Tapping my freshly
painted nails on the steel windowsill, I glance at downtown Chicago below. The
toy cars sputter down North Michigan Avenue while the yellow taxis weave
through traffic. The people are replicas of the miniature porcelain dolls that
I keep on my dresser. It’s amazing how small the city looks from seventy-four
stories up, but it’s the only view that I know. My mother and I have been here
for eighteen years and not once have I set foot outside of the penthouse. I
stare across the street up at the John Hancock building, all ninety-five floors
of it. I would hate to live that high
up. When am I ever going to get my chance to go below?
I’ve always wanted to
ride in a car. I’d drive all over the city, visiting the places that I’ve seen
pictures of on the five o’clock news. I’d visit Millennium Park, and squish my
face into the shiny surface of the bean. I’d visit Lakeshore Park watch the
Lake Michigan horizon as the sun sets.
I’m tired of hearing it’s too dangerous, Zela every time I
bring it up. The only reason mother lets me watch the five o’clock news is to
convince me of the dangers that exist down below. There has to be more to Chicago than gang shootings and murders. If it’s
as dangerous as mother and the news say, why do so many people live here?
Ring!
Ring! I head towards the kitchen, my socks sliding on the hardwood floor, my braid
slithering behind me. I throw myself at the counter and wrap my fingers around
the phone’s plastic body.
“Hello?”
“Zela,
I’m in the elevator. I just passed floor fifty-six. Meet me at the doors?”
“Yes, mother, see you in two
minutes!”
I toss the phone on the counter, and race out
of the kitchen to the door my braid wagging behind me. The Penthouse elevator
is broken and has been for sixteen years now. Mother doesn’t want to waste her
energy complaining. “We’ll adjust,” is what she says. The only way for my
mother to get onto our floor is if I pull her up. It’s one of the benefits of
my hair, I guess. Mother has never let me cut it. I’ve been able to use it to
pull my mother up since I turned sixteen, otherwise known as the day my hair
reached past fifteen feet in length. Mother
was thrilled.
I open the door and
hurry down the hallway. I press the button to the right of the steel elevator
doors. Once they open, I gaze down the elevator shaft at the rising metal
square below. It lurches to a stop about twelve or so feet below where I am
standing. The emergency exit tile on the ceiling of the elevator slides to the
right, revealing my scrawny mother gazing up at me.
“How
was your trip?” My voice echoes down the elevator shaft.
“Zela,
we’ve been over this, I’ll tell you about it when I get up there.” she said. “We
don’t have much time. Someone will need the elevator downstairs.”
“Oh,
right! Hold on a sec!”
I turn my attention to
the metal loop attached to the ceiling. Mother installed it years ago. I gather
up my hair along the floor and spin the end around above my head three times
cowboy style before tossing it through the metal loop. The braid sails through
the loop and down the elevator shaft. Satisfied, I begin feeding the braid
towards mother. I glance over the edge, and watch as mother grabs hold of my
hair’s end.
“Ready?” I call down.
“Ready.”
I wrap my fingers around the braid at the base
of my makeshift hair pulley, and begin tugging it downward. My hair is the main
reason why I can’t leave the penthouse. According to mother, it’s different
from anything Chicago has seen. Apparently, strawberry blonde is not a natural
hair color for most people, but it’s the color I was born with. My hair is unique;
therefore it is dangerous. Mother’s face emerges at the base of the elevator
shaft. Once she is even with the doorway, she motions for me to stop pulling,
and swings herself into the hall. I smile at my mother as she dusts herself
off.
“I’m
getting faster at that, aren’t I?” I welcome her with a hug.
“That
you are. Come on, let’s go inside.” She releases me from the hug, brushing her
dark waves from her eye. “I brought you something special!”
“Really?”
I hustle anxiously after her into the penthouse, my hair following.
Already in the kitchen, Mother
is humming to herself while spooning coffee grounds into our coffee maker. I
glance around, looking for a wrapped object. I don’t see anything remotely
resembling a present.
“Mother?” She glances
over smugly.
“Yes,
Zela?” I tap my fingers against the counter.
“Well,
um, you mentioned earlier that you had something for me?” Mother rolls her
eyes, a frown materializing on her small face.
“Honestly,
Zela, I’ve been home for five minutes!
