• Sideways

    I live in an old brick house.

    I live in an old brick house, it was meant to last forever but, forever has already past and now it leans sideways; tittering on its last legs. And it bags to be put out of its misery but it is still in use, because none of its residence can afford the repairs.
    I live in an old brick house and its front step is disappearing; taking with it the smell of stale cigarettes that seems to cling to it permanently and the coffee stains it was painted with.
    I live in an old brick house and its floors creak and grown under my old shoes; whispering to me how they’re eventually just going to just give out and fall through to the earth, and with its help become a tree again who’s roots will grow. Whose root will tear apart the old foundation of this weathered building. And the floors whisper to me; how the bricks will one day fall in on my head burying me in mounds of earth, allowing me to become a tree as well.
    And the stairs, they grown with the effort of holding up my wiry frame as I begin to ascend them. And slowly, slowly, slowly, I pull myself from one to the other, feeling each dry board beneath the thin souls of my worn-out shoes.
    I rise higher, and higher, and higher, trying to find the place I belong but I know it won’t be there when I reach the top; a cool apartment is a nice place to get out of the heat, it’s not necessarily a home.
    I rise higher, and when I reach the top I open the door which swings back on rusty hinges and I see my roommate sprawled across the dirty floor.
    He’s sprawled across the floor in his daily ritual of collecting dust bunnies and watering the soon-to-be-trees with the sweat that rolls off his body in tiny rivulets; because an apartment is a good place to get out of the sun, it’s not a place to cool down.
    He’s sprawled across the floor listening to the new plastic clock on the wall ticking, ticking, ticking, and waiting, waiting for it to tick past midnight so he can rise quietly and creep, and creep, and creep softly, past my sleeping figure.
    So he can rise quietly and walk past blinding neon and to his job where he’ll wash tables and watch stars fly by. Where he’ll serve a drink and give a smile to each chance he has of getting out of this town. Where, with each passing second the moon will draw closer to the horizon until it sets and then he’ll wander back into the old brick building that leans sideways. And he’ll lie back down on the floor and he’ll listen to the seconds tick by until midnight; and when he dreams he’ll dream of better days when he would just stand on the side of the road and stick his thumb out and wait until another chance drives by to get out. Out of this place.
    “Why did I ever come here?” he asked one day; it seems like it’s been centuries since he’s spoken to me last but I know it’s only been a few months.
    I stayed silent, unable to answer that question; maybe it was for the same reason as me, to find fame and fortune, only to be dragged down by poverty and illiteracy. Or maybe he was already a star. Maybe he was a star that had be enchanted by the head lights of speeding cars that shone twice as bright and went out twice as fast. Maybe he had fallen to earth not anticipating the harsh landing. Maybe now he was broken; his light dead so he listened to the clock tick, tick, tick, past midnight. No one missed him now; he’d fallen too long ago. No one missed him now; he’d fallen so slowly, with an ease that made it seem like fate. No one tried to stop him, no one could.
    I walk into the room trying my best to not disturb his unmoving figure.
    I walk into the room and my footsteps stir up dust bunnies from beneath my bed. One scurries across the floor coming dangerously close to attaching it’s self to my roommates hair.
    I walk into the room and across to the old desk my roommate pulled from a trash heap. And on it I set a small stack of papers; each one telling me the new job I’m applying for and each one becoming less and less likely to except me as I struggle to read through them.
    My guitar sits in the corner unused and out of tune with the same layer of dust that covers the rest of the room.
    My roommate stirs behind me surprising me to the point where I drop my chewed up pen that’s been in use far too long and that hasn’t seen its cover in years.
    My roommate stirs behind me; slowly rising to his feet and walking to the window where he stands; a soft silhouette against the blinding white back drop.
    How long has it been since he’s seen the light of day? How long has it been since he’s seen light that hasn’t been filtered by our dusty windows or hasn’t been accompanied by the soft buzzing of worn out neon?
    A blinding white back drop leaves feather light kisses across my hands and my arms as if to make up for the pounding headache it drives into my skull as I attempt to take in the details of my ever silent companion.
    He leans down and I think he’s looking at something in the street but instead he wraps boney fingers around broken plastic in the vague shape of a handle and with a great heave he pulls open the window that’s been stuck for the past three months and lets in a great gush of much needed air.
    He turns to me then, almost like he’s found a new glow, a soft ember buried in all the ash. Like he’s risen for the first time and found the light of the sun more enchanting then his beloved neon. More enchanting the headlights that flash and fade like shooting stars, for the first time since he moved into this old brick house. Like this damp, humid city isn’t so heavy anymore.
    He turns to me then and says; “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
    I nod. I guess these bricks won’t fall in on my head then, and I’ll never get my chance to be a tree; I can’t pay the rent with out him.
    “Do you want to come with me?” I nod again. And my guitar sits in the corner unused and out of tune with a lair of dust covering it. And I’m going tomorrow. And I’m going fishing for shooting stars.

    “And you know; I use to live in this really old apartment.” I say to the crowd; explaining my song to them as my old roommate sits, smiling knowingly; nodding his head as if to confirm my story. My guitar seemed to fit more perfectly into my hands then it ever has before; strings new and shiny as the last ones had broken from too much use. It had been well tuned but in the cracks and places where I couldn’t reach dust sat; reminding me of old days, “It was on the top floor of an old brick building that always seemed to lean sideways…”
    I once lived in an old brick house, but I don’t live there anymore.