Forty-Two Stairs

Chapter 1: Admitting It hurt Owen’s shoulders worse to lower the box and set it on the ground then it did to keep holding it. But standing in the entranceway of the five and one-half metres square that was about to serve him as living room, bedroom, dining room and anything-other-than-showering-shitting-and-cooking room wasn’t going to get the rest of the boxes and furniture out of the truck and in place. “Positive,” he told himself. “Stay positive.” “I’m positive,” a voice growled from behind him, “that if you don’t get the f**k out of the way I will kill you.” Owen shuffled to the side, set his load down as his brother did the same, and grinned at Dennis’s bitter expression. “Kill me? You look like you can barely stand, let alone take a swing.” Dennis narrowed his eyes. “Could you have found an apartment a little higher up?” “Probably.” Owen shrugged. “But it would have come with an elevator and where would the fun have been in that?” Dennis leaned against the mattress propped alongside the far wall, the starting point of the fortress of boxes that littered the tiny space and tried to catch his breath. “Forty-two goddamn stairs. Forty-effin’-two, baby bro. Did you consider that at all before signing the lease?” He hadn’t. Not really. The most important factor of that particular piece of paper had been the notation that stated the apartment came with a monetary expectation of only four hundred and ninety-five bucks a month, utilities included. Considering he had no job, had barely come even after the sale of the house, what with the long list of legal expenses, fines and penalties being scooped right off the top, that was a very fine number indeed. “Well, it’s certainly not an upgrade, is it?” Owen resisted the urge to flinch and tightened his jaw. A mother’s voice should not cause so much damage to one’s nerves. Regardless, he bit back the retort his tongue was working on and turned to offer her a smile. “I didn’t imagine it was going to be.” He stepped forward when she put out her arms and gave her a stiff hug. “But welcome, anyway. We’re just about halfway done. Once we get the couch and the television up here—” “Will it even fit?” she asked, eyeing the room once before stepping away to circle the apartment. She stopped at the cracked window, dragged her finger over the sill, and curled her lip at what she took away from it. “It’s not that bad,” Owen said. “It’s plenty big enough for—” Her sigh shut down his attempt to lighten the conversation. “I still can’t believe you had to let the house go. And poor Eli—” “Ma,” Owen lifted a palm and held it out. “Stop. I don’t want to talk about Eli or the house. Done is done and over is over, and all I can do is go forward from here.” He shot a quick glance at Dennis, did his best silent begging to be saved, and then rolled his eyes when Dennis merely looked away. Owen couldn’t blame him. Dennis probably figured he deserved the disdain. They were disappointed. Everyone was: Eli, his now too-soon-gone-to-think-about-without-daggers-lancing-his-heart ex-partner, his mother, his sibling, and his much-diminished circle of friends. Owen’s drinking had been out of control since he’d been a teenager, and everyone had known it. But for the most part, Owen had managed to keep it from affecting his life to any major degree. Right up until the first DUI a year and half ago. He’d lost his license for three months that round. The second one though, the most recent one…well, that had included an opposing car full of innocent people who only by the grace of something much larger than himself had walked away without anything more than bumps and bruises. The lack of fatalities had done nothing to soften the judge’s consequences, however. Bye-bye license, hello termination papers. Bye-bye Eli, and hello real-estate agent. Bye-bye normal early-thirties life with forward-moving career and a little bit of savings, hello back to living like a nineteen-year-old—broke, worried and struggling. Dennis shoved himself forward, shook his shoulders, and nodded at Owen. “So? Round fourteen on our path to an early heart attack or what?” A flash of light caught Owen’s attention before he could respond. He frowned, stepped to the window, and slapped both palms against the wall. “s**t!” He was already running out of the apartment as he spoke over his shoulder. “Your truck!” He wouldn’t have believed he still had the energy to race down the stairs the way he did, more so shocked that he managed to keep mumbling the “Please don’t ticket, please don’t ticket” mantra the entire way. Dennis would kill him if he ended up costing Dennis any more than he already had. And all the gods in the heavens knew he couldn’t afford to give his brother the cash to cover a parking violation, either. He hit the second platform at the same time he heard Dennis’s footsteps above him. By the time he reached the small hallway of level one, stumbled around the ridiculously placed table with the sign that said “Do not mov thes”, serving no purpose whatsoever but to get in the way, and spun into the final set of stairs, Owen’s words were peppered with curses. They were expletives that rose in volume the closer he got to the entrance. They