Columbia Street
The Trouble With Apartment One — Chapter 16
Here’s the latest chapter of The Trouble With Apartment One.
COLUMBIA STREET
I found myself, at length, in Washington Square—fixed in a strange suspension.
The crowds had fled the park—save for a wandering band of souls—
I was drawn into the open pit of the Chess Circle, where the hustlers held a crude and swaggering court.
They called out to every passing stranger:
Chess player! Chess player! Over here! Three games for five!
Hey, chess player!
★
One of them recognized me at once—and waved me to his table.
A bad day, he said—his eyes upon the chessmen.
★
Around the boards there swelled a coarse and ceaseless uproar—voices boasting, jeering, challenging—each striving to outshout the other, until the entire Circle trembled on the brink of violence.
Beneath it, a lodestone lay buried, it seemed—driving the frenzy at the tables.
★
A boiling cloud raged in the distance—down around Liberty Street—spreading along the avenues and fouling the bottom of the city, as though some vast and unseen engine had set to work beneath the streets.
★
The wind turned upon the Circle, carrying corruption from table to table—driving me out of the park.
★
I fled south—then west—the air itself pursued me.
I set my course for Houston Street, intending to reach Apartment Seven—but the barricades rose up and wouldn’t let me pass.
★
No one passes south of Houston, said a guardsman.
But I live down there, I told him.
Not tonight, he answered—as though the matter were already settled.
★
I abandoned all argument and headed east on Houston Street—hoping to find a breach and work my way back home.
The streets grew unfamiliar, and with each new name a subtle disorientation took hold—until the very map of the city seemed to waver before me, as though the streets were being rearranged.
★
I came at last to Columbia Street, and in the name itself there was the promise of a passage—and with it a sudden and improbable hope arose.
★
I continued south, searching for some sign of home—a quiet panic held the streets—
The names grew more convincing, as though recognition were close at hand—
Delancey Street appeared at last…
★
I climbed the steps to Apartment Seven, expecting some reprieve, but the air was thick with toxins—
Thalia was gone.
★
The rooms were fouled beyond endurance—
It settled in the lungs without release, until I fell upon the floor and slept…
★ ★ ★
The lamps burned over an empty Circle—abandoned tables stood rooted in the asphalt…
I crept on hands and knees along the paving—until I came upon the center—
I clawed the flagstones up and dug into the sand—
Until I felt it:
The lodestone—sunken deep beneath the Circle.
★
I concealed it under my shirt and staggered out of the park—
A question pursued me through the yellow phosphor of the night streets:
Will I be held accountable in the end—though I only dreamed it?