Apartment #14B

August 14th, 2014 6:15 am

               Wayne Jergins woke up early on what would be his last day working for Hammond Construction Co. After several rejection letters, he finally received the letter informing him of his acceptance into Queens College. Fall semester began the following week and he was more than ready to leave behind the daily doldrums of construction. He had saved enough to pay for the first year. If needed, he supposed he could return to construction next summer to fund his sophomore year. He showered, ate breakfast, dressed, and prepared a sandwich for lunch. By 6:30, he had covered half the distance from his apartment to his final job site, a large apartment complex at 454 W 22^nd St.

              He arrived around 6:45. Mario and Manuel, the other two members of his three-man crew hadn’t arrived yet. He parked himself on the curb next to the old apartment building they had been working on gutting for the past several days and dreamed of his new life as a full-time student. As the clock ticked nearer to 7:00, Mario and Manuel arrived, directing good-natured jeers at Wayne about him showing up early on his last day. The three got on well, although Wayne never took them up on their invitations for after-work drinks or their “tail chasing” escapades. Wayne wasn’t even old enough to drink and blushed furiously anytime either brought up the topic women.

              At 7:15, the three marched up the steps and into building’s narrow hallway. Doors leading to individual apartments lined either side. Over the course of the last three weeks, they’d stripped nineteen of the thirty-two apartments in the building. Wayne’s tool belt sat comfortably on his hips, loaded with everything needed to knock down walls, remove old electrical wire, and tear out various types of tile, flooring and fixtures. Wayne sighed has he rose and entered apartment #14B.

July 11th, 1971 3:42 pm

              Paul Clampton glanced nervously over his shoulder at the front door of his apartment, #14B. He held his breath, listening for any signs of footsteps or voices. After a few seconds, he whirled back around and continued his frantic packing. He ripped down a battered suitcase from the upper shelf of the hallway closet and tossed it wildly across the living room. The suitcase cartwheeled through the air and landed corner-first directly into the center of Paul’s living room coffee table, shattering the glass top and raining hundreds of little shards of glass onto the living room rug. The lone item on the table, an ashtray, hurdled to its unfortunate end, smashing quite spectacularly into the outside wall.

              Paul ducked, wincing slightly at the deafening crash, but quickly recovered, entering the apartment’s only bedroom. He scurried over to his closet and haphazardly tore down every shirt in the closet. He bunched them into a multi-colored wad of fabric, rushed back into the living room and wildly tossed the pile toward his now-opened suitcase. Now, with sweat pouring down his face and back, he mashed the case fruitlessly, willing it, begging it to close. When it was clear the suitcase could not or would not comply, he tossed it behind the room’s single couch and bolted for the bathroom.

              Paul wrenched the cold-water faucet on and splashed several handfuls into his face. His heart rammed against his ribs as if desperate to escape. He could feel his pulse in his temples, his wrists, and in his neck and ears. Paul opened the medicine cabinet, retrieved a prescription bottle, emptied the five remaining downers from the bottle, and tossed them into his mouth, washing them down with water from the still-running sink. In the tight quarters of the bathroom, he had to close the door fully to sidle over to the toilet. He removed the heavy, porcelain tank cover and peered into the toilet tank. At the bottom next to the flapper sat a medium-sized, black plastic bag, sealed with heavy packing tape. Paul’s arm plunged into the tank, spraying water everywhere. He pulled the dripping plastic bag out of the tank and jammed it unceremoniously into his jacket pocket.

              As he reopened the bathroom door and hurried back into the living room, he heard three loud raps on his front door, followed by two male voices.

              “Time’s up Paulie.” One voice said in a strong Brooklyn accent. That would be Henry Ulysses, the boss’s right hand man. “Let’s do this the right way ok?”

              “Yeah, open the door pal; it’ll go better that way.” The second, higher more nasally voice chimed in. Paul couldn’t place it. Henry ran with a variety of toughs, from muscle-headed, brain dead louts to rat-faced, scrappy types. This one sounded like the ratty-type.

              Paul froze where he stood, his heartbeat now firmly beating an unpleasant cadence against his Adam’s apple. How had it come to this? How had things gotten this out of hand? He had wanted to pay them back, he really had. He had even gotten close a couple times, only coming up a few hundred short once. If the Macklin twins hadn’t screwed him out of his last eight ball, he would have had the money, he was sure of it. Another set of raps, louder and more aggressive sounding, pelted his door.

              “Do we need to count?” The first voice said. The second voice was chuckling in that irritating, pinched-nose tone. Paul glanced over at the living room window. Ever since the first week he moved in, he had meant to get fix damned window. Now, still painted shut, it provided no help as a means of escape. Defeated, Paul slunk over to the front door and unbolted the lock. Plastering on a grin that would not have fooled a complete stranger, he opened the front door.

