Goldfish and Gunpowder by Kathryn D'Elia

There were only two other people in the building with him, both shuffling through their last few insurance claims, itching to go home. “I’m about to head out, guys,” Allen said, as he stood up, stretched his shoulders, stiffened from cubicle-induced sloth. Carol glanced up from her computer and nodded in his direction. From the other side of the room, the “De-li-lah” radio show theme played on Jim’s portable radio. The antenna pointed up and left in an awkward diagonal. “G’night Allen,” emitted from the remaining individual. He was barely audible over the pleasant reflective song that Delilah herself had selected to play for a troubled listener. “See you tomorrow, Jim.” Allen shuffled his feet and took his time shutting down his computer, lining up his folders, and putting all stray pens in their appropriate location. He looked up at Carol and Jim a few times as he did this. Their eyes were glued to their tasks. All that could be heard was the clicking of keys, lightly veiled by the whining music in the corner. He hated himself for lingering, but the vision of wandering into his apartment alone, staring into its dark quiet corners, made him even more aware of his steadily mounting loneliness. Reluctantly, Allen grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and swung his backpack over his right shoulder. He looked back once more before stepping outside. They didn’t move.
The chilly air blanketed around him as he pulled the heavy door to. He tried to cover a shiver by pulling up the collar of his windbreaker. He made his way off the stoop and down the cement steps to the bike rack which was bolted off to the left of the building. Allen was the only employee at Rodgers & Goldbach Insurance that opted for two-wheeled transportation. Everyone else had cars or took the Lightrail. He knelt down next to his cerulean ten-speed, feeling his knee smush into a mound of fallen leaves and ripe earth.
“Hm…Allen Apollo Nielson…” a voice said, slowly sucking on each word as if it was sweet, like candy. He stiffened and righted himself from his stance at his bike lock to face the direction of the sound, inhaling the dirty metallic smell of the gears as he moved. There was the outline of a figure, tapping its fingernails against the crisp plastic of an ID card. Quickly trying to grasp some understanding of what was happening, Allen slapped his hand over his back pocket, feeling the absence of a very familiar bulge.
“Apollo, huh? it continued. The voice was female. He didn’t realize why he hadn’t gathered that immediately. The voice was sing-songy; sweet, the tones rounded and smooth. “That’s very regal,” she said, giggling lightly. “I bet your mom picked it. You’d be her little Greek God.” He searched the twilight for the woman’s features, squinting in attempt to align the blurred plains of her face.
“Who are you?” His question got to the point, but lacked the conviction that would have landed him an actual answer. The woman said nothing but approached him, small feet crunching through the fallen leaves. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Rustle. Crunch. The dim glow of the office’s porch light began to define her form as she approached. Crunch. Rustle.
“How’d you get my wallet?” he added, studying her nervously.
“You scared?” she giggled again. The wind blew her pretty raven hair across her face, leaving only her mocking grin in his view. She didn’t bother to brush it away. Allen surveyed her, spying his wallet in the grip of her right hand.
“Can I have that back, Please?” he mumbled, gesturing to his rightful possession. He couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to get it, but he sure as hell wanted it back.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” she teased. Allen studied her for the few seconds she remained there. As the cold wind blew through again, her hair fell back into long dark waves around her pale face. She avoided his direct gaze. She kept her eyes down at the wallet in her hand, at the toes of her boots, at Allen’s neck, hands, as if contemplating her next move. When she finally lifted her chin up to catch his stare, Allen saw that there was something unspeakably wild in her eyes, indescribable. She took another step forward and reached out her left her hand, grazing her fingertips on his chest. Allen stiffened at the contact, unfamiliar now with a woman’s touch. Swiftly she slipped his ID into the breast pocket of his button-up with her right hand. The pressure of her fingers changed. They were now pressing firmly against him, possessively.
“What a shame, you’re such a cutie too,” the words slid off her tongue like that of a snake. He imagined slithering coming from the shadows. With that, she pushed off of him and leapt away, seemingly gazelle-like into the street.
