September 2009

One afternoon right after work, I heard someone walk by my apartment. The sound of footfalls stopped at my neighbor’s unit. I heard a knocking on his door. For a second I froze. Then I bolted off the couch, snatched my door open, and jutted my head outside. Standing at his door was a pretty little Asian number in a ruffled blouse and a ridiculously short pleated skirt. She was holding plastic bags laden with groceries. When she saw me, she gave a start. Then she recovered with a flicker of a smile at me that might have seized my heart with rapture (she was really quite beautiful) had I not been so consumed with the possibility of seeing my neighbor’s face. His door was open, I saw, but only a crack. The Asian girl turned her attention to the door, dropping her smile and stepping backward. She was skittish about something. Nothing happened for a bit. Through the crack in my neighbor’s door, I saw only darkness, not a light on in his place. Then something happened so abruptly it caused my breath to seize up in my throat. It was an arm, reaching toward her from the darkness of the door’s opening. The arm was pale gray, shiny, and impossibly long, stretching out toward where the girl stood, several paces back. In places the skin of the arm was raw, purplish and scaly. The girl, keeping her distance, leaned forward to hook the plastic bags over the wrist, after which she immediately backed off another step. The arm retreated with the bags, and the door closed. The girl glanced at me. I wanted to step out and talk to her, ask her what she’d seen, but I was in my boxer shorts and nothing else and figured it would be best to stay put. Curiously, she didn’t move. I smiled at her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled back reservedly. Then she jumped — we both did, actually — as my neighbor’s door opened once again, the arm re-emerging. This time it was gripping a wad of cash, which explained why the girl hadn’t left: she hadn’t been paid. The girl warily approached and extracted the money, taking care, it seemed, not to touch the man’s skin. Now, money in hand, the girl took off in long strides toward the parking lot. The arm slowly withdrew. The last thing I saw of it before the door closed was the fingernails, yellow and ragged-edged.

I felt cold as I stood there, rooted to my spot. But soon my senses returned, and I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and broke out in a sprint for the parking lot. The girl was just getting into her car when I reached her. I yelled at her to wait. She saw me and hastened to close and lock her door. I closed the distance between us and knocked on her window as she stabbed frantically at the ignition with her key. I begged her to help me with something. She got the key in and brought the car to roaring life. I stepped backward into the empty parking space beside her car and clasped my hands together in a theatrical display of supplication. When she saw this, perhaps judging that I posed little threat, she slumped her shoulders and rolled her window down halfway.

“Stay where you are,” she said, though I hadn’t moved.

“I just want to ask you something,” I said.

“So ask.”

“It’s about the guy you brought the groceries to.”

She said nothing.

“Who is he?” I asked. “Have you ever seen him? His face?”

Nothing.

“See, the reason I ask,” I said, “I’ve lived next to the guy for a while now and haven’t laid eyes on him. I was wondering if he was sick or something. You know, like maybe I could help him? As his neighbor?”