August 14th, 2014 9:45 am

              Wayne took his morning break. He sat on the dusty floor of the kitchen of apartment #14B, realizing that this would be the last break he took while employed for Hammond Construction. He and his crew had made good time today. If pressed, they would have easily finished the unit before lunch and had time to knock another one out that afternoon. Mario and Manuel had a habit of sprinting through their work for the first couple of hours of the day, and then coasting for the rest. Wayne did not particularly like this approach, but he certainly was not going challenge their system on his last day. Mario and Manuel found spots to rest, sipping at their canteens. None of the apartments had A/C, so staying hydrated was critical.

              Wayne surveyed the work they’d done, cataloguing what remained. Most of the kitchen had been torn out, along with the minuscule bathroom. They’d torn out all the lurid, maroon, shag carpet and ripped out the linoleum flooring. Just last week, Mario discovered a set of three old baseball cards lodged behind one of the unit’s refrigerators. They had slid under a slab of water-damaged linoleum, perfectly concealed until Hammond Construction’s boys tore it all up. Mario had bragged that each card fetched a sale price of over $1000 dollars. It could have been true for all Wayne knew. He did not know the first thing about baseball, not even recognizing the players or even the teams on the three cards. Manuel called bullshit, but Mario persisted. A few days later, he told the Wayne there was a hot bidding war on EBay for the cards, but he honestly doubted it.

As Mario and Manuel sat talking, Wayne noticed a rather large section of the wallpaper had begun peeling from the ceiling in the northeastern corner. Best case it’s some recent water damage. Wayne thought. Worse case . . .

In a few of the apartments, workers had discovered severe cases of black mold, and asbestos. In each case, work halted so the crew could fit themselves with respirators and protective gloves. Wearing the extra gear made difficult work unbearable in the August heat. Black mold also meant an additional 5-10 hours of work for that unit, and a very unpleasant conversation with the foreman. Wayne recalled the single time it had been his turn to bear the bad news. The foreman had spent the next five minutes barking and cussing at him. Wayne remembered doing his best to look apologetic, but even back then he realized the absurdity of the whole situation. He hadn’t put the mold there, and the foreman was not going to have to clean it up, so why was he so upset?

              Wayne stood, dusting off his coveralls and approached the spot where Mario and Manuel were sitting.

              “Saw the mold eh?” Mario said to Wayne. “I figure we’ll finish the rest of the apartment first and leave that job for last. Consider it a going away present, Mr. Fancy College Man.” Mario gave Wayne a crooked smile and Wayne returned it.

“Nah, we should have time to get to it. If we are quick maybe we can get it all cleared out before we even need to tell the boss.” Mario and Manuel looked at each other shrugging. They screwed the lids on their canteens, stood and got back to work.

Wayne stepped closer to the corner and inspected the wallpaper. He reached up and pulled at one of the peeling corners. It pulled away from the wall in a large swatch, as if the adhesive had completely dissolved. After a few more pulls, Wayne removed all the wallpaper from the corner. Underneath, the wall revealed the telltale signs of black mold. Dark, splotchy circles in various sizes coated the wall from floor to ceiling and about three feet wide. Wayne knew immediately that the affected section was too big to just scrub down and paint over. They’d have to tear out the drywall and most likely replace several of the wood studs. Wayne sighed and walked out to the work trailer to retrieve three pairs of respirators and goggles. He reentered the apartment while pulling the uncomfortable mask over his face. He slid his dry wall saw out of his work belt and began carving out a large rectangular section of mold-blackened wall.

July 11th, 1971 4:03 pm

Paul sat on his stained, flea market couch and stared at the two men standing imposingly in his living room. Next to him sat his unpacked suitcase Henry had discovered and tossed next to him. Paul shuffled his feet, mashing glass shards from the shattered coffee table into the carpet.

              “Headed on vacation Paul?” Henry teased. “Hey, now that sounds pretty damn good right now. Pretty damn good indeed. Before you go, if you wouldn’t mind paying what you owe, we’d sure appreciate it.”  Henry’s grin was all mock kindness. Paul remained silent, looking down at his shoes. Henry glanced at his partner —Paul decided to call him “rat boy”– and nodded. Rat boy began ripping open cupboards and pulling drawers onto the floor. He pulled down the single painting hung in the apartment, took out a knife and started gouging out the wall behind it.

              “Look man, we gave you time. We gave you fucking centuries. Time’s up. Either give us the cash or give us whatever dope you have left and we’ll see where we go from there.” Henry stood stock still while his partner continued ransacking the house. Several minutes passed, Henry standing statuesque while rat boy tore Paul’s apartment apart. “Fine . . . have it your way.” Henry said, taking a step toward Paul who clambered up onto the back of the couch. He looked like a giant, skinless cat poised along the back of the beat up sofa.

