Colonialcore

He looked up and the sky was full of rats. It is such a trope: the old city, the ancient pigeon shit. A whole park dedicated to the avian rodents. Every road seemed a maquette; every wall peeling in colonial core. It would be a cliché asking if it has always been like this, but the longer he stare the more he internalized how enduring status quo was. He walked to the a double black door standing proudly against the radioactive yellow wall. His gaze locked on the metal bars that cross and covers the wood windows on both doors. With a small tremble, and a visible sigh, he unlocks the colonial apartment. Black and white chess tiles greet him. He stared at the high ceilings and at the dust slowly glittering in the sun beams.

Centered on the white wall was a device half the size of his palm. It couldn’t be a modem; he knew there was no Wi-Fi. He skipped the black tiles while staring right ahead. The odd item was centered in the ivory tile under the wall plug. He held it up to study the surface. It had one circular port and buttons with a plus and minus, a triangle and two lines, and two triangles facing east and west. His left eyebrow shot up in a daze. He slid his finger on the smooth surface. Closed his fist around it.

“Adios! you’re early!” The unexpected neighbor’s white hair reflected the bright tropical light creating a halo around her.

“It’s so good to see you at last!” he blurts out warmly. “This all looks about the same.” His gaze darted sheepishly around the poorly lit living room. “Did you see the buyers come by?” 

“No. I haven’t seen anyone come by. I got food on the stove, I’ll be right back. If I am not, text me.” She hurried away creating a disturbance in the specks. Only silver has marked the time, and maybe a new groove marking that perpetual half smirk she’s had since elementary school.

The onyx object slightly weighed down his pocket. Who forgot to take this? He had already paid for everything to be stored away, and nothing else seemed to stay behind. Why leave only one thing, maybe the realtors? His hands closed and opened around the object a few times, trying to ascertain its weight and dimension. Maybe it needs charging? It seemed an incomplete memory drive. His fingers stroked the triangle and the object sprang alive.

“Help!” The boxy letters came alive in the small display, which was hidden under the surface. The word danced away and appeared again. His back prickled with icy sweat; he heard his pulse behind his ears. “The thing said help! The thing is saying help?” Is this a prank? Some rouse to lower the property price? No, how would that even work! No doubt many places around here are haunted. There was the occasional catholic apparition, the decrepit tunnel under the cobblestone and anything else that centuries sought to gather. This was different. The street became busy with the noise of pedestrians and his hand threw the device in his pocket. His eyes followed the tourists crowd as they passed by the door opening. The fright was poisonous. He felt effervescent foam rising through his bowels, fear salivating at the back of his mouth. His thoughts seeking for a precedent. He could whisper questions, he could yell them for all anyone cared. He could pretend he never found it, place it back in the white tile and it would be like it never happened. He could turn it off, could he? Maybe touching more buttons. A heaviness sat under his navel, flooding his head in darkened sea water. He needed air, space. His legs walk him out, his pupils contracting at the sight of the equatorial sky. The smell of salt with hints of dried piss brings him to the present. Right now, standing in the smelly sidewalk. A couple of days ago he had already regretted the expected barraged of familiarity. Presently there were no memories to offer him solace. Instead he felt called to make a choice. He stepped in.

“Hey” he muttered into the small circle. His eyes narrowed looking for a change. His pulse raising and falling, no response. His fingers pushed the triangle. Frustration bubbling under the fear. Now the screen showed two vertical lines and the word “Help!”

“That’s it? That’s all I can get it to do?”

He cleared his throat with a quiet rasp.

“Blink one for yes and twice for no? Is that how it goes?” he whispered into his hands.

“Hey! What do you think of Camacho’s work huh? He stored it all, he can clean but that’ll be extra” Said the familiar voice with a gray glare “You look pale” she stared at him directly, pushing her lips to a corner of her face, pointing in that gesture he sort of missed.” I got some rice, beans, chicken. I made the beans like  doña Ana used to, with extra olives. Come on, let’s get you fed”

His hand reflexively hid the device into his pant pocket. The interruption made salty waves crashed into his thoughts causing his consciousness to swirl violently. His head nodded once, paused and then a couple of times in a slow bounce. Should he tell her? Obviously no, he had been back for less than 24 hours, and he is already weird, his odd personality coming back negating ten years of distance, therapy and self development. He had hoped for sight seeing, painful memories and digging his feet into the hot sand. Instead he got a plea from an alien rock and indecision. Is that what coming home is? His feet moved slowly in tow. Stepping under the lapis lazuli sky through the bumpy blue road. This apartment was the same, narrow, impeccable white arches separating the rooms. Still half a wall of exposed ancient bricks that seemed like they might crumble away a few centuries ago.

“Have you been down to ocean park beach yet?” she yapped staring sharply into his face, trying to read something that wasn’t written. “Right, I’ve been quiet” anxiety rushing.

“Thanks for the food and for helping me clear up the place. He did a good job” he lied because he hasn’t checked, he had stayed paused in the same spot. " The realtor said it was probably a done deal, but a cleaning can’t hurt. When can he finish?”

“He actually just texted. He forgot to leave the key to the backdoor, he can bring it tomorrow, clean, and pick up his Mp3”

Shattered. Stupid. Frustration boiling away and self deprecation bubbling up. A laugh, turned into a cough, morphed into a chuckle. He tighted his grip device hidden in his pocket. He yank it out triumphantly.

“This?!”

“Probably” shoulders coming up and down and she serve a heaping spoon of rice “Who uses an mp3 anymore? I guess it connects to his very loud speakers. Who even listens to the Beatles anymore?” she smirked hitting the saucepan with the serving spoon.

He stared stupidly at silver edge of the bean pot, feeling the weight of a thousand idiots slide down his shoulders. “I guess I do have time to go to down to the beach today”.