By Kevin Herlihy

Kathy’s perfume wafted into his nostrils, drifting up off the peaked collar. Warm stirrings, aroused in his groin, surprised him. Charley needed to flip up, warding off the damp and prowling Autumnal night air eddying about him.

It was a cut-through-your-coat, gusting, swirling, and attacking sort of wind that was visited with a deep, animated cold, almost sentient, and ravenous.

This was a very early, dark morning that he stepped out of the sleeping N train and onto the open and exposed Ditmars Boulevard station platform.

Above him, flew a few of the frozen vanguard at the far end of the platform, high over the exposed incandescent lights. They were a confirmation of the forecasted tempest to come, large, fat feathery flakes.  The undulating platform was a structure of pealing and chipped dark blue painted benches and a black gloss covered wrought iron and steel. It was a fine example of well-used and still operational Early 20th Century civic engineering.  The wind was picking up. It was getting noticeably colder. The platform swayed like a lovesick drunk.

Just forty-five minutes earlier, she had laid her head on his shoulder, there, at the bar. Most of the gang was buying round after round of drinks. The Holidays were now upon them, bonus checks cashed, and everybody having a good time.

The TV on the wall showed football highlights and updates concerning the approaching blizzard. It was to be the season’s first snowstorm, and it looked like it was going to be an honest to goodness Nor’easter.

Under the table, under the coats and under Kathy’s skirt, the fingers were working their magic.

“Stop!” She said huskily.

“Do you really mean that?” Charley whispered in her ear. Tenderly nibbling at her cool bare lobe.

“No.” She giggled.

“Can I come over to your place tonight Kat? We can pick up a movie, a bottle of wine…stop by the CVS annnnnnnnnd get some rubbers…”

“Shhhhhh! someone will hear you!”

She chastised him then clamped her thighs down on Charley’s advancing digits. Twice weekly spin classes had made them a force to be reckoned with.

“My roommate’s family is visiting. They’re everywhere, you can’t, I’m sorry.”

“Okay, come home with me.”

“I’ve got to work tomorrow… early, here in Manhattan. I can’t risk getting stuck out in Astoria after this storm. Charley, please, I need this job. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Flush-faced … he needed some air. Pulling his hand back, Kathy released her warm fleshy vice grip and placed her hand on his hot cheek.

“They’ll be gone in two days. I’ll buy the…”

She gave a quick look around and in a hushed voice said:

“… Condoms tomorrow, Trojan Magnums right big fella?”

With a twinkle in her eye she quickly added.

“Oh, sorry, was that the other guy?”

“Don’t! Don’t even go there Kat!”

In a sleepy voice she said,

“Go where?”

“I’ve got to go, the trains run like shit at this hour.”

He flashed his Metro Card.

“And you’re too cheap to take a cab!” Kathy scowled.

“Yup, and that’s because engagement rings aren’t cheap either.” Charley grinned back.

“Charley! Don’t go there!”

“Go where?”

He winked at her and she pouted back.

Dragging his coat out from under the pile on the bench seat he leaned over and French kissed Kathy right in front of all their friends. This drew a few cheers and whistles from the appreciative, albeit sodden, peanut gallery surrounding them.

Whipping the coat over his shoulders he bolted out of the door and ran down the street to the IND Subway entrance on 57th Street and Seventh Ave., just West of Carnegie Hall.

Paper notices had been posted on the support columns deep inside the station.

“Due to a scheduled track repair” N, R & W Trains between Manhattan and Queens will be out of service from 12 O’clock Midnight to 6:00 A.M.

It was exactly 11:45 PM according to his watch.

Charley strained his head and neck and peered forward out over the tracks. He employed the classic ‘balanced with one-leg back- arms spread slightly apart’ position that all New Yorkers eventually develop while doing this. It was the ever popular, ‘antelope at the watering hole’ defensive posture.

He made a cursory glance at the downtown end of the uptown track.

No crocodiles, but plenty of rats. Some were a chocolate brown, some black and some were an almost a park squirrel gray.

Not one of them showed an ounce of fear.

