poverty.
The shrink’s office is shoehorned into a red-brick building at 2nd Ave and East 6th Street. He walks east. Crosses and wanders into a bodega screaming VILLAGE MAGAZINE CIGAR & GOURMET FOOD on its yellow awning.
Kieron doubts that last part is true.
He gives the dude behind the counter a nod. Opens up the fridge in back. Pulls out a little bottle of Poland Spring. Walks up to the counter. “Hey.” Kieron looks past the Indian register jockey, examining cigarettes.
He hasn’t had a cigarette in three years.
The fuck are you doing? The longer you look, the longer the dude behind the counter is looking at you . Idiot.
Kieron says, “Pack of Lucky Strikes.”
Dude behind the register says, “$16.50.”
“Holy shit. How much are the smokes?”
“$15.50. Water is a dollar.”
“Fuckin mayor. Glad I quit.” Kieron grins. Puts a twenty on the counter.
Register dude slides the coffin nails and a receipt to him.
Kieron says, “Thanks.” Slides the receipt into the front pocket of his jeans.
Outside, he hails a cab. Tells the driver, “Fourth and Loisaida.”
***
The cab driver asks him if he wants his receipt.
Kieron says, “Yeah.” Doesn’t want it rolling around the floor here.
He takes it. Steps out of the taxi. Crumples the paper. Stuffs it into his jeans with the other.
Kieron lights a Lucky Strike. Embarrasses himself with some initial coughs. Then gets over it.
Cuz he’s gotta be cool, y’know.
He walks, nice and calm, up to 6th. Looks and sees the old lady’s place standing next to a church. Iglesia Pentacostal Sarepta. Whatever. It’s a dump. First floor belongs to an auto shop. Next to the auto shop is a tunnel full of trash and recyclables leading into the apartment building.
Perfect.
Kieron flicks the Lucky Strike into a gutter.
He walks past the one camera the building has over the front door. Circles around and hops over a short fence guarding the steps, out of the camera’s view.
Kieron saunters down to the tunnel arch. Like he doesn’t care. Cuz that’s important. To always bullshit. Not look like anything’s wrong. He supposed to be here.
He takes a few steps. Sees the door on his left. He slides the rubber gloves on. Tests the handle.
Locked.
He looks down and sees a doorstop keeping it open. Cuz of course there are gonna be tenants who just wanna run downstairs in their underpants and toss out some shit without needing to worry about their keys.
Christ. He’s not even thinking. Not observing at all.
He bites his upper lip and pushes the door.
It opens.
Idiot .
“Idiot s ,” he corrects himself. They left the damn building open.
Nobody ever lost a bet underestimating people’s average intelligence.
He slips inside. Lets the door thump against the stopper behind him. He takes the gloves off. In case someone’s walking around.
It’s one thing to pretend you’re a tenant nobody’s ever seen.
Another to be that guy wandering around with creepy rubber gloves on.
He hops up the stairs. Makes as much noise as possible. He wants people to hear that he doesn’t care. But he keeps his hands in his jacket pockets. Doesn’t want to touch anything.
Second floor. He takes a look around. Doesn’t see or hear anyone.
Peeks quick around the stairwell corner for cameras. Nothing.
He pulls the gloves back on. Walks to the end of the hall where the old bird’s joint is.
He squats. Lifts the WELCOME mat in front of the door.
Fuckin key is right there.
He wonders if maybe the old lady is out walking her dog.
So he looks at the mat for impressions shoes might leave. Or dirt. Stomps. Scrapes. Anything that might upset the fabric so maybe he can get an idea of when she left.
Nothing. Shit’s clean.
So let’s do it.
He puts the key in the lower lock. Feels and hears the pins chewing on the grooves. Turns it. Slow.
The latch clicks back.
He pushes the door.
It glides open.
Kieron stays outside. Waits in case there’s a yip or a yap. Waits
The shrink’s office is shoehorned into a red-brick building at 2nd Ave and East 6th Street. He walks east. Crosses and wanders into a bodega screaming VILLAGE MAGAZINE CIGAR & GOURMET FOOD on its yellow awning.
Kieron doubts that last part is true.
He gives the dude behind the counter a nod. Opens up the fridge in back. Pulls out a little bottle of Poland Spring. Walks up to the counter. “Hey.” Kieron looks past the Indian register jockey, examining cigarettes.
He hasn’t had a cigarette in three years.
The fuck are you doing? The longer you look, the longer the dude behind the counter is looking at you . Idiot.
Kieron says, “Pack of Lucky Strikes.”
Dude behind the register says, “$16.50.”
“Holy shit. How much are the smokes?”
“$15.50. Water is a dollar.”
“Fuckin mayor. Glad I quit.” Kieron grins. Puts a twenty on the counter.
Register dude slides the coffin nails and a receipt to him.
Kieron says, “Thanks.” Slides the receipt into the front pocket of his jeans.
Outside, he hails a cab. Tells the driver, “Fourth and Loisaida.”
***
The cab driver asks him if he wants his receipt.
Kieron says, “Yeah.” Doesn’t want it rolling around the floor here.
He takes it. Steps out of the taxi. Crumples the paper. Stuffs it into his jeans with the other.
Kieron lights a Lucky Strike. Embarrasses himself with some initial coughs. Then gets over it.
Cuz he’s gotta be cool, y’know.
He walks, nice and calm, up to 6th. Looks and sees the old lady’s place standing next to a church. Iglesia Pentacostal Sarepta. Whatever. It’s a dump. First floor belongs to an auto shop. Next to the auto shop is a tunnel full of trash and recyclables leading into the apartment building.
Perfect.
Kieron flicks the Lucky Strike into a gutter.
He walks past the one camera the building has over the front door. Circles around and hops over a short fence guarding the steps, out of the camera’s view.
Kieron saunters down to the tunnel arch. Like he doesn’t care. Cuz that’s important. To always bullshit. Not look like anything’s wrong. He supposed to be here.
He takes a few steps. Sees the door on his left. He slides the rubber gloves on. Tests the handle.
Locked.
He looks down and sees a doorstop keeping it open. Cuz of course there are gonna be tenants who just wanna run downstairs in their underpants and toss out some shit without needing to worry about their keys.
Christ. He’s not even thinking. Not observing at all.
He bites his upper lip and pushes the door.
It opens.
Idiot .
“Idiot s ,” he corrects himself. They left the damn building open.
Nobody ever lost a bet underestimating people’s average intelligence.
He slips inside. Lets the door thump against the stopper behind him. He takes the gloves off. In case someone’s walking around.
It’s one thing to pretend you’re a tenant nobody’s ever seen.
Another to be that guy wandering around with creepy rubber gloves on.
He hops up the stairs. Makes as much noise as possible. He wants people to hear that he doesn’t care. But he keeps his hands in his jacket pockets. Doesn’t want to touch anything.
Second floor. He takes a look around. Doesn’t see or hear anyone.
Peeks quick around the stairwell corner for cameras. Nothing.
He pulls the gloves back on. Walks to the end of the hall where the old bird’s joint is.
He squats. Lifts the WELCOME mat in front of the door.
Fuckin key is right there.
He wonders if maybe the old lady is out walking her dog.
So he looks at the mat for impressions shoes might leave. Or dirt. Stomps. Scrapes. Anything that might upset the fabric so maybe he can get an idea of when she left.
Nothing. Shit’s clean.
So let’s do it.
He puts the key in the lower lock. Feels and hears the pins chewing on the grooves. Turns it. Slow.
The latch clicks back.
He pushes the door.
It glides open.
Kieron stays outside. Waits in case there’s a yip or a yap. Waits
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