Charlie Huston - Every Last Drop

No. That's a lie.

I get out and he drives away, alright, but it doesn't pass. The gravity pulling from below Fourteenth doesn't go away. Back on the Island, it just pulls harder than ever.

How you ignore a thing like that is, you move. Create momentum. Build velocity to carry your mass outside the influence of the body pulling at yours.

I walk east on Seventy-third, aligning myself with a new trajectory, knowing that what happens beyond the event horizon cannot be described until you are caught in its tide.

The building is mid-block between First and Second, only four stories, but stretching the width of three tenements. Big ground-floor windows covered in sheets of dark paper in a manner to suggest some kind of renovation within. A half-full construction Dumpster at the curb. Upper-story windows heavily draped.

A double stoop leads up to a portico entrance.

The sky's holding the day back yet.

Time enough to make a courtesy call and be on my way. I go up the steps and push the buzzer.

It's a mess.

Like there was ever any doubt, right?

Something like this, the only way you think its going to be anything but a mess is if you re one of those people they call an idealist. Those people, I generally prefer the word asshole when I describe them. Not that I fault a person for doing their own thing, but assholes of the Idealist strain have a habit of fucking things up for everyone else.

Nothing like a person with a dream and a vision for getting a load of people all fucked up.

But Jesus its a mess.

It reeks. Rank with overcrowding.

Fear. Desperation. Misery.

All these most pleasant human emotions have a smell. None of them enjoyable. The air in here is heavy with all of them. A man could gag. -Urn, mind your step there. Just. Yes. Just kind of, urn, step over them and. Obviously these are less than ideal conditions. You're certainly not seeing us

at our best. But I, urn, assure you that this state is only temporary. Once the renovation is complete we'll have these people housed, urn, properly.

I follow his advice and just kind of step over the people sleeping in the hallway. Not that they're actually sleeping. What they're actually doing is watching us pass, tracking us through slitted lids. I hear one or two sniff at me as I weave through their jumbled limbs and bodies. -Hey, hey, man.

I look down at the hairy face looking up at me from his spot, reclined along the wainscoting.

He scratches his fat belly through his Superman T-shirt, pointing a rolled-up copy of Green Lantern at me. -You got anything?

I step past him. -No. I ain't got anything.

He sits up, waves his comic book at me as I follow my guide. -Bullshit, man! That's bullshit! I can smell it on ya! I can smell it, man! We can all smell it!

Bodies rouse, the more lively ones tilt their faces up and inhale.

My guide tugs at the shirttails that hang ever so stylishly from the bottom of his argyle sweater. -Urn, just a little, urn, more briskly here. Just up here.

He picks up the pace, doesn't pay enough attention, steps on someone s fingers. -Hey, fuck! — Sorry, urn, so sorry. -Watch where the fuck, Gladstone. -Yes, urn, sorry.

The comic book geek is on his feet.

— Can't get away with this shit, Gladstone. Come through here, stomp on people, bring some asshole that's holding and won't share out.

More sniffing from the bodies.

Voices.

— Who's holding? — Fuckin Gladstone. -Holdin?

— I smell it. I smell it.

Gladstone stops at the door at the end of the hall, sorts keys. -Yes, urn, so sorry, yes, my mistake, didn't mean to. Yes, urn, just in here if you will.

He slips a key in the lock.

— Just, urn, in here and. Urn. Yes, if you'll all please just be patient, I'm sure we'll have something for you all just as soon as, urn. Yes. Urn.

I pass through, glancing back, seeing the comic book geek flipping us off. -Fuck you, Gladstone!

The others in the hallway settling back into torpor and misery. These being easier and more comfortable than action and rage.

The door closes and Gladstone locks it tight.

— Urn, Sorry, urn. Normally wed have taken the elevator to the office level. Not walked through the, urn, residences, but, urn, the elevator is out and, well, there are some difficulties involved with getting it serviced. So, urn. Up here and, yes.

He pulls at his lower lip. -By the, urn, way, are you holding any?

I walk past him, up the fire stairs. -No. Just I couldn't get all the blood out of my jacket when I cleaned it last.

He comes after me. -Oh, yes, that would, urn, explain it.

— It's a fucking mess.

— I know.

— And it's getting worse.

— I know.

— And it's going to happen again.

— I know, Sela.

— Urn, yes, excuse me.

I watch Gladstone's back as he sticks his head a little farther into the room beyond the door he cracked open only after knocking politely about ten times and finally deciding the people fighting beyond it had not heard him.

The folks inside take note of his presence. -What? What? — Urn, I. So sorry, Miss, but I, I did, urn, knock, and.

— What, Gladstone?

— Nothing. I mean, urn, someone, a, urn, new, urn.

His arm is waving at me, indicating my presence, despite the fact that it is invisible to the people he's speaking with.

— A new, urn, applicant. And I, urn, know you like to greet each one, urn, personally, so I.

— An intercom, Gladstone. We have a perfectly good one. Or has that broken now too?

— No, I, urn, I. I buzzed and. Would you like to, urn? — Wait. Gladstone.

The other voice has taken over, the one that shares my opinion about things around here being a mess. -Urn, yes?

— Is there someone out there? — Urn, I.

He pulls his head back, looks at me to make sure I'm still there, then sticks his head back into the room. -Yes, urn. There. Yes.

— Motherfucker! See! See! A mess! These people. No regard for security. No

understanding of protocol. Is it any wonder things like this shit come up?

— They're not these people. They're our people. You, of all people, should get

that.

— Don't, not now. This is no joke. And it's no time for remedial lessons in

compassion and understanding. You!

Gladstone s back stiffens. -Urn, yes?

— You bring someone up here again without clearing it through me, you'll be back in the dorms.

— I, urn, yes, I. It's just, I did buzz and, urn. -Shut the fuck up. -Urn.

I grab the edge of the door and pull it open, move Gladstone out of the way and step into the room.

Sela goes for the piece strapped into the shoulder holster she's wearing over her tank top.

Her hand freezes on the butt.

— Oh Jesus.

I raise a hand. -Yeah, good to see you too.

Her hand stays on the gun. -Did I say it was good to see you, Joe?

— No, but I always try to read between the lines. Figured you going for your gun was how you express affection these days. -That not how she expresses affection at all, Joe.

The girl comes out from behind her desk, puts a hand on Sela's arm, rubs her thumb across a vein that swells down the muscle. -Chill out, Sela.

Sela takes her hand from the gun, but I'd be hard-pressed to describe her as chilled out. -Don't get too close to him.

The girl comes toward me. -Don't be silly, it's Joe. What's he gonna do, kill me?

She comes closer.

— He'd never do that. He'd never hurt me at all.

She smiles. -Well, except for maybe that time he slapped me.

She squishes her face. -But I was being pretty bratty. Giving him a bad time about things.

She stops in front of me. -Well, come on, Joe. What do you think?

She gives a little spin, displaying her slacks, French-cuffed shirt, suit vest and expensively shorn hair. -Have I grown up right?