Grand Nothingness

As Lawrence pulled on his ripped work socks, the upstairs neighbor hit his girlfriend. Their feet moved loudly across the ceiling, a cascade of reckless and livid stomps pounding above his head like a brewing storm. They screamed at one another and circled around like boxers. The upstairs door was slammed and a spark of salmon colored dust fell from the ceiling, settling on the lip of his canned beer. The neighbor’s girlfriend screamed at the building as she got into her car and hit another vehicle as she drove away. Lawrence watched her drive toward the end of the street where the sun was slowly peaking over the buildings and thought he should do something about it. He drank his lukewarm beer. He pulled on his work shoes.

That guy is an animal, thought Lawrence. He finished the over under loop of his shoelace and drank the last of his beer. The tenants filed out of their respect apartments, talking loudly, smoking cigarettes, applying lipstick and starting their morning. A fat, glowing tenant cried out while running his fingers over the fresh dents in his bumper. Lawrence walked down the corroded metal steps of his building and out to the crispness of the open street. The neighborhood shakes itself alive. He heard the moaning of an engine, the noise came from around the corner but Lawrence knew the car at initial sound. We’ll die going to work in that car, thought Lawrence. Julio drove this decrepit beast of a car through a stoplight, around some dead rodent and up the curb in front Lawrence.

“Get in,” he said.

“You’re late,” said Lawrence.

“We’re all going to be late if you don’t get in the car,” said Julio.

“Jesus, lower your voice,” Lawrence said. “You sound like my neighbor.”

“Just get in the car.”

Lawrence tugged open the rusted door and cursed when the latch gave him trouble. A foot belonging to his co-worker pressed against the back window. Tobin lay asleep in the backseat amongst food wrappings, receipts and empty cigarette boxes. He snored lightly and his longish, greasy blonde hair smeared against the window.

“You need to clean out this car,” Lawrence said.

“Why don’t you clean it out?”

“Look at Tobin,” said Lawrence, “he’s going to get rabies sleeping back there.”

“Hey, wake up you jerk.”

“Jesus,” said Lawrence. “Let him sleep, we’re going to be standing all day.”

Tobin stirred and wiped food miscellany off his mouth. Lawrence watched him in the rearview mirror and envied his sleep. Smoke plumed out of the haggard muffler, the grey wisps hung above the asphalt. Lawrence saw a woman that resembled the upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend; he started to yell but ended up coughing, he decided that it was not her and turned away. Tobin spoke in his sleep.

“I’m going to kill him,” said Lawrence to whoever listened.

“We’re almost there,” said Julio, “can’t you wait?”

“You didn’t even hear what I said,” said Lawrence. “Forget it.”

“It’s not my fault you’re muttering,” said Julio, “whispering away like some kind of crazy. What are you tired or something?”

“Forget it.”

“Tell me what you said if it’s so important.”

“I’m going to kill the upstairs neighbor one of these days.”

Lawrence’s hands were soft; they looked almost pink in the morning sunlight. He did not have killer’s hands; he had bakers’ hands. His fingers were these swollen, delicate intricacies that smelled of dough and would not ever sow a day’s hard toil. He rolled his knuckles in his palm, kneading toward the center of his hand as if he could leave a permanent indent.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Yeah,” said Lawrence. “I heard you the first time. I thought you and Anya called the police last time?”

Tobin’s head hit the clouded window as they turned onto the main drag. He sat up rigid and rubbed his eyes until they resembled open sores, he spoke something to himself and slumped into a fetal posture.

“The police never came,” said Lawrence. “Anya left. She couldn’t take it.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I suppose,” said Lawrence. “She can have her space.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I really don’t know.”

The tires crawled and the car shuddered when it stopped in the café parking lot; the engine turned over, sputtered, and then died. The emergency car brake jerked to a secure point and they exited the car in silence, as ritual, carrying their aprons and other personals. Lawrence opened the door to a gaunt Tobin with gaping mouth, sagging eyelids and veins eschew on his craned neck. Tobin fell before Lawrence in silence; he trudged by Julio’s slit eyes and stopped in an empty parking space.

“Look,” said Julio. “I think Tobin is dying or something.”

