This choice: Upstairs, try and get some help now • Go Back...
Chapter #3
The Stairway to Heaven?
by: A.J. Danals
I opt for the stairs, at least I know someone is up there, maybe even my friend Charlie. He was at the party, I vaguely remember. In fact, he is the one who brought the keg.
Charlie showed up at our doorstep a week before the semester started, looking for a room to rent. My parents had extra rooms and always thought it was a good idea to have roomies. Charlie was OK, but just a slight bit off kilter. No one knows where he came from. He walked in the first day with some rambling bit about Volkswagen busses and free camping. Anyway, right now, Charlie was my best bet.
The staircase looms in the distance like a mountain range in the mist. How in the hell am I going to get all the way over there? The floor is littered with things too nasty to mention and I'd rather not think about their origins. It had been a kegger after all.
I take a deep breath and set off for the stairs. I sidestep an overturned plastic cup that started out the evening as a drink glass and ended up as an ashtray. Wow, now that is gross. The liquid dumped out is nicotine-brown, probably the way my teeth will look in couple of years if i don't quit. The smell is overwhelming and I almost lose it. Just what I want to do, contribute to the mess on the floor. I've got to keep it together and get up those stairs. If I don't get a move on people are going to start stirring and I am going to get squashed.
I am going to need a plan to get up those stairs. The first one is twice as tall as I am. I grab an empty cigarette pack and start pulling. This will work great to stand on, but I don't know if I will be able to pull it up to the next step. I grab the top of the pack and pull with everything I have--which isn't much; I'm hanging like a wrinkled curtain.
When I finally get the pack over to the stairs, I hear a strange noise. I jump up on the pack and grab the edge of the next step. The step is warn and smooth and I don't know if I will be able to grip it hard enough to pull myself up.
The noise is closer, and rhythmic. It sounds like someone rolling their fingernails on a table in boredom. Tic, tic, tic....tic, tic, tic. I stop trying to pull and turn just in time to see the little dog. Georgie. It looks as if he survived the party and was on his way upstairs. As he neared the first step he stopped and sniffed. Now how this dog smelled me with all of the spilled beer and stale cigarette reek is beyond me, but smell me he did. Thank God this was a small dog, otherwise I think he would have sucked me right up into one of his nostrils, shook his head and sneezed me out like so much snot.
But Georgie must have remembered me from last night and decided I was familiar. He was nice enough not to breathe, eat, or squash me and started on his merry way up the stairs. I realized this was my chance; this was the only way I was going to get up those stairs before I died of old age. I lunged forward and grabbed a chunk of Georgie's hair and hung on. Georgie stopped and turned slamming my head into the wall. I gripped with all my might, my vision wavering with nausea and dog hair. Georgie gave a little shake and I almost lost my grip. Finally I guess he decided I was along for the ride and he hopped to the next step sending me swinging over his back where I tightened my grip and held on for dear life.
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