Chapter 4 - Taylor The Latte Boy.
“Justin, you have a CONCUSSION,” Daphne repeated sternly. “You should be in bed. Not traipsing off after some crazy cat-loving ghost.”
“It’s just a MILD concussion, Daph. That’s like having MILD salsa on your chips - it doesn’t even count. At that point, it’s just like dowsing your food in chunky vegetable soup.”
“Yeah, well, vegetable soup is what your brain will turn into if you don’t listen to your doctor and take it easy,” Daphne insisted, trying to block the door to my closet with her body so I couldn’t get to my clothing.
“I can’t just take it easy, Daph. I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean, how do you expect me to relax with a mystery like THAT out there. Not to mention that I still have to finish my term project by Monday, and now that I know that the building isn’t empty after all, I simply HAVE to get back in there and see what the interior is like,” I maintained adamantly as I reached around her to grab a shirt off a hanger from behind her back. “It was too dark - and I was too distracted by having almost cracked open my skull - to have really got a good look around me last night. But now that it’s daylight again, I can take my time and look around and hopefully get a couple of good sketches, provided there’s anything worthwhile to include in my project.”
“I’m sure your professor will give you an extension on the project once you show him the MRI of your traumatic brain injury, Jus.”
Daphne was still standing there in front of my closet with her hands on her hips, looking immovable as all hell, and preventing me from getting to the pile of clean jeans on the shelf. But, as stubborn as she was, I was sneakier. So when she wouldn’t let me get to my pants, I decided to just go without. I shoved the sweatpants I’d been wearing down off my hips and stepped out of them, bare as the day I was born. And as expected, Daphne was distracted enough by my naked dick that she didn’t react at all when I reached around her and finally secured the Levis I’d been after. Of course, as soon as I pulled the pants on and she no longer had a dick wobbling in her face, she immediately returned to consciousness and gave me one of THOSE looks, clearly not amused that I’d used her one weakness - her love of dick - against her.
“I don’t need an extension. I just need a couple of hours inside the building and then I can come back here and start painting.”
Daphne scoffed. “That’s if you don’t get kidnapped by the creepy cat man before then.” When I just shook my head and gave her a ‘Seriously?’ look, she semi-relented. “Fine. But how are you going to get there, genius? Because the doctor said you can’t drive for at least seventy-two hours.”
“No problem. You’re going to drive me,” I informed her.
“And how do you figure that?”
“Easy . . . because you’re my best friend and you love me and you wouldn’t want me to have to take public transportation and potentially fall again and really get hurt, so you’ll be sweet and offer to drive me,” I explained with one of my best, most bratty, smiles.
“Oh, quit with the best friend thing - you know I can never say no to that. But urgh, I hate you, you know,” Daph stated even as I could see in her eyes that she had already capitulated. “And if your brains do turn to vegetable soup, I refuse to clean up your drool - I’ll just let you stew in your own spittal and laugh at you.”
I let her babble and harangue me as she gathered her purse and keys, because I knew I’d already won and I didn’t want to rub it in. Plus, there was no way she’d let me wallow in my own spittal even if I did become a vegetable - despite all her complaining, she was basically a big softie. So even though I had to listen to her going on about how defying my doctor’s direct orders was a really bad idea - and listing in long, gory, detail, all the possible negative consequences of neglecting a TBI - for the duration of the ride back to downtown, I didn’t let it get to me. Daphne really does love me and I know she is just worried about my scrambled brains. She DOES overreact sometimes though.
“So, how are you going to get Ghost Man to let you inside again?” my friend asked as we neared downtown.
That was a good question, actually. “I guess I could just break in again. Unless he’s boarded up the door, I should be able to kick the lock free the same way I did yesterday. Thank fuck it’s a really old building and an old door, right? Maybe I should bring him a peace offering, though, just in case he’s still not happy with me. What’s a good gift that says, ‘sorry I broke into your building - twice - can I please sketch it now’? Something I can get with . . .” I pulled out my wallet and looked inside . . . “less than ten bucks?”
“Coffee?” Daphne suggested as she pulled up to the curb outside the Crazy Mocha shop a block down from the Triangle Building.
