In the heat of the summer, the front stoop of my new apartment complex smells like dog piss.
From the sidewalk, the 4-story, red building doesn't seem like a place that would smell like dog piss, but it also doesn't seem above it. In fact, the plain building kind of seems like it would just smell like the old perfume grandmas always seem to have. Maybe it's the distinct 60's vibe or the old lady brushing past me, jostling my precarious box stacking job. I grip a burning arm around my bottom box tighter, praying nothing falls, and follow her in.
The smell improves tremendously once I'm through the front door, which feels promising. And when I take in the lobby, I realize that I'm in love with this place—dog piss and all. The lobby isn't much of a lobby—rather it's a long foyer leading to a large window overlooking the flower-filled backyard. On my left is a wall of old brass mailboxes, all tarnished in some varying degrees, some holding to their golden color like a lifeline. One has a faded smiley face sticker beneath the apartment number, and one has a half ripped NO JUNK MAIL label. I smile as I imagine the postman snorting and trying to rip it off. I wonder if it ever worked.
It's unexpectedly charming. Tiny black-and-white hex tiles lead to an old wooden staircase, its railing polished smooth from decades of hands sliding over it. Most of all, I love the old chandelier hanging directly in the center of what must be the landing for the second floor. The frosted glass globes mute the harsh light, making the room almost cozy. For the low rent and rough neighborhood, I didn't expect to find beauty in this place—but beauty seems to always stick out.
I'm so enraptured in taking in my new home that I don't notice the old man until he speaks. I nearly jump out of my skin, my boxes wobbling dangerously. "Ope! Sorry, dear." He, with a speed unexpected for his age, lifts the top three boxes from my stack. I clutch the remaining one as my heart slows its hammering. "Didn't mean to scare ya."
He grins lopsided, revealing a missing tooth. He looks to be in his 60's or 70's, skin tanned and weathered from a life spent toiling under the sun. His eyes crinkle with his smile, and his ballcap proudly claims him as a Yankees fan. Above all, he looks unbelievably kind.
"It's okay. I wasn't paying attention." I shift my box to one arm, and jut my free one out. He takes it, rough callouses scratching my otherwise soft ones, and gives it a gentle shake.
"I'm Frank. You must be Scout?" I nod, feeling shy, lost, and overall, quite small. "Girl, aren't we glad to have some new faces around here. Let me show you up to your apartment. I'm the maintenance man, building manager, gopher, doer-of-all things." I believe him, solely from the ridiculous-sized ring of keys attached to his jean belt loop.
Frank turns the corner and starts up the staircase. I'm ashamed by my own strength compared to the easy way Frank bounds up the stairs with the boxes I just struggled under.
We make it up just one floor to a long hallway of the same hex tiles. Doors line each way, some with mats in front, some with wreaths, and some dreadfully bare. Well, two. Two are dreadfully bare at the end of the hallway. Frank stops at the first of the two bare doors and shifts the boxes against his chest. "Here we are. Two-F." I look at Two-E with its twin bare door.
"Is that one empty, too?" Frank hums as he rummages through his keys.
"Now, where is— Two, Three— Ah, there it is. Which one? Oh, no. That one's not empty. Callahan's just not much for decorating." I glance at the blank door again. No mat. No wreath. Not even one of those little metal welcome signs people buy at Hobby Lobby when they've given up on having a personality.
"Sounds festive." Frank snorts, turns the lock on the door and pushes into my new home. Frank moves in, setting his boxes on the ground, and starts flipping light switches. I hold my breath.
As the room wakes up, I soak it all up as greedily as I can. We step into the living room, which isn't the biggest, but has wonderful lighting because of the giant wooden trimmed window and full glass door. I'm eager to see where it leads, as I see a wrought iron railing beyond it. "Is this original hardwood?" I rub the toe of my sneaker softly against the floor.
"Sure is." Frank beams, like he loves this place more than I could ever hope to. "Now, I know the neighborhood isn't the most glamorous, but we've got good people. And she's got good bones." He raps his knuckles against the wall on my right, before gesturing me to follow him, turning more lights on as we go. We enter another equally bright room. "This here is the bedroom. You know there's only one, right? Floor Two is all one-rooms." I nod, setting my box down and crossing to the bathroom attached. Its tiles match the rest of the complex, a pattern I've already found myself obsessing over. "Real simple." Frank leads me to the kitchen, back through the living room. It's so small I don't think multiple people can cook in there, but has a darling breakfast nook and lovely white cabinets. In short—I love it. I love it most of all because it is mine.
It's mine, it's clean, it's fresh. There's no mess to clean up, no things to get rid of. It's full of light and fresh air and possibilities. A wide smile makes my cheeks hurt as I face Frank. "I love it."
His toothless smile matches mine. "I'm glad, girl. Here's your key. Rent ought to be downstairs on the 1st in your mailbox, and if you need anything—" Frank digs in his pocket before producing a crumpled piece of receipt. "Here's my card. You got somebody to help you bring stuff up?"
"Just me." I investigate the back door, pulling it open to expose a balcony overlooking a garden. A garden full of weeds and flowers and not very well upkept, but a garden nonetheless. "Just me." I don't hear Frank leave. I just hug my arms around myself, go back inside, and begin the true hard work.
Hours later, I've managed to lug my entire life up the flight of stairs into my new apartment. Everything—most everything—is brand new. That, plus the deposit, nearly wiped my savings but it's worth it now.
A couch nobody else picked out. A bed no man has disappointed me on.
New dressers for my new clothes, and plants. Plants everywhere.
I could never have my plants before. Ethan always said my plants made a room look cluttered. I look around at the greenery spilling over my windowsill, on the new bookshelf, on the balcony railings, and hanging from hooks above my breakfast nook. Cluttered looks fantastic.
I'm disgusting and sweaty and exhausted.
And the happiest I've ever been.
My phone dings and lights up. I see my mom's contact picture and move closer to read it.
Mom: Did you get moved in okay?
Scout: Yeah, I'm good. Bout to shower and crash. Work tomorrow.
Mom: I wish you would have come home.
Scout: ...
Scout: I'll call you tomorrow.
I set my phone facedown. I'm not even sure where home is yet.
YOU ARE READING
For Emergencies Only
RomanceScout Bennett moved into apartment 2F for one reason: a fresh start. She definitely wasn't looking for another man-especially not the massive, brooding neighbor next door who keeps strange hours, comes home bruised, and gives her his number with one...