“Hey! Wait!” he called after her. By the time he had blinked and managed to the form words, the nameless girl had dissolved into the chilly Baltimore air. He ran down the driveway after her, but when he stepped out on Michigan Ave and searched for some sight of her, he found none.
“Shit.” She still had his wallet.
“Shit.”
The silvery twilight was transforming into dark, fast. Allen stared into it for a few minutes in disbelief before kicking the brick building, unlocking his bike, seizing the handle bars and putting as much distance between himself and what had just happened as his legs could manage. The chain squeaked and scraped from the force. “Fucking embarrassing…I just stood there and let her take it,” he thought, blood pounding in his ears. He made a private resolution not to tell anyone about this little incident. “Mugged by a belligerent homeless man,” would sound better. As for the stolen wallet, he considered calling the cops and writing statement and then decided against it. What were the Police going to do about it? This was Baltimore. There was real violence here, big theft, street gangs, murder. Real criminals too. What kind of cop would waste his time going after some random girl who stole a wallet with barely any money in it, when they could spend his time trying to take down gang leaders? Plus, how dumb would that sound? “Yes ma’am, I have no idea how she got it away from me.” “No, I think the Greek god thing was just a play on my middle name.” “Well, it’s Apollo.” “That’s right, she ran away.” “No. I couldn’t stop her…” Calling the cops was embarrassment just waiting to happen.
When his apartment building came into view, Allen swung a leg off his bike and cruised up near the wrought iron railing, which stood complementary to the structure’s brick facade. It was much too dark to make out the details of what probably used to be a very charming building. Now it stood like a familiar fortress, backlit by light pollution and the few working streetlights. He dismounted, lined his bike up with the railing, wove the chain through the spokes and frame and secured it with a Masterlock, which he clicked and tested twice before headed up the steps to his apartment. He glanced over his shoulder into the street before walking into apartment C.
“Damn,” he thought…
Allen locked the door behind him and let his backpack drop from his grip. He spent some time switching on some necessary lights. The spooky un-obliging feeling of the house lifted as light flooded away the shadows. From his spot in the hall Allen could make out a reflective glint coming from his bedroom. He walked closer and found the “Thank You” plastic bag on his dresser had caught the light. Nervously, he glanced at it and turned back to the kitchen…

Lillian and Gilbert watched their Master come in from their designated spot by the living room window. “I still don’t know why he bought that gun,” thought the female fish. Gilbert hid behind the castle at the bottom of the tank…

The next morning Allen busied himself straightening his thin red tie that the company required him to wear. He thought it made him look like a Mormon schoolboy, especially when the bike got involved. As far as his wallet was concerned, he was much more annoyed with the loss of Derek’s Costco membership card than anything else. That, and the shame of being mugged randomly outside his office building by some strange woman that just popped out of the dark… credit cards were easy to cancel, but explaining to your best friend of eight years that you lost his key to bulk shopping because some girl just took it from you, was pretty weak. The only thing Allen ever bought during their Costco trips were big jars of chocolate covered raisins. Hence why he’d rather freeload on the membership rather than get one of his own. With the circumstances, it’s a wonder he had ever been chosen to hold onto the card. However, Derek had been recently married and had even more recently discovered that his new wife, Annie, was pregnant. Things like Costco memberships tend to fall to the wayside when that kind of thing turns up. Looking down at the kitchen counter, Allen gazed at his ID that he’d tossed there the night before. Without a wallet to use, he stuck the card in his back pocket by itself. The weight was nowhere near the same, but the feeling of it was comforting.
Allen shook some flakes into the fish tank. The two bubble-eyed goldfish bobbed at the surface, pecking at the tiny bits of dried splendor. “See you later, guys.”
He rolled up his right pant leg to keep it free of the chain, unlocked the bike, folded the chain, stowing it in his backpack, which he then threw over this shoulders. Straightening the handlebars, Allen mounted his bike and hoped today would be significantly more predictable than the night previous.
