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.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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.
"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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
