THE FORTRESS

Bone weary, Deedee eased out of her stilettos and sank into the old plum colored couch which monopolized the small living room in her cramped, unkempt condo. Thirty-something, her body, that outward casing, still turned heads, but her expression was one of perpetual apprehension, she constantly pouted and her eyes squinted as if she either needed glasses or overused them in front of screens, troubled, always troubled. 

  The condo, (three and a half rooms, one bath, half balcony)  painted eggshell white throughout,  had a southern exposure which supplied ample light. The light, however, did not negate a dreary, somber atmosphere. Deedee’s grandmother had left her entire household of massive Victorian furniture to her, and she had crammed every last piece into  those three and a half rooms along with a giant TV, ipad, iphone, laptop and the latest in rarely used kitchen  gadgets - a hodgepodge of advanced technology  nesting in a room straight out of an Edith Wharton novel. The balcony was not exempt. It, too, had worn wicker furniture, including two rocking chairs that competed for space to rock without knocking over a glass-topped table.

On this particular evening Deedee almost wept with fatigue, frustration, and an overwhelming desire to drink. Recently dark moods seeped through her every time she crossed the threshold of her condo, the very same condo that she found so comforting when sitting on the plum couch nursing a scotch on the rocks up until a month ago. Since drinking was no longer an option, those days were gone for good and in their place was an insidious desire to kill somebody. The default button on Deedee’s mind was a screensaver of negativity. It didn’t take much to set her off, triggering flickering shades of doom and gloom.

Although it was late autumn, the evening was warm. She slipped out of her skirt, a boa constrictor, inflicting a stranglehold around her midriff, her pantyhose, runs down both legs, and her turquoise sweater, the same sweater she paid far too much for a week ago because she could not live without it, the same sweater that had “her name on it,” the sweater that brought out the blue in her eyes, the sweater maxing out her mastercard, that sweater. Now she hated it. Fuck it. No one in her right mind would wear anything that cheerful. (There goes the screensaver again.) 

In sweats and an old tee shirt she grabbed a diet coke from her empty refrigerator, maneuvered her way through the furniture, pulled open the sliding glass door to the patio and let out a scream.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Nice view you have here. Come join me. It’s a bit crowded, but there’s always room for one more.” Wedged in wicker, he rocked slowly back and forth,, a marshmallow of a man smoking a cigar.

Jesus Christ! At least when I was drinking, I never had hallucinations.”

“You’re not hallucinating.”

“Oh yes I am.”

“I am as real as you are.”

“Prove it, pinch me.”

Marshmallowman leaned over and gave her a quick hard pinch on her forearm. It caused a small indentation, a mark a little bigger than a bee sting.

“Ouch. Jesus. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to leave you with a reminder when I’m gone. Otherwise you will think that overactive mind of yours is playing tricks on you.”

Deedee perched on the other wicker rocker,  a dart bird ready to take flight at any moment. Marshmallowman was dangerously close, they almost touched. She had never been a touchyfeely person, she always kept her distance except when she had enough booze flowing through her system. Without the booze, she surrounded herself with a fortress few could penetrate. 

“So, your life hasn’t been going so well these days.” Uncertain if this was a statement or a question, the fortress grew higher, thicker around the shell of Deedee’s fragile psyche. 

“My life is just fine, thank you very much.” Rocking nervously, she took a large swig of her diet Coke and lit another forbidden cigarette, second one today. The Condo Association had strict No Smoking laws and her neighbor was a real bastard when it came to second hand smoke. Through the smoke she looked at this peculiar man who seemed to appear out of nowhere yet knew everything about her. An indeterminate age, the features in his face negated each other. His mouth, a reverse smile holding an almost unspeakable sadness, held secrets she knew he would never divulge, at the same time his eyes, as calm as cows, gave the appearance that he didn’t have a care in the world. Although she did not know it at the time, it was the serenity of those eyes that she wanted. Not blue sweaters, not latte machines, blenders, high thread count sheets, or BMW’s. She wanted those eyes.

“Can I offer a suggestion?”

“Can I stop you,?” she snapped back.

“Well yes, just say the word and I’ll leave. Puff and I’m gone. My mother always used to say you should always leave by the same door you entered.”

“What door did you enter?”

“Never mind that, I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Well? What is your suggestion?”

“My suggestion: fasten your seat belt, young lady, because if you are able to stay off the booze, if you are able to stay off the pot, the cocaine, all the sugar and spice and everything nice, you will be in for the ride of your life.  It won’t always be fun, but you will learn who you are, and that is a gift few people own.”

When she woke up on the purple couch it had grown dark. She looked at her stilettos on the floor where she had left them and realized how utterly ridiculous they were. There was a red welt on her arm, where did that come from? As she shook her self awake, she had an overwhelming desire to clean, to rid herself of all but the bare minimum in her surroundings. Three-quarters of the furniture, half her closet, most of the crap in her bureau drawers, it all had to go because then she could breathe, and when she could breathe she could begin to dismantle the fortress that kept her hidden from herself.