Tobin hunched over a dull concrete parking block. He swayed forward with a vague importance and back violently then rubbed his eyes until they were raw and nearly bleeding. Customers inside the café watched from the comfort of their seats with wide, gawking mouths as Tobin seized and spit with indiscretion, his crimson eyes pulsating with spectacular disarray. He coughed, gagged then spit out a discoloration.

“Go throw up behind the café,” said Julio. “What are you, an idiot?”

“Leave him alone,” said Lawrence, resting his hand on Tobin’s pointed shoulder.

“Don’t baby him,” said Julio. “He needs to go behind the café.”

“Rough night Tobin?” said Lawrence.

“Hey Lawrence,” Tobin said. “And yes. I just need water, coffee, something.”

Across the street at the pharmacy owned by the kind Vietnamese couple, Lawrence saw the car that the upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend drove. The car had the same dent that was made in the morning. Lawrence walked from the café parking lot to the sidewalk leaving Tobin to the mercy of Julio.

“Hey,” said Julio. “We’ve got ciabatta to bake today. What are you doing?”

Lawrence walked through a red light to the middle of the street, he watched for the woman to come in sight. Tobin released whatever rotten fluid held inside onto the flat asphalt, a car hummed as it passed, the gutters gave off a stagnant air and Julio yelled from the parking lot but everything faded when Lawrence saw the upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend at the counter. Her eye was powdered reddish purple with bruising and her lip swollen. Lawrence approached the store and grabbed the door handle. As she exchanged money with the quivering old woman at the counter a young, pretty girl stopped behind her in line. The girl’s face was flush, customary and unambiguous with a naïve smile and eyes not yet pained like the battered girlfriend. I think that’s Anya behind her, thought Lawrence, then he released the handle and walked back to the café. He picked up his apron, Tobin’s apron and crossed the doorway into the café without meeting eyes of the clientele or coworkers.

In the bakery Lawrence spread baking flour across the sheet, he slapped the fleshy dough, tossing it from hand to hand and then he threw the dough at the faded wall. He snatched it up and felt the skin, oily and foreign seep through his fingers as he squeezed the dough and cursed in silence. Tobin watched him from the doorway.

“What’s the matter?” said Tobin, “Your face is burning, it looks tensed up I guess.”

“No matter,” said Lawrence. He wiped the salted sweat from his eyes.

“You’re throwing that dough around like it did something,” said Tobin. “I know something’s going on. Was it Julio?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Lawrence. “Can you stop by after work? I might need you to help me lift something.”

“Sure,” said Tobin. “I’ve got nothing else going on. What are you moving?”

“Something-,” said Lawrence. “Something heavy, it’s Anya’s stuff. We’ll figure it out after work.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

“I’ll live.”

They drove home from work in silence. They drank while they enjoyed cigarettes unashamed, blowing smoke into the cloudless sky and throwing their brown paper beer bags at people who dared walk in their sight. Lawrence tossed his used butt out the window and looked at his as he went for another drink. He balled his fist and released an open palm only to find the flour had not left his knuckles, but coated his damp hands like boxing tape.

“This is you Lawrence,” said Julio, pulling up to the painted curb.

“Yeah,” he said getting out of the car. “I’ll see you later Tobin?”

“Sure thing man.”

“You having a party without me,” said Julio, “after I picked you up?”

“No,” said Lawrence. “I’ll have one tomorrow maybe.”

“You better,” said Julio, his laugh drunk and unfastened.

Lawrence wandered around his apartment, he felt dumb and trivial. He put his head outside the window and listened for the upstairs neighbor but pulled away when any noise, regardless of scope was made. He paced around holding his warm beer. He saw a sweater that was Anya’s; he picked up the garment and ran his fingers over the tangled wool. He folded the sweater and placed it in a drawer away from sight as if it would judge him or tell his secrets. He walked through the kitchen aloof and found a cleaver; he examined the blade and ran his pudgy finger across the sharp. His phone rang so he put down the utensil and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said.

“I saw you today,” said a soft voice.

“Did you?” he said. He walked in circles letting the off-white cord wrap nimbly around his torso.

“You were walking in the middle of the street by your work,” said the voice.

“How-,” he said, “How are you?”

“You know I’m fine,” said the voice. “I want to come see you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Lawrence. “Come by tomorrow I guess, I have something to do tonight.” He picked up the rotary and brought it to the window. The sun was setting.

