Stupid Samuel and Other Stories

The Apartment

Apartment #326. This is where she said she lived.

Not a bad place for a hen like her, he thought, pensively judging the almost-empty lobby decked with pictures of faces he didn't know, couldn't know, and wouldn't care to know. The warm afternoon sun cast light upon them, making these faces even more unfamiliar. He felt unfamiliar.

He felt them, those eyes, watching him as if his judgment day would soon arrive. So he turned his thoughts to today, to now, to this moment in another space. Today, he noticed, the air was filled with the musty odor of sewage. This knowledge made him regretful as he began to lose his appetite. He was supposed to meet her for an early dinner, an hour from now; but he was here, waiting.

He sauntered across the cheap, dull marble floor of the lobby; his custom-made Valentino shoes making dignified taps against it. Rounding some corners until he reached the end of the hall, he found to his dismay, that one lift was out of order, and the other was he presumed to be a prostitute's hangout.

He was afraid that he might be propositioned. The girls looked hungry enough: the broken straps of their curtain dresses calculatedly hanging low by their sides. He didn't want to be near them — their greasy hair, their yellow teeth, their smoky breath.

His terrified eyes searched for the stairs and his feet rushed towards them in flight. The smell of rust pervaded his nostrils as he went up three floors. It must be going to rain.

The third floor was quiet except for a child's muffled wail behind the door at one end of the hall. He thought he liked it better up here; it was cleaner, simpler and not-as-pungent air wafted throughout. Perhaps now he could open his mind and prepare himself for what she said she had to offer.

She had told him, over the phone, that one day she would cook for him. But there never was the right time or the right place. She was preoccupied with work, and the adjustment to a new place didn't make it any easier for her. She was only about two months into this place which she lovingly called, "my cheap baby," with an emphasis on the word cheap.

He had tried hard not to grind his teeth at that affectionate epithet. But he had allowed himself to think she would never make a shrewd businesswoman. He had offered her his services to at least look at what she had bought. But she had refused, saying that he wouldn't get to see her crib until it was ready.

For all that was worth, he slightly forced himself to give in to her requests. He at least deserved a pat on the back for that.

Like now, he half-dragged his feet till they stopped in front of her door, being certain that his polished shoes wouldn't touch anything unnecessarily. He was here now, waiting for the inevitable. The faint scent of food already sifted through the door.

Helen, cook? It was very hard for him to believe that. She might as well have told him she could fly. It wasn't a miracle though that she went through the pains of learning how to cook, in between jobs, just for him. She did not need to do that. He had told her so.

But she thought she somehow ought to, that she was obligated. She believed that it was a requirement asked of a person in a relationship, to contribute something, and this was how she wanted it, as she could not think of anything else. Yes, he thought, she could not think.

He reassured her that she didn't need to be so polite with him, that he would waive the so-called requirement. They could always order in or eat out whenever they pleased. But she had refused. She could be adamant about certain issues whenever she was in the mood, and this was one of those times.

He was embarrassed about it, about what others might call "sweetness" but to him, a mere nuisance. He finally succumbed to her whims, and he expected her imminent failure. He was predisposed to dislike her cooking.