Page 4 of Levee

But there were just as many good memories involving Seeley, Cato, and even Amarantha—the girl who would grow up to become Seeley’s wife—inside and in the immediate area around this building.

It had been an easy decision to leave the building when Seeley said he could get us patched in with the bikers. But it had also been shockingly hard to leave that final time.

I knew that, in walking away, I was leaving the part of myself that I’d been there. And while stepping into new shoes and walking into a brighter future had been the right choice, it was always strange to leave the old version of yourself behind.

I climbed out of the car and slipped out of my leather cut, folding it just so and slipping it under the windshield wiper, so anyone in the area who had ideas about boosting or stripping it would know that they were fucking with an arms-dealing club if they did it.

I grabbed the food and cleaning supplies, then made my way into the building.

It hit me all at once.

The same noises. Couples arguing. Kids laughing or screaming. Babies crying. TVs and music on way too loud, trying to drown all the other racket out.

The same smells. Weed and cigarette smoke in blatant disregard of the no-smoking rule. Warming spices—chili powder, paprika, and cumin—as someone made some sort of Spanish dish, and the sharper, tart scent of pasta sauce.

The same sights. Cracked linoleum floor in the hallways, worn nearly through down the center thanks to decades of people walking up and down the halls, the color completely faded from what had once been a fake parquet pattern but was now just a muddy brown. The walls were a similarly timeworn brown that had once been white.

Some of these tenants were trying to have some individuality. Their doors featured decorative wreaths and mats, making me think they were likely new to the building, because that shit would be swiped within a week or two. Hocked and used to secure a drug fix.

But, hey, you had to give them credit for trying to pretty up the place. I hoped for their sakes that they got out of this place before living here made them jaded and bitter. As it inevitably did to just about everyone given enough time.

I made my way down the hall toward my uncle’s apartment, finding that the apartment across the hall from him featured another of those optimistic people’s evidence of trying to make their apartment a home.

There was a multicolored frame around the peephole, a similarly colorful mat that declare the passerbyTake it easy, and a whiteboard on the door itself with a teal dry-erase marker attached with a strand of pink and blue beads.

On the board itself someone had taken it upon themselves to take advantage of her invitation for notes from neighbors.

Nice tits.

I rolled my eyes, walking over, and using the cap’s eraser to remove the message, hoping it was done by some idiot kid who meant no harm and was just being a little shit, and not some creep the poor woman would have to try to avoid in the halls. Or, God forbid, the creepy, isolated cave that was the laundry room.

For good measure, I went ahead and drew a quick little riddle in the hopes that everyone else would leave the board alone.

Why are teddy bears never hungry?

I debated drawing a teddy bear with it, but figured the chance of someone drawing a dick or tits on it were too high, so I just left it as it was.

Turning toward my uncle’s apartment, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves that threatened to frazzle just at the proximity to it, then knocked.

“Don’t need no help, I told ya,” Uncle Will called from behind the door, breaking off into a fit of phlegmy coughs.

I guess he wasn’t heeding the advice from his doctor about starting to get a touch of emphysema.

No surprise there.

I reached for the knob, knowing I would find it unlocked. There was nothing worth stealing in this apartment, and all the local thieves seemed to intrinsically know that.

“Still gonna do it,” I said as I moved inside.

“Wasn’t talking to you. But same goes for you,” he said, not bothering to look away from the TV.

I’d bought him that TV. He’d insisted his old domed one worked just fine, despite a quarter of the screen going pixelated.Then had gone off on a tangent about how I thought I was so much better than him now that I was making money to blow.

I held my tongue so I didn’t tell him that that wasn’t the reason I was better than him. Always trying to take the higher road and all that.

“Who were you talking to then?” I asked, glad to find the fruit was gone for a change. The man seemed to solely exist on beer, soda, TV dinners, and cheese balls. I figured vegetables were probably pushing it, but who didn’t like some fruit now and again? Sure, it took a few years—and hundreds of dollars worth of spoiled fruit—but he finally tried some.

“That girl,” he said, and I heard the whooshing sound of his lighter igniting as he lit another cigarette.

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