Cape Day

It was a Cape day. Marissa had decided only hours before that she would leave. She had suffered through enough of the misery, despair, and hopelessness of Washington Heights. Fil's death put her over the edge.

She didn't know why, exactly, but the death of Fil cast the final break in the chain binding her to the neighborhood. His ridiculous demeanor perfectly encapsulated the Washington Heights attitude -- its quirks, its awkwardnesses, its foolishness. All of it had fallen from a poorly constructed treehouse, blasted by the Chesapeake winds.

She breezed out of the basement door, onto the street. Everything and everyone was bustling from the energy of death -- a part of life was missing. For Marissa, it was the last relic of her apartment experience.

First person she saw, cursing at a waiting taxi, was Manuel. She overheard his murmurings, that no one could escape Washington Heights. And she laughed. Today she was gone. And she would leave in fashion, with the best friend she'd had in this place.

Oscar strolled casually to Marissa from the other side of the street. She packed several suticases -- he, a duffle bag.

"Ready to roll, girl?"

"Never been more ready. Let's go."

And together they drove, in Oscar's fresh Caddilac, up 95 through the heart of the Northeast. Through Delaware and Maryland and Philadelphia, they cruised. Through the serene woods of New Jersey, up to the city beyond comparison. It was a surreal journey for a girl who hadn't left Baltimore in years.

It was the return. The more they drove, the more Marissa blended it with her surroundings. And the more Oscar stood out. Final, past the Big Apple and Connecticut and Rhode Island, the motley pair reached Massachusetts.

Into the cul-de-sac they drove, right along the most expensive beach in New England. Out of the car they stood, totally out of place. Even Marissa, from her years of Washington Heights, could not fit in with the prim and proper neighborhood.

This would be her revenge. With a massive Latino, a dog fighter at that, standing by her side, Marissa could not be rejected. Her family would find the image too strange, too absurd, too frightening.

"It can't be."

"Hi mom."

"Who's the, uh, man?"

"My lover, Oscar." She muttered to her friend, "just go along with it."

"Hello Mrs. Bancroft. Nice to meet you."

The mother didn't even look at Oscar. "Marissa, what are you doing here?"

"Just dropping by."

"Ok. You can come in. But you can only sleep in the servant's quarters."

And that was that. Marissa and Oscar settled in to their indefinite invitation. They were treated not as relatives or friends but as regular house servants. They were expected to join the chorus of chores and duties.

So this is what the good life is like, Marissa thought to herself. After years of indoctrination, she had thought the New England aristocratic life the only one worth living. Her tenure, her sentence, at Washington Heights was meant only to position an eventual return to Hyannis.

Now she was here, for as long as she wanted, with her cold and unforgiving parents. Their hospitality came more from etiquette than any personal sympathy.

After a week of unsucessful trips to find Marissa an apartment, she told Oscar -- still reeling from the culture shock -- that she wanted to go home. He obliged.

The trip back to Washington Heights, from suburb to slum, brought Marissa to the home in her heart. Yes, she admitted to herself, I don't look it or dress it or even act it. But I think and feel the rhythm of this place. It's misery manifested, true, but it is human. And unlike Massachusetts, it doesn't deny it.

It was a Cape day. Not the Cod one. But the one jutting out into the Chesapeake. Fil had resurrected in her mind -- his memory, the homeless guy living life for all the right reasons, had rolled away the down shutting her perspective. This was home.

Loud day

It was a loud day. Well, how else can one describe a day that opens to the loud, blaring, uncomfortably cheery whistle of an ice cream truck. It rolled through Washington Heights with a vengeance, tearing into the ear drums of every unsuspecting, innocent resident. There were few, if any, children in the neighborhood. Clearly, the driver possessed little knowledge of economics. Or, maybe, a bit too much...

Marissa hated ice cream trucks. The way they proclaimed such artificially happy and sweet sounds -- life just didn't work like that. One day, you're living a dream, cleanly licking the crisp cream off the cone. Then you wake up, and you're back to reality, in a basement at the bottom of a shoddy apartment in the middle of Baltimore's sketchiest corner.