I would like to have some time to do the things that I would like to do before giving you a present. Don’t you think
that I deserve a few minutes to myself?” I lower my head to the counter. I hate
disappointing mother.
“I
was only curious.” I mumble into the counter.
I hear Mother’s
footsteps on the hardwood floor of the family room and lift my head from the
counter. She tosses a crinkled brown paper bag onto the counter. What did she
get me? Mother’s job requires her to travel a lot. She never tells me where she
has to go; only that she has to leave, and that she will be coming back
eventually. I unroll the top of the bag cautiously, still trying to guess its
contents. I plunge my hand into the bag, moving it around until I come across a
rectangular object. I wrap my fingers around it and pull it out of the bag.
Immediately disappointment sets in.
“A
book?” I ask looking over at mother, who was now facing me sipping on her
coffee.
“Yes
it’s one of the Chicago classics. It’s full of interesting history about the
city. I thought you’d like It.” mother continues to sip cautiously out of her
steaming mug. Unconvinced, I study the title.
“The Devil in the White City?” I look up
at her once more. “What is this book really
about?” She chuckles and takes another sip.
“Oh,
it’s a book about the City’s past,” I raise an eyebrow. “And the murderer that
tormented the city during the fair in the 19th century,” She
confirms contently. She smiles while I frown at the book’s cover. She wants me
to read about another mass murderer in Chicago.
There is still something in the bag. I reach in the
bag and pull out a jumbo bottle of shampoo.
“It’s
root-strengthening shampoo with conditioner mixed into it. I know you like when
the two are combined.” Mother explains. “It should be enough to tide you over
while I’m gone.” I nod gratefully.
“Thanks,
mother, I was running low on shampoo.” Then, the last half of her comment
registers in my head. “Wait, you’re leaving again?”
I
follow mother out of the kitchen into her bedroom. “When?” I prod. She pulls a medium
sized suitcase from the top shelf of her closet and throws it onto the
bed.
“I
have to meet the cab downstairs in an hour. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
Mother moves back to her closet, grabbing a sophisticated looking black blazer
and pants to match. She places lays it on the bed next to the suitcase, and
turns to raid her closet for other outfits to add to her trip. I slump onto her
mattress.
“But
you just got back,” a beige sweater flies toward me, landing atop of the
suitcase with a soft thud.
“Zela,
what do you want me to do about it? It’s
my job.” A gray cardigan sails over her shoulder.
“But
it’s a Friday,” I whine. Every Friday
mother and I usually make a habit of watching the news and eating dinner. And
after the news is over, we watch one of mother’s favorite DVDS that she stacks
near the TV.
“Well
you are going to have to enjoy the movie without me this time.” Mother turns
from the closet, plopping two pairs of grey dress pants and a red long sleeve
button down shirt onto the pile. I groan and throw myself backwards onto her
bed in defeat. Mother moves to her dresser and pulls open her drawer. “This
trip is essential to our company, if I didn’t have to go, I wouldn’t.” She
stuffs her suitcase hurriedly with her clothes, then turns into her bathroom to
grab he bathroom “go bag” as she likes to call it. I remain silent. I can’t compete with her job.
I remain on the bed until I hear mother’s call coming from the hallway. I force
myself onto my feet and out of the room.
Mother is standing in
front of the open elevator doors. The button is glowing yellow.
“What’s the hurry? You
have a half hour before you need to meet the cab.” I stop about three paces
form the door. I begin to gather up my braid from the floor. Mother picks up
her black leather purse, and slings it over her shoulder.
“Oh, Zela, you know how
it goes,” she starts, “if you’re on time, you’re late.” I nod sadly. I feed my
hair through the hook on the ceiling. The end of the braid thuds softly on the
floor. Mother grabs hold of it, and fashions her foothold. I take my position
behind the metal hook, planting my feet firmly on the ground one in front of
the other for stability. The whirring of the elevator quiets and mother sends a
thumbs up my way.
I feel her body weight
immediately, as my hair tries to send me forward after her.
“Bye mother!” I call
down as the weight of my hair lessens. “Have a safe trip!” I pull my hair back
through the metal hook. I head back to the penthouse to resume my perch by the
window and glance out at the illuminated buildings of downtown and spot a
couple walking arm in arm toward East Chestnut. Envy warms my temples.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
The phone rings and I
open my eyes to the dark mahogany of the hardwood floor. I heave my hair onto
my left arm, leaving my right hand free to get the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Al from
Gino’s East pizza. I was calling to inform you that your order is ready and
will be delivered within the next thirty minutes.”
