I don’t think the old woman ran down the hall, she was escaping and trading places with the young girl who had premonitions and foreboding about the elevator before she went in there. It’s kind of like a horror story/flash fiction.
Transvestities trade places with their male/female selves. It was meant to be a metaphor fo that. If it didn’t come across, I’ll have to work on that. Yes, hee hee- it’s about the old bat trading places and riding off, trapping the girl who likes to be outside in the creepy old apartment in the dark foreboding building. The old woman stole her youth.Hee Hee.
Short Story / MESSENGER GIRL (Analysis)
MESSENGER GIRL
Stephanie rode her red bicycle down Bush Street in the Tenderloin on her first delivery of the day. She rode past transvestites calling in what they believed were feminine voices lowly as the herds of cows that once trailed along in the dust on their way to the slaughterhouses on Third Street on the other side of town. With their eyes too wide with fake black lashes, they moved up and down in the gutter alongside working girls. The transvestites moved quickly into the traffic, so no one’d get a good look. Too boney, too angular, Stephanie thought, they don’t even move like women as she rode past them. They weren’t soft and round like the girls with thin legs and big asses prowling and promising lies to johns from out of town. They moved back and forth across the street corners further down the street. She watched the real women walk slowly over to the cars so the johns could get a real good look. Tease ‘em girl, thought Stephanie. Make that money. No different from me, she thought.
At the next corner, Stephanie sailed as if she were Cleopatra floating down the Nile to meet Anthony. She was pretty. She woke up that day feeling pretty with a vanity particular only to the young. She had it all. Stephanie smiled and said, “Feels like my kinda day.”
She checked addresses riding down the street on a delivery. A small package wrapped in an old cut up brown bag jiggled inside the basket on her handlebars. She pumped her legs one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four going downhill between trucks double parked on each side of the street and in between cabbies stopped somewhere in the middle picking up fares. Nothing could harm her. She had the cunning of the tigress and the swiftness of the dog in attack as she rode through the traffic. She had the power of smooth skin, and she felt the dew from the falling morning fog kiss her face. She had it all. She was immortal. She rode so fast her eyes began to tear in the wind. A wet streak moved across her temple and slid in her ear.
A red light stopped her. A flirtatious cabbie leaned out his window and said,
“What’s a girl like you doing in this part of town?”
“A girl like me likes to be outside,” she said haughtily with her nose in the air. She looked up at the street sign. 700 block. Almost there, she thought. Stephanie checked the voucher once again and pulled away when the light turned green, pedaling down the street. She parked her bike, and leaned it against a parking meter in front of the building. It was painted a dull grey the kind of grey that made her uneasy. Her stomach bubbled like a freshly poured glass of champagne. It twisted and turned like something lived in it.
She walked up the cracked yellowed steps thinking they looked like old men’s teeth. She felt somehow afraid to go in but the obligations of her job helped her overcome her fear. Taking a deep breath, she rang the bell to apartment 300.
An impatient old woman’s voice answered, “Yes,” adding, “What do you want?”
“Mercury Messenger Service, ma’m,” said Stephanie looking up.
“Just a minute,” the old lady said.
The buzzer rang and Stephanie pushed open the unpolished glass and brass door which was spotted like a leopard’s skin with wet marks. Some one neglected to clean she smiled. As she stepped inside on the old rug, she saw that it was worn through in places and white threads showed the path to the elevator. Stephanie opened the green painted steel door- then the brass gate and stepped inside the elevator. Suddenly she remembered an old photograph in the newspaper of a young girl around five years old crushed by such a gate. She wondered if this was the elevator. She pushed the button for the third floor. She imagined the little girl lying half in the closed door with her Shirley Temple curls askew. She wore a plaid dress with a white Peter Pan collar. Stephanie tried to erase the memory, but it had stained some deep innermost part of her soul.
The elevator slowed then came to a jolting halt just above the third floor. It slid slowly down until it was even with the floor. Stephanie watched paralyzed thinking maybe the thing would fall, or she wouldn’t be able to get out, or that the gate would shut on her, and she’d be done for. The steel door opened on the floor. She opened the brass gate and it started to shut. Her blood tingled like electric pins were being shoved inside her. She quickly hurled the gate open so that it collapsed and then opened and almost shut on her again. She jumped out of the elevator holding the package like a baby and walked down the stuffy halls looking for apartment 300.
She rang the bell and stepped backwards waiting. Behind the closed door she heard the old woman’s slippers sliding across bare floors. The door cracked open. An old woman stooped with age looked Stephanie up and down with bright turquoise blue eyes gleaming under a tumbleweed bush of pure white hair.
“Humph! Come in. Come in. I have to pay for my own heat. Shut the door. Come in. I have to find my purse. I can’t find it. I’ve been looking for it for days.”
Stephanie smelled the musky odors of a tightly shut house mixed with the scent of decay as she went in the old woman’s apartment and closed the door. The woman hobbled across the entrance way into the kitchen. As she turned Stephanie saw a hump on the old woman’s back and felt sorry for her. Thick flesh colored hose had sunk around her ankles like rings.
“In here. I keep it in here. Maybe you could help me find it.”
Stephanie glanced across the kitchen. “Do you see it?” the woman asked looking into her eyes.
Stephanie felt uneasy. She started looking for the purse so she could get out quickly. “I don’t see it,” she said, “What color is it?”
“Blue. It’s blue.”
Stephanie saw it on top of pile of old yellow newspapers, and she stepped past the woman to get it for her. The cloth was so old it had acquired a shine. Stephanie gave it to the old woman.
Her knuckles were as large as walnuts; arthritis had deformed her fingers so it appeared that she was holding something. Clumsily, she opened her purse.” My wallet’s not in here,” she said wearily. “It must be in my bedroom. Sit down. I can get it.”