At 11:50 PM the rodents began to scurry. They always seemed to know first.

Amber light washed over the curved white tiles at the other end of the station. Getting brighter and whiter as the uptown subway cars drew ever closer. Rounding the turn the boxy train shouldered its way into the station. Wheels squealing a shrill metal on metal scream, steeling and edgy. Bright blue sparks popped as the contact shoe and third rail interfaced. The lead carriage bounced and shuddered.

Charley crossed his fingers. An R train would only get him to Queens Plaza, just over the bridge with an hour’s walk through the scary Queensbridge housing projects section then on to Long Island City, Astoria and finally the Ditmars area around Astoria Park and the Hellgate Bridge, often referred to as ‘Northern Astoria’.

The red LED circle on the brow of the lead car said…  He squinted harder at the onrushing crimson halo.

N!

It’s an N train! Wahoo!

Shuddering to a halt, the doors opened.

Diving into the first seat of the lead carriage he turned and saw that he shared the car with one other person. At least he thought it was a person, far away. A pile of clothing topped with rough gray fibrous mover’s mats. The requisite shopping cart replete with five plastic bags five and six ply thick a piece of every color, tied to the handle.  All filled with what appeared to be cans and bottles. A redeemer. The two legs poking out of the bottom appeared to be covered by newspaper wrapped with packing tape.

A loud snapping snore erupted from deep within the fabrics, the pile jiggled. The legs shifted and a long yawn, soon followed by a rather soft and pleasant hum. The pile was as still and quiet as before, there, at the back of the car.

Charley’s gaze returned to the front window as the train left 59th Street and Lexington Ave.

Another fifteen minutes and he’d be home.

As the train surfaced in Queens he could see that the weather was souring.
People literally leaped onboard as the doors shot open. High above all of that infamously forever cluster-fucked Queensborough Bridge approach traffic, horns of every description were blaring on and on.
Ah Jesus! What the- Mother FFFff…

Ding Dong

The doors closed, ready or not. No announcement. Bye-bye.

Some of the more adroit now on board bent over to warm their hands by the calf-cooking heaters radiating from beneath the seats.

The cars jolted forward as the angry laggards left behind pounded their fists on the shuttered doors, shouting curses in at least three or four languages, give or take a dialect.

Those inside could only looked back with palms held upward, trying very hard not to smile.

At last, Ditmars Blvd.! Sprinting down the length of the platform, Charley had his head deeply buried in his collars.

Half running, half slipping, bolting down the stairs, through the turnstiles, a right turn, another right turn, grabbing a banister post as an anchor for his pivot – hurtling down the street level stairs and straight forward to Ditmars Boulevard. Jogging, feeling exhilarated about the prospects of this big storm. It might be kind of cool. Maybe there would be no work tomorrow, a Snow Day!

Two more blocks.

He turned right onto 27th Street.

Taking two steps forward, he then stuttered to a stop, hands and arms hanging loosely.

Where the hell was his “Go” bag?

WHERE WAS THE BAG!

“Ah Shit! Ah No! No! No!”

“I…….. AM……… AN………ASSHOLE!”

Charley screamed and stamped his feet, pulling his arms and fists inward as if he were just shot.

The bar, he had left it back at the bar.

Everything he had been in that bag. His wallet, cell phone, toothbrush and a condom that he won’t need tonight, anyway, and… THE… KEYS!

The keys?

T h e    h o u s e   k e y s

“Sweet Baby Jesus what am I going to do now?” Charley said aloud to the moaning winds.
Charley hoped that one of his neighbors might buzz him inside. But, as he trotted up to the vestibule… there on his right, where the intercom used to be, was a message – on a piece of cardboard, crudely painted in dripping red, silver duct taped to the brick.

It said:

“Outta Odor”

“You’ve gotta be kidding meeeee!”

Charley started to spin in place in front of the door. Three inches of snow on the ground already, the winds were getting even stronger and blowing in from the Northeast.

The wind had become an emboldened frigid entity trying to spin him out into the street and devour him, there, at its pleasure.  The meager shelter of the vestibule offered little sanctuary.

