Page 18 of Resting Grump Face
Ryker huffs through his nose once, then gets up from the bar stool too. “Very well, Miss de la Vega.” His oversized framepositioned in my way, he leans over, lets one finger slowly trace down my cheek, and growls in my ear, “You can run for now, but don’t think you’re getting away that easily. I will get what I want eventually.”
His hand drops as I walk away and his words send shivers up my back, all the way to my burning ears. Leave it to Ryker F.(ucking) Grayson to make a threat sound so seductive. Since my plane back home is departing tomorrow, I doubt he’ll have much time for his revenge, but I appreciate the thought nonetheless. It’s something that would cross my mind as well, so I can hardly fault him for it.
Maybe it’s the fact that my best friend is doing all these grown-up things, like getting married and running her own publishing company, while I am eternally single and have to look for a new job again, or maybe it’s the fact that I am not entirely certain what I am doing with my life in general, but that evening, I go to bed feeling as if something is about to change. As if I am on the brink of something new, something… odd. Something that I am not sure I am ready for.
Maybe that is why I have the hardest time falling asleep. Usually, all it takes for me to go off to slumberland is a pillow and closed eyes, but now that pillow is teasing me from underneath, reminding me of Pillow Fight Club and his grouchy face.
Stupid pillow with its stupidly pretty, stupidly rugged edges.
And when I wake the next day, I feel like those pillow fight fantasies weren’t fantasies at all. It’s as if I was beaten around all night long… in a surprisingly arousing way. Nonetheless, my body aches.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed, to the bathroom, and down to breakfast. Afterwards, I pack my suitcase, stop by at the (possibly even more trashed) presidential suite (in which Olivia and Phoenix must have had a wild night), and then head to the airport. Everyone else is staying a couple of days longer. I was booked on a commercial flight back home, because my —now former— boss wouldn’t give me more days off. I guess I can use that time to look for a new job. The only good thing this morning is that I don’t run into Mr. Handsome Who Won’t Let Me Get Away That Easily. He is probably still lying in bed with whomever he managed to hypnotize last night after I left. Nausea spreads through my belly as the corresponding images appear before my eyes. That poor woman.
Two stop-overs, three fairly uneventful plane rides, and countless hours later, I find myself standing outside the huge building that I’ve been calling home for the last three years, give or take.
Once a towering monument to the glory of industry, the old factory building today houses a —at least at first glance— much more gentle population: senior citizens. The only thing that’s manufactured here now is gossip, STDs and delicious cookies; and the only smoke that’s rising up is the occasional cigar, forgotten candle, or burning cookies. The sound of hammers and drills has been replaced by the rustling of shuffleboard pucks and the clacking of mahjong tiles. Unfortunately, much like the inhabitants themselves, the building, too, has seen better days. At some point, the company that owns the complex had figured out that cutting costs by all means leads to higher revenue, which is why the walls inside are now a shade of beige that, instead of ‘eggshell white’, might as well be called ‘I give up on life’.
When Olivia, with whom I used to share an apartment, moved in with Phoenix, I moved into an apartment next to my grandma, who lived here until her death. Officially named Haven Lifespace Community, it was designed as a senior co-housing project by Harmony Incorporated. While it was nice living here to take care of my grandma in her old-age, costs were cut wherever possible and staff was let go whenever it suited them. Really, the only good thing the managing company did was to turn it from a senior co-housing project to an intergenerational co-housing project, which meant that a few of the apartments were reserved for younger inhabitants, which in turn was supposed to lead to a livelier community (and, for Harmony Inc., to more money due to a higher occupation rate).
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” a familiar old voice sings when I finally walk into the lobby.
Where other senior residencies, or retirement homes, might have a helpful receptionist, we have Mr. Paul Bearer, the soul and watchdog of Haven. Although, after his third hip surgery, he’s really more of a watchsloth. He helps out at reception in return for a reduced rent.
“Evening, Paul,” I say and stop at the counter. “Did you take your meds yet, and, more importantly, did you miss me?”
“I just did and that very much depends on what you brought me from your trip, my dear.” He smiles as wide as possible without running the danger of having his teeth fall out.
“I brought you my delightful presence…”
Paul looks at me stoically and slowly shakes his head.
“Aaand these authentic Polynesian peanuts.” I slide a bag of peanuts that they handed out on the plane over the counter.
“That’s the stuff,” he answers, quickly palms the little bag and looks around, I assume to make sure he isn’t surrounded bya hungry hoard of squirrels. “Guy told me to tell you to come and find him once you’re back. He didn’t say, but I think it’s about the secret stake-out that no one is supposed to know about.”
“Then how come you know about that, Mr. Bearer?” I twist the desk lamp to shine it in his face.
Paul laughs. “I have my eyes and ears, and artificial ears,” he taps his hearing aid, “everywhere. No one can keep a secret from me. You should know that, darling.” With the help of a handle that he screwed onto the desk for just this purpose, he pulls himself up from his chair, grabs his cane, and circles around the counter. “In fact, I believe there is something you’d like to share with me right now, isn’t there?”
In another life, Paul would have made a great Late Night Talk Show host. He has a knack for prying things out of people by being persistent, almost on the verge of being intrusive. He grabs hold of my arm and accompanies me to the elevator. “So?”
“Well,” I start, because I know I’ll have to give him something. The first thing that pops into my mind is a thought that I push away immediately, very far. No matter how good-looking of a thought it might be. I mentally cycle through the past three or four days. “Oh,” I exclaim when I think of something that doesn’t have a deceptively intriguing smile. “I got fired! Well, I quit. Same difference though.”
“Oh, boy.” The old man squeezes my hand, partly in sympathy, partly to steady himself. “I’m glad you sound this chipper at the prospect of not earning any money for the time being. I guess our society does care way too much about that sort of thing.”
Yeah… of course, that’s easier said when you don’t have to worry about money all that much.
“Well,” I answer, “the universe might not provide, but I will take care of it myself. Always have.”
“That’s the spirit!” Paul presses the elevator button. “Now you go recover from your trip, remember your stake-out, and we can talk about your other secret next time, alright?”
The elevator dings. Paul rolls my suitcase inside and waits to press the button to my floor. He grins as he watches me disappear in the stairwell to the right.
“The elevator can’t hurt you, you know?” he yells after me.
“Tell that to the twenty-seven people who get killed by elevators every year, Paul!” I shout back and take two stairs at once to get to my suitcase before it can go to a different floor.
My one-room apartment looks just the way I left it. Upon entering, the first thing one usually notices is the abundance of brightly colored throw pillows, covering every available surface. It's as if half the room is in a constant state of molting, shedding a rainbow of fluffy textures all over the place. There’s no other way to put it: it’s hideous. But the pillows are remnants of my late grandma who made all of them herself.
