Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [80]
Probably out of boredom, the little boy was drawn toward me. He was seven or eight and intruding into my personal space in the way that only a guileless grade school kid can. He was clearly eager for any kind of distraction in a room that offered not a single intriguing square inch.
I sat miserable and silent, trying to ignore him.
“Lady,” he finally said, positioning himself right in front of me, then cocking his head and squinting. “If you ain’t Medusa, you is Medusa’s sister.”
Stunned that a kid his age had referenced Medusa, I started to laugh.
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I’m her sister. That’s correct.”
His mother called him back to her side and he scampered off.
But as I continued to sit there, his remark made me laugh again and again. In my new role as Medusa’s sister, I was somehow better equipped to cope and put things in perspective. I’d entered the hospital a sniveling, disheveled victim who had been crushed by a cruel, violent encounter. But I would be leaving an awe-inspiring, terrifying Gorgon: a winged woman with brass hands who could turn a man to stone with her piercing stare. Or, should I say, the sister of a woman who could do all of that, but come on! It ran in the family! I had pull with her. She would listen to me. We were on very good terms, me and my sister Medusa.
A short while later, the hospital released me. I don’t remember much about the medical exam. When I was standing at the reception desk, checking out, I became aware that I had to call someone for a ride home.
This was a problem. The only person I knew with a car was Mr. IFAP.
“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, aware of voices and laughter in the room where he had answered the phone. Apparently he was entertaining guests again. “I’m calling from a hospital emergency room. And I … well … someone broke into my apartment and I don’t have anyone to give me a ride home now.”
Much to my relief, he agreed to come get me, even though he was already in the middle of mentoring another young art genius.
I babbled incomprehensibly as IFAP and his other prodigy drove me back to the scene of the crime, where they dropped me off curbside so they could make a U-turn and head back to their previously scheduled event.
I stood alone in the foyer of my apartment house, afraid to open the door to my apartment. I was not eager to face a long night filled with the loud silence of walls full of dusted black fingerprints. What if my attacker was nearby, watching me? Or worse, what if he was already back inside, waiting for me to return?
It was in this moment that I met my neighbors for the first time.
“Are you okay?” said a slim blond man, peering out from behind the chain on the door of the apartment across from mine. “What happened?”
Looking more closely, I could see that he and his companion were in drag.
“Well, I guess I’m okay,” I said. “Except for … you probably don’t know this, but I … a guy broke in through the window.…”
“Oh my God!” he said. “Are you okay? Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Would you mind standing there while I open the door to my apartment?” I asked. He unbolted his chain lock as I put the key into the door and then gingerly kicked it open. I let it swing wide so I could see inside without having to actually enter. The first thing I noticed was that my power tools were still lying on my worktable.
“Oh, shit,” I said, seeing something else. “I think he got my purse.”
“Probably had a belt and shoes to match,” said the blond guy. Yes, it was a predictable dumb joke. Inappropriate and not even all that funny. But at that moment it seemed like the most hilarious joke in the world. I laughed and laughed, thrilled to have had two occasions to laugh on a night like this, wanting to stay inside that laughter as long as I could.
“Honey, why don’t you come in and have a drink with us,” said the blond guy, stepping out from behind his door and into the foyer. “I have to apologize. Kevin and I just split the last Quaalude. But we still have Valium and Tuinal.…” He held out a faux-antique tin full