The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 13

I hopped the Lexington Avenue 6 train three and a half blocks from my apartment. Then I got off at 42nd Street Grand Central. Transferring to the shuttle to 42nd Street Times Square, and then jumped on the D train to Coney Island-Stillwell Avenue Brooklyn. Inland Storage was in a substantial gothic five-story building on Mermaid Avenue about five blocks away. The office was on the first floor. For a moment, I thought I was at the post office! Bulletproof glass and a massive steel door were obviously to discourage burglars. A blonde female sat behind a computer. She was filing away at her nails, chewing gum, and periodically yakking away on the mouthpiece of the receptionist's headphones.

The music flowing from the chimes that accompanied the door's opening didn't get her attention. I stood staring behind the thick bulletproof glass for a few minutes until she disengaged the call and dragged herself to the window.

"Our computer is down. If you are here to get your stuff, you must come back another day," she informed, sounding like a well-rehearsed parrot with a high-pitched nasal Brooklyn drawl.

"Look, I came from the Bronx," I begged.

She stared at me a little angry, then said with utmost discourtesy, "I am sorry, but that's our policy."

I was startled when she returned to the desk, picked up the headphone, dialed, and started yakking again as if I didn't exist. I banged on the glass. She jumps up in fright and glares at me in disgust. She was pressing something on the phone. Then angrily dawdled back towards me.

Suddenly, the chimes behind me started to sing.

"Our computer is down," she recited.

I turned around and came face-to-face with the 'Terminator's' bigger twin. He wore a light spring coat, which he removed upon entering, revealing a black T-shirt with a giant bald eagle printed on the front, and tight black jeans and black sneakers. He was huge, with enormous muscles chiseled to perfection.

"Doesn't your logo say, 'U store it, U lock it, U keep the keys?" he growled in his gravel tone.

"Well, yes," she agreed, flashing him a look of annoyance.

"Well, yes, I stored it. Yes, I locked it, and yes, I have my keys," he uttered with starched dry sarcasm, waving a key just like mine in the air.

She stood, staring at us for a while as the chimes alerted us, and more and more people entered.

"Sweetheart, I don't have all morning, and it's your policy; of course, I could call the Better Business Bureau or The Consumer hotline," he threatened, pulling his cellphone from his waist.

"What's going on?" someone asks as the chimes sound again.

"Their computer is down," I notified them.

"What!" voices behind me shouted in choral.

"And she said you couldn't. . ." I added.

"What's your number?" she asked the man, angrily cutting me off.

He gave it to her. I quickly gave her mine too.

She glared at us with exhausted tolerance, then went into one of many filing cabinets behind her. Minutes later, she returned with two cards. "Helen Shade," she called out, reading it.

"Yes," I answered quickly.

"Second floor, room 76," she said, handing me a 6-inch rectangular-shaped card. She then pressed something to her left. There was a buzzing sound. I grabbed the door and hurried towards another colossal steel door, with the number 76 painted in danger red. A signature card showed payment dates going back to the year I was born in my hand. The last payment was in October of last year. The next one was two days late.

Room 76 had filing cabinets of many sizes climbing up to the ceiling. Another blonde clone posed around a desk in front of a computer. She took my key and card, buzzed me in, then led me to one of many filing cabinets recessed into the back wall. She stopped at 380, then counted to 391.

"ID, please," she asked, walking back to me with a proffered right hand. I stalled for a minute and sighed in disgust. Opening my bag, I orchestrated a grand search for my ID, "I already showed her my ID downstairs," I lied, conspicuously fiddling around in my tote.

"Sorry, when our computer is down, we like to double-check IDs, just company procedure."

"I know I had it downstairs," I fussed, hoping she didn't hear my knees knocking, still fidgeting for my ID in my pockets. Then finally unfolded the contents of my tote bag on a nearby desk in the center of the room. "Dammit," I cried. "I just showed it to her; I may have left it downstairs; give me a minute," I pretended to turn, heading back towards the entrance after returning the contents to my bag.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it and will savor more from some talented writers on this platform.

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