And the noise screamed Hyannis, Massachusetts. Childhood memories. Spring picnics, Fourth of July fireworks, lazy Augusts at the pool -- all swarmed within the radius of the sound's reach. These memories jolted the poor 20-something girl awake, and she stumbled out of bed, a little fiestiness, a little fire in her step.

She was a master as converting negative energy into the productive variety. And today was no exception, as she stormed onto the street, eyes straight ahead, with all the noise and chaos of the ghetto ringing in her ears.

Then that blasted truck came to a screeching halt, right beside Marissa. "Hey hey, would you like to hold something white."

"No."

"Oh, come on, girl, you know I've got something good for you."

"No."

Any other woman, maybe, the guy would have kept pestering. Maybe even hopped out of the truck to swoon his way into a drug deal. But Marissa, oh God Marissa, did not cast an inviting aura. And buddy had to respect that. Buddy, the notorious drug dealer, could not take on Washington Heights's primmest princess.

Henrietta Floggsbottom sure tried. "Marissa, my sweet, how are you this morning? I'm sure the boys have been all over you. That is, when they take their swooning eyes off my beautiful visage. Oh, the beautiful day. Lovely, isn't it. So cold, so rainy, but yet, so beautiful. For I am a part of it. Don't you think?"

Marissa didn't rightly know how to respond to such an advance. She calmly replied "Today is just like any other, Henrietta. I wake up, come outside, and witness all the pain and suffering in the world. Then I have you to brighten my day. I always appreciate your sweetness."

It was a pitiful attempt, but Henrietta fell for it. She absorbed up the subtly backhanded compliment with her usual gusto, and left Marissa alone.

Alone. Sometimes, that's all Marissa wanted. She was free when she was alone. No parents, no teachers, no adults who claimed mentor status but really just wanted to create clones of themselves. Only Marissa, in peaceful silence, with the inviting sounds of downtown refreshing her ears.

The noise was absent, but the drive had returned. Marissa would return to Hyannis, with a vengeance. First, she would need some money. Preferably an attractive fiance. Maybe a convertible and a royal bloodline to go along with him.

Or she could just bring along Oscar. Wow, what a brilliant idea. She would take Oscar back to the Cape. Waltz right into her parents house, demand compensation for all the emotional damage they caused her, and waltzed right back out -- with gambling ring leader all in tow.

Marissa was always a dreamer, but this opportuntiy seemed too hilarious to pass up in reality. The New England aristocracy wouldn't know what hit it.

Black day

It was a black day. It must have been the shadows cast by the ominous sky. Or how the rain reflected the cold basement lair onto the pavement. Or that black van.

As much as Marissa morbidly savored the cold lonliness of Washington Heights, she couldn't helped but be scared to death by the black van. Screeching, zooming, roaring, shooting its way down Baker Street. Then a scorching turn, an icy splash of rain against the basement windows, and it was gone. Again, the early dawn was black.

And black the day would remain. No sunlight to dispel the dark, damp chill of the menacing Baltimore landscape. Concrete, urban, impersonal -- it was all black.

If Marissa had experienced an Emo phase in high school, she might have suffered a relapse. But she didn't -- she was too busy with... too busy, enough said. She didn't have time for sulking and misery. She did, this morning, however, have time to throw on a stark black shirt, durable jeans, and some don't-even-try black pumps.

No black eye shadow. Never. To the residents of Washington Heights, Marissa would never appear in the least bit discouraged. Only Oscar recognized the subtle mood shifts, hidden by her strikingly beautiful presentation. Oh, Oscar. The closest thing Marissa had to a friend in Washington Heights -- the closest thing she had to reliability.

Well, there were the loony late night drunks. She could always count on them. Like Kevin, for instance, one of the usual suspects. He was a fellow Hopkins student, but about as different as Marissa as she could possibly imagine. And never a chance. Some of her university friends thought him cute -- in a creepy, awkward sort of way -- but he didn't exude the odor of success. And as unsuperficial as Marissa tried to be, she couldn't resist the sweet smell of money.