Not much of a peace offering, I supposed, but what did the guy expect for $10, right? “Good idea, Daph. Thanks.”
I leaned over to kiss her cheek before getting out of the car and she handed me a twenty. “Here. I have to get to work so I can’t stay. Please use it to take a Lyft home. I really don’t want to have to visit you in a nursing home for the rest of your life after you incur permanent brain damage from your next TBI. Kay?”
“I promise. Thanks, Daph. And I love you even though you said you hated me.”
“Get out. Don’t stay out too late. And PLEASE be careful,” she ordered before driving away while still muttering about stupid blond boys and crazy, cat-loving ghosts.
Fifteen minutes later I was standing in front of the Triangle Building lobby doors with a paperboard drink tray loaded with two large lattes. I decided to at least try and start this off in a legal way, so I politely knocked against the glass of the lobby door. No answer. I knocked harder, making a much louder racket that I hoped would carry up to the sixth floor where I knew my mystery man was hiding. Still nothing. So I started kicking at the door, repeatedly, creating a steady, droning, pounding noise that I kept up for a good five minutes. The only result this time was that the guy who worked at the phone store around the corner poked his head out to see what was going on. I waved at him, and tried to look like I was meant to be there, and he must have bought it because he went back into his shop and I continued my steady kicking campaign. About three minutes later I saw a curious, furry little body come trotting through the opening to the staircase.
I finally stopped kicking at the door. “Hey, Bill! Can you please tell your person that he’s got company?” I asked politely.
Bill the Cat just hunkered down on his haunches, staring at me with that detached and disinterested look that all cats seem to have. As far as I could tell, the cat’s human had not accompanied him downstairs. So much for the polite way, huh?
“Fine. If that’s the way you want to play this,” I mumbled, setting the drinks caddy down on the sidewalk next to me so that I could get a better hold on the door.
Then I tried to remember how I’d worked it the night before, pulling and pushing at the door frame in various ways until I thought I had it just about right, before aiming a vigorous kick at the bottom part of the metal frame holding the glass in place. And, voila, the door sprang open just like before. I smiled to myself, pleased with my cat burglar skills, and bent over to pick up my tray of coffees again. Then I let myself in and walked up to the resident guard cat. Unfortunately, Bill was not quite as thrilled with my ability to open locked doors as I was, and he was now standing up, his back arched and his hair on end, as he hissed menacingly at the invader who’d dared to enter his domain without permission.
“Nice to see you again, too, William. Or should I call you, Mr. Shakespaw?” I greeted him, undeterred by the feline display of animosity. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you when I was shopping for peace offerings.”
I retrieved the little, four-ounce, plastic container of creamer that I’d got at the coffee shop from my drinks’ carrier, peeled the top off using my teeth, and then set it down on the floor in front of the irate kitty. At first Bill looked at the cup with suspicion, but apparently the aroma of the half & half was too tempting. He forgot to be angry at me as he moved closer, sniffing at the unfamiliar little treat. By the time he’d become brave enough to take a tentative taste, I knew I’d won him over. I quickly stepped around the now-purring cat and made my way over to the staircase, ready to tackle the cat’s person next.
I took the steps up to mystery man’s floor two at a time, something I regretted by the time I’d made it to the sixth floor, which was when I belatedly remembered my doctor’s prohibition to take it easy for the next couple of day. But my concussion didn’t explain why I had these strange butterflies in my tummy as I was about to knock on the door - maybe I was more nervous than I originally thought. I stood there with my hand on the door for a good minute before I built up the courage to actually knock. As I waited to see if my presence would be acknowledged, I shifted my messenger bag on my shoulder and jostled the drinks in my hand restlessly. I probably should have thought about this more. What was I going to say to him? However, before I could get too lost in my thoughts, the door opened a crack and there, looking right at me, were those sad hazel eyes that I’d seen for the first time just the day before.
“Well, if it isn’t the stray burglar,” Mystery Man all but growled at me. “How nice of you to break in again. What do you want?”
“I uh . . .” Yeah, I really should have thought about this more. “I brought coffee this time,” I heard myself mumble.
