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Rounding the Corner

Robin Lester

    As I step off the clean sidewalk and take the turn into the alleyway that leads to the fire escape to my room, I pay little attention to the beat-up garbage cans lined up along the way. I see movement in the toppled-over ones, under the metal stairway. I pay no attention to that either. Like me, the movements are at home here.
    Not that I consider the fire escape home. But it is a means to get there. Dragging my unbendable leg up and over each rough metal tread, seems to take forever. My arms and back feel the stress, as my hands clutch and pull the bulk of me up, by the filthy rust-incrusted handrail. The entire structure sways a little with my struggle, up the three flights.
    Finally, I’m standing bent over in front of the age-worn window to my home. The metal padlocked bars in front of it is my doorbell. It makes a loud metal-on-metal sound as I unlock it and the heavy chain slides down. Chances are, there isn’t anyone inside. But if there is, the sound should make them run.
    Holding onto the comforting chain I slide through into my domicile. I see that I am alone. The still bolted front door, tells me that my space has not been invaded. Turning to re-chain and lock the bars, from inside, and then close and lock the window. I can now breathe out a sigh of relief. I am safe.
    Pivoting around on my good leg, I eye the small space in front of me: Make-do canvases that I have painted on, lean from the floor against all available wall space. One large brightly colored one titled, “Not alone,” is displayed above the chipped white paint on a single wall cupboard. Two smaller unfinished paintings cover the torn stuffed chair I sleep in. I see unpublished manuscripts piled haphazardly on top of a small corner desk I found in the alleyway with a broken leg, that I duck taped together. My eyes pass over, a small permanently grimy-looking refrigerator, that works when it wants to. And land on my prized appliance. A practically new electric double burner, some idiot threw out. It’s currently balanced on the edge of a metal, Formica topped table, that was here when I moved in. Jars of different colored paints are stacked high, next to it, and take up most of the tablespace. The centerpiece is a large cracked crock, stuffed full with barely-usable hair- shedding paintbrushes. Unused pieces of surfaces, I intend to paint over and on, are crammed beneath the table. I can’t see into the bathroom from where I stand. This is just as well because the walls and ceiling are covered in this crazy mold that I can’t get rid of. It makes me nervous. I’m afraid to store any of my creations in there. This is my home and where I feel most at ease. It’s good to be here.
    Walking over towards my comfortable chair I carefully pick up the canvases I have been working on, “Future Joys” and “Left Behind.” This chair also serves as my easel. I slide my babies gently, to the side, making sure they are positioned so they won’t topple over when I drop my weight into the chair. I need to rest my bones for a bit. It’s been a long day.
    Grabbing a book from underneath my chair, with the intention of reading it, I realize I’m too tired to think. I won’t get anything from the read. Also, the long silver-colored straps and bolts on my front door seem to be stealing my focus. I can hear people arguing behind them, in the hallway. But that is usual. There is always a lot of human traffic out there. So, it doesn’t bother me. What’s bothering me are the straps and bolts themselves. They are too new. They were put on not very long ago, by my only friend James. He was looking out for my best interests.
    He always did, right from the first time I met him. I don’t know why. I was new to the area. Maybe I looked like a lost puppy to him, and he was a dog lover? It’s not like we had age, gender, race, or really anything else for that matter, in common. He just took it upon himself to take me under his wing and show me the ways, of surviving in the city. I had spent most of my life in an upper-middle-class suburb. I don’t think I would have lasted here long, without his help.
    James had this street strut. Like the sidewalk belonged to him, and him alone. However, when I first walked with him, I noticed that his strut was occasionally interrupted by these little popcorn-just starting to pop-like movements. They didn’t show in his feet and legs but mainly in his shoulders and arms. These little jerks kind of contradicted the confidence in his movement. Probably not noticeable to anyone else, underneath all his layers of clothing, unless you were walking right next to him. Which I was when I asked him if I made him nervous?
    He jerked and said, “Is the way ya looken. Ya gots to look mean, or people gonna be messen with ya.”
    I said, “But James... I’m not feeling mean.”
    With my confession, he abruptly stopped strutting, turned toward me, and disgustedly remarked, “I don’t care what yo feelen!” That was my first street lesson. And he was right. Today if you pass me on the street, you would give me a wide birth. Because I have acquired the look of a woman that might have rabies. James taught me a lot. I wouldn’t be able to keep on creating if he hadn’t.
    Sadly, he won’t be doing any more teaching. And I no longer have a friend. He was stabbed in my hallway Friday night, three weeks ago. I didn’t hear it. I was sleeping. He bled to death as I was curled up in my chair, probably snoring. God, I hope he couldn’t hear me! I found him in the morning, with his lifeless head leaning on the door frame. After that, I just used the window, when I needed to go out or in.
    I used to have a lot of windows in the house that I once called home. None of them had bars. I had walls of them in every room. I would often leave them all open when the weather was nice. I wanted to make sure my children had plenty of fresh air and light. That was almost three years ago. Seems like much longer. Their father has probably installed a new woman to open windows, by now. He was the type of person that needed someone to pick up his odds and ends. And women found him attractive. I hope she loves my kids. Hopefully, she is making them feel less abandoned.
    They probably still do. I was an important figure to them. But they needed stability and I knew I could no longer give them that. The bi-polar thing was getting out of control. And the physical decline I was experiencing from the chronic Lyme wasn’t going to get any better either. The two things were feeding off each other. It broke my heart, but I knew I had no choice. I prepared them for the inevitable, the best that I could. By rounding the sharp edge of the corner of my departure, before I actually left. I wanted them to remember me as being mean and untrustworthy. Mostly as someone they were well rid of.
    I hear some loud thumping in the hallway. Probably just two people fighting. I get up and walk towards the table. Reach past it for the pot and a teabag. Trickle some water into the small pot from the bathroom sink, bring it back, toss in the teabag, and put it on the burner to heat up. I’m going to have a cup of tea to wake me up. So, I can read. Maybe I’ll paint out one of the dreams I had, later. I already have the title, “What We Accept.” Sitting back down I wait for the process to complete itself.
    When I think enough time has passed. I haul myself up again and open the small cupboard by the door. Enshrined inside is one of the few things I brought from my old life. A white mug my children bought with their own money. They gave it to me, the last Mother’s Day with them. Written along the side, in bright red letters are the words, “World’s Best Mom.” Despite everything, I still drink from this cup.

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