Voices from the third floor (first draft)

Thanks to those of you who have recently read/commented on my blog. Glad to have you and hope you stick around. Below you will find the latest chapter draft of my memoir piece. It is a very rough first draft--basically what you read is what I typed with as little correction or revision as possible. As always, I welcome feedback. I'm already thinking that this chapter needs something else--more dialogue or something. But, as I indicated in the piece, many of the actual words aren't clearly recalled--just the emotions behind them. Anyway, thoughts, ideas, suggestions are always welcome. Thanks for reading. ------------------------------------------------------- VOICES FROM THE THIRD FLOOR When I was a girl, I didn’t have a cell phone. Of course, during the 70’s and early 80’s, no one did. There simply wasn’t a need for one. Sure, some people can say it was because times were safer and parents didn’t have to keep a 24 security watch on their children back then. That may be true, to some extent. However, me and my friends who grew up on Tuckahoe Road had something far superior than any hi-tech flip phones that teens, tweens or perhaps even some preschoolers may carry around in their pockets or backpacks. This marvel of technology was able to carry messages across courtyards and even down the street. An opened window transmitted news faster than the speed of light, whether it was shouted from or up to by neighbors, children…hell, strangers probably even passed the word along from time to time. The open window was almost like magic in our apartment complex: it was multi-functional and, yet, so simple to use! There was no programming involved, no annoying ring tones to download--although some of the voices I can’t say much for their ear pleasing qualities—and no numbers to memorize. Our open apartment windows could tell time: “Frankie!” Grandma Hughes would holler from her perch looking directly down to the front end of the court yard. “Time to eat!” They were the first prototypes for ATM’s. Not one of us had to type in a password. “MOM! THE ICE CREAM MAN IS COMING!” were the magic words and money would rain down. All I can say that I was grateful when my parents threw down the paper money rather than the change. Not only did it make finding the cash a lot easier, but it was much gentler when it landed smack in the middle of my forehead, as my eyes followed it through its descent. As far as I was concerned, though, the window’s ability to foretell the future was its greatest power. Whether I was digging in the dirt, riding my bike or just hanging out on the front stoop, whatever I heard from the window would tell me what the end of the day would be like. Ironically, hearing nothing—absolute silence—came as a welcome sign to me. Many days, I prayed that I heard nothing. Other times, though, the voices from my third floor window signaled loud and clear that a long night was ahead. These weren’t voices calling a daughter to dinner or someone having the volume of the television up just a bit too loud. They were voices of anger—of my dad screaming at my mom and her frustrated and bitter returns. To this day, I can’t exactly recall the words that I would fly out the open window. But, truthfully, it really doesn’t matter what precisely was spoken. Even then, it was the volume, the tone and what sounded like an utter lack of love that dug itself into my ears. At first, embarrassment was my reaction. My parents’ arguments seemed to become a form of guilty entertainment for my core group of friends. They would stop whatever game we’d be playing or any other activity going on and just listen. I would watch as their eyes tracked the noise coming from the two open living room windows. A heat would rise within me—first out of shame for being the focus of such gossip fodder, and then out of fear of my friends dropping me like a bad fad. In my mind, I wondered who would want to hang around with a girl with such a weird family. My childhood naiveté didn’t consider the possibility that my friends’ folks fought, too. I’m pretty sure they did; they just had the common sense (and decency) to do it behind closed doors and windows. Eventually, though, the novelty of the Skerritt Scream-a-Thons wore off. My buddies, either out of sympathy for me or just because they bored of them, were able to ignore them after a while. The arguments became a regular fixture in our courtyard. It was easy for my friends to keep walking past the windows. Most times, I would follow right along, chatting and laughing with the rest of the group. But, rarely an occasion would go by that my eyes had to pause, ever so slightly, to acknowledge that these weren’t just voices from a third floor window. It was my life being broadcast to the world. Our dirty laundry hung out for all, not to see, but rather, to hear. At the end of any of these days, I would slowly climb the three flights of stairs leading to my apartment. I already knew what was waiting behind the thick, black metal door. Still, I stood outside of it, looking up at the peep hole and the numbers that identified my home: 3B. I wished I could look inside, so that I could see what was going on, that if what I envisioned in my mind was the reality that awaited me once I opened the door. But, reality could only wait so long. My eyes would close, my hand gripped tightly on the brass knob and I pushed open the door. The aroma of something delicious cooking on the stove would hit me as I entered and for the briefest of moments, I could imagine things were “normal”. “What’s for dinner, Mommy?” “You’ll see,” she’d say as she closed the oven door. “Go get your father. It’s time to eat.” With a hopeful smile, I’d search around the apartment for him. If I found him in the bedroom, it was never a good sign. Still, ever the optimist, I would try… “Hey, Daddy…come on, it’s time to eat!” He sat on the edge of the bed and look out a window that was just a bit too high to get a good view from where he was located. Without turning, he’d snap, “Tell your mother I’m not eating,” Then, he would take a long drink from his beer. “Tell her she killed my appetite…again!” I left silently and sat at the table, waiting for dinner to be put in front of me. Yeah, I should have known from the voices it was going to be a night like that. The voices never lied.