by Vitp Perrone

A young man walked slowly, arms to the side, glancing down, counting the cracks of the sidewalk’s crumbled concrete. It was old; anyone could tell its age from the small grey stones that rumbled to the surface like fossilized bubbles of boiled water. Traffic vibrated Main Street, and the roar of mufflers, drifting off as fast as it arrived. He stopped and stared. The sun was out; the dryness of the day gave it away, and the morning mist had vanished in the thin spring air. 

He raised his head and looked up; his arm stretched in front of his face, the sun bright. His brown eyes narrowed; they hid behind a thin pale forearm—still, he stared on into the white bulb of gas. Sweat from his hairline made its way down the creases of his forehead. He felt it and ignored it. Something about beads of sweat sliding down a man’s face made this one in particular feel—alive.  His head was hot; the pitch-black mop of hair soaked up all the heat of the day.  

A few yards ahead, a right turn led to an alley; a straight pillar of bricks formed a six-story building. He pulsed his index finger at each fire escape, walking toward them. 

The first fire escape was too high. The curious man shot his eyes around the alleyway. A broken pallet lay propped against the building west of him. A blue and yellow paper cup with a perfect footprint straight through the middle lay in the center; residue from some red sugar drink leaked from its weak points. It had a splattered paint design. The alley was swallowed by shadow; the exits to the north and south looked like walls of neon white. A disgusting green dumpster smelled of blistering rubber and raccoon shit, stood next to the brick building; positioned just far enough to keep from someone—say a random stranger—climbing up the fire escape from outside the building. 

The top of the dumpster was flimsy, made up of two weak plastic lids, and only the edge looked strong enough to hold his weight. He reinforced his feet and pushed off with all the might in his loins. The dumpster moved from under him. It limited his trajectory and cut his distance. He reached with both arms out to Christ Almighty and clung to the bottom-most bar of the escape. He hung for a moment and looked down at the shallow drop. A metal ladder was above him. He flung his left arm forward, grabbing the bar above; he did the same with the other arm and again and again. Once he pulled himself high enough to get leverage for his feet, he climbed over the sharp black railing and onto the first platform.

A window sat at shin level; a black curtain obstructed his view of the interior. The young man made his way up the shaky metal steps. Flakes of rust and paint drifted down to the pavement, nine or so feet below; they did tricks in the wind. The afternoon gusts rattled the shabby metal platforming. It vibrated under his feet. Once he reached the topmost fire escape, there was a ladder to the roof of the building. The sun hit hard at the roof. The protection of shade from the west of the building was calming, but once on top, sun and anxiety beamed down hard. It smelled of soft tires, and the wind was loud in the face and ears. A single steel door stood on the north side of the building. The young man walked south, stood at the edge, and became hypnotized by the cars that sped by below. The Doppler effect wasn’t as potent as it was on the ground but still presented itself. 

“I can just jump,” he said, his words taken by the wind. He closed his eyes.  

A loud crash of metal and force could be heard. And then a voice. 

“Hey, man. What the hell you doin’?”  It came from the north end of the building. The young man looked behind him to see a short, fat little desk jockey stomping his way over. A white mustache claimed his upper lip with no regard for anyone who looked upon it. The puzzled young man cocked his head in awe of the little man’s speed. 

“Hello? What the hell you doin’ up here?” he repeated. 

“I—I live downstairs,” said the young man, and walked north, head down. 

The old little man watched as he faded down the steps of the doorway.