He scoffed loudly and I could see the crack in the door starting to get smaller as he began to close it. “Wait . . . please.”
I could hear him breathing loudly on the other side of the door, but he made no effort to close it further. “I don’t understand what you want,” he said honestly.
This I could do. “I just really love this building,” I laughed nervously, aware I sounded like a total dork when I talked about my love of architecture and art in general. “It sounds crazy, I know, but whenever I see it, my fingers itch to draw it. I can’t explain. I just . . . I’d love to be able to take a look around inside. See if there is anything original left from when it was built? I won’t bother you, I promise. I just want to have a look . . .”
“You talk an awful lot for a burglar.”
I smiled. “I told you I’m not a burglar . . . just a really eager art student who wants an A on his project.”
“Even if it means you go to prison for it?” I could see a glimmer of something almost teasing in those big, hazel eyes.
I nodded. “Yes, even if it means I end up in prison.”
The door opened and my mystery man backed away. “Shut the door behind you,” he told me, walking over to the bookcase that was across the room.
Once again I was presented with his back. I wanted to ask him to turn around but knew that probably wouldn’t go down well. I wouldn’t want him to accuse me of being an impolite burglar. But there had to be some way to get him to engage more.
“I’ll just put your coffee here on the table,” I told him, my eyes seemingly unable to tear themselves away from this man; there was something so fascinating about him even though I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was.
Once it was clear that the lure of my coffee offering wasn’t enough to get him to turn around, I made my way over to the sofa I’d been lying on the day before, dumping my bag on the floor and digging out my smaller sketch pad which I would be using to take notes. I settled in, got out a pencil and made sure it was sharpened. Then I took up my own cup of coffee, slurping at the steamy beverage loudly and becoming instantly mortified.
“Sorry, it’s hot,” I mumbled.
Thankfully, he didn’t comment on my behavior. “There’s a drawing on the wall by the door over there,” he pointed somewhere over to his right, “that you might find interesting.”
I waited to see if he was going to say any more, but when it was clear he wasn’t, I followed directions and went over to take a look. “Wow, this is beautiful,” I said almost dreamily.
The picture he’d alluded to was a stunning, black and white sketch of my building from when it was first built. The date was etched in the corner: May 6, 1885. I couldn’t stop staring at the drawing in front of me. The detail was incredible; it was almost like looking at a photograph. I took my cell out of my pocket, hesitating slightly before asking if I could take a photo. This was something I would love to show my professor, but I didn’t know if my host would find it intrusive for me to photograph it or not.
“Is it okay if I take a picture?” I finally wound up enough courage to ask.
“Sure,” he mumbled, his broad shoulders shrugging as he replied.
“I’d love to manipulate one of my sketches with this picture - show how the building’s changed over time, you know? How the trees outside have grown, how the street has become more populated and busy.” I knew I was rambling - not that I could stop or anything - it’s what I do when I’m excited about something.
“Go for it,” the man’s back told me as he continued to browse his bookshelf, reaching out every now and then to straighten a book or move it to a different spot on the shelf.
“Would you . . . would you like to see one of my sketches?” I asked the question before my brain had time to assess whether or not it was a good idea.
It was a few moments before he replied. “Sure,” he said, slowly turning around, all the while keeping his eyes to the floor and his hands shoved deeply into his ill-fitting jeans’ pockets.
I walked over to my bag and pulled out my bigger sketchbook, the one containing an embarrassing number of drawings of ‘my’ building. Some were just basic sketches while others were super detailed and displayed an almost obsessive attention to meticulous detail. I felt silly admitting this to myself, but I really wanted this guy to like my work, so I was almost reluctant to hand the sketchbook over. But, with a little mental prod, I eventually held the book out to him, watching as the man hesitantly pulled his hands out of his pockets along with a large white handkerchief, which he then proceeded to use to hold my sketchbook with. I almost made the mistake of joking, asking if he thought the pad of paper would bite him, only holding my tongue at the last instant. Then I watched in confused amusement as he used just the tip of a finger to turn the pages over. What the hell was up with this guy anyway? If I hadn’t been so nervous about what he thought of my drawings, I might have even asked.
“What do you think?” I hadn’t felt this anxious about someone liking my work for a while.