Think! Charley think! There was something déjà vu about all of this, but, it was warmer then.

Two years ago, in August!

Yes, Charley had come down from upstate New York visiting with friends at the Dutchess County Fair. He had flat out lost the set of house keys that had hung on an alleged tribal Shrunken Head key ring. Factually, it looked more like a monkey’s head.   A starving peasant had probably shot the poor ape out of a tree in a game preserve for maybe a quarter, American. A gift from a forgotten girlfriend purchased on a Costa Rican vacation that he was not a part of.  He’d always believed it to be accursed. This only proved it.  Those keys were lost somewhere between camping out, tubing on the Esopus River and the Fair itself.  Gone and goodbye forever.

Charley’s landlord, Big Louie D., was sorting out the glass; metal and paper for the recycling pick-up the following day. He was ultimately responsible for all of that, thank God he was there.

“Lou! I’m locked out!”

“I can let you in. But, you have to pay to get the replacement keys yourself, and I need them back before I leave.”

“Okay.”

So, at that time…  Charley had two sets made.

Later that night he walked by the south side of Astoria Park with a taped shut  Sucrets Lozenges box containing three new brass keys taped together. He chose black electrical tape because it would blend in well with the black paint on this particular iron lamppost that he had in mind, the last lamppost before the entrance to the Astoria Park Pool, on the right, Just across the street from the old Eagle Electric Factory, (a manufacturer of electrical switches decades before) now converted into Co-ops or Condos. The developers were forced to keep the tall yellow brick “landmark” smoke stack as is. (Thanks to The Historical Landmarks Society). They were not even allowed to burn anything in it, just illuminate the exterior.

Charley smoked a cigarette in the shadows and watched as a jogger ran by and a pair of dog walkers, eyeing him briefly, passed him from the other side. Once these three individuals were away, heading in opposite directions, Charley acted swiftly.

He broke the seals on the twin syringes, mixing the liquids to form the epoxy cement. He then put a generous worm of goo on the back of the taped shut box.

A quick shake gave the reassuring clink.

He had earlier pulled off the cover plate on the base of the lamppost using a screwdriver and a small crowbar. Now, on his hands and knees, he reached up inside and affixed the box into position. This took maybe three minutes, tops. Replacing the base cover, tightened the screws, pocketed the screwdriver and crowbar, he walked back home, whistling a merry tune.

That was pretty damned cool.

But that was also two long years ago and for the most part forgotten.

Running stiffly, Charley stalked to Astoria Park. The snow whipped into his face, tearing up and stinging his eyes. He now inhaled snow with each breath. It felt more like drowning when they melted en mass in his trachea.
A White-Out!
Walking on what he guessed to be the sidewalk along the southern side of Astoria Park he trudged onwards counting the poles on his left. It didn’t matter how many there were, he was only interested in the last one. It distracted him from the numbness in his toes.
There! The last pole!
Charley dropped to his knees and started to dig away at the drifting snow, cleared the electrical junction access panel. His bare hands ached.

Sitting back and staring at that panel, he thought, how neat it would be to have a screwdriver and crowbar right now. He stuffed both of his hands deep inside his pants in a vane attempt for warmth and then raised his face to the storm to keep from crying, neither worked very well. While his hands were inside his pockets he noticed something cold and metallic in his left front pocket. His hands now too numb to identify it, he pulled it out to see.
A nail clipper! On a small beaded chain, an impulse purchase from a drugstore. It folded open to reveal the lever handle and the file. Impromptu screwdrivers!

With shaking hands he found the clipper’s lever fitted the slot of the two large screws that held the plate in place. He threw the screws behind him as they came loose and carefully wedged the lever into a gap between the plate and the lamp. It bent in a 30-degree angle but did lift the plate a bit. Nervously he turned the lever around and actually managed to dislodge the cover.

Clawing on the inside of the base he found the box exactly where he had left it, two years ago. His wrists touched some thick electric cables that just scared the be-Jesus out of him. The lid of the box popped open inside the lamppost and something light and papery dropped into his hands.

It was a note, in an envelope.

The note said:

“Climb higher – Up!”

