On the first floor of my building, in the front lives the Kittenheadgirl. She lives alone, well, if you don't count her four obese, depressed cats. The Kittenhead girl is an overweight, unwieldy creature, who used to stalk the halls of the building in her bathrobe at night, looking for her door. I admit, she hasn't done that in a while, but let's not omit the scandalous while we have the opportunity, shall we?
I have been in the Kittenheadgirl's apartment, on occasion. The first time was when she pulled me in with a heavy fume of liquor or antifreeze on her breath, saying I could have her furniture. She had big burn marks on the seat of her couch, and nail polish all over the arms. The windows were closed, and the place stunk of stale cigarettes, and cat poo. The second time was when she invited me in to see her termite damage. She was trying to get me to tell my father, the super, to replace her floors. That was the time I noticed the three empty bottles of Listerine on the floor by her bed.
So, this Kittenheadgirl doesn't work. She stays home, and watches soap operas really loud, and smokes cigarettes, and her family pays to keep her afloat. She has been in the building for about five years now. I used to walk by her door, and find the keys hanging in the lock, and when I'd knock on the door, there would be Kittenhead, in her grannypanties and an undershirt, with three sheets to the wind. I admit, that hasn't happened for a while now. It seems that things have begun to turn around for the Kittenheadgirl.
First of all, a knotty haired, old Jamaican lady started showing up once a week to scream her head off for a few hours. I would see this lady haul huge bags of laundry down and up from the basement when she came. They took out dozens of bags of garbage each time she came, for the first few weeks. Then I saw Kittenhead heading for the gym every once in a while. Then I started to see those potato sack cats sitting in the windows, like normal cats, and I realized I had never seen those windows open before.
A few months later, I was hanging out in the hall, when a man came up to the buzzers for the building. I saw him get buzzed in, and walk up to the Kittenheadgirl's door. He was a black man, and he was carrying a rather large and cumbersome suitcase. He had no eyebrows, and a putty-like African face, grooved and gullied. He knocked on the door, and Kittenhead greeted him, "Mr. Samba! You made it... Come on in."
I was dead curious. I had never seen the Kittenheadgirl entertain anyone in all her time here, let alone someone like this. I would have to keep my eye on them. Over the next few weeks, there was nothing juicy to report. The blinds were drawn though. The Jamaican lady still came on Fridays and yelled, and Kittenhead still smoked and watched her soaps, and Mr. Samba came and went. It was otherwise quiet. I would smell horrible things being cooked (I never smelled cooking from her apartment before), fishy, meaty things with scents that linger and spread down halls and slip under doors.
I would try to engage Mr. Samba in conversation in the hall, but he never had much to say. He was always very polite, and spoke with a fine African accent. I never saw the two of them together. Kittenhead did her thing, and he did his.
Mr. Samba had an kind nature. He seemed very easy mannered, and patient. The one time we did speak, he told me he was from Ghana, and that he liked to run in marathons. He said he was a healer in his village. I found him very interesting, and told him I would like to write a story about him, to which he laughed, and said my life must be far more interesting. Ha! If he only knew how dull things are around here.
I watched their comings and goings for about a month, and it got pretty damn boring. Until yesterday morning, when I heard a piercing shriek from the Kittenheadgirl's apartment.
"Get out you freak!" she screamed.
Then I heard Mr. Samba's voice loud and clear, but what he was saying made no kind of sense. It sounded like "YA-KA-KA-KA-KA!"
And then I head a scramble and a thud, and endless howling.
"You fucking freak! Somebody get the cops!"
And then the door opened, and there was Kittenhead, in her pink leopard pajamas, holding a bloody knife, and a phone.
"9-1-1? I think you better send an ambulance. There's a perverted African bleeding in my apartment. He has a knife wound in his side."
Her hands were shaking, and her pajamas were disheveled. She was breathing really hard. More of us started to file into the lobby as the howling carried down the hall. Mrs. Fenschman, the lady who owns the pawn shop, came over to the Kittenheadgirl, and gave her a hug. When she asked what happened, the Kittenhead girl told her that Mr. Samba had pranced into her room "buck naked" and "wanted to make her feel like a woman." She screamed, and he did his crazy African mating call, and she stuck him with the knife.
Well, the abulance came and took the very naked Mr. Samba away, and then the police came and took the Kittenheadgirl away. Now I have to feed her cats. The whole thing creeps me out.