were not, however, nearly as loud as the “Oh s**t!” that was suddenly choked out mere centimetres from his face. Owen lurched to the right, put out both hands and reached for a set of thin, bony shoulders in an attempt to stabilize himself and the other person mid-crash. But instead of two bodies slamming together in a parody of cartoonish acting, the young man sidestepped gracefully, moved back towards Owen, and caught Owen’s shirt with his fists before Owen took the final fifteen stairs the hard way. “I’m sorry,” Owen huffed, torn between the need to apologize and to rush outside, “our truck—” The voice that responded was calm, cool, and almost frustratingly sedated. “I got it, no worries. I explained that you were moving in and you’d be gone soon as you could.” It was the tone of that voice that caught Owen’s attention; too high and childish for the street accent it was inflected with. Once Owen lifted his attentions to get an eyeful though, it was everything else that held it. Shock purple hair worn very straight and very long, the line of dark roots confirming it wasn’t a wig, and a face that was so oddly elfin, the term Williams Syndrome came to mind instantly: wide mouth, full lips, small pointed chin, all complemented by blue eyes that were so vivid, they were mesmerizing. “I…” Owen stuttered to find speech. “Stop your f*****g ogling and get out there with my truck!” Dennis’s shout-growl ripped Owen back to focus, and he released the young man’s shoulders, his mind instantly faltering back to muse mode. Young?…ish. The man was blessed with the kinds of looks that would serve him very well as he aged. Or perhaps already were. He could have been anywhere between fifteen and thirty, though if Owen had to take a guess, he’d say early twenties based on clothing and stance. Definitely male though, unless the bits held in place by skinny jeans—jeans that garnered a new quantifier for the definition of the word ‘tight’—were add-ons. “My truck!” The second reminder came with a snatch to the back of Owen’s shirt, and a shove that, considering where Owen stood, could have been destructive had Dennis not kept his grip. Owen hitch-stepped to match his brother’s footfalls as he was directed towards the landing. “I was coming,” Owen snarled once he was pushed through the exit and released onto the sidewalk. He shrugged his shirt flat and glared. Dennis stepped past him. “So’s the second coming but I’m not planning to stand around and wait for it.” He raised his voice. “Officer? My apologies. I know we shouldn’t be stopped here but—” “Ten minutes,” the cop said without looking up from his notepad. “You have ten minutes to unload, drop your stuff on the sidewalk, and go find a place to park while you carry it up. This is a no-stop zone.” He pointed at the sign, as if the two of them hadn’t already seen it and disregarded it out of the simple premise of that was where the door was and what the hell else were they going to do? Rather than rant the concept back to the police officer however, Owen nodded and stuck out his hand. “Thank you. Appreciate that. We’ll get this finished right away.” “You’re lucky,” the cop continued, ignoring the proposed handshake. “Your buddy in there told me the bus schedules were a little more lax on Sundays. Otherwise, you’d already have a ticket on your dash. There’s a reason this is a no-stop zone. We don’t put these signs up for the good of our health, you know.” Owen felt his thoughts echo in his own head: no, you put them up for the sole purpose of being able to issue tickets since there is literally, literally no other place to unload for this f*****g complex. But instead of allowing those thoughts to voice, Owen merely nodded again and lowered his arm. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. I totally understand.” They didn’t wait for further instruction. Dennis jumped into the bed of the truck and pointed, directing Owen to begin dragging out the furniture. The cop tapped his watch once, climbed into his vehicle, and pulled away from the curb. “Well f*****g done!” Dennis paused until Owen looked up and caught his eye. “If someone would have told me you could keep your cool while talking to a cop, that you’d call him ‘sir’ nonetheless, I’d have called them a goddamn liar.” “Times have changed,” Owen said, shouldering his end of a loveseat that he was suddenly questioning the wisdom of bothering to bring. “Ready?” From truck to sidewalk the loveseat travelled, from sidewalk to truck they returned to repeat the process with a couch. “I’m serious, Owen. I’m proud of you.” Owen rolled his neck and rubbed his forearm, more so to hide embarrassment then to loosen muscles. “Don’t be. It’s no awesome thing. I’m only getting back to being the me I always was. I won’t blame the booze for the ranting, or the need to assert myself over everybody else, that was me and me alone. But it did soften my resolve and paralyse my ability to keep myself in check. I was powerless to stop it from affecting me, just like I was powerless over the addiction in the first place. I admit it, I realise it, and I’m moving on from it.” The words were more recital than anything else. But he was getting familiar with them, and it got a little easier to speak them each time Owen got the chance. Every once in a while he could even tell himself he believed it. Dennis grinned. “I know. Relax. It’s not Mom you’re talking to here; I’m not judging you. I honestly mean that I’m thrilled to see it.” Dennis nodded as if to confirm Owen’s hold, secured his own grip on the couch, and they both fought gravity for a few seconds. Then with a laboured hop, Dennis was back in the bed of the truck, and sliding the television forward, where Owen took the prompt to move it without waiting to be told. “So,” Dennis asked, “are you liking the program?” “Nope. Not one f*****g bit.