Apartment walls are thin. Reality may be thinner.
Ray Belga lives in the ugliest apartment building in town—but at least it’s quiet. Until a mystery neighbor’s fridge starts acting up.
At least…Ray thinks it’s a fridge. But he'll soon learn you can’t trust everything you hear through apartment walls…
The Girlfriend Who Wasn’t from Delaware
by Danielle Williams
Published 2018
© Copyright 2018 Danielle Williams
All rights reserved.
Published by Pixelvania Publishing.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to convey a sense of realism. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
I liked Darryl the first time I saw him. And I didn’t even mind The Girlfriend when she came along. Not at first.
It was the fridge that ruined us. I think we really could’ve been good friends—if I hadn’t, why would I have tried buddying up with him when he moved into my apartment house six years after I met ’im? I wouldn’t have.
I still think we could’ve been good friends. But then The Girlfriend came along. Or was it the fridge that ruined us?
I’m getting ahead of myself.
The first thing you gotta know is that the building I’m in is a monster. A squat, puke-green lopsided thing, like a kid started building with Legos, then took off.
I don’t mind living in the thing—appearances aren’t important to me. What’s important, though, is that I got what the landlord called “the leper apartment” and what I called “peace and quiet at last”—a room built overhanging nothing, and with only one other apartment above it. Being on the corner, it’s a little extra bigger than the rest of the other yokels’ places, and being the product of an overambitious builder, it’s a lot further out. My closest next-door neighbors are spaced where my fourth-door-down neighbors were in the place I moved out of.
But the price for this peace and quiet is a rent I’m always struggling to meet. Lucky for me my sister learned to mend, and I can hide the patches well enough.
* * *
Unlike the outside of this puke building, the lobby ain’t half bad. A little dark, the pattern on the green carpet’s busy, and seems like the front desk is left unmanned more often than not, but that don’t bother me none. I don’t get a lot of mail. The worst thing I can say about it is that it was a little drafty last winter—but again, no big deal—to me, anyway.
So I’m in the lobby leaving for work when I see him. He finally looks like he would fill out a suit right, but it’s hard to tell, since right now he’s in sweats and clutching a box to him. Can’t remember his name, though, what was it? Something with a D—Darren, David? No, not David—
I rush over to hold the door for him.
“Hey—uh…uh…Darryl, right?”
He blinks behind his glasses. The gears are turning…he must remember me.
“It’s me, Ray. From the flooring convention a few years back? We had a few beers, watched the Padres game?”
Finally his eyes light up. He grins, shifts his box to one arm, shakes my hand. “Ray, right?”
“You got it.”
“Yeah, I remember that game. It was a good run for them.”
“Absolutely. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Movin’ in. Just got sent here by my company.”
“Ah, congrats, man, congrats! Guess I’ll be seeing ya around.”
“Sounds like it. Drinks later?” he said. “We can catch up over a ballgame.”
The invisible barbell between my shoulders lightens. Just a little.
“Sounds terrific.”
He sets down his box, gets out his fancy phone, and takes my number. I jot his down in a little notepad I carry in my breast pocket.
“Well,” he hefts the box back into both hands. “Gotta unpack.”
“See ya.”
“See ya.”
Then I leave for work.
* * *
Guess I haven’t told you about my invisible barbell. You can’t see it—I can’t see it—but it’s fifty pounds, easy. It didn’t always sit there between my shoulder blades, either, making my feet sore, my knees crack, and even my eyes heavy.
I saw a dozen doctors for it, none of ’em had any ideas. Yeah, I tried the vitamin B, the sleep hygiene (what a stupid name, what, am I gonna get plaque in between my dreams? Is snoring gonna cause BO?), meditation crap, you name it. About the only thing I haven’t tried yet is Chinese acupuncture, and that’s only ’cuz by the time I got down to that option, the money ran out, which is why I don’t go to conventions no more—not because I ran out of money, but because this barbell thing makes me run out of energy. I used to make sales calls from five to ten AM, do meetings ’til eight, then still be able to throw a few back with the guys after.
But when the barbell hit me, my calls tanked and so did my commissions. And my clout.
Now it’s all I can do to stay awake managing kids at the Pretzel Palace. By the end of these shifts, my feet ache, my brain’s numb, and all I want to do is sleep.
My resume (and my lie that I was retired) had enough in it to make ’em feel like hiring me was a big privilege, a boon, so I got to name my hours instead of ping-ponging all over the schedule like the other poor schmucks.
I have my work pants on but haven’t changed into my shirt yet. I always do that at the last possible second, in the food court restroom. You could set a clock by me. Nine twenty-seven POOF I enter the food court in all my puffy-sleeved glory. If I ever meet the guy who came up with these uniforms, I’d like to bend all his joints the wrong way ’round.
I flip up the divider on the right side of the Pretzel Palace counter. Or is it the wrong side? Hard to tell these days—I’m so sick of pretzels I don’t think I’ll ever buy one, though I still snitch a sample or two when we’re prepping a basket for the mallgoers. But maybe I do that just to fit in with the kids.