His silence made me even more nervous.
“They’re . . . good,” he responded after what felt like a billion years, but in reality was probably no more than a minute.
I watched as he handed me back my sketchbook and immediately made his way to the sink to wash his hands. He pretty much repeated what I saw him doing yesterday, but with more intensity - and a heck of a lot more soap. He even lathered up a nail brush and scrubbed fiercely at the skin of his hands. By the time he’d counted to eight, I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. His skin looked raw as he continued to rub manically at it. I hesitated briefly as I walked over to him and touched his shoulder gently, hoping I wouldn’t scare him.
“Hey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
The moment my hand made contact, he jumped. “Don’t touch me . . . please.”
I pulled back my hand but was still at a total loss about what I should do. The ghost man went right back to work, scrubbing at his hands with the little brush, and it was making me sick to my stomach to watch him hurt himself like that. I truly didn’t have a clue what was going on there, but if he didn’t want me to touch him, fine. I still felt like I should do something, though, to stop him from mangling his hands like that. I looked around for something to help me and the first thing I saw was the sketchbook I was still holding in one hand. Maybe I could distract him?
“Hey, is it okay if I ask you some questions about the building? There isn’t a whole lot online beyond the basics about the architect and I can use whatever you might be able to tell me for my report.”
It worked; the man finally looked up from his business at the sink. “I don’t know that much, but . . . what do you want to know?”
I scrambled to think of questions to ask him. It was crazy that I was having to think so hard to come up with a single question when I’d had a thousand in my brain just a few days before. But put on the spot like this, I couldn’t think of one single thing to ask. My brain was stupid like that sometimes.
Think, think, think . . .
My attention returned to the framed architectural drawing on the wall, and I seized on it. “Do you know who made this drawing? If I’m going to use it in my project I should probably give its attribution.”
“I have no idea. It’s just always been hanging there as far back as I can remember,” my mystery man answered.
“Would you mind if I took it off the wall and looked at the back? Sometimes artists will print information about their work on the back of the drawing. I promise I won’t damage it.”
He hesitated a moment or two but then shrugged. I noted that he was no longer scrubbing at his hands though, so I counted this as progress. I strode over to the section of wall where the drawing was hanging and carefully reached up to remove it from the wall. I could see that there was a wire screwed into both sides of the frame which was threaded through a tiny brass hook nailed into the wall behind the print. I carefully guided the wire with my index finger as I lifted the picture frame, and managed to unhook it with a little maneuvering. Then I lifted the frame down.
I laid the picture on the table next to the coffee I’d brought my host, which had remained untouched so far. I had expected that, like usual when you took an old picture off a wall, the action would have resulted in a cloud of dust and cobwebs, but that wasn’t the case here. There wasn’t a speck of dust on that ancient picture, back or front. So, when I turned the frame over, I could clearly see that the back of the frame had been covered with an elegant maroon felt, indicating that this had been a professional framing job, but it meant I couldn’t see the back of the drawing until I removed the entire mounting board. I looked up and noted that my host had thankfully left off his hand washing and was looking over my shoulder, supervising my inspection of the frame.
“I’ll need to take this off,” I pointed to the backing and got another shrug of acquiescence as I turned the frame upside down on the table and almost knocked over the waiting coffee cup. “Hey, don’t forget your coffee. It tastes better when it’s hot, you know.”
While I was fiddling with the frame, my host moved over to take a seat on the sofa, sitting as far away from me as possible on the relatively small piece of furniture. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket again, wrapped it around the base of the paper coffee cup and then picked up the cup, bringing it close enough to his face to sniff at the steam bubbling up through the tiny hole in the plastic lid.
“Mmm. Smells good,” my mystery man commented, almost as if he was enjoying the aroma against his will. “I’ve never smelled coffee like this. What kind is it?”
“It’s just a vanilla latte,” I commented, without really registering the oddness of the question, seeing as my attention was focused on trying to get the drawing out of the frame without damaging it.
