A Testimony to the Continuation of my Pitiful Existence

No Voicemail

When I was in my last years of primary school, mum would have friends over all the time on the weekends. She'd give me a chocolate and I would go and sit in my room playing Pokémon Dash or Super Mario on my DS with headphones on, or I'd leave and hop on a train to the city to wander around for an hour before coming home. Sometimes, I'd get off at a random station and explore, but only if it was warm and daylight. If it was cold and rainy, or if it was night, the city was better because I knew all of the safe places to go to.
    One of my favourite areas was a staircase I'd discovered in an arcade. I learned fast that there were very few fire escape doors that were actually alarmed, and this one wasn't so I of course walked all the way to the top to see what was there. Twelve stories up, I found cream tiled walls rough with graffiti and gum, and a metal door that led out onto the roof. I went there for years before they padlocked it.
    I'd make myself disappear for a few hours, and when I arrived at the door to the apartment I would crouch low and listen through the gap. If there was silence, I would knock, but otherwise I would sit on the step to wait. Inside it would smell sticky and vaguely earthy, or citrusy, which in later years I would learn from experience was the scent of men in bed – and weed. Her friends would always be leaving when I was allowed to enter, and she would be genuinely happy afterwards. Even now, in my bubble-glass memories of those times, I can't picture sadness in her face.
    She was born in 1973, and I was born in 1994. She grew up listening to rock songs on the radio, and used to hang out with friends at the record store near her school. I grew up listening to those songs too. Deep Purple, The Beach Boys, Warrant, Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, Electric Light Orchestra, The Police, they created the soundtrack to an apartment with cracks in the plaster and a kitchen that was renovated twenty years ago.
    Usually she'd play the music when her friends left, and she'd dance with me to songs like Cherry Pie and Emmeretta and Roxanne. Or sometimes she'd turn on the radio to 97.2 Downtown Casino, which played a mixture of classic, modern, and alternative rock that made you feel lonely, or depressed, but in a satisfying way. Mum would lay on the couch with her head tilted back and the window open, smoking a cigarette, but if I walked into the room she'd put it out in the empty planter box that hung outside of it.
    Fiddling with that radio was how I got into newer music. Nikki Webster's Strawberry Kisses and Britney Spears' Toxic were instant hits for me, although mum called them blasphemous to 'real' musicians. It became parental law that I could only change the channel if I'd done my chores, or brushed my teeth, or some other thing that kids hated to do. I still to this day listen to a mixture of her music, early 2000's pop, and anything that seemed to by inspired by them. An interesting blend, but a comforting playlist to me nonetheless.

Across from us, we had a neighbour called Mr. Davies. I didn't, and still don't, know his first name, but he's probably dead now so I suppose it doesn't matter. He was in his late sixties, and lonely. I recall a day where I came home from school and, hearing noise, slung my bag on the ground and sat against the wall, cross-legged. I took out a tiny box of Fads and pretended to smoke them before deciding I wanted the sugar more than the amusement. I heard the shuffle of feet from his apartment, and watched the peephole in his door go dark. A bolt thunked, and the door opened.
    "Back from school, Billie?" he asked, staring at me.
    I nodded.
    "Kerrie not home?"
    I nodded again, the correct answer. He didn't lick his lips, but he looked like he wanted to. He flicked a Freddo in my direction and winked, just as the apartment door opened. A man in a suit stepped out and spotted the two of us. He choked on his tongue, gave a nod to Mr Davies with a tight smile, and hurried down the stairs. Mum leaned against the doorframe in a black satin robe.
    "Guess your mother is home," Mr Davies growled, and slammed his door shut. The bolt slid back, but the peephole remained dark.
    Mum took my hand and led me into the kitchen to sit me down on a stool. Touch Me by The Doors was playing. My Freddo was traded for a plate of cookies and dropped into the bin.
    When I asked why he was so angry, mum told me what she did for a living, and I remember sticking my tongue out and fake gagging. To this day, I'll think about that without warning while I'm trying to fall asleep, and I'll cringe and shake my head. It was a lie. In truth, I was curious. I think I'd always known what she was doing, but went along with it because that is what I had always done. She didn't work in a traditional setting after all.
    As I got older, I discovered she used to be a pole dancer as well. The heels were ridiculous, but she helped me put on a fashion show for her regardless. One of her co-workers, a young woman named Sammie, arrived with a bottle of wine and she helped me apply smooth, soft, expensive makeup that glittered on my eyelids and cheeks. While listening to Santana, the two of them chatted about clients and applauded and wolf whistled me, and I recall laughing until I was on the floor. They pretended to put wine in a plastic cup and I pretended to get drunk. I fell asleep on Sammie's lap and was woken up briefly when she had to leave, and I ended up on mum for the rest of the night.