Buttered Noodles

5:00PM

Shuffling.

Door. Concrete reverb.

Outside. Cold, wet, and gray

Hissing metal. Hot sardines.

Wind, blowing rain.

Hurry home.

Faster.

Pass the Red Jacket.

Ker-plunk.

…

Peter stood there, shaking his newly-drenched foot vigorously and let out an exasperated sigh. Nothing worse than wet feet. He did not continue walking, instead letting the rain blow sideways into his ear. He hated the cold, squishy feeling in his foot. Even worse, it was only the one foot. That made it impossible to ignore; it was like a self-imposed limp. He pulled out his phone to check the time, making sure to turn his body to block the rain from the screen. It read Five Twenty-Eight. He had missed his window of opportunity. He would have to walk by Ms. Furhman, his sole neighbor from the third floor. All too soon, she would be sucking down her customary Five-Thirty cigarette. There was no point in clinging to the strand of hope that the weather would dissuade her; she would be there. Even during the bitterest days of winter, when it seemed that the bricks would simply split and crumble from exposure, Ms. Fuhrman would be there, bundled up to twice her size and taking a long drag.

Dejected, Peter started walking again, every other step a squishy tick of the clock. Suddenly, the clock stopped; Peter saw something that caught his attention. Laying on the ground, in the ally, was a little black book. At first, Peter wondered why it had caught his attention. After all, it was rather insignificant-looking. However, as he approached it, he noticed that it looked newly-purchased. The pages were such a creamy, white color that it almost shone in the fading, gray daylight. He picked it up; the spine was stiff and it was untarnished save for a few stray raindrops that the wind blew in from the street. There was no title on the plain black, leathery cover; it looked like some sort of notebook or diary. With a slight crackle, he opened the cover to the first page, expecting it to be blank.

At first, he thought it was. Then, he noticed something printed at the top, in plain text:

$20,000 waits for you

You have only to be here,

On Monday, the 15th of March,

At 11 AM

Peter read it several times. Then, he promptly found the nearest trash receptacle and made a deposit.

What a great way to get massacred, Peter thought wryly, as he returned his attention to his upcoming encounter with Ms. Furhman.

Besides, he would be at work on March 15th, at 11 AM.

…

5:37PM

As he rounded the stairwell to the third floor, the reason for Ms. Fuhrman's absence became more and more apparent: For one, she was still in her apartment. For another, her ex-husband seemed to have chosen today as his annual reappearance. As he approached his apartment, Three-Oh-Two, the yelling became louder yet somehow no less unintelligible. It's funny, Peter thought, how he wanted nothing more than to avoid interacting with Ms. Fuhrman today and, voila, his wish was granted. He imagined a celestial being with an ear splitting grin, looming over him. Why so unhappy?

5:58PM

Within two seconds, the chunk of butter lost it's edges. As he stirred methodically, the butter meandered its way through a sea of macaroni noodles. Sometimes, it would plunge, only to resurface smaller and smaller. When he was sure that it would not resurface again, Peter threw in some salt and gave it a few last parting stirs. Dinner is served.

9:20PM

Ms. Fuhrman's ex-husband was still there. The yelling came in waves. Peter would not be able to sleep in his bed tonight, for that would place him far too close to the front lines. Not to mention, at any time the yelling might morph into a different display of passion. Peter wasn't particularly tired, but he didn't feel like doing anything else. So, he gathered up all the fixin's for a bed he owned, all of which came from his bed. That is to say, he stripped his bed bare and carried the pile of sleep-ingredients to the opposite wall of his apartment. He deposited them on the floor and burrowed into them. He wouldn't have to worry about loud noises from this side; the room next door was, and always had been, vacant.

11:50PM

Peter opened his eyes to total darkness. Slowly, he remembered that he had covered himself in blankets. Making a hole, he stuck his head out into the dark blue apartment. Silence. Sleep was already creeping over him again. The thought of making the journey back to his bed faded as his eyes shut.

12:00AM

Peter awoke, for there was a sharp knock on the wall next to him and a voice that called out from the darkness.

…

Peter was not at work on Monday, the 15th of March, at 11 AM. His boss called his home phone, which rang in an empty apartment, and left him a succinct message, a simple inquiry of whereabouts. During lunch, one of his co-workers made the jocular remark that Peter might have died.

Fear not, Peter is not dead. On the contrary, he is very much alive.