She wandered toward Oscar's thinking about boys. A rarity, surprisingly. It must have been the introspective nature of the morning. The blackness.

Kevin -- nope. Finn -- too young. Marissa chuckled -- 30 or older, with at least an M.D. Charlie was kind of cute -- maybe for a one-night stand -- but, ooo, Marissa caught herself. She didn't do one night stands. Well, no, Oscar doesn't count. He's just Oscar.

He was safe. And she liked safety. No one could blame her -- she was Massachusetts girl caught in a Chesapeake ghetto. So she walked toward Oscar's, eyes forlorn, gazing into the bleak blackness, and she hoped for a different day. For a girl so driven, so motivated, so focused, Marissa could not even escape the overwhelming decay of Washington Heights.

Gusty day

It was a gusty day. Fresh with excitement. Invigorating right to the bone, chilling the heat, and jump-starting the mind. Marissa awoke this morning with a rejunevated spirit, and as always, she couldn't explain why. It was just a windy, gusty, intense sort of day.

Her day off from work, too. That was always a plus. And combined with the inspiring wind, the day's atmosphere was breathed cooly and easily. It was a Wednesday, no, maybe, a Thursday? -- it didn't matter. Marissa grasped the ball, handed to her by a mysterious force deep within the gloom of Washington Heights, and ran with it.

She slipped on her pink Chucks, remnants of her high school days. Before the baby, before getting kicked out, before Washington Heights. And off she skipped, spritely toward the Metro and then off to the University. She had her one morning class of the week, and she was excited.

Wait a second, what day is it again? Oh, Thursday -- good, she did have class and breathed a sigh of relief. And plus, tomorrow is Friday. She always appreciated Thursdays, though. The anticipation for the weekend always caught her senses -- she almost enjoyed the eager waiting more than the actual weekend. She lived by hope.

But not everyone did, and Marissa received a stark reminder as she saw Fil scramble around to repair his roof. He offered her a paper, and though she almost replied in the affirmative, she couldn't bring herself to it. New York Times, only. Not the Baltimore Sun. She had enough of Baltimore. In her mind, she dreamed of Broadway, Wall Street . . . Baker Street was the present, and she wanted none of it.

As her mind wandered off into the future, her past came back to shock her. No, not anyone or anything directly related to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. That didn't even matter. The past came to her in the form of Molina Rose, who shared her story. Once normal, even affluent, but then took a turn for the worse.

Worse? What am I thinking? she pondered. This is a great life, she retorted. This is freedom. No parents, no yacht clubs or tea parties -- no expectations. At least, none from anyone else. As Marissa hopped on the train to downtown, the only things she expected came from herself and herself only. All the cute boys at school, just distractions. All the foolish people in Washington Heights, all just distractions.

The future lay waiting at the other end of the subway line, at the other end of a college diploma, at the other end of a cul-de-sac, with a happy house, a happy family, and a happy life.

Rainy day

Marissa Bancroft - Basement

"Rainy day"

It was a rainy day. Marissa didn't particularly mind the rain, but she wasn't about to go outside dancing and singing in it either. She appreciated the refreshing lull around the neighborhood. What was depressing and distressing to some, she found pleasant and tranquil. It was the perfect day to stay inside and look through the basement window as the rain drops plopped on the muddied puddles.

She stretched out on her futon with an inviting tale from William Faulker. Her recent readings had turned southwards, a direction she had never traveled, and she was fascinated. All her life, she had grown up under the might weight of the New England establishment. Baltimore was about as far south as her family had ever traveled - anything farther might as well have been the depths of hell.

The southern landscape was riveting. As the fall chill descended over Washington heights, enshrouded in a mist of Chesapeake rain, Marissa escaped into a Deep South fantasy. Piney woods, lonely highways, and endless fields of cotton and peanuts. This to her was freedom. Freedom from the stresses of the Mid-Atlantic. Freedom from her poverty and her suffering. Freedom from her cuthroat Yankee background.

