all surprises.

I started in the direction of the blinking spot. “I don’t know…let me see…”

Colors and shadows flashed through the thin mark as I began to identify the linear nature of its overall shape. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the portal to an alternate dimension that I had been seeking most of my life. “It’s a crack in the wall…all the way through! It’s thin…but I can definitely see the street on the other side. I’m able to spot cars and people. Jesus…this building is supposed to be brand new. And it’s already starting to crack?”

“Don’t be so down on the place,” chided Rhonda. “New construction ends up cracking a bit and making odd shapes in the walls. It’s called ‘settling’. It’s totally normal.”

“Maybe you’re right…” I replied with a pensive shrug.

“I’m always right…”

With a flick of the wrist, I gave her a quick smack on the ass as she yelped in surprise. I couldn’t help but smile as she stabbed me with a questioning look that demanded answers.

“Where I come from,“ I explained, “there are penalties when a woman lies.”

“Can you not quote Princess Bride at every opportunity?” she inquired with some annoyance.

As we opened the door to the stairwell and entered its dark confines, I couldn’t help myself. “As you wish.”

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