Staccato
There was a slow dripping somewhere, the water was hitting the concrete floor with a regular ‘thip, thip.’ It smelled like mildew. Joseph stood in the stairwell with his back to the door and to the street outside. His finger tapped on his thigh quickly, hitting the eighth notes between the drips. The stairway in front of him waited, silent and dim. The bare concrete was stained in places with something Joseph didn’t care to know; he could see pieces of gum stuck underneath the handrail. It waited for him to make the first move.
His hand stopped tapping and the drips were left unaccompanied. They rang out in the narrow space, a beat unmatched by the melody of the street outside. Joseph reached inside the pocket of his windbreaker and, without looking, pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. It was folded over unevenly and too many times so that it didn’t lay flat. Joseph, ending his staring match with the stairway, opened the page. Maybe he just wanted to see it in context because his eyes didn’t waver from the top block of text on the Yellow Pages advertisement.
Apartment 1C. The stairway waited for his move.
He quickly folded up to phonebook page again, all triangles and ripped edges, and shoved it back inside his pocket. Apartment 1C. One flight of stairs, three doors down. Fifteen or so steps up, a handful across. The dripping water didn’t slow. ‘Thip, thip, thip.’
Joseph wrenched his feet from the floor as if they had been stuck there and started up the stairs. His shoes clicked on the concrete.
The door at the top swung open easily and closed behind him. The water was replaced by the sounds of people from inside the apartment building. Joseph stood with his hand still on the door handle behind him, ready to turn it again. He tried to think of what he would say. “Hello, how are you?” Truth was, he didn’t care. “Hello? I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here.” He had no clue. “Please, I heard you could help me.”
Joseph dropped his hand from the doorknob and walked down the hall to the third door. The carpet was as dingy as the concrete floor had been. Joseph stepped without wanting to look in the substandard lighting.
Apartment 1C was missing the black number and letter, fallen off most likely. He could see the faint stains around where they had been. A reverse silhouette on the eggshell white door. Joseph knocked quickly, his three quick raps matching the sporadic clanging of pipes.
For a while there was nothing. Joseph played with the edges of the paper in his pocket, folding and unfolding the worn out edges. He felt one of the seams give before he heard the shuffling inside the apartment. It was a whole other while before the shuffling came to the door and opened it. Joseph hadn’t had a clue as to what to expect, so he didn’t know if he could call what he felt surprise. She stood with one hand on her hip and the other on the door above her head. She raised one eyebrow before she spoke.
“Do I know you?” She said. The eyebrow stayed up, practically disappearing into the mass of curly brown hair above it. Joseph took his hand out of his pocket, holding the carefully abused piece of paper.
“No, but-” He said before the door slammed shut in front of him. The missing ‘1C’ on the door was no mystery. Joseph stood stunned for a moment, his hand outstretched, holding the paper. He crumpled the ad into his fist and knocked again, harder. The three raps were drawn out this time. She answered it quickly, like she had been standing right behind the door. Her posture was the same, one hand on her hip and the other on the door. Her eyebrow was still was questioningly, like she was expecting something from Joseph. Her mouth was turned up in a slight smile.
“If I ask you again, are you going to answer properly this time?” She said.
Joseph’s mouth gaped a bit. “Huh?”
“If I ask you again whether or not I know you, will you answer properly?” She said, enunciating.
“But I don’t know you.”
“Now you’re getting mixed up. Sorry, should’ve made myself more clear.” She shifted her stance, bringing her arm down from the door to grab the handle instead. She started turning it absentmindedly. “I didn’t ask if you knew me. I don’t expect you to. I ask if I knew you, which is a whole other circumstance.”
“But, how would I know that?” He said.
“You wouldn’t. But who gets anywhere in life without a little bullshit?” Her smile broadened, almost laughing. Joseph stood still, staring at her.
Self-doubt at his decision to meet her should have been predominant in his mind, but those harsh little voices were strangely quiet.
“So, uh. Yes?” He said.
“See? Amazing how one little word could have saved up both that time," she said. She let go of the door handle and turned away from Joseph, pushing the door farther open at the same time. She walked down the narrow hallway and her loosely draped shirt flowed behind her. It was more of a robe, black silk printed with Asian inspired flowers tied tight around her waist. The wide sleeves billowed with every movement of her arms. The gr4ay sweatpants she wore underneath didn’t match. She stopped at the end of the hall and turned her head to look at Joseph. “This is me inviting you in, you know?”