Speaking of the kids, they greet me with the same lifts of the head, the same, “Hey, Ray”s as always. I understand their apathy—and I don’t spoil their “so much better than this” vibe—hell, I join in on it—just as long as a customer ain’t there. Then they gotta learn which side their bread’s buttered on—and more importantly, who holds the knife. I don’t truck with dissin’ of the customers, even when they ain’t there.
I come in before the lunch rush—mostly feeding the cheapsters who don’t wanna put real money down on the off-brand burger joint or the Taco Time that are the anchors of this particular food court—and the mommies treatin’ their kids (some of ’em grown) to a little something so they can keep on shoppin’, keep on plunkin’ down the green that makes the glorious machine of capitalism going without spoilin’ their dinners later. Can’t complain, though. The rush makes the time fly—and the busier my brain stays, the easier it is to ignore the barbell—least ’til I get to the mall parking garage.
But seeing Darryl today has lifted my load. After I check the ice cream bins for fullness, I stare out at the food court with my palms spread on the smooth white counter, looking over the shoppers passing by us on their way to the JC Penney’s.
Moving in. Could be ni
ce. He didn’t know me as the superstar seller I used to be—I’d headed up conferences once or twice in my time, but not the one we’d met at, and that’d been his first. Could be nice to watch a game with him from time to time. Besides the kids, there weren’t many I talked to, not anymore, not since I left the biz. Didn’t feel like overhearin’ the stories passed along about me, didn’t wanna see the stares I’d get—you see him? He used to be out of the stop sellers—shame he got sick or lazy or whatever—so I cut ’em all off cold turkey.
“Yes? ‘Alo.”
I look up. It’s a customer—a lady. Not “hello”. Not even “’allo”, like the Brits. This woman’s greeting rhymed with “halo”.
But that isn’t the only thing making me stare. I can’t decide if her face is strange, or that so-off-she’s-beautiful pretty, like those hifalutin’ models you see. Her eyes are so deep blue they almost look fake, and set really wide apart beneath an ear-length bob of permed blonde hair. She wears an all-white jumpsuit with a gold square buckle. It’s extra pale under the shop’s fluorescent lights.
“’Alo? I would like a pretzel.”
She pronounces it preet-zle. Then her nose wrinkled in an annoyed snarl. “This is where I buy pretzel, or what?”
The bite in her tone makes me snap to.
“Yeah—’course.” I raise my arm up to our red menu overhead. “What kind?”
She doesn’t look at it. “Salt. Lots of salt. Large. No, two. Two large, lots of salt.”
“Comin’ right up.” The kids behind me scatter to pull the premade pretzels out of the trays and stick them in our little conveyor oven.
I ring her up.
“That’ll be six fifty-nine.”
Her hands shove into her jumpsuit’s pockets, come back out. One hand’s got all coins, the other, crumpled bills, so many they spill out of her upraised hand onto the counter, bills of all sizes.
“We don’t take hundreds,” I say automatically.
She makes a little grunt and jolts both hands towards me. I begin picking the right bills out of her hand, ignoring the Canadian rainbow bills—though I don’t know why she’d bother bringing ’em out here. Ain’t like we’re anywhere near the border.
“New here?” I say.
“Yes.” Her eyes follow my hands as I carefully scoot the coins she needs out the cage of her fingers onto the counter. I slide them to me so they can fall into my palm. I bite my nails too much to pick anything that flat off a smooth surface.
The register drawer clanks open and I dump her exact change inside while the register scratches out a receipt. I hand it to her. She eyes it for a second, then pinches it between two fingers with the hand full of paper money and slides both hands back in her jumpsuit pockets. I can’t help but wonder if she jingles if she walks. Can’t say that I heard her come up to the counter.
The kids slide the packaged pretzels onto the counter in front of her, then retreat into the back corners, pretending to wipe surfaces down.
The foreign woman looks down at her treats.
“More salt. They need more salt.”
They look plenty salty to me—that’s definitely more than we usually sprinkle on. But whatever—
I take them, pull them out of their sleeves with the tongs, give ’em an extra dip in the oil and sprinkle on some more salt. I’m sliding them back in their sleeves when the lady shakes her head like a deranged sprinkler. “Nonononono.”
What? I wanna snap, but I keep my tone civil. “Need more?”
“Yes!” Then, an afterthought, “Please.” She says it in two quick syllables, puh-lees, almost like she’s saying police.
Now, I’m a savory fan, but I know I could never eat a pretzel with this much friggen salt on it. Just lookin’ at it makes my saliva glands wither. But I shuffle back to the salt shaker, then bring it and the pretzels with me to the butter window where she can see. “Look here.” I bob the pretzels in my hand. “You just say ‘when’.”
Finally I get a smile, plus an eager nod that makes her fluffy hair bounce, and I see two big hematite plugs for earrings. Gross, but they don’t ask me to be the fashion police.
She bends over to get a good look in the window, and I start shakin’. And shakin’. And shakin’.
The sleeves are filling up with the chunky kosher salt we use, but she just watches.
Finally—
“When!”
The pretzels are almost snowcapped. The mere thought of biting into them makes my face want to fold in on itself, like that old “bitter beer face” commercial. But she reaches greedily for them, taking one in each hand.
