French Vanilla & Felonies Page 8

  By the time we lugged the boxes and furniture from my old apartment to the truck, chased the woman who stole the items from the back of the truck, and then unloaded everything into my new apartment, we were beat.

  Tom, as a kind gesture, took Lilly for the night so I could organize and unpack.

  And unpack I did.

  I unpacked an entire box of Oreos like a boss. I crushed the cookies, sprinkled them on top of three scoops of French Vanilla ice cream, and topped it with a spoonful of cookie butter, caramel, chocolate sauce with a swirl of whipped cream on top (it had been a long day…or…er…week). The sweet, creamy, chocolatey, buttery goodness rolled around my mouth and slid down my throat, bringing so much joy to my stomach. I relaxed on the couch, propped my sore feet up on an unlabeled box, and licked the chocolate leftovers off each throbbing finger.

  One of the perks of being an apartment manager was free cable. My television was atop four boxes functioning as my entertainment center. I now had hundreds of channels of mind-numbing distractions at my disposal. An indulgence I hadn't enjoyed in years. This must be how the other half lives, I thought while watching reruns of Law and Order.

  Not wanting to be completely unproductive, I grabbed a box marked Lilly and dragged it to her room. I then set up Lilly's new bed. A pink plastic toddler bedframe I had purchased for five dollars from an estate sale. It was gently used, only a few scuff marks, which became invisible once I pushed it against the wall. Her old crib mattress fit perfectly inside it. I arranged her stuffed animals next to her pillow and folded her princess blanket at the foot of the bed—the Frozen décor was all hers now. I couldn't wait for her to see it.

  That was exhausting.

  I hauled my tired body to the kitchen and set the alarm, flipped off the lights, and closed the blinds. The warning beep from the alarm echoed through the apartment while I heaved my mattress down the hall and through my bedroom door, dropping it on the ground with a loud thud. That mattress and I had had our fair share of moves. When I was eight, after my parent's divorce, it went with me to my dad's condo. When my dad married that woman (aka my high school Spanish teacher!), it came with me to my mom's apartment. It followed me to college then LA and all the random places I dwelled in between. It was with me when I lost my virginity during my first (and only) year of college. Alex Simon was the douche…ahem…I mean boy's name. He was my first real boyfriend. He was my first real love, or so I believed at the time. Three months later, the solid springs of my mattress held my devastated body after I discovered Alex had also visited Stacey's mattress and Courtney's and Isobel's and Leah's…

  My mattress had been vomited on, strapped to the top of cars, shoved into moving vans, hung off the back of a truck. It was soaked in tears of heartache after Tom sent me to Alcatraz, tears of defeat when I lost my job, tears of joy when Lilly finally potty trained. The floral print had faded, the stitching frayed, and the springs were visible through the thinning fabric. It was actually kind of gross, I realized.

  Note to self: With first bonus check, purchase a slightly soft, mostly firm, mostly new mattress.

  Unable to muster the energy required to shower, I unsnapped my bra and pulled it out through my sleeve, dropped my jeans to the floor, and curled up in my new comforter—a housewarming gift from my mom. It had arrived Friday morning, priority mail, which had to cost a pretty penny—a penny I knew she didn't have.

  "Some things are worth spending money on," she had said when I called to thank her. "And you moving out of that apartment is definitely one of them. You're far too pretty, with way too much potential, to be…"

  The white fabric puckered every few inches, creating the most elegant, comfy, grown-up looking texture I'd ever owned. I cocooned myself in it, laying my head on the matching pillowcase, in my very own two-bedroom apartment, an apartment I wasn't about to be evicted from. An apartment that didn't have bars on the windows or neighbors getting high outside my door or parole officers frequently visiting or couches in the walkway. I even had a ceiling fan cooling the sticky air to a sleepable temperature. Installing the fan hadn't been on Chase's to-do list, but he'd taken it upon himself to do it anyway. I almost forgave him for forgetting to remove the ashtray-smelling armoire. Almost.

  For the first time in a long time, I looked forward to a night of peaceful slumber, allowing my thoughts to turn to nonsense as I drifted…

  * * *

  Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring.