“WHAT?”

So, after a while, in disbelief, up he went.

His out stretched and graying fingers scrapped the ice forming on the Northeast-windward side of the iron lamppost. He had to turn 90 degrees around to get a better purchase on the pole, this now put his face towards the icy part but the hands grabbed better.
Up he went, the wind now screaming at his back. His fingers getting stiff and the leather soles of his shoes were slick.

That first slip of the shoes almost cost him a tooth. In his mouth, there, some grit and a salty taste that could only be blood. Instead of relying on his pathetic leather soled footwear he used all of his remaining reserves of strength to wrap around the pole and try to shimmy upwards. The inhalation of every breath laced with icy needles. The cold black iron sucked the remaining warmth, the very life, from his bare hands. The serrated edged spine of ice on the windward side of the iron post eating into the flesh of his neck and face. His gloves? Also in the Go Bag, Doh! His groin now appeared to freeze and stick to the pole, Charley had been sweating profusely in his corduroy pants back at the bar, imagine that.

A desperate lunge caught the edge of something, tore it. Tape, it was tape.

Like a madman Charley clawed with the other hand too. The intense cold made the tape crack like cheap plastic, another box. It almost went flying off of the pole and into the drifting snow

“No!”

A piece of tape stuck to his right hand, with the box attached.

Charley just let go of the pole, falling backwards; arms and legs splayed out like a skydiver.

It was, maybe a seven-foot drop…into 13 to 15 inches of snow.

Poof!

If he had not then been suffering from hypothermia it would actually have been comfy.

He lifted his right hand and held it up to the light.

The box dangled there like a small black purse.

Charley started to giggle, but it was not a very sane-sounding giggle.
With his left hand he started to cut the brittle tape with his thumbnail. Running it under the rim, all the way around and then…

Pop

In the lamplight above him, Charley imagined that he saw swarmed masses of angry white hornets with wings of frost and stingers of ice. Charley could swear something white wrapped in a Dark Pink silk ribbon spiraled straight down to his face.

What the hell was that?

Charley lay on his back for a good while, snow starting to cover him, before he had the courage.

The courage to look at it.

Just three-brass house keys wrapped in black electrical tape, that’s all he wanted.

Another note.

Charley laughed until a choking spasm hit him, hard.

Gasping, he reached to his face and picked it up.

Charley sat up, propping his back to the lamppost, holding the note up to the light.

Sleepily he moved his limbs as everything grew steadily number. No more pain.

He stiffly undid what was obviously a gorgeous and expensive Dark Pink silk ribbon.

It was clinging to expensive parchment paper. It appeared to be engraved.

“- If you want your keys –“

“Come to: Park View Towers: PH 5”

“Use the private service entrance on the corner of 21thSt and 24th Ave”

“The Intercom is on the right”

He put this up before his eyes. Read it. Put it down. Pick it up. Read it again.

Always using both hands.

He started to sob.

“Why?”

“Why would somebody do this to me?”

“Park View Towers, where the hell is that? I’m gonna die out here!”

He turned back around the post and faced the street.

There, in front of him.

A big green illuminated sign!

Park View Towers

“How the hell did I ever miss that?”  He wondered aloud.

He staggered to his feet with both hands holding the engraved parchment like it was the winning Willie Wanka Chocolate Bar Golden Ticket.

“Please…..please….please….PLEASE……pl-uh-eeez…..”

Headlong he ran, directly across the snow and wind driven street. Mercifully, there was no traffic, Charley never turned his head.

On the corner – a large black square chute with a door. It ran up the NW corner of the building. The turreted edifice made it look like an arsenal or a fort in this storm.

Charley went straight for the public intercom; not unlike the system on the subway, but with a camera.

Manically he slammed a balled fist repeatedly on ‘PH5’, again and again.

“HELLO!” Charley wailed.

After a while, a cool, low feminine voice spoke through the grill. Two high intensity LED arrays lit up Charley’s face, so much so that it had blinded and stunned him. He staggered backwards.

“What do you want?”

“My keys.”

“Your what, oh wait, yes. Describe them to me.”