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even an exaggeration. He despised going to the meetings so badly that his stomach would knot up as if he was twelve years old and being forced to say a speech in front of the class. He felt stupid there. He felt hopeless and f****d up. He felt like the dredge of society, scraped off the sole of someone much better than he was, and the meeting forum of the court-imposed get-your-ass-clean-before-you-die program was his very own Petri dish wherewith he was being settled so everyone could see what was going to climb out of the decay. If anything was going to climb out. Could have been worse, though. It could have been prison. Although—he looked up at the window of his apartment, way, way up, and considered space, form and lack of air conditioning—prison wouldn’t cost him four hundred and ninety-five dollars a month. “Well, keep it up. It looks good on you.” Dennis started an assembly line for the final few boxes, lifting and then handing them over the side to Owen who, in turn, set them on the sidewalk as close to the door as possible. They didn’t need the entire ten minutes. It had only been eight when Owen dropped his eyes to his watch and Dennis pulled the truck away from the curb. “I’ll wait for you,” Owen shouted, and Dennis offered a wave to confirm he’d heard. A set of footsteps resounded from the doorway that they’d left propped open (no doubt against all fire ordinances and demands of lease), and Owen stepped towards it with a mix of apprehension and dread, because why wouldn’t it be someone about to freak? Instead, bounding like a bunny, as if never-ending stairs wouldn’t be an issue to anyone, Mr. Purple Hair tripped down the final few and gave Owen a nod. He brushed past Owen, drenched in the scent of lavender and spice, and stopped dead when he got to the sidewalk. “I can sit and watch your things while you keep going,” he offered. Owen shook his head. “My brother will be right back.” “Ah.” The man nodded. “Your brother. Nice.” His eyes trailed over Owen’s furniture in a way that made Owen uncomfortable. Judging? Scoping? Curiosity, Owen had the urge to say, kills cute little purple kitties just as quickly as anything else…”Strangely decent,” Purple said finally, as if that would somehow make sense. “Though that doesn’t really surprise me. I kinda thought you looked somewhat out of your element.” He lifted his gaze and locked it up with Owen’s. “I am Sebastian, of the apartment right below you. Apartment number four, and ceiling to floor with yours. So, I assume since you are now my closest neighbour, I can let you call me Baba.” “Baba?” Owen didn’t mean to frown. The expression always reminded him of the one his mother shot at him when she ‘didn’t approve.’ He hated it. Despised it. Yet as much as it drove him nuts, more often than not he wore it as well. Even as he stood there, internally chastising himself to remove it from his face, Owen could feel the creases pulling the sweat-slicked skin of his forehead into something ugly. “It’s short,” Sebastian told him. “Easier. And you are?” “Owen.” He extended his hand and waited for Sebastian to consider it for a moment before finally reaching and offering one back. Owen fought his facial muscles to soften into a smile. “And your closest neighbour, hmm? I could have sworn there were other apartments on that level beside you.” “Nope.” Sebastian shook his head resolutely. “But even if there was, beside is not nearly as close as on top.” Owen took a second to try and keep his eyebrow from creeping up. “Ermm…” “We will hear everything each other does,” Sebastian explained. “Every step. Every curse. Know when the other is showering or flushing, washing dishes, or watching a program. It’s quite an intimate existence. You’ll see.” Sebastian dropped onto the couch and waved surprisingly long fingers for such tiny hands. “Go on. I’ll keep an eye for you. You have a lot of steps to take and the time couldn’t be more perfect than the moment.” Once again Sebastian’s brilliant eyes found Owen’s, and in the sunlight, Owen could make out ice-crystal patterns within them. Mesmerizing really was the perfect word for them. Something out of a fantasy comic—the alien being with the piercing gaze, a snowflake hidden inside the blue, a view of which was only offered to the few and at the perfect moment. Owen shook his head and clicked his tongue at himself. Ridiculous thought. Sebastian grinned at the sound. “Go on. The sooner you start…” “The faster you finish,” Owen offered. “Never finished,” Sebastian replied. “Only gotten used to.”