His boss waddled by, gesturing to him with a handful of manila folders, “I’ve got quite a stack for you, Nielson.” The man carried a stern expression on his heavily browed face. He always did that. This kind of greeting/threat only served to keep up an air of authority that no one particularly felt. After bestowing it, he would disappear for the rest of the day. It worked out well enough. “Alright Sir, I’ll get on it.” Allen said, committing himself to another fascinating day shuffling through insurance claims.
“So some creepy chick had your wallet and then ran off with it?” Derek’s voice came in ragged and tired sounding on the other end of the phone. Allen examined the distinct and evenly geometric edges of the receiver on his work phone. He ran a fingertip over the eight evenly spaced holes on the mouthpiece that made this machinery possible. He imagined his voice getting trapped in it, sucked in through the tiny holes like a vacuum.
“I don’t know man. It was so weird,” he replied.
“Did you cancel your cards?”
“Yeah, I took care of it.”
“Dude, that’s so fucked up. You know, watch her have taken it just for the Costco card. I could totally see that happening. Weird chicks.”
“Who knows? I just thought I’d tell someone about it. I don’t know how the hell she got her hands on my wallet. Whatever. How’s Annie doing?”
“She’s good. I’m exhausted. Catering to a pregnant woman will kill ya.”
“Eh, well give it a few months and you can trade that for a screaming baby that will have to be catered to.”
“Not helpful, man.”
Allen ended the conversation and returned to his work. He opened a folder with pictures of a hit and run accident, a Land Rover with a crushed driver side door. “If the driver had been in the car… he definitely wouldn’t be around,…” he thought, popping four chocolate covered raisins into his mouth. Three minutes later, now examining the conditions of the car owner’s policy, Allen removed four naked raisins from his mouth, one by one, and laid them on a napkin. He usually called it quits on the raisins as soon as his pile began to resemble a volcano. That was the stopping point, volcano.
The air was sharp and cool as it hit Allen’s skin. He unlocked his bike quickly this time, looking around for signs of the mystery girl. He surveyed the parking lot and the shadowy area on the side of the building. No sign of her. The departure from the norm the previous night had made the experience of heading home exciting again. Nothing out of the ordinary was expected, but there was a shiver running his spine as he built up speed and headed home.
He deftly wove the chain in and out of the spokes the way his dad had taught him. “They’ll never be able to get her if you do it like this, son.” He attached the lock, checked it, and headed inside with the smile on his face, listening to his own feet crunch on the leaves around the stoop. As Allen stuck his key in the dead bolt, he faintly heard sounds from beyond the door. He threw the door open. The one light that as on hung just above her head, spotlighting his kitchenette. She sat on the counter, swinging her legs impatiently like a child. His wallet sat on the counter directly next to her, a jar of chocolate-covered raisins behind her.
“How the hell’d you get in here?” Allen yelled from surprise…but also not surprise. Encounters like the night before were too unusual not to repeat themselves. She looked over at him curiously from her perch. “You shouldn’t hide extra keys.” The woman said playfully. “You never know who will find them.” Her disposition would be cute if she hadn’t just broken into his house.
“Listen lady, who the hell are you? What do you want?” His voice told of his rising anger. It seemed to get her attention and she bit back her grin. She hopped down from the counter, her boots making the gentle double-footed stomp that indicates landing. She walked up near him. There was something particularly beautiful about the way she moved.
“Well if you’re going to be Apollo. I’ll be Daphne. Do you know that story?”

“I don’t like her,” thought Lillian. Gilbert blew some bubbles through his gills. They both adjusted themselves for a better view…

“You know, I see you coming and going from your office sometimes.” Her expression was sweet and sincere. She ran her fingertips over Allen’s forearm, drawing curving patterns on the stiff white cotton. Despite himself, he began to relax. “You always look so sad, like you don’t want to leave. But in the mornings you don’t always look like you want to be there either.” So great, his emotions were entirely transparent…awesome. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t,” he replied. Her hands groped for his tie. She grabbed the knot and loosed it down to his chest. She pulled it up and over his head. Her fingers gently stroked the back of his head, igniting his nerve endings. “So where do you want to be?” she asked. He looked down at the floor. His slightly scuffed dress shoes and her brown suede boots faced each other. The negative space between them made unusual organic shapes. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” She also looked down at their feet. “Sometimes, you just get tired of being alone.” She said quietly. She leaned forward and rested her forehead on his chest. Allen looked down at her form and impulsively wrapped his arms around her, hold her to him.