Finally, with a little prying, I managed to loosen the mounting board from the frame so I could slide it out, revealing the drawing underneath. I had expected to see just the reverse of the drawing - the back of that one piece of paper - which would hopefully have some notation on it revealing the name of the artist. That’s all you would normally find inside a picture frame, right? But I should have known that nothing about this building was normal. Because, inside that one hundred and thirty-year-old frame was a surprise - there was a loose piece of paper that fell out as I pulled the mounting board free.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to dislodge anything,” I apologized, bending over to pick up the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the carpeting below the table. “Hmmm. What’s this?”
I unfolded the yellowed and slightly brittle piece of paper, which appeared to be a piece of stationary. At the top of the roughly five inches by seven-inch sheet, the initials ‘A. P.’ were printed in an exaggerated cursive scrawl. It was done in a metallic gold ink that must have been fairly expensive back in the 1880s - assuming that was when it was written. There was no date on the letter itself, though, only a short note penned in the elegant handwriting I had seen in other missives of the time. It read:
‘My Dearest B,
It is finally done. May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together. And though we can not show ourselves to the world, I hope you will know, every time you look at this pile of stones and mortar, that my love for you is just as strong and hopefully as everlasting. Perhaps, someday, we can live here together, protected from the capriciousness of the uncaring world, and safe in each other’s arms.
Yours In My Heart,
A.’
“Look! A secret love letter. Did you know this was in here?” I asked, showing the note to my host. “It’s beautiful.” Judging by the initials on the stationary as well as the content, I was guessing the note was penned by Andrew Peebles himself. And now that I could see the back of the drawing, I could see a signature on the picture in the bottom right corner with a large ‘A’ and a second name that started with a ‘P’, in the same handwriting as the note, a sure sign that it was all the work of the architect. “Looks like our Mr. Peebles was not only an architect, but also an artist AND an aspiring poet.”
He didn’t reach out to touch the letter, but read it while I held it up. “Sappy,” was the man’s only comment - his nose scrunched up slightly as he said it, as if the romantic tone disgusted him somewhat.
“Nah. That’s just how they talked back then, I think. It was a much more . . . sentimental time . . . you know?” I laid the letter down on the table, smoothing it out so it would lie flat, and quickly snapped a picture of it with my phone.
“Like I said, sappy.”
His curmudgeonly response made me laugh; it seemed to perfectly fit his personality, or at least what I knew about his personality so far.
“I can’t wait to work with all of this,” I gushed exuberantly. “I can already see in my mind exactly what I want to create. The drawing and the letter will be great additions. Would you . . . would you be interested in seeing it when I’m done?”
I hated how desperate I sounded, but I knew I needed to find some way to get back here - especially after finding that mysterious letter. There had to be a good story here, right? And not just that, but I felt compelled to see this man again. I didn’t know what it was about him, but for some reason, I wanted to maintain whatever nebulous connection we’d begun to forge. I was hoping that my offer to share my art project with my mystery man would be enough to cause him to want the same.
This time he didn’t take as long to reply. “If I said ‘no’ you would probably just break in again and force me to look at your shit anyway, right?”
“Probably. Once you let a stray burglar in, it’s really hard to get rid of them, I hear. At least we don’t shed as much as cats, though.”
“You’re fucking annoying, you know that right?”
It was probably my imagination, but I swear I saw the smallest hint of a smile as he said that.
“My best friend tells me this all the time.” I felt myself smiling too as I gathered my stuff together and shoved my sketchbooks back in my bag. “So, I need to get home and get these pictures ready to print out to add them to my project, but I’ll come by tomorrow and show you what progress I’ve made, okay?”
“Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out this time,” the man said, getting up at the same time I did and following me as I headed for the door to his apartment.
“I’ll try not to but I can’t promise anything,” I replied as I started down the stairs. “See you tomorrow then. Tell Bill I said ‘bye’.”
My mystery man just stood there at the top of the stairs, silently watching me leave, without comment. When I glanced back at him briefly as I reached the landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned to make my way down to the next floor, I thought I detected a shy smile partially hidden by the bushy brown beard. It was encouraging. I felt I was making significant progress. And at least this time he wasn’t complaining to his cat about being lonely as I was leaving him.
I was already in the rideshare car on the way home when I realized that I still hadn’t remembered to ask the guy his name.
