7. Noah
Noah lived in the Crypt. The sign out front said Sapphire Haven, or did until somebody spraypainted it into “Assphire” again. Every so often the Crypt-Keeper himself would fix the sign. Noah’s coffin apartment had a barred window facing the sign, and when he saw someone messing with it he’d curse them out and make them go away.
Nobody else bothered. In fact, as he came back from work and the roof, he hardly saw anyone. The tiers of tiny apartments were either empty, or had people sleeping or watching TV. Potato chip bags tumbled through the yard and a fat white woman watched Noah fearfully as he passed. She clutched a dazed-looking toddler and sat on her stoop like she was waiting for something. She always was. Noah waved to her and she flinched.
Room forty-two was on the second floor, part of the castle-like arrangement of cargo container apartments that formed the Crypt. Noah reached his door, hoping to relax and look up the thing he’d seen today, that bit of news about the ocean oil rig or whatever it was.
Someone had broken in. The floor panels were pulled up and the storage space beneath ransacked. What clothes weren’t stolen, smelled like someone had pissed on them for the hell of it. Noah’s old computer was gone from the desk, the photo of his mother smashed, the tiny silver cross taken, the sheets gone from the bed. Noah’s hands shook as he reached into the hidden space behind the desk drawer and found that his wad of cash was still taped there. So that was something. But damn, why wreck the place instead of just looting it? The room stank and he stepped outside, leaving his door open. He slammed a fist against the hot outer wall. Then he went to see the Crypt-Keeper.
Some people called him that to his face. Noah walked past the collective laundry box and the bathroom box, found the deluxe room that took up a whole container, and called, “Hey, Mister Ford!”
Ford came right out. He was a white boy with a ponytail who always smelled clean even when he worked out, yet he never seemed to get his ass kicked. Noah wondered how he managed that in this neighborhood. “Noah,” Ford said with a slight nod. “What is it?”
“Somebody broke in and worked my place over.”
“Oh,” said Ford, looking at the dead grass and thinking. “You’re not the only one. Someone’s found a way past the locks. I’ll have to do something. Sorry to hear it.”
Noah had looked at other places to live, and had initially thought that this dump was beneath him. How could a man have respect for himself if he lived in a tin can? A tiny room without even a private shower? But it was cheap and he wanted to put money away, even though he didn’t know what to save for. It felt good to have the money. Part of the rent agreement was that Noah was on his own, not insured if something like this happened. So he couldn’t demand that Ford give him anything, though he didn’t see why Ford should owe him anyway. The locks had seemed pretty good. Thieves got smarter.
“You got any paper towels?” Noah asked.
Ford’s nose wrinkled. “Your place too?”
“Yeah.”
Ford retreated into his room and came back with paper towels, disinfectant and air freshener. Noah was about to leave with them, but Ford stopped him and said, “Why do people go out of their way to ruin things?”
“It’s a broken world, man. I don’t know. Thanks.” He remembered what he’d been planning to do. “They got my computer too. Can I borrow one?”
Ford let him, without asking for a deposit.
Noah went back to his place and cleaned up the filth, then himself. Finally he flopped onto the bed, leaving the door open to air the place out. The borrowed computer said that the ocean place he’d seen was a farm, a fake island in the middle of nowhere. It had caught his eye for no good reason. What did he know about farming, or the ocean, or science? He was a janitor who’d hardly ever left the state. So why, he asked himself, did he keep staring at the pictures?
Soon Noah found the latest news about the place: wrecked by the hurricane. He set the computer down and sat with his head in his hands. He’d hoped somebody out there was doing something different, and doing it well — that God would let someone catch a break. But no, things didn’t change. All you could do was clean up one mess and wait for another.
Noah shut the door, slept, and dreamed of empty ocean.
Nights of work blurred together. Noah was getting good at his stunts, balancing on his hands, leaning over the roof edge. It was something to do.
“Knock it off,” said Jake. The guy squatted by the TV with a joint in his mouth.
“Why do you care?”
“It creeps me out.”
Noah said, “Watch this, then!” and did what he’d been practicing for. He leaned way out, shut his eyes a moment, and let himself fall. His heart seized up in his chest and the city spun beneath him. He arced both arms to snatch the roof’s edge. He thudded against the building’s side instead of the ground, feeling like he was sideways with a burning wind pulling him backwards towards the street. He had the strength to pull himself forward again, lay on the roof and grin at Jake and the others, who stared with pale faces. “Good, huh?”
“Why?” said Jake, hardly breathing.
“To move.” The fear of what he’d done hit Noah retroactively, making him tremble, so he hurried to do it again to prove it was all right. He got up and backed away to the roof’s edge.
“Why?” Jake said again.
But Noah had already told him. To move was a blessing. Every day he scrubbed and cleaned for others, putting away cash with no real plan, slowly getting older. He could be a dealer like Rickie and die in jail, or keep living like this and have things always be the same. Then he realized why he was really doing the stunts.
He was hoping that one day he’d miss, and then he wouldn’t have to scrub toilets any more.
Without a word, Noah went to the stairs and walked away.
Rickie was coming, and Noah couldn’t stop fidgeting. He was going to do it. Noah paced in his room, thinking about the things he could have once he got into the business. He didn’t need a Lexus; he just wanted a decent set of wheels. He could skip jewelry. A girl would be nice, some sweet thing to hang on his shoulder, but if it was the money that landed him one, would she care about him? He could at least feel like he was doing something with his life.
While he waited he checked his borrowed computer. He could buy a nice one soon, and better clothes, and join one of those clubs that let people smoke cigars.
The ocean thing was still on his mind. When he looked it up again he was startled: it wasn’t dead! In fact there was some report about even more people going there to work. To live.
“Why, though?” he asked the little screen.
“Why, what?” said Rickie.
The guy leaned in the doorway, with a diamond ring, an Italian suit and alligator-skin shoes. Noah wished his friend hadn’t dressed up and made himself so obvious, but said, “Good to see you, man.” Rickie looked happy. The sight of him made Noah sweat, afraid of what the man had become, but Rickie radiated confidence.
Rickie said, “You too. What’s up?” He stepped inside and shut the door with one foot. He was looking around with his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.
“Reading something. There’s this bunch of crazies that built their own island.”
“Must be loaded.”
“I don’t think so. Says here the place is a farm.” Noah wasn’t eager to get down to business, to get himself tied to Rickie’s web of suppliers. “What if you could sail away somewhere and make a living away from all this? Figuring things out, trying to make a new place work?”