“What?”

Charley thought the howling wind and his falling core temperature had him hearing that she wanted a description.

“Ha!”

“How many do you have?” Charley screamed.

“Three keys!” the voice behind the grill cooed.

“I want my fucking keys!”

His spittle froze to the microphone.

“Oh, you are not the nice boy I remember from the sum-mer.”

He couldn’t place the accent. It had vague qualities of British or Australian? Maybe even South African?

“Good night to you rude boy.”

And the lights went out.

That was it.

The sudden end of the conversation and the over whelming quality of the darkness, its heaviness, and the gusts of wind physically moving him about…
…it all caught him in the pit of his stomach, literally brought him down to his knees.

“…..please…..”  He sobbed.

“PLEASE!”

Now caressing and stroking the camera lens.

“I think I’m dying out here”. He croaked.

The lights slowly, steadily grew in intensity.

The soft voice returned.

“Does the rude boy feel sorry for talking to me like that?”

“… yes”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“YES! Rude boy sorry!”

“Good.”

The latch hummed and clicked, the door opened and Charley fell face first into the elevator.

He had just lain there for a while when the voice returned above, over the intercom.

“Pull your legs inside!”

Startled Charley pulled his right leg inside.

“Both of them Rude Boy!”

Charley curled up in a fetal position. He had a vague memory of the door shutting and the cab lifting upwards, and sleep.

The door to PH5 opened and a tall woman who at first appeared to be athletically lean and in her mid thirties stepped into the cab. As she got closer he realized that she was actually a very, very well kept early forties.
He felt himself being dragged into the apartment by two small but powerful hands.
Like a leopard dragging a springbok up a tree.

“Got any herb?” She asked lowly.

“Catnip.” Charley slurred. The sudden warmth had made him silly and dizzy.

He felt himself dropped to the floor.

Carpeted, but still the floor. That hurt.

She took a strong grip across his left shoulder that flipped him over onto his back.
Two strong legs quickly straddled him. Both shoulders pinned back and long hair brushing his face.

She sniffed him, drawing in long deep thoughtful inhalations followed by moments of silence and finally a decidedly disgusted exhalation. Up and down, back and forth and upon the rise two stunning angry amber yellow eyes glinted back at him.

“No catnip.” She purred.

She pulled in close to his face. Grasped the hair at nape of the neck and squeezed hard, nose to nose.

“You were teasing me!”

“Hey! Hey kid!”

“Kid?”

Charley was very cool to the touch and unresponsive.

“Oh my God, what have I done?”

She slapped Charley across the face then slid her first two fingers just under his left ear, looking for a pulse.

“Oh no….KID!”

She picked Charley up and flipped him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, walking directly to the bathroom.

“Don’t die on me Kid, don’t you dare die on me!”

Carefully stacking up Charley’s fully clothed, cold and still body against the sidewall of the shower, she stood up.

Operating the complicated controls of the shower the distracted woman now turned a lever all the way to the right whilst simultaneously pulling it outwards. This caused hot water to jet out of six different showerheads studding the interior of the large walk-in stall shower. It had two seats; Charley slumped in one and she leaned over from the other.

The steam rose in billows.

All at once Charley started to writhe and scream.

“Too hot! Too hot! Oh I’m sorry kid… wait! Wait!”
She turned her back to Charley and reached up to slide the lever towards the left, cooling the waters.

Her white silk teddy stuck to her back, now almost transparent, a vision.

Charley saw things in a gauzy dream state. The warm steam filled his lungs. His entire body tingled and felt like it was burning.

He looked over at the back of the woman who was now in front of him, wow, very pretty! She continued to manipulate the shower’s controls trying to attain a more tolerable water temperature.

He wasn’t on fire anymore. What was that on her back? Is that Arabic?

Charley reached out to touch the raised inscriptions…

“… A tattoo?” He whispered as his fingertips glided gently over her skin.

In a flash she spun around and grabbed his wrist, twisting it downwards, his face pressed into the drain.

“Gurrrrrggggle.”

“Oh my God. Are you all right kid? Are you all right?”

