The door of letters

I ripped off the haunting paper with the big red letters off my beaten front door. After finally locating my keys, I pushed it open and shoved the cursed paper into the garbage, hoping it would be happy joining its friends. I sat in the sunken grey couch that had more lost items than an actual lost and found. Speaking of—I know my lighter is somewhere within the cracks and folds.

I was exhausted from another shift. My bones ached and my dignity had been stripped naked—just as my body was a few hours ago. I swiped the tiny overused lighter from inside the couch and stuck the pre-rolled joint between my lips. I inhaled—hoping my problems would also turn into smoke. In the middle of my solitude, I heard a painful knock at my door. I took a deep inhale through the nose; I just wanted to fucking smoke.

I swing open my door and see Mrs. Clarke; she was my neighbor, old as dirt, and annoying as hell.

“Good morning, Mrs. Clarke,” I say as I rub my palms into my face.

“Now you listen here, Libby. It is 7 a.m. and you’re already smoking reefer! Don’t you have any class… or GRACE—”

“Are you done?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Every morning was the same routine. I spark up and here comes Clarke knocking at the door.

“You are an awful young lady. I thought considering how nice your moth—”

“Alright! Put a fucking sock in it, lady! I had a long shift and the last thing I need—”

“Oh please! You call that work? What kind of job makes you dance around naked? Put out that smoke or I’m calling the police!” she says. I slammed the door before she could get another word in. If anyone needs to smoke—it’s her. Before I can sit in my silence, I hear another knock at the door.

“If you don’t get the fuck—” I say as I swing open my door. I look up and Mr. Bernie, my landlord, is looking down at me with his arms folded.

“Hey… Bernie. I’m gonna have the rent by tomorrow after my shift, I’m just short a couple hundred—.”

“Libby… I can’t keep giving you passes. It’s been eight months since your mother passed and I know she didn’t leave you with much but we can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s just she was sick… and the bills. Just please, I just need another day,” I say, clasping my hands together as my eyes begin to water. The grief of my mother and my circumstances consumed me. I was hoping maybe I could use the ‘dead mommy’ card once more.

“One more day, Libby,” he says as he sighs. I begin to close the door and his hand blocks it.

“One more thing, and I’m gone. Mrs. Clarke is hiring a housekeeper, she’s willing to pay well. I know how you feel about each other, but you and I both know these shifts at the strip club—”

“Thanks, Bernie! Will do!” I say, slamming the door. I did not need any more lectures and I definitely did not need Clarke’s help.

I knew the death of my mother no longer started to matter, at least to the outside world. After mom died, I really had nothing left—just a mountain of bills from the funeral cost and her hospital treatments. Treatments that did nothing but give us more grief. I toss what’s left of my blunt into the vault—my ashtray—and make my way towards the bedroom.

I searched my messy drawer for sketch paper and pencils—I was running low on finances and vices. I look over and notice my weed stash is also diminishing. I plop backwards into my bed and set my alarms. Before I entered my sleep-deprived coma, I frantically text my plug to give me my fix for the week—at a very discounted price. I had plans to spend my last hundred on the two things; weed and art.

I woke up three hours after my alarm and rose out of bed to have a little wake and bake session. I had stuck my blunt in between my cracked lips and hoped the weed would force my anxiety into hiding. I hated my job and hated what I had to do for a couple of crumbled twenties. I set my blunt aside for the next morning and prepared to turn exploitation into cash.

After another humiliating shift, I slowly approached my apartment building and saw that Bernie had been waiting for me. I was shocked to not see all that was left of me, out on the street. I walked closer as I prepared to plead my case. I did not have the money, and I knew what that meant.

“Just let me pack my own stuff, alright,” I say, pushing past him before my tears have a chance to embarrass me.

“No, no, Libby. Mrs. Clarke had told me she hired you and the pay is great. I’m willing to extend the time, I’m sure now you will be back on your feet.”

“Oh… um, okay,” I say slowly walking past him. Who fucking said I wanted to work for that old bitch? I sighed as I walked up the steps; I knew I should be grateful but working for her—out of all people—just felt low. I approached my door and saw my new package at my doorstep. Mrs. Clarke’s door creeps open; I open my mouth to curse her but she stops me.