Of course, it wasn't all for fun. Marissa would not be caught doing anything at least midly productive. The Faulker was a reading assignment for her American Literature class at Johns Hopkins University. She was an English major - pre-med, of course; she would always be tied to financial ambitions - drudging her way through afternoon and evening classes. She loved reading, writing, and most of all, talking about reading and writing - too bad she didn't exactly have too many Faulker scholars around Washington Heights.

Faulker's stream-of-conciousness, riveting her eager soul, sent Marissa's thoughts into a frenzy. After a a full morning of monotonous grocery-bagging at Manny's, her subconcious finally found an outlet to empty its memories. She gradually drifted into events from earlier that day:

She had left her apartment that morning with her face forward, chest held high, eyes straight ahead. Her posture, however, was overshadowed by the man walking beside her. Kevin Lansing, from near the top floor, exploded down the sidewalk with the fire of a madman. Eyes blodshot, sweating and pale, Kevin shocked Marissa's passive morning mentality. She didn't second guess him, though. She, too, was on a mission. Excitement and frills could wait for later - as in post-college, post-kids, post-career life. That's all that lay ahead of her in her mind.

It was a few moments later when she saw Lola Fontaine. Slightly awkward and spritely, Marissa thought she was sweet, in only a mildly condescending way. She had an alluring attractiveness - kind of skanky, kind of cute - that always perplexed Marissa. She had grown up accustomed to the perfectly-manicured-and-always-well-presented New England bombshells. This sort of blue-collar beauty always fascinated her. Along with the South, she had begun to respect a world beyond the white picket fences and fresh green grass of Connecticut. Or maybe that was just her coping mechanism.

Marissa was in Baltimore, rejected by her family, her friends, and the whole society she once held dear. But it didn't matter to her, at least on the surface. As long as she had Faulker and Kevin and Lola to brighten her rainy day - and she had begun to appreciate the little things in life - she could survive any situation. Back to Faulker, she found the descent of the Compton family strinkingly familiar - but she was too busy to care.

Monday

Marissa Bancroft - Basement

"Monday"

It was Monday. No further description needed. No word in the English language can possibly qualify the bitterness, anxiety, and frustration of waking up on a Monday morning. Human happiness draws from two resources: contentment with the past and anticipation of the future. On Monday mornings, the latter takes a sharp dive into the workweek abyss.

With little in the way of contentment with her past, Marissa narrowed her vision to the future. And with five days ahead of her of near-minimum-wage work and night classes, not to mention social dramas and financial crises, the future obscured itself in a dark tunnel.

As she rolled out of bed, these thoughts traveled merely in her subconscious. Her conscious thoughts in the morning never deviated from fundamental necessities. Bathroom. Sink. Closet. Clothes. With the whole world in front of her, life could only be approached in single word sentences. No subject, no verb, no action - just an object.

She entered the bathroom, her eyes half open, and glanced at the mirror with an awkward smile, reassuring herself with a reassuring facade of happiness. She bregrudgingly opened up her make-up kit, though the action was never debatable: she had to make herself look presentable. Just a swish of mascara here and a dab of blush there - enough to effective without being conspicuous.

Conspicuous was to be avoided at all costs, as she trudged up the stairs out of the basement. The cold morning breeze jolted her senses, but not her mind, with the sunlight blinding her resisting pupils. The place never felt like hers. Washington Heights was owned by her father, but never did she feel a familial connection to it. She had been kicked out of the house at 18, disgraced and pregnant, her only consolation being the basement apartment. And that was only after she got an abortion.

Grandma Pearl was the first character of the morning drama. A tragedy, perhaps, but Marissa always looked for the comedic elements in her awkward life. Grandma Pearl, though, required a taste for dark humor. She sped through sidewalk with the motivation of an old soldier, blinded by age. Life seemed not to need reason or a purpose for her - just objects and actions.