              “It’s gone! The money, the dope, it’s all gone ok? Just . . . I just need another day. Come one man, one more lousy day!” Paul’s frightened, spluttering voice sounded strange to him, as if he were listening to it through wax paper. Rat boy, who had just torn a big hole in the back splash behind the oven range, froze and turned to look at Paul. Henry took a menacing step toward the couch. Paul lost his balance and fell behind the couch onto his back. He crab-walked his way into the corner and held his hands out in front of his face as Henry closed the gap menacingly.

              “That was almost a kilo Paul.” Henry said in dangerously monotone voice. He kneeled down so his nose was inches from Paul’s. “If you’re telling the truth, which I doubt, one day won’t make a gnat’s dick of difference. I think the dope is here Paul, probably some of the cash too, and I think you should tell me where it is, right now Paul. Right, fucking, now.” Paul’s eyes, filled with tears, were now locked with Henry’s.

              “I’m not lying.” Paul muttered, defeated. “I tried selling the last of it this morning and those asshole Macklin brothers took off with it.” Henry’s shoulders slumped. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a chrome plated Browning FEG pistol. Paul felt warm wetness spread around the crotch of his pants.

              “Nononononono.” Paul whined, scrambling back into the corner, trying desperately to press himself into the wall and away from the barrel of Henry’s pistol. “Ok, ok I was lying, I have the dope. It’s right here, in my jacket.” Paul stuffed his right hand into his pocket and clutched plastic bag. He could feel the outline of his own pistol he’d bought a week ago. Prior to last week, he had never owned a gun, and still had never fired one. He probed his finger around the plastic bag, prodding for the space between the trigger guard and trigger. Would it fire through the plastic? He honestly didn’t know, but he had to risk it. Henry glanced warily down at Paul’s hand in the pocket. He reached out and clutched Paul’s arm right as Paul began pulling the bag out.

              “Right here!” Paul screamed as he whipped the bag out, his finger squeezing the trigger over and over, but nothing happened. Henry staggered back for a moment, looking down to see where he’d been shot. Henry had been shot before. He remembered his ears had played a trick on him then, not registering the sound of the gunshot until what seemed like several seconds after he saw the muzzle flash and felt the pain of the bullet. This time, however, there was no flash, no pain, no sound. Henry watched as Paul slumped on the floor, holding what must have been a gun wrapped in a plastic bag. Maybe it wasn’t loaded, or maybe Paul had left the safety on. At that moment, Henry didn’t care which it was. All Henry cared about right then, was what he was going to do about it.

              “If the dope’s here, we’ll find it Paulie.” Henry’s voice sounded muffled to Paul, as if someone had stuffed his ears with cotton. “We were trying to give you a chance to help out, maybe earn yourself a smoother ride. So long pal.” Paul’s head slumped as the gun-in-a-bag clattered to the floor. He placed his hands over his face as Henry brought his Browning down hard onto the top of his skull. Immediately his world went black. 

August 14th, 2014 10:23 am

              Wayne reflexively wiped his forearm against his mask-covered forehead. The clear plastic face shield had fogged for the third time. It was bad enough that only saw a ghostly outline of the blackened drywall. He considered stopping to clean out the mask again, but he was close. After a half hour of meticulous cutting, he finished carving out the final section of the large rectangle of mold-coated drywall. As he cut, the sweet, sickly scent of moisture underneath had begun seeping out through the cracks. The smell was overpowering, even with the respirators.

Wayne tossed his drywall knife aside—it would need to be sanitized—and called Mario and Manuel over to assist tearing out the affected wall. The three hoisted the patch of wall, pulling it away from the wood studs and slid it to the side. As feared, black rings of mold coated the wood. The rock wool insulation was drenched and looked like wet cotton candy. Wayne surveyed the area, mentally noting how many 2x4s they’d need to bring in, and reached his gloved-hands into the slick, mushy insulation. His fingers pressed against something solid a few inches behind the insulation. He probed up and down the wall, determining the size of the hidden thing. After some prodding, he discovered it started at the floor and continued up several feet. A sudden, unexplainable feeling of dread crept up his back.

He turned and called Mario and Manuel back over and the three removed heavy globs of wet insulation. Behind it, the three uncovered a large, human-sized object wrapped in thick, black plastic. Mario stepped back, horrified and Manuel made the sign of the cross. Taped to the bag, about chest-high was a smaller plastic bag. Near the bottom, Wayne noticed several small tears, probably chewed through by rats or some other rodent. To his horror, he saw a gray, sludgy slime trickling out the holes and onto the wood floor behind the wall. Wayne turned and rushed toward the kitchen sink, but did not make it. He puked his breakfast, now mostly digested, into his mask. He ripped the mask off, heaving in the hot, thick, sick-smelling apartment air.

“I’m sorry guys, but I’m done.” Wayne choked out. Mario and Manuel stood next to the torn out wall. Their faces, obscured by clear plastic shields, pivoted back and forth from the black-plastic bag sarcophagus to Wayne, still shaking and wiping vomit out of his hair. Finally, they just nodded and gave Wayne a shooing gesture. He dropped his tool belt, bolted out of apartment #14B and never came back.