  Is that my phone?

  What time is it?

  I rolled over and grabbed my cell off the box working as my nightstand. The emergency line! I bolted up and threw the phone to my ear. "Hello, this is Cambria," I answered, my hand over my chest, my breath hitched in my throat. I'd been the sole manager for three days. First a murder, and now the building was already on fire.

  "Hello. You have a call on the after-hours emergency line. To accept, please press one," an automated woman's voice with a pleasant British accent instructed. I gulped and pressed one, anxiously placing the phone back up to my ear.

  Three rings later and I was connected. "Hello, this is Cambria."

  "Hi, this is Ty," the caller said. "Someone's in the pool. I wouldn't normally say anything, but I've got a baby trying to sleep."

  Phew. No fire. "I'm so sorry, Ty. I'll go speak to them right now."

  Pants on. Bra on…the floor. Phone in hand. Keys in pocket. Cold water on face and I was out the door. According to paragraph three on the fifth page of the House Rules, the pool closes at nine. It was nearly midnight. This, of course, was a major infraction. I strutted along the pathway, feeling quite important, ready to lay down the law. This is my town now…or…er…community.

  My confident strut slowed to a walk…to a shuffle…to a stumble…to a complete…stop. I felt my eyes go wide as saucers. My heart skipped three beats. I was a braless statue carved of flesh, unable to move. My brain had yet to process what it was looking at.

  Then, finally, my frontal lobe grasped the situation and screamed and recoiled and forced my eyes closed with a violent shiver of my body.

  Penis.

  A penis attached to a hairy man who was very wet, obviously cold, and much too old to be skinny-dipping. Maybe late thirties, early forties? He swayed around on the pool deck with a boogie board tight in his grasp. Then, the naked man stretched his board in front of him and slid across the pool. The hazy, underwater lights made the auburn hair covering the man (covering all the man) shimmer as he sailed to the shallow end.

  The penis…ahem…man exited the kidney bean-shaped pool and ran back to the deep end. He had a skinny face, chicken legs, and a black tattooed snake wrapped around his scrawny arm. I was trying to keep my eyes above the abdomen.

  I pushed open the pool gate, catching the attention of the skinny-dipper before he descended across the pool again.

  "What apartment are you in?" I asked, trying to sound authoritative.

  He scoffed as he got out of the pool. "What apartment are you in?" the skinny-dipper countered while swinging his board under his arm, nearly falling over in the process.

  I crossed my arms and took a wide stance. "I'm the apartment manager."

  "Pfft, no you're not. Joyce is. Go away." He slid across the pool again.

  I met him on the other side. "Joyce retired. I'm the new manager. And you're not allowed to be out here this late, and you're never allowed to be out here naked. Now, what apartment are you in, or who are you visiting?" Please say you're a visitor.

  "Joyce retired?" he asked, grasping tight to the pool railing. "My prayers have been answered!" The board went flying into the pool, and before I knew it, the skinny-dipper was wrapped around me.

  "Get off of me!" I yelled in panic. This hairy naked man could be Kenneth's killer.

  Or not.

  Hairy Naked Man was scrawny. No way he could strangle Kenneth. I could have easily taken HNM down. Before I could, an upstairs porch light flicked on, and a woman's head poked out. "Keep it down!" she yelled. T
he door slammed, light turned off, and I was still in the skinny-dipper's embrace.

  "Get off," I repeated more quietly. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone again with my own problems, like being assaulted.

  The skinny-dipper released me and took a step back, scanning me from head to toe with a disapproving shake of his head. "I never gave Patrick consent to hire a new manager. What's your name?" he asked, closing his eyes like he had just fallen asleep.

  "No, what's your name?"

  His eyes popped open. "What?"

  I reached into my back pocket to retrieve my phone. This seemed like a good time to call the police. "Your name?"

  He looked around to see whom I could be talking to. Realizing we were alone, he placed his hand over his furry chest. "Me?" He sounded offended. "Who am I? I am the owner of this entire property, that's who I am, and if I want to swim around here naked, I can."

  Oh, please no.