She helped him back to a seated position but Charley now cowered from her.

The shower sprayed on. It sounded like rain in the jungle.

She covered her face and cried, great wracking sobs escaped from her taught body.

Charley could only look across at her in amazement.

“Who are you?” He asked.

Stifling a few sniffles and wiping her nose with her wrist.

“Charley.”

“Yes?”

She looked puzzled.

“Charley!”

“What? How do you know my name?”

“Your name is Charley?”

“Of course it is, and who the hell are you?”

She stared at him a while and then threw her head back and gave a great peal of laughter.

Holy shit this bitch is crazy… where is the phone. Charlie thought.

“I’m Charlene, you know…”

She shook both hands at him as if to say… “Get it, Kid?”

“Charley!”

They stared at each other. Suddenly, they both laughed, long and hard.

Charlene slowly moved over to Charley, palms up, ‘I mean you no harm.’

She wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around Charley, rocking slowly back and forth.

“I’m so sorry Charley. I never meant for it to happen like this. I saw you from my balcony putting a box inside that lamppost … you were so… intense…so cute.”

Charlene leaned back and looked at him from arms length, then made a little pouting face.

“I just wanted to see you again. I’m soooo sorry, please forgive me.”

Charlene began to cry again. She was stunningly beautiful; Charley marveled what she must have looked like in her prime. She was the kind of a woman that men, upon seeing her, walked into trees or down open manholes, honestly.

“Wow…. “Was all Charley could say. They both laughed.

“What does that tattoo on your back say?”

The laughter stopped. Her gaze iced up. Uh-oh.

She collected herself, still firmly gripping both of Charley’s arms. She spoke slowly and evenly.

“It is not a tattoo. It is a brand. It says:”

“There is no God but Allah and Mohammed”

Charley was confused. “Mohammed was a God too?”

“No, Mohammed is his messenger, that’s the rest of it.”

“Why is that part missing?”

“Because the gentleman with the bayonet and the torch didn’t get a chance to finish it, my team found me.”

She stood up and walked out of the shower.

Charley sat there mouthing over the words he’d just heard.

Shortly she returned and pressed three black taped keys into his hand. She then helped him to his feet.

“I had no right to do that to you. I am so very sorry Charley.”

“You tested these in the locks first, right; they are brand new?”

Charley stared down at the keys in his hand and then slowly looked up at her, ‘NO’ was written all over his face.

“Oh Charley.” Charlene said, “What are you going to do?”

Charley squinted through the glass of the sliding door to the patio. Dressed in nothing but a big soft white terrycloth robe and holding a cup of hot coffee.
The sky above, a piercing electric blue, the snow below, a dazzling bright white, it hurt the eyes. The aftermath of the snowy Nor’easter was dramatic. There could well be two feet of snow down there, Charley thought. He saw kids and dogs frolicking in the pure white drifts.

Dogs love this shit. So did he.

“I think your clothes are dry now.” Charlene came over to Charley with a fresh pot of coffee, placing his neatly folded clothes on the table.

“Oh, they’re having fun!” She piped up, putting her chin on his shoulder.

“More Joe?”

“Sure, thanks Charlene.”

She topped off his cup and breezed back into the kitchen.

“I have a travel mug that I can fill with more coffee for you.” She called out.

She poked her head out from the archway.

“In case you have to go back into Manhattan.”

She gave him a comical look of shock before ducking back inside.

Charley almost choked on a swig he already had in his mouth, careful not to spit it out on the white carpet.  Smiling, he then cracked the door open. Super cold air flowed in over his coffee cup causing mini cumulus clouds of steam to rise up. He could now hear the children yelling and the dogs barking.

“I’m adding two keys to your set.” Charlene came back inside and slipped the now five keys on a new ring with a tiger skin fob into the pocket of his robe.

“Elevator and door.”

Charlene pointed to the door he came in last night. She smiled and winked.

Sideling up from the side, she ran her fingers between the robe’s layers.

He took another sip.

“Tired?”

Through the crack, outside, a young girl squealed and a dog howled. Frigid air squeezed inside.

Charley never felt more alive.