I grabbed my purse and placed the envelope in my bag. I took off down the block looking for the numbers on the buildings. I scanned the buildings staring at the numbers.
“Six ninety, six ninety-five St. Mark’s Place, here it is,” I said out loud as a passerby stared at me and gave me filthy look. I grabbed the keys out of the envelope, opened the front door, and headed up the stairs to the fifth floor. I could barely breathe when I reached the top step. As I unlocked
the door I realized how foreign everything was to me, even walking up the five flights of stairs. I walked into a tiny apartment that looked more like one big bedroom with a kitchen the size of a
bathroom and the bedroom the size of a closet. It wasn’t spectacular, and I even saw a couple of creepy crawlers scattering about in the sink as I flicked on the light in the kitchen. I walked towards
the window to find what looked like a gate across it and some metal stairs leading down to the street. I didn’t even have a nice view; I was lonely and didn’t know how much so, until I sat on
the floor of my apartment and looked around at the empty space that needed to be furnished, and the white walls that yearned to be colored, reminding me of the desolate times that lay ahead.
***
I really didn’t know how to decorate a “Manhattan” apartment; it always seemed like Manhattan was for the rich and snooty, and I was the last person on Earth who lived like a rich person, and from the looks of this apartment, I wasn’t living on Park Avenue. I knew I didn’t have the touch,
but I knew if my mother were here, she would make this place look like a palace. She was a simple woman, but she could make anything look beautiful under any circumstances. I remember the
dining room furniture having four different chairs that she purchased at a flea market because my father would break one at least once a month when he got home drunk. You would never know it though, the way she wrapped silk sheets over the chairs and tied a tight ribbon around them for
that classy, rich look. The kitchen table my father actually made with his bare hands when he wasn’t falling over from being intoxicated. He was a crafty and talented man. He often made tables
and dressers for some furniture stores around town, but no one ever hired him to work at the stores. They knew his temper and they knew how reckless his behavior could be.
The pastor at our church always offered to hire him as the janitor, but my father refused, he said he was, “Better than that.” He was a proud man, my father. Although my mom went to church
every Sunday, I had to stay home and make breakfast for my father to help sober him up, so he could make it through the day. My mother would say to me, “I’ll pray for him at church. Jenesis,
you pray for your father here and ask God to help him. God will listen to you.” She would wipe my tears with her palms as her pretty red fingernails slowly traced down my face. I had always
prayed but I felt like God didn’t listen to me. She knew I hated to stay with him alone. She knew how badly he could treat me. Why did she leave me alone with him to go to church?
Any day of the week, but especially on Saturday night, my father would lie on the couch in the living room with a bottle of whiskey, one eye open and the other eye shut, and he would fall asleep
with a crooked smirk on his face. I was eight-years-old and had the same routine every Saturday night for as long as I could remember. I’d wrap myself in the throw blanket from the couch and
stare at my father. I wanted so much to give my father a hug, but I knew if I had woken him up he would get mad. I prayed so hard that I would wrap the blanket tightly around my shoulders and
kneel by the fireplace and close my eyes and whisper, “God please, make my daddy stop drinking so he can play with me, so he can love my mom and treat her like a princess.” Then, I would glance
over at him with one
“Six ninety, six ninety-five St. Mark’s Place, here it is,” I said out loud as a passerby stared at me and gave me filthy look. I grabbed the keys out of the envelope, opened the front door, and headed up the stairs to the fifth floor. I could barely breathe when I reached the top step. As I unlocked
the door I realized how foreign everything was to me, even walking up the five flights of stairs. I walked into a tiny apartment that looked more like one big bedroom with a kitchen the size of a
bathroom and the bedroom the size of a closet. It wasn’t spectacular, and I even saw a couple of creepy crawlers scattering about in the sink as I flicked on the light in the kitchen. I walked towards
the window to find what looked like a gate across it and some metal stairs leading down to the street. I didn’t even have a nice view; I was lonely and didn’t know how much so, until I sat on
the floor of my apartment and looked around at the empty space that needed to be furnished, and the white walls that yearned to be colored, reminding me of the desolate times that lay ahead.
***
I really didn’t know how to decorate a “Manhattan” apartment; it always seemed like Manhattan was for the rich and snooty, and I was the last person on Earth who lived like a rich person, and from the looks of this apartment, I wasn’t living on Park Avenue. I knew I didn’t have the touch,
but I knew if my mother were here, she would make this place look like a palace. She was a simple woman, but she could make anything look beautiful under any circumstances. I remember the
dining room furniture having four different chairs that she purchased at a flea market because my father would break one at least once a month when he got home drunk. You would never know it though, the way she wrapped silk sheets over the chairs and tied a tight ribbon around them for
that classy, rich look. The kitchen table my father actually made with his bare hands when he wasn’t falling over from being intoxicated. He was a crafty and talented man. He often made tables
and dressers for some furniture stores around town, but no one ever hired him to work at the stores. They knew his temper and they knew how reckless his behavior could be.
The pastor at our church always offered to hire him as the janitor, but my father refused, he said he was, “Better than that.” He was a proud man, my father. Although my mom went to church
every Sunday, I had to stay home and make breakfast for my father to help sober him up, so he could make it through the day. My mother would say to me, “I’ll pray for him at church. Jenesis,
you pray for your father here and ask God to help him. God will listen to you.” She would wipe my tears with her palms as her pretty red fingernails slowly traced down my face. I had always
prayed but I felt like God didn’t listen to me. She knew I hated to stay with him alone. She knew how badly he could treat me. Why did she leave me alone with him to go to church?
Any day of the week, but especially on Saturday night, my father would lie on the couch in the living room with a bottle of whiskey, one eye open and the other eye shut, and he would fall asleep
with a crooked smirk on his face. I was eight-years-old and had the same routine every Saturday night for as long as I could remember. I’d wrap myself in the throw blanket from the couch and
stare at my father. I wanted so much to give my father a hug, but I knew if I had woken him up he would get mad. I prayed so hard that I would wrap the blanket tightly around my shoulders and
kneel by the fireplace and close my eyes and whisper, “God please, make my daddy stop drinking so he can play with me, so he can love my mom and treat her like a princess.” Then, I would glance
over at him with one
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