“Sure you don’t wanna drink with that?” I ask.
“No.” She walks away. She takes a huge bite of one. I wait to see the grimace, but she smiles and rolls her eyes back like a model eating a forbidden croissant. A square of salt is on her lip when, two yards away—another afterthought—she turns back and calls, “Thank you.”
Salt is bouncing out of the sleeves as she trots away from Penney’s.
I keep smilin’ til she’s disappeared out of sight. When I turn back to my kids, they’re exchanging glances with each other. My mouth’s open, ready to snarl knock it off!, but then I sense a customer at the counter and the afternoon rush is on and I never do tell them off.
* * *
It’s a couple of weeks before I see Darryl again. In the meantime, it’s work and home, work and home. I could go for a ballgame at the bar but drinking alone never felt right. Maybe I’m just a born schmoozer. Anyway, there wasn’t enough incentive for me to leave the apartment, so I didn’t. A lot easier to let the barbell run the show.
I’ve got a cushy sofa (sister’s leftover) parked in front of a decent, if old, flat-screen, but sometimes I feel like I keep ’em only for show. Most the action happens in my bedroom, not action like hubba, hubba!, but, you know, like sawing logs. Between noise-reducing blackout curtains, a white noise machine (sister’s gift), and the barbell, I’m well on my way to making a permanent me-shaped impression in my old mattress.
(Sometimes on bad days I think that’s where the police’ll draw the chalk outline. Just follow the edges of where he slept, they’ll say. You’ll see ’em clear enough!).
Ol’ Ray’s Canyon of Sleep, I call it.
So I’m in my Canyon of Sleep when my phone rings. It’s one of them old flip phones because ever since the company and I parted ways, I had to pay the bill on my own, and a flip was what I could afford. Anyway, my phone rings, and like it’s on autopilot, my arm grabs it, opens it, brings it to my face, and I go, “Ray Belga, Ten-Sys Sales,” before I even know what’s happening.
“Ray? It’s Darryl.”
“Oh, uhhh…” I push through sleep fog like heavy curtains of cobwebs. Darryl, who? Years ago I’da been able to tell you his name—first and last—, company, position, dog’s name, and favorite beer at the drop of a hat. Now look at me.
I fight for the lone image that comes, of the red-haired kid in the baggy suit.
“Oh, Darryl, yeah! How you been?” I’ll let him talk while my memories catch up.
“Good. Hey, listen, I heard there’s a trivia contest at Stuckey’s bar tonight, winning table gets tix to the next ballgame in town. You wanna come?”
There’s this pause. Did the nap help? Am I too tired to go now? Will the barbell show up later? Is it here now?
“What time?” I don’t know if it covers the pause enough, but at least his answer could provide some useful info.
“Half hour?”
Stuckey’s ain’t so far. I can take my car and bail early if I gotta.
No is an easy habit to get into. Why dya think there are books, all kindsa books, about getting to yes? Yes takes its sweet precious time rooting down in your habit garden, while your no is a powerful weed, ready to choke it dead at the earliest opportunity.
Few months back, I met some other neighbor—can’t even remembe
r his name now…he invited me out, too, out target shooting, and I said no. He asked me again, out for bowling, I said no. He asked me to a couple other things later, but I remember the bowling because I’d really wanted to go, hadn’t been bowling since my parents and I were younger, and I’d liked it then. Then I got busy, then I got barbelled, and the guy quit askin’. I still see ’im around, but his name fell through my memory banks—disgustin’! how did that happen?—and now it’s just awkward. I don’t want that to happen again.
“Sure,” I say. “Meet you there.”
* * *
The bar—pub—is dim and noisy with sports on the monitors but for once my old (good) habits remember me and I roar along with ’em when someone bombs an easy answer on purpose. I’m even loud enough to be heard when I joke with Darryl. He laughs! Soon our table fills with a couple other guys and our trivia score gets decent. But it ain’t decent enough to win the tickets, which go to a table with a family with a couple little boys who are ecstatic, so I can’t be sore over it.
Contest over, the other two guys leave me and Darryl. I think we’re gonna hang it up for the night, but he goes and orders some wings, so I keep on.
“So,” I say when the waitress leaves, “how’s the flooring biz?”
I regret it the moment I say it. Dumbass. Here I am trying to leave that life behind, and here I go trying to get the news from him. But of course he don’t know I’m askin’ a Big Deal question. He shrugs. “Don’t know if I’m the right person to ask. My accounts”—he says this with a grin that’s almost a snarl—“seem to keep getting reassigned out from under me.”
“Man, that sucks.” He didn’t seem like the screw-up type back when I first met him, so I figured it was politics. But I also see an out. “Thinking of going into something else?”
He heaves a sigh. “Idunno, I hate to let the bastards win—pardon my French.”
It doesn’t even merit an apology, so I ignore it.
He goes on. “But I gotta do something.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I’d seen a lot of good kids like him chewed up and spit out by office politics. Most got the message and left, some stayed and got bitter, and the worst of ’em stayed, got bitter, got promoted, THEN started the whole cycle all over again. Damn shame.
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