Miss November

Sandy lay on the couch. Two days ago she had pulled the phone-cord from the wall. She turned off the ringer on her cell phone this morning. Sandy didn’t actually hear her phones ringing, but she knew that they were, both of them, ringing off the hook.

She knew…

It would take time, but the phone calls and the flowers and the balloons and the emails and the notes under her windshield and the skywriting over her apartment would stop. Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not the day after, but they would stop, eventually.

She hoped so. Restraining orders were a pain, and going to court was a drag, and besides the bailiffs were starting to call her Sandy, like “Hi Sandy, been a while, how you doin’ Miss November?” As if...?

There was a loud buzz from the intercom. Sandy concentrated on what Charley Sheen was saying on the TV. The intercom buzzed again. Sandy rolled her eyes and swore an oath against humanity in general, and men in particular and turned up the volume on the set. The canned laughter filled the living-room.

Finally, the buzzing stopped and Sandy, almost holding her breath, waited several minutes and then turned down the TV.

She thought about Alan Pierce five stories below walking dejectedly away, his hands in his pockets, the flowers he had brought now laying in the gutter as he walked back along the dark rainy street below her window.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. He was, very, but he snored, and he drove a Honda motorcycle! He swore he’d get a car after medical school, he said he couldn’t afford one now, yeah, fine, whatever ! Look me up when you’re a real doctor and have some money and aren’t so tired all the—

There was a loud knock on the door

Sandy rose from the couch in her sweatpants and favorite sweatshirt and walked carefully on the heels of her bare feet to the door.

The knock came again, and Sandy wondered how the hell did Alan get in her apartment building? She stood before the door rubbing both hands over her face. She saw the need for making a court date in the morning. She would also have to have a word with little Pepe, the so-called, “Door Man”.

“Miss Sandy!” It was Pepe outside her door. “It ees the polis, they want veddy much to talk to you!”

“The police?” Sandy asked through the door.

“NYPD, Miz Chambers,” came a whole different voice, and along with it, the airy cackle of a walky-talky saying something like, “vik vye for a shhhhneeer vettt.”

“Oh for God sake!” Sandy said under her breath. She removed the cotton balls from between her toes and threw them behind a potted plant. She looked through the peep-hole and saw two tall policemen standing before her door.

“Miz Chambers, it really is quite important you speak to us immediately!” came the same firm, very masculine voice outside the door.

“Hurry! Please Miss Sandy!” Pepe called. He sounded beside himself with alarm. “It ees Mr. Ahlan, he ees ona the roof top!”

“He says he’s going to jump, maam… We need you to hurry!” came the manly voice, then—glichnig—“ forty-one, hows your ten-twonich?” She could hear the officer outside saying something about an occupant in a residence. He said, “Hold on!” Then the radio crackling again, and a walky-talky-voice saying, “We don’t have much more time, Gus! This guy’s going to jump man! Over!”

“Miss, will you please open the door!”

She wasn’t sure which policeman was talking, but she hoped it was the one on the left.

“Miss Sandy, Miss Sandy! Pleasssse, Miss Sandy!”

“I’ll be right there,” said Sandy in a sweet, high voice as she ran to her bedroom on her freshly painted tippy-toes.

“Madre de Cristo!” said Pepe.

She wasn’t going to go outside looking like this! She ran to the closet and combed through the many clothes she had hanging from wooden hangers. There were bright red and blue and white lights reflecting off her windows coming from the street below.

The knock on her front door was now more of a pounding.

“One minute,” called Sandy again as she selected a blouse and immediately discarded it onto the bed behind her. “One minute!”

Sandy could hear voices from the street, loud, mingled, excited voices of what sounded like a mob of people. She chose another blouse and tore it from its hanger with one hand as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head with the other.

She could hear sirens outside, and a helicopter buzzing over the roof across the street. She could hear a bullhorn telling people to get back from the sidewalk. Sandy slipped out of her sweatpants and ran to her dresser.

The pounding on the door was enough to break it down. Sandy could hear Pepe pleading with her to come open the door.

She struggled into her black jeans, twisting and jumping up and down in little hops.

The pounding at the door continued and the walky-talky crackled “For the love of God, what’s taking so long, Gus?”

“Tell Alan, one minute!” said Sandy. “I’ll be right there, honest!”

She ran into her bathroom flicking on the light and the fan came on in a loud whir. She looked a mess, but she couldn’t take the time to brush her hair now, well, maybe just a quick brush or two. She didn’t hear the change outside on the street. She didn’t hear the god-awful scream and the sudden silence afterward. Except for the helicopter pulsating outside overhead, everything was hushed now.

She ran for the door seeing that her shoes beside the couch were completely wrong with the jeans but, oh hell! “One minute!” she called for the sixth or seventh time and ran back to her bedroom. She needed her burgandy Le Salle pumps. He high black boots would have been better, but she really didn’t have the time.

1000 Words-