Open Door Policy

"Can I sit here?"

It'd been a long day for Manfred. There have been several layoffs recently. It made financial sense naturally, but he had his fill of weeping single mothers begging him to help, the sniveling of brats just barely out of high school. It wasn't going to change tomorrow, and he wryly thinks to himself that he's going to have to start making sure there's going to be available tissue boxes. It's annoying, but at the end of the day they'll have saved enough money. He's already had to listen to the lamentations of others that it'll be busier, that they'll have more to do, but frankly they should be lucky to still have a job.

In any case, he'd been unlucky enough that his car had broken down today. Annoying, but not impossible to deal with as public transportation is exceptional in this city. However, he didn't expect the bus to be as packed as it is this evening, and now he finds himself in a dilemma: a man with greasy hair who smells too ripe, having the gall to request seating next to him. Manfred manages to not snort to himself. Clearly this man is homeless. However, a quick glance over Manfred's shoulder does reveal there are no other seats.

So reluctantly, he moves his briefcase to let the man sit.

A smile is given from the stranger. "Thanks," he says merrily.

Manfred grunts and turns his head to look out the window. He hopes the other man does not sit too closely as to not stain his suit. God forbid he try idle chatter.

"Where you headed?" the man asks.

For a moment, Manfred just clenches his teeth. Damn it. "South 85th," he grunts out.

"Same here." There's a pause as the man begins to rummage around in his backpack that's clearly seen better days, being held together by duct tape and a hope. Manfred doesn't watch too closely, disinterred in this man's belongings. "Now, you look like you've had a long day," the man continues. "Got that look about you in your eyes. Hard worker, huh?"

"Long day," Manfred offers, just to be polite. In his eyes, he does work hard, and has worked hard to be where he is. He's stepped on and over others, knowing he's good enough. Why not? He deserves it.

The man chuckles. "Yeah, me too," he says.

What audacity, Manfred thinks. What could he possibly do to occupy his day? Manfred doesn't continue the conversation, deciding that he's better off thinking about what he needs to figure out for dinner tonight and if he should just call it a day by ordering out. Chinese sounds nice.

It seems like the man picks up the social cue, not pushing for more interaction. He keeps rooting around in his bag, and Manfred is content to ignore him. That is, until a stark black notebook sliding out from the man's bag catches his eye. It bears no clear labeling, the cover vacant, nothing but a void-like darkness. Whatever its contents are, Manfred cannot tell without leaning over and being too nosy.

No. It's nothing, and he shouldn't bother to look. It's probably just the man's journal. Manfred turns his head against the window and closes his eyes, daydreaming about getting home to his apartment, figuring out what to do about his car, and the day that waits for him tomorrow.

The passage of time is shorter than expected. Just one moment, he'd been content to mind himself, but apparently he'd dozed off. Suddenly, he's jolted away with a hand to his shoulder. He looks up to see who it belongs to: the stranger from before.

"Hey man," he says. "Our stop."

After blinking himself awake, Manfred just nods. He watches the stranger go, stepping off of the bus and off to the alleyway snug between Manfred's apartment building and the real estate office. That shouldn't surprise him honestly, there's a plethora of people in tents down that way. Standing up, Manfred prepares to leave as well, but his attention is drawn down to that familiar matte black. As if entranced, he takes it into his fingers, surprised by how velvety it feels.

Manfred finds himself stumbling out of the bus, debating calling after the man. Finding it to be too much trouble, he opts otherwise, and finds himself opening the notebook. There are words written:

For those a helping hand

Treasure, wishes, and joy

Auntie's door is always open

Auntie. What nonsense. And yet, there's also an address included in the book that catches his attention. Wouldn't it be something, he thinks, to have an easy path? No longer dealing with people asking to keep their jobs anyone could do. Just leave it all behind, and have a carefree life. How nice.

He looks at his watch.

Hell, why not? Did staying in his apartment really sound that interesting anyway? His corner of normalcy could stand to be broken up a little bit. Just a tiny bit, and the place couldn't be that far. Even just looking it up on his phone told him it was a 15 minute walk, something even he could deal with.

So he goes back out, ignoring the elevator, the look of the receptionist at the desk. He steps out into the cool night air, following the directions set for him by his phone.

Where it leads him is less than ideal.

The building looks to have been abandoned ages ago. The front door is off its hinges, paint peeling away from brick. This couldn't be right, but then what the hell did he expect? This was probably just some spot for junkies to meet up. That's likely who this Auntie is.

Well, if that's what it is, then he can always leave, Manfred tells himself.

He goes in, stepping over broken glass. He finds himself holding his breath as he goes up the stairs, as if that will somehow make him lighter as he listens to aged wood creak and groan under his shoes.

On the third floor, he finds it. A door open, the numbers 302 faded but there, true to the address of the notebook.

