Fresh Air

I was a late baby, arriving at 11:30 on Thanksgiving night to my mother at 40, according to Mom. I was late for everything. I started school a year late, arrived at Sunday School late and would have to walk into the room as everybody watched, I was silent for so much of my early childhood that my mom and grandmother thought I was retarded. I never really got around to learning how to balance on a bicycle, or swim til I was in my teens. I graduated High School a year after everybody else because I just could not figure out what was going on with Calculus, and subsequently had to make it up.

I remember harboring fantasies about kidnapping my second-period Calculus teacher Miss, or Mrs. Calistra and holding her hostage until she changed my C-minus grade to a B, just for the effort that I put into showing up for class and at least playing along with the instruction. I never had a girlfriend until I hit 24, and then it was like a train wreck, although we did everything at least once, she eventually left to marry a cop with two kids, and they had another of their own. I’m usually late paying my rent and my bills, late getting to work, and stay up too late for my own good.

I was late to hear of Mom’s accident, too late to help her, and actually arrived late to the funeral.

The one time being late sent me something good was one dark wet night in New York.

The rain was coming down and a gusty wind swept up the streets, as I returned from my brain-numbing telemarketing job in midtown. I got up the front steps into my apartment building and I saw her huddled in the doorway trying to set fire to a cigarette with a book of wet matches. She gave me a helpless look, leaned her thumb into one of the apartment buzzers and uttered some sort of frustrated whine. I told her sometimes they don’t work and she asked me about Donna on the second floor. I said I knew her, and I slipped my key into the front door, turned the lock, and let her in. She thanked me and moved away up the stairs, and it was then that I noticed her friendly legs, toned and well-shaped, the kind I imagined dancers walk around on.

As I climbed to the second floor, I could see her approaching apartment 2I. I wondered how this blonde with the unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth knew the older woman living there. As I arrived at my apartment, and propped my wet umbrella against the wall outside my door, I thought about those legs and wondered about what they looked like up close.

Inside I switched on the light in my kitchen, a long narrow room with one door from the hall and another opening to my living room. I noticed a stale smell of toast and coffee in the air left over from the morning. Thinking a hot cup of java would be good on a night like this, I went to the kitchen, opened the cabinet and took down a bottle of Johnny Walker Scotch, poured some in a mug and tossed it back. I dumped some fresh grounds into Mr. Coffee. I turned to the sink, filled a couple of cups with water and dumped them into the machine and switched the little red button to the on position.

A gust of wind kicked through an open window and I heard a tapping sound at the front door. I’m always a little apprehensive when someone knocks on my door. I wandered over, looked through the eye port and saw a woman. When I opened it the wet blonde was standing there with the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger.

“Can you help a girl out?”

“Sure thing” I said.

She placed her right foot inside and held the door open with her hip as I went and fished out a box of matches from the kitchen drawer. When I returned we stood there in the doorway together as she lit up.

The flame from the match cast a glow in her green eyes as she took in a lungful of smoke. She was dressed in what looked like a wrinkled oxford shirt, a black hoodie, cut-off jeans, and those great legs with Chuck Taylors at the bottom all saturated with moisture. Smoke wafted through the doorway into the hall as she exhaled and looked at the tip of her cigarette to see if the damp thing had caught.

“What happened with you down stairs?”

“She didn’t answer. Can I use your phone?”

I went over to the living room sofa, grabbed my phone and brought it back to the doorway. Mona Lisa looked up at her from my wallpaper display as the blonde punched in the numbers, and listened while smoke drifted up between us. The aroma of the fresh coffee filled the air.

“No answer.” she whined and ended the call, handed the phone back to me, took a drag from her cigarette, and then raised her head slightly. “Mmm, coffee. Strong, black, no sugar please!!!!” She laughed as I walked into the kitchen.

“Come on in.” I said.

She let the door close. I opened the refrigerator and took out another coffee cup as she moved in and leaned against the stove. I poured a cup and handed it to her.

Under the overhead fluorescent curlicue kitchen light I believed I could see the faintest freckles on her face. She gestured toward the bottle of Johnny Walker on the counter. “Which brother do you like best – Red or Black?” she asked.

I smiled and said “Well, I’m friendly with the whole family.”

She smiled at me and then sipped a small amount of coffee from the cup. Steaming air rose from the brew. “Mmm… Just what I needed.” She said into the coffee cup as she looked over at me.

I kept wondering how in the world this great-looking woman was in any way related to the cow downstairs. I looked into the living room and said “You wanna sit down…?” I could see my one easy chair stacked with books and bad DVDs, and the sofa and the desk chair were available.

“So, you know Donna?” She asked without a beat. She drank some more coffee.

“Oh, I see her in the hall when I go out and sometimes when I come in at night. She’s got that dog, ya know, that big fluffy thing.”

I looked at the woman for something that would tell me she knew what I was talking about. Her clear green eyes let me believe she was interested as she took a taste of her coffee, reached over and nudged an ash from her cigarette into the sink then put the coffee cup down.

“Christie Mahon.” She said as she extended her hand.

“Johnny.” I said.

She had a smooth hand with a firm grip. She smiled as she took her hand back and asked “Red or Black?” Putting on what I thought was my sexiest voice I said “Actually my friends call me Jake.”

I remember reading somewhere that the first thing a man does when he meets a women is imagine what she looks like naked. Maybe it’s a basic DNA thing that is part of our gene structure, keeping us on the right track when clothes get in the way. As the thought passed through my mind a dog outside howled low and mournful as a gust of wind smacked the window and a smell of fresh rain whipped through the room.

“Thanks for the coffee.” She said as she placed the cup on the kitchen counter, and moved away. At the front door she took a quick puff on her cigarette and moved into the hallway toward the stairs, her excellent well-shaped bare legs carrying her away. After the door shut, I said hello to Johnny Red again and another cup of java, then walked over to the window and looked out on the ragged black wet night, and thought about how nice it was to rescue this wet blonde coming in out of the rain.