He woke up with her straddling him, smooth thighs pressed around his hips. Gingerly, he allowed his eyes to open, gradually letting the planes shifted to their appropriate locations. That’s when he felt the cold ring of the gun barrel pressed against his forehead, and saw her peering at him curiously around the hefty piece of steel she had jammed up to his cranium.
“Jesus Christ! What are you doing?!” He attempted to stick his hands up at his sides to express surrender and found that his wrists were knotted to the headboard, held fast by strips of white plastic that has previously concealed the weapon she now bore upon him. He tried to wiggle out from under her trying to angle himself away from the weapon. She squeezed her thighs down tighter holding him, clamping his body down beneath her.
“Why do you have a gun?” she asked sweetly, despite her aggressive position. She leaned her pelvis forward to prompt him to speak. Her hands still gripped the Beretta.
“Put that down! This is not a joke!” He glanced over at the spot on the dresser where the gun had previously lived, when shrouded in its “Thank You” bag. Trying not to turn his head with the gun that intent upon him, he could see the now shredded bag’s new resting place in pieces on the floor. He wondered if that’s how he would end up, in pieces. Why the hell had he left it out? Better yet, why the hell had he bought it? And the most obvious question, to top all the others, why the hell had he let this girl stay in his house? Somehow, despite the insanity of the circumstances, this was his fault. “People only buy guns for two reasons,” she started. “Either you’re afraid of something, or” she gestured lightly with the gun barrel to his forehead, “you want to die.” She flopped her head to one side, her long strands changing direction. Above him she wore nothing. “Do you want to kill yourself, Apollo?” She centered the Beretta directly between his eyebrows at this, extending her arms fully and pushing her shoulders back. On instinct Allen pulled his hands back further in retreat, forgetting he was bound to the spot. “No! I just bought it! Now, point that thing somewhere else! Please!” She rocked her hips back and forth, grinding on him. “Well then, what are you afraid of?” She moved faster. Allen hated himself for being aroused at a time when his life was hanging in the balance. Pausing, she pointed the gun to her own chest. “Tell me.” His head was spinning. Forming the words became a challenge. “I don’t know… I just am.” She looked down at him with an almost loving gaze. Whack!
It was mid afternoon by the time he came to. The light came streaming through the blinds, warming the room to uncomfortable temperature. His right temple throbbed. Scanning the room, there was no trace of her. Allen tore at the plastic around his wrists. They were so tight the weight of his arm was enough to cut impressions in his skin. Some pulling and twisting he was able to get his right hand free. Pins and needles erupted within the numb limb. With the help of his right hand, his left came free easily. He kneeled in place on his bed, trying to reorder the events that had taken place. Stolen wallet. Break-in. Girl. Gun. Black. He craned his neck to look out into the living room from his place on the bed. At least she was gone. He stretched his stiff shoulders and rubbed his face with his hands. His feet found the floor.
Lillian and Gilbert bobbed their mouths open and shut in unison as they evaluated their Master’s troubled face. “What the hell just happened?” he asked them. He studied their shiny orange bodies and their bulging eyes. Allen thought he could hear elevator music playing between their recessed ears. “Way to let me down, guys.”
The apartment looked the same. The shabby stucco walls, the TV he rarely turned on, the volcanic piles of naked raisins, none of it had changed. But the room felt foreign, contaminated. “Where would she take the gun?” he thought, wheels turning. “Where the hell did she go?” He tried to come up with some comical scenario that would make what happened lighter, easier. Nothing came. Work called and left him a voicemail. His boss’s deep voice demanded an explanation for his absence and explained the proper way to request a day off in a condescending tone. Allen listened to half of it before jabbing the “delete” button.