“Now before you act like a pain in the ass, I didn’t do it for you. You were losing your apartment all on your own—and I should have let you. But—I’d rather not have some new young asshole move next door, I’d rather deal with the Devil I know. That includes employment.” She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, as if she was waiting for a thank you.

“Whatever,” I say, unlocking my door.

“Be at my door by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning,” she says sharply.

“I work nights,” I argue.

“Well I guess you have to choose between your sleazy cash and a full-time job,” she says, slamming her door. I grunt aggressively and enter my apartment. I was so angry—angry because I knew this would save me; I just didn’t want her to be the one doing the saving. I kick my garbage can over and all the eviction notices and past due bills spill out. The mess created despair—and a sense of clarity. I began to sob into the mountain of financial burden. I knew what I had to do; choose between my “sleazy” cash that only supplied my vices and a full-time job at Clarke’s.

I had spent most of that day and night wrestling with the ultimatum. I know the easy choice would be working with Clarke and having my rent and bills paid. But the other half of me was feeling controlled. I took a deep breath and put my pride aside as I hung up my eight-inch heels and g-strings and made my way to Mrs. Clarke’s that following morning.

I stood in front of her door that always looked freshly painted and hesitantly knocked. Mrs. Clarke opens the door and a small smile creeps on her face; I knew she found joy in my humiliation.

“Smart choice, come in.”

Her apartment was filled with that old lady perfume smell and wisdom. My shoulders relaxed as I watched her put on a pot of tea.

“Come on, girl. I will explain the rules in the dining area.” I followed her into the room and take a seat.

“Okay, here [are] all the rules and listen close. I won’t repeat them and you get one shot.” I nod in her direction and fix my posture.

“First, ALWAYS be on time; second, complete your task before 7 p.m.—if not, you’re fired. I need someone who can do a day’s work well and efficiently. Third, no more smoking weed.” I jump from my seat—I was outraged.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I have bad lungs and if you’re just here to kill me sooner, you can go—and I’ll tell Bernie to find me another girl in the building.”

“What happened to dealing with the devil you know?”

“You wanna be a homeless ex-stripper?”

I sat down after that shot was thrown. I felt defeated but I knew I couldn’t go back to twenties in my boobs, I couldn’t—not even for a place to live.

“Fine. I’ll smoke outside,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Make sure you bring a jacket, winter is approaching,” she says, sipping her tea. I took a deep breath and sipped from the mug.

“What are my task?”

I had worked for Mrs. Clarke for about a month. She was more intense as an employer than a neighbor. She bossed me around and hardly ever let me take a break; but the pay was excellent. Although she was agonizing—she started to grow on me.

Another morning at Clarke’s had approached—I did my usual task: making tea, breakfast, assorting medications, and cleaning. I poured piping hot tea into her favorite mug and paired it with slightly burned toast.

“Here you go, Mrs. Clarke,” I say as I set the tray of food in front of her.

“I smell that smoke on you,” she sharply whispers.

“I smoked outside this morning.”

“You look too beautiful to have such a nasty habit.”

“Wait… did you just compliment me?” I tease, smirking and folding my arms. She smiles and shakes her head.

“Missy, I’m paying you enough to get your affairs in order… but it seems like Amazon has stolen your wallet,” she says, sipping her tea.

“I order art supplies from Amazon—I draw and shit.”

“Oh really?” she says. I nod as I start folding clean laundry.

“So you’re not gonna show an old lady some art?”

“That wasn’t a part of the rules,” I say, shaking my head.

“Show me—or you’re fired,” she says, smirking. I sigh and walk over to my apartment. I quickly search in my messy drawer for a decent finished piece to show her. I quickly pop back in to show her.

“That was quick for someone who didn’t want to share.” I passed it to her without eye contact and quickly made my way back to the laundry. To be honest… I didn’t ever think I was good. I assumed my doodling wouldn’t land me a real job—so I kept it as my vice.

“Who knew,” I hear Clarke say from the couch.

“What?”

“Who knew you were a real artist? You sell yourself short, girl,” she says as she looks down at my piece. She grazes her old wrinkled hands over the dried red, orange, and brown paint. She looks down with sad eyes and sighs.