"Hello?" Manfred calls out hesitantly.

Nothing.

This is stupid, he thinks, yet he still calls out, "Auntie?"

There's a soft laugh coming from within the door, as if somehow he summoned a being by just saying that one word. A haggard looking woman emerges, beckoning him with her gnarly fingers.

"Come in, my boy," she invites him.

Steeling himself, Manfred steps inside. It is dimly lit, but not completely dark. A glass stained lamp hanging from the ceiling gives him enough light to look at her. It's hard to pin down her age, he thinks; she is both terribly old with how her hands look and the smile lines down her face, yet something young and fierce is in her eyes, past her mess of hair.

"What can Auntie do for you?" she asks.

"I guess the question is what are you able to do?"

Auntie chuckles, turning away to pour herself a cup of tea from a chipped porcelain teapot. "A great many things. Tell me what you've come for, and I will tell you my price."

"Nothing in this world is free," Manfred mutters.

The statement makes Auntie bark out a laugh. "Oh, no. It never is," she says, as if she finds irony in what Manfred says.

"I want to live comfortably, and leave the company."

"There are many things you could ask for," Auntie muses. "And this is what you decide?"

Manfred shrugs.

"Funny boy." She traces a finger around her teacup. "My price: a piece of you."

Suddenly, he feels his heart sink. "What?" he says, baffled.

"As I said: a piece of you. What you desire requires sacrifice, as all things do. A toe, your tongue, or maybe your ears?" Auntie smiles at him so sweetly it's almost sick. "What say you?"

Manfred's mouth is dry. This was ridiculous, but if she could really make it happen, well-- then he could make this work. "Do I have time to think about it?" he asks.

"There is no time limit on Auntie's transactions," she says before taking a sip out of her cup. "Sit and think, if you must. You know where I will be."

"Give me an hour or so."

"So quick!" She cackles. "As you please, boy."

When he leaves the decrepit building, Manfred knows what he'll do. This was just some mad woman, but on the off chance she could make this a reality, then he could play this. An hour is plenty of time.

Nobody cares about what happens to strangers, much less someone who lives between two buildings and on a wet street. For the piece needed for the transaction, he finds the stranger from earlier.

"Hey man," he is greeted with.

Manfred says nothing, holding up a kitchen knife.

It's a bloody affair, naturally. Even with the sobbing and screaming of the man, nobody comes down the alleyway to look. Nobody at all. Victorious, Manfred shoves a pair of pinkies into a bag. Then, with some hasty work, he is able to cover his own hands with bandages, staining them in blood from the stranger that rode with him on the bus.

Yes, that would do.

Within the hour, he does return to Auntie.

"Auntie," he calls out to the open door.

"Come in, won't you?"

Manfred marches in, holding out her prize. Slowly, the strange woman looks at the bag, peering inside. Her nose wrinkles as if in disgust, which is odd; she was the one to ask this of him, after all. Her green eyes look over Manfred, glancing at his hands, then back to him.

Then, she smiles. "Tomorrow morning, you will wake a new man," she promises.

"That's it?"

"Was it not enough that I asked for flesh?" Auntie says. "Shall I ask for more?"

"No." Manfred takes a step back. "That's fine. Uh, have a good night."

"Sweet dreams," Auntie tells him in the most darling tone.

Content that his swindle would be enough, Manfred takes his leave, strolling back to his apartment. Well, even if it turns out that this is nothing, he hasn't sacrificed much but his time.

He thinks briefly of the man in the alleyway.

Manfred decides it's worth it. It's not like he even knows the man.

And yet.

The following day is a nightmare.

At work, he's fired. The nerve, after everything he'd done, they let him go. On top of that, his car has been towed away for leaving it parked for too long on the road!

Back to his apartment, he's given an eviction notice.

Infuriated, he runs down to the old building. As he races up the stairs, he screams, "Auntie! Auntie!"

There is no response this time, yet the door is still open so he barges in.

There is a note and nothing more:

Do not take what you aren't willing to give.

What did she do to him?! He opens the black notebook, finding it to be blank now. Nothing inside to indicate where he can find her.

Exhausted from his sudden burst of fury and the day that's ruined him, Manfred is stumbling out of the apartment building.

"Hey, man."

He looks up to see the stranger. Cleaner than he had been, even if his clothes still look like they'd been pulled from a dumpster. There are proper bandages around his hands now. Something feels colder about this man now, something that Manfred can't place.

Manfred looks the stranger's hands. "Who took care of that for you?"

"Funny thing is, I got a real generous donation this morning," the stranger says. "I won't be getting my fingers back, but I got enough left over to get me by for awhile. Maybe enough for a roof over my head."

Manfred's throat tightens.

"Know anywhere vacant?" the stranger asks him, scowling.