The next day was the most productive day of Allen’s work career. He went through claims with speed and precision, looking up only when necessary. A few people greeted him, but other than a quick glance, he refused to entertain them or to explain why he had been gone he day before. He opened a new folder. Ford Explorer involved in massive pileup. His raisins remained forgotten in his desk drawer. He read the report, verified the claim, and offered the owner a deductible.
He returned from work to find the Berretta sitting on his dresser, angled to the exact position it had held within its plastic bag. Approaching it, Allen saw sooty black dust coating areas of the weapon. Trying not to touch it, he grasped the very end of the handle with the hem of his shirt and slid open the chamber. All ten rounds had been fired. Allen slammed the chamber closed again and pushed the gun back up on the dresser. He found his head in his hands.
“Uh oh,” thought Lillian. Gilbert said nothing.

Not Shoplifting by Kathryn D'Elia

He had been there a hundred times before. It was the old beat-up Winn-Dixie down the shady side of Michigan Avenue, the closest full grocery store within biking distance. Allen swung one leg off his bike as he glided toward the bike rack to the left of the main entrance. Several disgruntled employees stood outside smoking and staring into space. He rode about three-fourth of the way down the length of the ramp before coming to a complete stop and dismounting fully. Allen glanced up at the men by the door as he removed his bike lock and chain from his knapsack. Swiftly, he wove the chain through the wheel spokes and through the frame in the way that his father had taught him. “They’ll never get it away from you that way, Son!” He tugged at the lock to ensure its hold and turned to go in. He looked at the floor directly in front of him as he entered, avoiding the two smokers and carefully noting how the ground changed from cement, to rubber matting, to cheap brown tile, to scuffed beige linoleum as he walked.
It was a short list, only a half-dozen items. A small jar of JIF peanut butter, beer (for when Derek would come over,) a box of cereal, goldfish food (for Lillian and Gilbert,) coffee, and a memo pad for future list writing (as lists on the back of receipts and envelopes seem less official). Allen had a general understanding of where all these items would be and slowly made his way through the aisles, scanning his surroundings as he went. In the breakfast aisle there was a pretty girl in a pink sweater analyzing the cereal bars. She stared the boxes on the shelves as if they were going to present her with the meaning of life. As Allen approached to claim his box of Cheerios, she looked up and smiled. He smiled back, and tossed his cereal into his green wire basket in what he hoped was a suave way. He mumbled an “excuse me” as he passed her, but she was already back to searching for answers and didn’t seem to notice.
Gathering the rest of the items presented events of no particular interest. As always, there was a biker in the liquor section, sizing up his options. In one aisle he saw a mother struggling with the unhappy children in her shopping cart trying to quiet them by throwing Zebra Cakes in the cart. The only real challenge was choosing which memo pad suited him. There were a few with kittens on them. One had a rooster at the top, (he guessed for those people with the cutesy country themed kitchens). He considered one with clip art footballs around the border, wondering if would make him seem more manly, but finally chose one that was just pale green and stuck it in his pocket.
With all items checked off (except the last one, it always seemed dumb to check off the last one,) Allen walked to the registers where three bored looking women stood around, yelling to each other from time to time. Sitting his grocery basket on the conveyer belt at #6, he noticed the girl in pink walking to line #4.
“Hey Sugar, Did you find everything all right?” said the cashier, a tall woman with frizzy blond hair, and a rather appallingly thick application of red lipstick.
“..Uh, yeah. I did.”
“I’ll need to see your ID for that beer.” She smiled an over-attentive grin, like she was trying to absorb the attractive young man in front of her.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” he replied, ignoring her interest. He groped around in his back pocket for his wallet, and upon pulling it out, ended up with a pale green notepad in his hand as well.
The Cashier’s eyes zeroed in on Allen’s discovery. Her countenance transformed immediately. The cheesy smile evaporated. She snatched the notepad out of his hand. “What the hell do you think yer doin’? Stealin? I swear none of them nice lookin’ boys are good at all.”
“No, really. I meant to-“ Allen stammered. He tried to interrupt but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Tom! Get over here!”