“I think you have the
wrong number. I didn’t order anything from you.” Mother never let me order
anything over the phone. The only time I eat pizza is when she’s picks one up
on her way home.
“Miss, I have an order
here that’s being delivered to 835 North Michigan Avenue, condo number 360. Is
that not your address?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But nothing, Miss.
Listen, I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you. The order has been paid for
and everything. So expect a pizza in thirty minutes. It’s your lucky day.”
The line goes dead. I
place the phone back on the counter. I didn’t order any pizza. The realization
doesn’t hit me until I am about half way through brushing my hair.
“Holy crap! There is an
actual person bringing a pizza here!
SOMEONE is coming HERE!” I glance over at the clock above the TV. “Ah! I have
twenty minutes till he gets here!”
I frantically try to
braid my hair. But no matter how fast my fingers move, it takes forever. I fly
out of the bathroom towards the front door. When I reach the elevator I grab
for my braid. I pause; the pizza guy is not used to being pulled up thirteen
feet by a braid. This may be a problem. What if he freaks out? I dash to the
kitchen and scribble down a quick note that explains the situation at hand,
then fold it and slip it into my hair tie.
I approach the elevator
doors once again. I hear the whirring sound of the elevator moving upwards. “Oh
my God! It’s the delivery person!”
Don’t panic, Zela, don’t panic, everything is
going to work out.
“I am going to be in so much trouble for this!” Mother is going to find out about this. But it’s a person, an actual person! Don’t
be a chicken, Zela. I reach out and press the button.
I lean over the edge,
glancing to see how far away the elevator is. To my surprise, it was already
stopped on floor seventy three. The emergency door was closed though, why
wasn’t it open? “Of course,” I mutter to myself. How is the delivery guy supposed to know to open it?
“Hey! You in the
elevator!” I call down as loud as I possibly can. My voice echoes down the
shaft. “Open the emergency exit tile on the ceiling!”
The tile doesn’t move.
“Hello?” I call down once more. I notice the
tile shift upward slightly, and then slide to the right. Looking up at me is a
teenaged boy wearing a Cubs baseball cap. He’s holding a large pizza.
“Hi?” he calls up. “Um,
is this pizza for you?” he lifts the pizza up in my direction.
“Apparently so. The
elevator’s broken, though. I’m going to toss something down to pull you up
here. Okay?” The delivery guy gives a questioning look. I disappear from his
view to toss my braid through the hook.
Please don’t freak out, please don’t freak
out, please don’t freak out. I send my braid down
the shaft.
“What the,” The pizza guy sputters, “is, is
this. . . hair?”
Oh no. He’s freaking out! He’s freaking out! I don’t know what to do!
“Just read the note!”
I peer down the shaft
to see how the delivery guy is holding up.
“Does that make sense?” I call down, hoping that he will just go will
it. “What are ya thinking down there?” He’s still there. That’s a good sign. He’s staring down my braid though, which isn’t
a good. He looks up;
“This actually works?”
“Yep! Care to test it
out?” His eyebrows shoot up. “After all, you do need to deliver that pizza. And
this is the only way to get up here.” I mentally cross my fingers, hoping that
he will cave. He continues to skeptically stare at my hair.
“And you’ve done this
before? With actual people?”
“Yes! My mother uses it
all the time!” I feel myself becoming impatient. Stay calm Zela, stay calm.
He gives my hair one last quizzical look,
before nodding up at me.
“Ready?” I call down. I
hear a soft “yes” coming from down the shaft. I start pulling.
He is definitely
heavier than mother. I didn’t think that all the way through. He’s moving
upward, but it’s taking a lot longer than normal. By the time I see his face
emerge in the doorway, my arms are shaking. He
seems to be relatively calm. This is good.
I smile as his feet become even with the doorway. Now he just has to jump.
“Okay, don’t freak out. You need to swing through
the doors and into the hallway.”
He looks at me, his
brown curls peeking out where his hat meets his forehead. I watch as his blue eyes follow my hair up
through the hook and down to the part he is holding onto. The pizza is in a bag
strapped across his shoulder. He balances the pizza bag horizontally on his
hip. My eyes return to his face only to
see him looking down at me, eyebrows raised.