Joseph stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind him. The apartment was nothing like the rest of the building. It was clean; the tiled floor was white and spotless. The woman had disappeared around the corner so Joseph made to follow her. He saw her standing in a small kitchen, holding a cup of coffee. She raised her hand quickly to stop him.
“Shoes,” she said, pointing at his feet. Joseph apologized quickly and took off his shoes, placing them carefully against the wall.
“This is a nice place,” he said. And it was. There were three long windows on the far wall, covered by gauzy white curtains. The light that came through illuminated the diaphanous fabric draped along the walls; hot pinks and oranges glowed. The furniture was mostly wicker and glass with white cushions on the seats. The room would have felt tropical if it weren’t for the pronounced chill.
“It is, isn’t it?” She said. She held the coffee mug in both hands and brought it close to her chest, feeling its warmth. “It’s so neat, too. It can’t stand being messy.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a good thing, I hate cleaning.” She took a sip from the mug and put it down it, swallowing as she suddenly started towards Joseph. “I forgot about the introductions!” She said hurriedly, as if worried she had made a grave faux-pas.
She rushed forward to take his hand, taking it forcefully in both of hers.
“I know I’m supposed to tell you who I am, but I don’t see how that would be possible in an amount of time that would be socially acceptable for a greeting. I’ll just tell you that you can call me Orange.” She shook his hand excitedly.
“I’m-”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she let go of his hand and spun away from him, landing on the couch a few feet away. “Like the colour or the fruit?”
Joseph smiled and tried once again. “I’m Joseph,” he said. Orange just looked at him, annoyed.
“No you’re not. I can call you Joseph but you’re not a Joseph. What the hell would that be anyway?” She trailed off, speaking almost to herself.
“Uh-”
“Oh, just come sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there like that.”
Joseph obliged quietly, sitting down on the chair opposite Orange. The room was still for a few moments while Orange looked at Joseph. She saw him fiddle with the paper he had stuck inside his jacket pocket and his other hand tapping against his knee. Joseph watched the curtains that covered the walls, how they all hung perfectly still, not rustling in the slightest.
“It's neither, you know.” Orange started softly. “The colour or the fruit.”
“Oh,” Joseph said. His tapping started increased tempo, barely making a noise as his fingers stopped short of his leg. Orange stood briefly and sat back down with her legs curled under her. “It's more of an alias, really. You could call me Cantaloupe for all it matters.” She paused and rolled her head back for a moment. “It has a ring to it.”
Joseph folded his hands into his lap. “I just- I want to know if you can help,” he said.
“That depends on what you need, hon.” She looked at him seriously. “'Cause more often than not, people leave here worse of than when they came in.”
Orange didn't look away from Joseph, he gazed at his downturned face intently. Her own face creased into a frown.
“So, how'd you find me, anyway?” She asked. Joseph lifted his head. “Find a paper stapled to a phone pole saying 'for a good time see O.?'” She smiled a little bit. “'Cause that would be weird.”
“No,” Joseph said. “I came across this.” He took the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it along the worn creases. He looked up at Orange then, she was returning his look in confusion.
“What's is it?” She nodded at the paper. “It's not like I advertise.”
Joseph's eyes flicked down to the page for a second. It still told him to go to Apartment 1C. He handed the paper to Orange.
“Well, that's even weirder than the telephone pole theory. The Yellow Pages, really?” She asked. She put the paper down on her knee and smoothed it with her hand, it hung limply over the curve of her leg. “The W's. I guess that fits. I've done my fair share of window cleaning.”
“I don't know what I was looking for, but I found that.”
“Winemaking, too. And wishes. A lot of those.” Orange picked up the lined paper and rubbed her thumb across it, flattening the creases. She shrugged a little bit and put the paper down on the coffee table that sat in between the two of them. Joseph reached down for it but his hand stopped short. “I don't advertise,” Orange said.
Joseph grabbed the paper anyway. The square block where the text had been was blank.
“So. What can I help you with?”
Joseph stood up, his sock feet were cold on the tiled floor. He lifted his jacket and dug out a handkerchief from the pocket in his pants. It was crumpled into a ball but Joseph pulled at the folds knowingly. He could feel the pressure starting behind his eyes and the sweet taste crawling up the back of his throat. The handkerchief held a small pile a gray dust, uneven in texture. It stained the white cloth.
“Please,” Joseph said quietly. “My wife.”
