The Numbers (Fiction – Part Two of Two)

As promised, here is part two of The Numbers. If you missed it yesterday, the first half is available here. Enjoy! 🙂

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The Numbers (Part Two)

There are an unusual number of people on the street for a Thursday afternoon. Apparently I’m not the only person getting a little freaked out by the numbers. I’m glad for the distraction, actually. I’m a long-time fan of people watching, and sidewalk people watching is one of my favorites. Plus, walking through this many people means paying more attention than usual, and more attention is good today. Zero Zero. Thirty. Fifty-one.

I reach the front steps of my building – at least, already, I can’t decide. Zero Zero. Twenty-four. Twenty-seven.

I walk up the three steps to the front door. I love my building. It’s an art deco brownstone from the 1920s, and the front door is a beauty – dark wood with stained glass panels that could have been designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany himself. The lock sometimes sticks, and the door is a bear to open in strong wind because it weighs about three hundred pounds, but I don’t care. It’s beautiful and makes coming home an event. Zero Zero. Twenty-three. Forty-nine.
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I fumble for my keys in the bottom of my bag. I can never find my keys. I have been meaning to get a new purse forever – one with separate pockets for everything and a place to keep my keys. It’s ridiculous for a grown woman to lose things in her own bag. Just ridiculous. I mean, what kind of adult… I stop myself before the rant begins. I don’t really care about the bag or the keys. Zero Zero. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.

I finally find the keys and let myself in. Just inside the door, there is a spindle-legged cherry wood table – the mail table. There are three other tenants, and the mailman leaves all of our mail on the table in rubber-banded bundles. There is always something – junk mail, catalogs, the occasional postcard for Mrs. Stenowitz on the third floor. Her grandson is in the Navy and sends her postcards from all over the world. Nothing today though. Not a single piece of mail, not a single rubber band. Zero Zero. Twenty. Thirty-eight.

I am in the big apartment on the second floor; the other second-floor apartment has been empty for the past three months, ever since Elaine got engaged and moved in with her fiancée. I can’t understand how it has stayed empty. This is such a great building, and the rent is really reasonable for the city. Zero Zero. Nineteen. Fifty.

I can’t believe how quiet it is inside today. I usually run into Mark, the writer who lives in the front apartment on the first floor, when I get home. He goes for a run with his dog, Max, every afternoon about this time, says it clears his head and helps him think. I usually hear the faint sound of Mr. Myers’ television (back apartment, first floor) as I make my way to the carved staircase. He is addicted to afternoon talk shows – loves the sturm und drang (as he tells everyone he sees), says it reminds him of his years teaching kindergarten at the public school down the block. But today the hallway is silent. Zero Zero. Nineteen. Zero One.

I climb the stairs slowly. Everything feels oddly heavy and weighty all of a sudden, like my bag is full of bricks and my bones made of cement. I trudge down the hall toward my door and fumble for my keys again. I don’t know why I didn’t just leave them out. I never do. Every day the same thing – fumble at the front door, fumble at the apartment door. You’d think I would learn, but I never do. I wonder what that’s about, anyway. Zero Zero. Seventeen. Fifty-three.

I’m finally inside. I love this apartment. It’s the nicest place I’ve ever lived. I found it right after I started at Meyers. One of the other teachers told me about it – Elaine is his sister’s best friend. I fell in love with it at first sight. I’ve been here for six years now, and as far as I’m concerned, I will live here forever. Zero Zero. Fifteen. Fifty-nine.

I drop my keys in the glass bowl by the door. It’s funny, I can never find them in my purse, but am compulsive about putting them in the bowl the minute I walk in the door. I check the answering machine – no flashing lights means no messages – and walk into the kitchen. Dropping my bag on the counter, I open the refrigerator and peer inside. If ever a day called for a beer, this is the day. At least that’s what I told myself when I opened the ‘fridge. But as soon as the beer is in my hand I no longer want it. Zero Zero. Thirteen. Thirteen.

I walk out of the kitchen and through the living room toward my bedroom, sliding my cardigan off as I go. I usually change out of my school clothes as soon as I get home. I don’t like sitting around the apartment in grown-up clothes. I’m only twenty-eight, and look at least five years younger, so I feel oddly compelled to dress “grown-up” at school. At home, I dress more like one of my students – soft yoga pants, shorts, Meyers soccer shirts, hoodies. I step out of my heels and start to unbutton my skirt, but almost as soon as I do I realize that I no longer want to change. Zero Zero. Ten. Fifty-six.

I head back toward the living room and the television. I always have a collection of things on the DVR, and often unwind after school with an episode of one of my favorite sit-coms. I love losing myself in someone else’s life – it’s the major reason I love to read – but after a long day at school I can’t always focus enough to read. But a twenty-three minute excursion into someone’s TV-life, with a guaranteed wrap-up at the end, well, that’s a great way to help me switch back from School Me into Regular Me. I turn the television on and hit the list button to see what’s there, but as soon as the list pops up I no longer want to watch anything. Zero Zero. Zero Seven. Zero Nine.

I wander aimlessly around the apartment some more, trying to find something to do. I pick things up and almost instantly put them back down. I open drawers and cupboards – as soon as their contents are revealed I don’t want anything in them anymore. I stand up, sit down, lay down; each position is uncomfortable as soon as I am in it. Zero Zero. Zero One. Forty-eight.

My mouth is dry but my palms are sweaty. How does that happen? Zero Zero. Zero Zero. Fifty-six.

A random and bizarre thought suddenly occurs to me, as though from nowhere. Zero Zero. Zero Zero. Twenty-two.

What is real? Did any philosopher ever really give a satisfactory answer? Zero Zero. Zero Zero. Zero Six.

Maybe this is all a dream. Zero Zero. Zero Zero. Zero One.

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