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Unterschicht

Unterschicht (noun. german)

The part of a community that is less - mostly financially - gifted that the others.
Lower class

Even the elevator of this building was more than elegant and again, keeping the picture in mind the outside had given me, I was in awe. I watched the numbers of the floors go up on a little display about the metal doors and only halfway through that ride it occurred to me that there was no music whatsoever.

The last time I had taken an elevator was ages ago. I just prefer to take the stairs but knowing that elevator music was such a widely spread phenomenon it surprised me that I was met by complete silence.
Not that I cared to be honest.

I finally arrived at the last floor - the 15th floor and got out right away, ready to get this over with as fast as possible.

"Room number five...", I repeated what the receptionist had told me to myself.
Finding the room wasnt that hard because there were only five doors on this whole floor and only one of them had a number with it.
Number five of course.

I asked myself if the other rooms were used as staff rooms or if that was where they stored their cleaning supplies.

I pushed the handle on one of the first doors but it didnt open.
Locked.
So were the other three doors.

My mother had given me a code that could unlock the door to Ieros apartment and I could see a keypad next to the doorknob on number five.
I needed a key for the other rooms.
If I even needed to get in there.

Usually the client would have cleaning supplies ready for us to use. Not a requirement but a nice thing to do. And I had the slight suspicion that one of the four doors on this floor would lead me to a supply room.
Maybe I could find a key or the supplies I needed in the apartment.

4 - 1 - 4 - 4

The numbers were easy to remember and in my opinion just too simple to make it a good password.
But who am I to judge. A place like this probably had safety measures to no end.

I pushed the door open and entered the apartment.

It was really not what I expected at all.
First of all it was way smaller than what the luxury in this had build it up to be.
I had at least expected a loft with maybe a second story but what I could see from my position at the door only gave away the existence of four rooms.
One large living area connected to a kitchen and three doors leading to what I assumed to be different rooms.

I quietly entered the apartment and nodded while taking a look at the different cupboards and drawers. Not too much decor which I was very grateful for.
Having to lift up little items to wipe the dust underneath just took ages and usually the clients arent happy with the way you put them back. Even though I'm pretty sure most of them never even knew the way they were placed in the first place.

Now I did have some expectation going into this.
Like I said before I was picturing him and his apartment on my way here and I honestly dont know what to make from what I can see.

In some parts it resembled the typical photographer apartment I had pictures.
It was clean and simplistic. Modern yet vintage.
And yes, there were big canvases of printed black and white photographs on the wall.
Right next to the entrance there was the cover of an old Vogue magazine front page.
It had Emma Watson on it and a story about "ten fashion no go's to avoid this fall"
Now I didnt know much about photography at all but I did know a thing or two about art and this cover had a beautiful mixture of colours and lights making Miss Watson stand out like I've never seen before.

I was pretty sure that Frank Iero shot that photo. Why would he have this cover framed if it wasn't.
He was talented I'll have to admit.

I walked past the frame and closed the door behind me.
I took off my shoes and put them right next to the door.

Now that I knew the apartment wouldn't be that big I had plenty of time to do my work.
And I decided to use that time to look around the apartment first.
I was especially interested in the canvases on the walls.
Something told me that these photos would tell me more about Frank Iero than article on the internet ever could.

As expected I was amazed by every single photo on the wall.
But there was one that caught my attention.

It was a little bigger that all the other canvases and hung right above the huge TV in the living room area.
On it was a young man, probably in his late twenties or very early thirties.
There was rain in the picture and the man was already drenched to the bone.
Water dripping from his messy black hair right onto his eyebrows.
He was sitting on a chair in a leaned-forward position, elbows on his knees and hand folded like he was praying.
But the look in his eyes and his slightly parted lips told me that praying aas the last thing on his mind.
His head was tilted back a little so it always seemed like he was looking down on me.

It was hard to take my eyes off this canvas. And I didng know what drew me in the most.
His fully tattooed arms?
His white, wet shirt that left nothing to the imagination?
Or his eyes?
Those eyes that made a picture look alive.

He was beautiful and my gay self was really unhappy about the fact that people like him always had to be celebrities of some sort.
People like him were always models or movie starts or musicians.
Not someone you just meet on the street.
Not someone you could just approach like that.

I sighed and turned away.
Although I could have stared at this photo for way way longer, it wasnt what I was here for.

Lets get to work.