A death in 6B.

15 Oct

My neighbors are a private lot. It’s fine by me. The number of anyone who has lived in this building longer than two years has dwindled to a dozen perhaps, and I know six of them by name in a game at which I excel.

 
So when our particularly chatty doorman cornered me this morning, I was perplexed by his gossip.

 
“Did you hear about Sharon in 6B?”

 
I hadn’t, and could tell he reveled in his superior access to insider information.

 
“She died.”

 
“I’m sorry, who?” I replied, while juggling a coffee and searching my left pants’ pocket for my keys so interested was I.

 
“Sharon,” he said. “Seventy-something, I’m sorry, maybe late 60s,” he corrected himself, “1970s hairstyle,” digging, further, “from what I hear she was a singer but like so many people who are unsuccessful, got a regular job…” he trailed off, realizing he was talking to an unemployed actor. “I’m just telling the older residents who probably knew her because she lived here for twenty years.”

 
I’ve lived here for twenty-six.

 
I was torn between hiring a sketch artist and crafting a piñata in his effigy.

 
I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who the hell he was talking about. I came up with one suspect. Who I just saw coming in from the rain. Clearly, this was not the same wet woman found crumpled in her shower four days after she never showed up to work.

 
I’ll spend the rest of the day immersed in a campaign to make my presence more concrete and positive so that Hector needn’t refer to me one day to my confused neighbors as that 40-80 year old guy who oddly no one really ever knew.

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