“Why would I be
freaking out? This is completely normal.”
“My pizza’s getting
cold.” I can’t help smirking. He swings backwards, and clears the short
distance to the door with no problem. He brushes himself off, glancing back
down the elevator shaft as I pull my braid back through the metal hook. He
stares at the pile of hair on the floor. “Yes it’s real. It’s a long story.” I
cross my arms. He takes my pizza out of the bag.
“One large pepperoni
with bacon?” He offers the box out to me. I take it.
“Thank you. But you do know that I didn’t order this,
right?” He shrugs, not seeming to care.
He walks down the hallway to the door of the penthouse. He turns to face
me.
“Listen, that whole
hair thing was a bit. . . new for me. Can you give me a few minutes before you
lower me back down?”
“No problem. You can share some of this pizza
with me if you want. I was planning on watching a movie.” I open the door to
the penthouse, and gesture for him to enter.
“So. . .” He mutters
while sizing up the room, “what’s your name?”
“Zela.”
“Cool.” He walks into
the family room. I place the pizza box on the table and head to the
kitchen. “I’m Max.” He plops down on the
sofa in front of the TV.
“Nice to meet you.” I
open the fridge, looking for soda. I grab two Pepsis from the top shelf, and
head back to the living room. Max already has the pizza box open and is holding
a slice in his hand.
“So, I gotta ask,
what’s with the hair?” Max mumbles in between bites. “I mean, no offense, but
having hair that long ain’t normal.” I glance over at him. Grabbing a slice of
pizza, I try to think of a simple way to explain it all.
“My mother really likes
my hair. She says it’s unique, and so she won’t let me cut it.”
Max raises an eyebrow.
“So, you’ve never had a
haircut?”
“Nope.”
Max sinks back into the
couch. Shaking his head, he reaches for another slice of pizza.
“Max?”.
“What’s up?”
I pause for a moment. Should
I ask him about it? I’m sure he already thinks I’m strange. I don’t want to
make it worse.
“Is everybody down
below friendly like you?” He stops
chewing.
“Down below?” I nod.
“Wait,” He leans closer to me. “You haven’t
been downstairs?”
I shake my head.
“Ever?”
“Not once.”
We sit there in silence
for a while. He keeps his gaze locked on my, searching my face for something.
“Why?”
“I’m not allowed to leave. The city is dangerous.
That’s what mother says, at least.” Max narrows his eyes.
“Every city’s got danger in it. That is part of the
thrill livin’ in one. She can’t just keep you up here.”
“People die out there, Max,”
“Well, if ya stay here long enough, you will, too.”
He stands up. “Okay so some people ain’t the nicest in the city, but most of ’em
are good. Take me for example, I’m a nineteen year old pizza guy right?” I nod.
He starts pacing. “Every Friday night I get a call to deliver a pizza to the
people on the seventy fourth floor over
at the John Hancock. And every night I look out the window as I get off the
elevator. What do you think I see?” I shrug my shoulders.
“I
see a girl with blondish, pinkish hair sittin’ at her window, looking sad and
alone. I see you. Today before I left for the Hancock, I thought to myself, ‘ya
know Max, that girl is gonna to be at the window again, and she’s gonna to look
as lonely as she did the last time. What you should do is go cheer her up with
a pizza.’” I just look at him.
“So,”
I start, “you brought me someone else’s pizza?” He lets out a short laugh and
shakes his head.
“Yea,
guess I did. My boss ain’t gonna be too happy with me, but I did.”
“Well,
I appreciate it. You are the first person that’s been up here.”
Max shakes his head
once more. “Look, this place is nice an all, but you really won’t do yourself
any good if you stay up here. If you ever decide to come down, here’s my
number. Find a phone, gimme a call, and I’ll show ya what city livin’s really
about.” He hands me a small white piece of paper. I tuck it into my jeans
pocket.
“Thank
you Max, I’m really glad you decided to deliver the pizza to the wrong
address.” I smile up at him. He snorts.
“Anytime.”
He makes his way over to the front door. “Ready to send me back down?”
I stand up and follow him out the door, a smile on
my face.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Once again, I wake to
the ringing phone. I peel myself off of the leather couch. The pizza box from
last night was still sitting on the coffee table. Oh well, why hide it at this point? I trudge over to the phone on
the counter.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“Zela! Darling I’m
passing floor sixty four! See you in two!”