Stephanie sat down silently in one of the grey vinyl kitchen chairs and looked about. A black rhinestone studded Kit Kat clock ticked on the wall, its red eyes shifting back and forth. Her eyes moved across the room. Nice dishes, she thought. Blue Willow, she must have had money at one time. That Royal Dalton beer stein is pretty nice too. I wonder if she has any one to leave it to? Maybe she’ll leave it to me? Never know.
Stephanie was startled out of this reverie by the heavy thump of a large brass gate shutting. She jumped to her feet, waiting for a sound. The front door clicked. She called “Ma’m?” listening for an answer. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard. The apartment remained quiet.
Stepping slowly into the hallway, she peeked in the woman’s bedroom. She wasn’t there. She tiptoed in, and looked in her closet, then turned wild eyed and shaking. “Ma’m?” No one answered. She walked back into the hallway, and that’s when she saw it- a large brass gate crisscrossing the front door. She flung herself on the bars, screaming, “Let me out! Let me out!” No one came. Only the clock ticked.
Outside the apartment in the hallway, the old woman got on the elevator. Stephanie heard between the echoes of laughter, “Hee-hee. You stay. It’s your turn. You stay. Hee-hee.” When the old woman reached the ground floor, she looked young. She walked outside, and looked up to the third floor before she got on Stephanie’s bike and rode down the street. “It’s your turn,” she kept saying. “Hee-hee.” As she rode past the hookers hooking, and the transvestites working each corner promising lies, she sailed as if she were Cleopatra on the dark waters of the Nile, floating in the mists on her way to meet Anthony.
Penelope Vaillancourt©2008
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LouieRiggs reviewed Version 1 -
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I think it’s truly great. Really.
When the old lady said that she can’t find her purse I knew there’s going to be a twist, but it didn’t ruin the element of surprise, which is lovely.
It’s very, very good. Beautifully written and interesting.
The only things that bothered me are the following:
“Some one neglected to clean she smiled” should probably be “Someone neglected to clean, she smiled”.
Also, I think that “or that the gate would shut on her, and she’d be done for” should be “or the gate would shut on her and she’d be done.”
“with bright turquoise blue eyes” would be better just as “with bright blue eyes” or “with turquoise eyes”.
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Sonora reviewed Version 1 -
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Hmmm very interesting…not quite sure if I understand the ending.
“She rode past transvestites calling in what they believed were feminine voices lowly as the herds of cows that once trailed along in the dust on their way to the slaughterhouses on Third Street on the other side of town.”
This sentence runs on a bit!
She rode past transvestites calling, in what they believed were feminine voices. Lowly as the herds of cows that once trailed along in the dust on their way to the slaughterhoused.
I think the third street bit is unneccesary.
Very good though, for the most part grammatically correct and amazing imagery and attention to detail. Paints a very detailed picture.
wisedec4u reviewed Version 1 -
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I gave you high scores in both categories because you’re obviously a very talented writer with a knack storytelling and creating visuals with your words. However, I honestly can’t say I absolutely liked or disliked this story. The ending just didn’t seem to tie in with the rest of the story. I know you were going for the unexpected, but it just seem too far-fetched for my taste. Not to say you don’t have elements of a good story hear, it’s just the ending with the old woman trapping her in the apartment and running down the hall to elevator (especially with chronic arthritis) really didn’t make sense.
It just way too many questions for me like what was up with her saying:”Hee-hee. It’s your turn.”? Her turn to do what? Sit in dingy apartment while the old bat who miraculously turned into young girl rides around on her bike delivering packages? Is this a metaphor about youth and beauty vs old age and fading beauty? About have freedom to enjoy the outside world vs being trapped and alone. Maybe it’s about real women vs tranvestits? Who the hell knows? And why did she become young when she hit the street? Was the old lady a witch or a young girl who’d been trapped by the previous occupant? Was the building enchanted? Couldn’t the old lady a least given the messager girl a little of an explanation so readers like me aren’t left saying,”Huh? What the hell just happened here?”
Well, that’s just my honest opinion. I’m sure there are others out there who may not agree and you probably think I’m a total idiot for not “getting” your story, but heh, it is what it is. Don’t take my opinion to mean that your story sucks or you’re not a skilled writer. It’s apparent that you are very gifted, but the ending just wasn’t my cup of tea. Good luck!
AlexSDS reviewed Version 1 -
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I applaud you on the ending, I really didn’t see that coming at all! This was actually pretty creepy, very Twilight Zone.
The transition between a happy opening and a sad ending was done very well. You have some great details in here and I like the allusion of the transvestites towards the overall theme of the story.
Well done, I enjoyed it.
Jembaboy reviewed Version 1 -
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This is the best thing I’ve read here for a while. It was original, and kept me entertained, despite actually being incredibly uneven in terms of quality.
I almost didn’t get past the first paragraph, which seemed to be trying too hard, with the transvestite observations. But it felt like something worthwhile was going to happen. And sure enough, it did. A nice twist at the end, set up with a good sense of foreboding earlier.
What do I mean by uneven? Well, some great use of language juxtaposed with some pretty clunky style lapses. “She had the power of smooth skin”, the cracked steps “like old men’s teeth”, the knuckles as big as “walnuts”, the “Shirley Temple curls askew”, and riding like Cleopatra floating down the Nile, are all good. But pins “shoved” in, “freshly poured Champagne”, and “promising lies to Johns” all seem tired in comparison. It feels like you didn’t take time to re-read this yourself and get our your editing pencil. You obviously have an ear for language. With a bit more focus, this could be a really sharp story. Why not revisit it, and be brutal with the stuff you know just doesn’t work as well as it could.
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