  "You're…you're…you're Kevin?" My voice rasped in my ears. It felt as if I had swallowed a bucket of sand. In my head Kevin was a teenager with a bad attitude. Not a forty-year-old nudist.

  The porch light flicked on again. The same head poked out. "Would you keep it down? I'm trying to sleep."

  "Yeah." Kevin nodded. "Keep it down, Apartment Manager." He flashed a sardonic smirk and leaned into the pool, grabbing the strap to his board. "Try to be a little more considerate," he said before walking off, the board scratching along the cement behind him.

  I feel sick.

  * * *

  Ring…ring…ring…

  "Hello," I moaned into the phone.

  "Hello. You have a call on the after-hours emergency line. To accept, please press one," the robotic British voice answered. Again.

  I pressed one and waited for the rings. "Hello, this is Cambria." I pulled the phone away from my face and squinted to see the time—two in the morning. It wasn't easy falling asleep after meeting Kevin. And Kevin junior. Does workers' comp cover hypnotherapy? I definitely needed a few sessions.

  "Hey, it's Larry." His voice was shaky on the other end.

  "Hi, Larry. What's wrong?" Please don't be about his hemorrhoids.

  "I'm really upset. I was up watching TV, because you know I haven't been sleeping much because of the hemorrhoids. And Kevin came in and started eating my food. He ate the last of my Thin Mints! When I asked him to stop, he called me fat. And you know, that wasn't nice."

  My frontal worked hard to catch up. "Kevin came into your apartment and began eating your food?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did you invite him in?"

  "No, he just came in," he said without pause. "I've been dieting since the doctor told me to drop some weight. He hurt my feelings. I know he's the owner's son, but he shouldn't be so nasty. I mean, Cambria, you've noticed I lost weight, right?"

  As hard as I tried, I couldn't formulate a single rational thought. Larry appeared to be far more upset that Kevin called him fat than the fact he came into his apartment and ate his Thin Mints.

  "You've noticed I lost weight, right?" he pleaded.

  I'd known him all of three days. "For sure. You look great."

  * * *

  Ring…ring…ring…

  "Whaaat," I whined into the phone, stealing a glance at the clock. Four in the freaking morning.

  "Hello. You have a call on the after-hours emergency line. To accept, please press one," the annoying computer barked into my ear. She was a patronizing little witch.

  I pressed one and waited. "What?" I answered.

  "Apartment Manager, this is Silvia Kravitz. You know I don't normally complain, but some of us have to work tomorrow, and Harold is in a frenzy over here. I know he's allowed to do as he pleases—Joyce made that crystal clear—but can you ask him to do so more quietly?"

  "Wait…what?" I pinched the bridge of my nose, steadying my thoughts. It sounded like Silvia called to complain about her bird, which would be utterly ridiculous, and also a huge relief. Anything not related to Kevin felt doable.

  Silvia moaned into the phone, and Harold's wings flapped in the background. I imagined he was perched on her shoulder…or in her cleavage. "I said I have to work in the morning, just like a lot of people around here, and I can't if the owner's son keeps playing whatever it is he is playing over there. I get he's allowed to bend the rules, but this is getting excessive. Maybe he'll listen to you, because I'm going to move. I'll do it."

  The phone was at my ear, but my mind was off somewhere else, like in Nevada, pounding on Joyce's door, ready to unload a string of expletives. This is why she peeled out of the parking lot. This is why she never talked about Kevin or the job. She wasn't sad about retiring. She was elated! I was the fool for not questioning her more about it.

  I hung up. Pants on. Bra still on floor. Keys somewhere. Phone in pocket. I kicked the armoire on the way out.

  Kevin's apartment bridged over the back walkway leading out to the carports. I charged up the stairs, wishing I hadn't forgone the bra. He was playing the saxophone or a clarinet or killing a cat. It was quite unpleasant.

