A Crossing of Man and the Gods

Chapter 2: This Ain't a Party

Chapter 2: This Ain't a Party

I pulled up into the parking lot, and parked in the row closest to the entrance. I let out a sigh and rested my head on the steering wheel. Fuck. I let some asshole talk me into going to a club. A club! Filled with drugs and alcohol and other shit I hate. STD ravaged rats, drunkard shit-heads, and meth addict crackheads. There is a reason I dislike people, especially people in this town. I hate being surrounded by all this shit, and I'm jumping head first to the spawning point of it all.

I shook my head, and stepped out of my car, grabbing my street clothes. I shut my door and then proceeded to lock my car. The building had about 30 apartments, one of those thirty being occupied by me. It was in good condition in comparison to the other apartment complexes around this area. The exterior was worn brick, and in the dark only a couple lights illuminated the side of the building and enterance. The interior had a rather corny 70’s floral wallpaper. The floor was a faded faux-walnut. Plastic wood is always the way to go.

It’s not decrepit, and that’s absolutely amazing. It’s well kept, with no leaky anythings or creaky floorboards. My closet door squeaks, but it just needs a little DW-40, and it’s not like I’m in my closet enough for it to really be some huge issue –to me at least. However, I digress; this apartment is kept in amazing repair in comparison to the other places in this town, and I’m happy I live here.

I muddled to the entrance, and jammed my key in the door. Left, right, click. I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and was greeted by a nice blast of cool air that sent a small chill up my spine. It was still humid and mucky out, and the air conditioning in here was a refreshing change of pace. I liked the goose bumps that trickled down my arm, it was a pleasant reminder that I’m not at work anymore. I shook my keys around trying to find the key to my mail box, and the jingling had apparently disturbed my only grouchy neighbor who just so happened to be filing a complaint at the complaint box, across from the mail boxes. His name is Bob, and he’s has to be –singlehandedly, the most crotchety 28-year-old I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.

“Do you mind?” He asked, though it was more of a condescending enjoinment.

“Yes, yes I do mind. I mind your tone, and I mind your attitude. These are keys, and when they run into each other, they make noise. As do many other things.” I said calmly, rattling the keys around for emphasis.

His brows furrowed into an agitated ‘v’. I knew that look all too well. This is the very look I gave Andrew earlier today when I wasn’t about to admit I was the asshole, and I should’ve been sorry. That look was enough of an apology for me. He turned his head away from me, and then proceeded to give me a miniscule glare out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head, and then let out an airy scoff.

“Just,” He paused for a moment. “Don’t make so much noise.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, letting out a tiny laugh, while finally stumbling upon the right key.

I opened the box to find nothing inside. I shrugged and turned to my immediate right, walking up the first flight of stairs. There were three flights of steps, seeing as there were ten apartments on each floor. I lived in room 22B. The letters A, B, and C signified what floors the rooms were on for those that could not group tens. Bob lived in 12A , so everything I did, he heard. Then again, he’s also one of those people that hears anything at all and blames it on whichever neighbor he believes has earned being the recipient of his foul attitude. Now, I can’t exactly say my attitude is better, but I at least remain civil and do not have the complaint box filled to the brim with complete stupidity.

I reached the top of the steps, followed the curved bannister and rotating 180 degrees on the first floor, walked to the end of the hall and proceeded up the next flight of steps. I mosey into my room after unlocking the door, and throw my work clothes on the worn turquoise futon that sat behind a poor excuse for a coffee table. I’m living comfortably here, but I’m certainly not living in the lap of luxury.