The next thing I know,
I’m pushing the ‘open’ button on the elevator. I peer down the elevator shaft,
the elevator lurches to a creaky stop at floor seventy three. The emergency
tile slides to the right, revealing my unusually happy mother.
“Hello dear!”
I wave halfheartedly and turn to feed my hair
through the loop.
“Ready!” She shouts. I
start pulling. Before I know it, she’s dusting herself off next to me, and my
braid is on the floor. She hugs me
enthusiastically. But she notices when I don’t return it.
“Zela, what’s wrong?” I
shrug.
“Nothing.”
She narrows her eyes. I turn to go back
inside. She follows, rolling her suitcase behind her. We enter the penthouse. I
immediately move to the kitchen, not wanting to be in the same room when she
sees the pizza.
“Zela,” she whispers. “What
is this?”
Mother is hovering over
the pizza box.
“Where. Did. You. Get.
This?” I swallow. She’s trying really hard to keep her composure.
“Yesterday some guy
delivered a pizza to the wrong address.” Mother sucks air between her teeth, a
short hiss.
“Did you…”
“Pull him up? Let him
in? Yes I did. And Max was a really nice person. They aren’t all dangerous,
mother.” She grabs the pizza and hurls it at the wall. I shrink away. She fans
herself to regain her composure. I stay as quiet as I possibly can.
“Go to your room.” Her
voice could freeze hell over, twice. I enter my room, closing the door behind
me quietly. I can’t stay here anymore.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Mother
is snoring faintly from her room as I tiptoe out into the hall, my small
suitcase at my side, a small white letter between my fingers. I place the
letter on the coffee table. Mother will see it tomorrow morning.
I
reach the elevator doors. The whirring noise comes from behind the steel doors
as I feed my hair through the metal loop. The elevator rumbles to a stop. This is it. Grabbing tightly onto both
sides of my braid, I ease myself slowly down to the elevator below. It’s
strange not watching this from above. I close my eyes as my feet contact the
top of the elevator. I slide the emergency exit tile to the side. I lower myself
the rest of the way down. With a tug, my
braid collapses in a heap beside me with a thud. Going down. I press the “lobby” button and cling to the railing
while the elevator lurches downward.
The
lit numbers above the elevator doors begin their countdown; 72, 71,70. I unzip
the front pouch of my suitcase, and pull out a shiny pair of metal scissors. Wrapping
my fingers around the base of my braid, I measure to the point where my hair
would rest at my shoulders; 60,59,58. I bring the scissors up to my braid. Do I really want to do this? 49, 48, 47.
I open the scissors up, and fit them around my braid. 37, 36, 35, I push the
two sharpened ends towards each other. They meet in the middle and with a crisp
“whoosh”, my braid strawberry blonde braid falls to the floor with a thud; 25,
24, 23. I gaze down at the pile of hair on the floor. Huh, that’s funny, I feel… so much lighter.
13, 12, 11, I put the scissors back in the pouch. Mother
will find a way to get down eventually. All she has to do is nag the receptionist’s
ear off at the front desk about getting the elevator fixed. Simple as that.
Hopefully she remembers the number
6, 5, 4; I feel the
floor rise as the elevator slowed to a stop. The number at the top of the floor
flashes one. The doors open. The lobby is so bright, I have to squint. Confused,
I walk over to the reception desk, where a plump man in uniform doses in his
chair.
“Excuse me, sir?” The
man jolts awake. Blushing.
“What can I do for you,
Miss?” I feel for the white card in my pants pocket.
“Would I be able to
borrow your phone for a quick minute?” He looks up at me with sleepy eyes.
“Sure thing. But make
it quick.” I reach for the phone, punch
in eight numbers, and listen.
“Mmph, Hullo?”
A dull crash comes from
the receiver.
“Max? It’s Zela.”
“Zela?”
“Yes”
“It’s five-thirty in
the morning. Why you callin’ me?”
“I’m on the ground
floor, Max.” I hear a chuckle.
“You still up for that
tour?”
I glance out through
glass doors of Water tower Place. There are few people walking along the
sidewalk. For the first time, I am not seeing the tops of their heads, I am
seeing every part of them.