"How sad," Marissa thought, though sympathy was directed more inwards. "What if I end up like her? Old and miserable."

Marissa swared every time she passed the Grandma Pearl that the old woman muttered "Kids these days" under her breath. But it was one of those things that Marissa never thought twice about. One of many. When guys passed by, hooting and hollering at the gorgious object of their attention, she never took a second glance. Such thoughts were merely diversions for her foward focus.

She crossed the street to Oscar's shop, entering without so much as a glance toward the sketchy door in the back. Though she suspected something, she thought it a waste to dwell on it. It was his business anyway. Oscar fixed her a sandwich every morning, and she had no complaints.

Roast beef on rye. An interesting selction, complemented by a slice of swiss. Marissa always appreciated Oscar's spontaneity. Her life completely lacked it, she thought, and his friendly randomness generously mixed up her mornings. She picked up the bag from him with a shy smile, her usual variety, and he replied with a quick grunt. Also usual.

She strolled down the street, clutching her bag like a baby wrapped in a blanket. Oh, how nice children would be. A house, a car, a white picket fence - the whole works. But she had her sandwich, she had her morning walk, she had Washington Heights - and she lived with that.

The grocery store approach her imposingly. It stood as her morning fortress, locking her in for six hours - the eight-to-two shift. Out of Manny's walked Delilah Plunk, fresh from the most recent episode of her morning routine. Orange juice and coffee - Delilah never failed her rhythmic quest for monotony.

Marissa peered at the woman with sympathetic eyes, as she did all women lacking her attractiveness. But beauty is only skin deep, and Marissa was always more concerned with the inner struggle. At times, she almost wished to be free from the chains of beauty. But regret never stole her attention, and as Marissa stepped into Manny's grocery, her attention focused on her cashier line and the immediate business at hand.

Red day

Marissa Bancroft - Basement

"Red day"

It was a red day. Marissa could never explain why, but some days were just red. Not dark red or pink red or a neon red. Just plain red. Maybe it was how the light shined through the window bars of her aparment. Maybe it was how the chill air sunk gracefully into the basement of Washington Heights. Whatever the incentive, when she woke up some mornings, the world simply unveiled a red hue, simply missing from ordinary life.

To complement the red aura, Marissa donned a red outfit, complemented by her personal touch of black. She wore a red summer dress, even on an October morning in Baltimore. To compensate, she threw on black sweater to shield her thin arms from the Chesapeake chill. Later in the year, she might add black tights or black mittens or a black scarf. But, whatever the accesory, it would merely accentuate the dominant red theme.

As she stepped out into the autumn morning – afternoon, it was, when she crawled out of bed this particular Saturday – her red stilletos stabbed the cold, wet concrete. She did not know why she chose to wear stilletos on a Saturday morning. But then again, she did not know why some days were red.

She paused a moment to breathe the fresh city air, polluted with activity. She contemplated, naturally, her own idleness this morning. She had not even gone out the night before. That was fotunate, she thought. It was a rare Saturday morning to wake up without a guy stretched out next to her.

Never a one-night-stand, of course. Marissa was a romantic, showered in her red glaze. Though this morning, she was devoid of any romantic passion, robbed from her by indiscretion. And infedelity. She possessed her fair share of bad experience, held on to her fair share of bad memories, but she always saw the light shine through her basement gloom.

As Marissa left her father's castle, remant of a once glorious industrial neighborhood, she didn't stop once to glance back at the crumbling tower. Her life was still being built, as far as she was concerned. She would not fall victim to her city's fall from grace. But of course, she was the victim, her whole life torn from her from a bad money, a bad aparment, and bad boyfriends.

None of this mattered to Marissa. Or at least, she refused to dwell on any of her troubles. Self-pity was never a possible occupation for a Bancroft. All she witnessed, all she contemplated, lay straight ahead of her, on frigid Saturday afternoon with a red mist descending into the post-industrial haze of Baltimore, Maryland.