  I knocked. The door, obviously not fully closed, slowly opened…

  My frontal lobe didn't even try this time. The scene before my eyes was too far out of the realm of rationality. Kevin had the same floor plan I did, with the spacious front living room, attached square kitchen, and little dinette area. The comparison ended there. His carpet had been replaced with black, scuffed rubber flooring. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with newspaper clippings—a random collection of headlines and articles that looked to have dated back to the eighties. Blue and pink swirls were spray-painted along the ceiling, with a disco ball mounted in the center. All the kitchen cabinet doors were missing, and the seventies-inspired yellow refrigerator was wrapped in a heavy chain with the words LIVE EXPLOSIVES written in Sharpie across it.

  What would I do if a tenant were receiving an excessive number of visitors? That's what Patrick was worried about? How did this not make the questionnaire?

  Kevin appeared from the hallway, wearing pink boxers and a pair of mismatched socks. A saxophone dangled around his neck. I could almost feel him slapping me from across the room. He lunged toward the door, stopping inches from my face. A mixture of garlic and cigarettes laced his breath. He lifted his finger up to my nose and spat, "You don't ever come into my apartment. You never come in here. Do you understand me?"

  I stumbled backwards.

  "Get out of my house, you ugly tramp!" The door slammed in my face.

  Oh no you didn't!

  The dying cat music returned. I knocked. He didn't answer. I knocked again. The dying cat melody grew louder. You don't call me an ugly tramp and get away with it. I was many things—many, many things—but a tramp was not one of them. I banged with a closed fist, three steady beats.

  The neighbor's door to the right opened. A blonde drowning in a Dodgers shirt stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "Can you stop pounding on the door like that? Some of us are trying to sleep."

  CHAPTER TEN

  In regard to visitors, Tenant agrees not to invite unruly, sociopathic, or felonious individuals onto the Premises.

  To: patrickelder@eldermgmt.com

  From: cambriaclyne@eldermgmt.com

  Subject: Nudist Man-child

  Dear Patrick,

  Good morning. Last night, I received a call from a tenant letting me know Kevin was using the pool, sans clothes, at midnight. I asked him to leave, but he was quite belligerent. At 2 a.m. Kevin broke into a tenant's apartment, stole their Girl Scout Cookies, and then verbally assaulted the tenant. At 4 a.m. I received a complaint that Kevin was playing a saxophone. When I asked him to stop, he called me a "tramp" and slammed the door in my face.

  I have attached the contact information for several mental health services. I'd be more than happy to make all the arrangements as soon as possible, preferably today. The center in Brazil looks nice.

  Sincerely,

  Cambria

  I could
deal with screeching parrots and sex-crazed grandparents. I could even listen to Larry talk about his hemorrhoids. However, I could not, nor would I, put up with Kevin. I was desperate for the job, yes. I had an overdrawn account, yes. I didn't have the funds for another apartment, yes. I…forgot where I was going with this…

  Anyway, I couldn't leave. Therefore Kevin had to. And honestly, he needed to. Sane people didn't skinny-dip in a community pool at midnight or steal Girl Scout Cookies—you can only buy those once a year!

  What kind of monster does that?

  After clicking Send I rested my forehead against the hot surface of the desk. A migraine threatened to explode behind my tired eyes, and my stomach did a nauseating flip in anticipation. I abandoned the desk in search of the box labeled drugs. I was in need of two Excedrin and a Diet Coke and a tub of ice cream and a nap.

  One step into the apartment, and my heart sank. Unlabeled boxes towered throughout the living room and kitchen—a daunting sight. I hadn't used any kind of packing system. Walking from room to room, I shoved whatever fit into the box I was carrying—silverware with the hangers, pictures with glass cups. I then pulled the tape gun across the top and started over. Occasionally I labeled the boxes holding important things, like the Excedrin. Except that box was not readily visible and was going to require some effort to locate. My arms felt like two anchors keeping me from drifting off toward the land of productivity.

  Why is life so hard?

  The ding-dong from the front lobby door thwarted my journey.

  "Coming!" I unlocked the door. Tom stood before me, looking all rested and showered and dapper. Lilly bounced up and down at his side with her shirt on backwards, hair in a tangled mess, and remnants of breakfast stuck on her face.

  Tom's restful appearance and our homeless-looking child sparked a rage deep in my weary core. I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw nearly popped. "Give me." I nodded to Lilly's go-between bag slung over his shoulder.