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I’m sure Anya,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

Her voice trailed off when he hung up the receiver. He put down the phone and went back to the kitchen. Lawrence walked a circle, took a beer from the refrigerator and then went to the living room.

A heavy object fell on the floor of the upstairs apartment. The brusque noise made his hands quake; he worked over the knuckles on his right hand, kneading with the thumb of his left. Their voices cascaded through the open window of his living room. The man’s voice deep, unassured and reckless. Their feet stormed over Lawrence’s head, a trail of dust fell from the ceiling. The sound of flesh striking flesh rung in Lawrence’s ear like a 21 gun salute, he ran to his kitchen and found a rolling pin. He clutched the instrument and gritted his teeth. The upstairs apartment door was slammed; feet plundered the quiet staircase and outside an engine started then tires screamed across the pavement. Lawrence stood by the far wall of his apartment; he was frozen, terrified and furious. Do it now, he thought, do something. He stared at the pinhole in the door and tried to make out the hallway. The flow of air from the crack between the wood floor and caulk sill came to a halt. Someone knocked at his door and he raised his rolling pin. Tobin, he thought, Tobin’s here, we’ll get this guy. Lawrence opened the door and Anya stood before him. He saw poise and reassurance in her soft emerald eyes.

“Lawrence” she said, “why do you have that rolling pin?”

“Go inside,” he said. “I need to go deal with something.”

“But-“

“No,” he said. “Don’t worry, just go inside.”

Lawrence gripped his rolling pin and walked through the hallway to the iron stairwell. He imagined that Jesus Christ, John Wayne and all the rest of his heroes were cheering for him as he climbed the stairs; he heard their clapping and hosannas with each step upwards. The door of the apartment hung partially open, the latch was long since rusted over. Lawrence pushed through the entrance with his wooden rolling pin and baking flour peppered across the splintered wood of the haggard door.

“Come on,” said Lawrence. “Come on out you bastard.”

Lawrence waved the rolling pin through the thick air of the apartment, breaking the listless ambiance. Someone sobbed and he ran to the kitchen gritting his teeth. Before him sat a young women crying. The upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend was petit, like Anya, she had piercing green eyes bordered by pale purple contusions. She sat among silver dining spoons, bits of food and small puddles of water. Her sundress is torn at the shoulder.

“Where is he?” said Lawrence. “Where is he, I’ll kill that bastard, where is he? I’ve heard him do it before but this is the last time. You don’t need to worry; I’ll kill him so bad. He’s dead, he’s fucking dead.”

He flailed around expecting to greet the man with a swift strike to the temple, the teeth or some such body part but there was no one. He looked back to the girl and she was still crying, watching him thrash about hysterically showering white flour across the kitchen and unto her open hands.

“Tell me,” he said. “What’s the matter? What is it? I can help you.”

“I think I love my boyfriend more than he loves me.”

Lawrence looked around the small kitchen, the flour, and the crying girl. His eyebrow twitched in an off tempo matter.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “That guy hits you.”

“But my boyfriend is just angry,” said the girl between sobs, “I think I love-“

Lawrence did not hear the girl finish her statement; he did not listen as he walked away. He went through the spoiled, vast apartment and stepped out leaving the door ajar. Walking down each metal step he stopped and looked at his feet and saw a trail of baking floor leading to his apartment door. He went inside and found Anya on the couch; she fidgeted as he sat next to her.

“What happened,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing to speak of.”

“Tobin and Julio came by,” said Anya. “They looked worried and were talking about getting some guy and moving something or something like that.”

“They left?”

“I sent them away,” she said. “I said you needed sleep. You look pale.”

“And you look comforting.”

Lawrence tossed the rolling pin into the kitchen; it struck the plastic trashcan with a dull noise and fell to the linoleum. Anya’s eyes bulged.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing any more,” said Lawrence. “Nobody can help anybody and that’s not something to worry about.”

“Baker boy,” said Anya. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

Lawrence did not answer; he brushed speckled remnants of baking flour off his dungarees and then massaged his knuckles deep with purpose. Outside his apartment, beyond the upstairs and down, the world raged, collapsed and rose again and he decided he would not do a thing about it.