“How much?”

“Mrs. Clarke, it’s not for sale,” I gently took back my painting.

“You know they take new pieces every month at the gallery, the best one gets a cash prize.”

“I’m not interested,” I say coldly, slamming the clothes in the drawers. I hear Mrs. Clarke shuffle her way towards me. I stop folding and look over at her.

“I know you don’t believe in much since your mother passed but if you’re gonna start believing in anything—start with yourself, girl.” Mrs. Clarke leaves me to finish the rest of the folding. I glimpse over at my painting as Mrs. Clarke’s words fill my mind—and heart.

Every week, I painted Mrs. Clarke something and every week she would tell me to take it to the gallery—I never would. I would spend the day gathering courage but as the time approached I turned away in fear. It had been officially three months of me helping Mrs. Clarke and within those months—something sparked between Clarke and I.

On one cold morning before my shift with Mrs. Clarke, I found myself smoking on the stoop. In the midst of my wake and bake, Bernie walks through the door.

“Oh, hey Libby! How’s Mrs. Clarke?” he asks, sitting beside me.

“She’s pretty cool and much nicer. She still gets on my ass but I don’t mind it anymore.”

“Yeah, she seems lighter these days—despite her health. It must be hard to be in good spirits with all that going on,” he says, taking a deep breath.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh—you know,” he says, looking around—as if he was hinting towards something.

“I don’t,” I say as I sit up straight.

“Libby… Mrs. Clarke has cancer.”

I leave Bernie on the stoop and race up the stairs. This time my knocks aren’t friendly, but desperate—desperate for answers and truth. My eyes burned with more than anger this time, now tears had made an entrance. Mrs. Clarke squeezes open the door and her eyes widen at the sight of me.

“Have you lost your mind, girl?”

“You have cancer?” She takes a deep breath as we face each other in silence.

“So you just weren’t going to tell me?” I choke over the tears and words. Reminders of my own mother’s sickness resurface and suddenly Mrs. Clarke’s sad eyes resembled my mother’s.

“Come inside, girl,” she says as she hugs herself in her robe.

I follow behind her slow footsteps into the living room. I firmly place my hands by my thighs and stare into the plastic-wrapped couches.

“I’ve been sick for some time, no need to upset yourself, dear. Trust me—I’ve seen enough,” she says, chuckling. Her words tear open the wound in my heart—a wound that continues to lose its scab.

“So you’re going to quit because I have cancer?” she asks. I let out a struggle laugh. She was funny, annoying, restless, and my friend. I looked up at Mrs. Clarke and her smile was from ear to ear, the wrinkles by her mouth and eyes creased. I realized—I’ve never seen her smile.

“I have a proposition for you, Libby,” Mrs. Clarke says slowly, standing with her hand on her back.

“What’s up?”

“I will give you a raise—if you submit your art to the gallery Sunday afternoon.”

“I don’t know…”

“It would be a lot more than your weekly stipend, and you don’t even have to win,” she says with her eyes—still glistening with hope.

“Now, take the weekend to work. I look forward to hearing from you Monday.”

“Wait—I’m not working the weekend at all? What if you need help or something?” I frantically asked, hoping she would just let me stay.

“I have appointments, there’s no need,” she says, looking away. Knowing the context of these appointments only made me feel worse about leaving.

There I was back at Clarke’s on Monday, 8 a.m. sharp. I had submitted my art piece for—in honor of Mrs. Clarke. I bravely knocked on the door and eagerly waited. I was excited to tell Mrs. Clarke all about the submission and most importantly—that I won. I held my certificate tight in hand along with a check of three hundred dollars.

“Libby,” I hear a voice say behind me.

“Oh hey, Bernie. Is Mrs. Clarke here?” Bernie stayed silent. My chest tightens and my mouth goes dry—I knew there would be no good news. My lips shape themselves into a pout as my tears begin to pour. Bernie wraps his arms around me as we stand in front of Mrs. Clarke’s door.

After the news came to me in silence, I walked back over to my apartment and stared at the battered door that used to be a home for eviction letters—but now only contained an envelope. I gently opened the envelope and a tiny piece of paper fell to my feet. It was a check for ten grand, credited to me and from—Mrs. Clarke.