Allen looked around desperately. The girl at lane 4 had turned around to see what all the excitement was about. One of the bulky smokers from the front entrance bustled over.
“What do ya want, Carolyn?” said the man, who could easily break Allen in half. “He must work with the heavy produce. Watermelons,” Allen thought.
“This boy was shopliftin’!” shrieked the woman.
“No- I didn’t mean-”
Tom crossed his massive arms, his stained uniform pulling tight across his chest. He gave Allen an appraising glance, and seemed to also feel that he could easily cause Allen irrevocable damage.
“Oh he was, was he?!”
Becoming even more intensely nervous under the scrutiny. Allen grabbed at his knapsack and ran for the door, leaving his goldfish food, beer for Derek, Cheerios, even that damned notepad on the counter. This seemed to be the last thing either angry employee expected and they stood there, dumbly watching Allen flee. The girl in pink scowled at him from her place at Lane #4. He could see her through the automatic door. Allen frowned and unlocked his bike with military precision and hopped on it, with chain still in hand. By this time, Tom had wandered out of the door after him. Allen looked over his shoulder to see the large man shaking his head, as he shrunk in the distance. Allen didn’t breath again until he was a considerable distance down Michigan Avenue.

Productivity in Writing Class.

Journal Entry, February 25th, 2007

"There's a balloon in my tree. After a short adventure in space, it lost it's drive and allowed gravity to tug it slowly back down to Earth. And here it is now, limply swaying with the breeze, flowing through the oak's barren branches. At one time this balloon must've been a thoughtful touch to some child's birthday party, metallic letters shimmering from the glow of candles and the grins of party-goers. I don't know how this balloon began it's skyward adventure. It may have been the accidental absence of a loving grasp, or the will of a spontaneous wind. In any case, the balloon's journey may not be as important as the start and finish of it's life.
I discovered it's presence one night. The moon was full and as I waged war upon it, i saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. I saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. At this point it still contained helium. As the wind rustled the branches, the silver oval would turn, allowing the moonlight to reflect off of it. It was a while before I realized what I was seeing. My focus on the mystery object got the moon off the hook for the night. Now, the balloon looks rather wimpy with it's form, twisting and strewn around the smaller branches, just beginning to burst with growth. It's still chilly. Those branches will be naked for a few more weeks, and until then, that balloon will have to suffer. It didn't pick a great spot for landing. Though, it may like it up there, watching the neighborhood's ins and outs.
I recall another balloon, much less fortunate. It was an electric blue, star-shaped balloon resting on the bumpy ceiling of the gym. Yes, it still had some life to it, but it was and would forever be trapped up there beyond anyone's reach. When I saw it then, I wondered if it was happy up there, staring down on the rowdy kids who didn't really give a damn. I stared and sighed with the balloon during my class, cold, with my legs bare. I went home, wondering if it would rather be plucked from the ceiling and thrown in the trash, of if an exit to the sky would be more pleasurable. Would a tired balloon want to call it quits after being forgotten for so long? Would it rather remain in limbo, floating between all eventful things? Or, would it want to try it's luck in the air, floating free, despite it's past abandonment and the late hour of said adventure?
I regret telling my friends of my concerns. They didn't get it. "It's a stupid balloon, Kat." But it wasn't. It was our past, present, and future, the chosen end to their lives. And they wouldn't listen to it. Later, one would regret ignoring my passionate advance for understanding, but it was too late for him. He lost me in more ways that he realized.
That blue balloon was gone one day. I don't know if it was plucked down, or if it gingerly fell as the helium depreciated. But I hope it was pleased with it's end, and glad that it didn't have to be so near happiness, that it could never experience up on the ceiling.
However, the balloon in my tree has led a full life. It has adventured and flown all that it can. Maybe I'll manage to climb up the upper branches and rescue it, one day. Who knows? Maybe this is different. This time, beings that this balloon is outside, and can still feel the sun's warmth and the rain, removal may not be much of a favor. We shall see what time brings. Until the decision is made, I will send greetings to the ballon and remember the past one, as I stand out in the dark, yelling at the moon."