Cleveland
S. R. Gabriels
She asked me to go.
Unlike most who hailed from Sacramento, I was perpetually shy. She, on the other hand, was not. I moved eight months ago and was just now starting my second job since relocating to Cleveland. First, I was a bank secretary. But the phone’s ringtone pierced my ears, and the businessmen stopping by on their lunchbreaks to deposit checks twisted my stomach. I’m not a bank secretary anymore.
Gretta was a new hire like me, though she said she was fresh out of college, and I never went. We were nighttime janitors at a local grade school, and I admired the quiet. She did not.
She asked me to go again.
“Let’s get coffee tomorrow before our shift,” she begged me. “Get us up and awake!”
“I…don’t like coffee,” I whispered. It was too bitter.
“C’mon, Carly,” she whined. “It’ll be fun—get you outta your shell.” She reached to nudge my shoulder, but I backed away. I could see this confused her, but she persisted.
“Well, there’s this place downtown that just opened up,” she said. “A couple of my friends went last weekend, and they said the place has tea, too. You like tea, right?” I did.
“I guess…” I started.
“Great! Let’s swing by real quick tomorrow—we don’t have to stay long. It’s off East Fourth Street…called Fuyez Café, I think. Must be French or something. I hear it’s so good. Great customer service too!”
I hid in my big gray jacket and looked at my boots.
“You gotta car?” she asked me.
I looked up, confused. “No.”
“Great. I’ll save you the bus fees. I’ll pick you up at your place, we’ll go to the coffee shop, then to work, and I’ll drive you home. Sound good?”
My gaze wandered as I tried to think of an excuse.
“Great!” she exclaimed without my answer. “See ya tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at five.”
She did not pick me up at five. It was half past four when I heard my door begin to rattle; the soft rap startled me off my sofa.
The knocking paused but then quickly returned with intensified vigor just seconds later. With each pound, my shoulders jutted inward, and my eyes squeezed shut. I stood up quietly and watched my door with a pale face.
The security chain wobbled back and forth from the residual hammering. My palms itched, and my heartbeat synchronized to each deep thump at the door.
I eyed the coatrack just inches from the entryway and studied the correct peg—the top metal hook was loose. When unscrewed, a sharp, unpolished edge would unsheathe from the thick oak stand. My concealed savior.
The battering sounded again and freed me from my imagination.
“Carly!” a voice shouted. It was Gretta’s. My heart slowed. Approaching the door, I glanced again at the coatrack and checked my peephole twice. My door had four locks.
“Were you sleeping or something?” she asked as I let her in. “Gosh! Must’ve been some dream!” she laughed and looked around my small apartment.
“This is…nice,” she said confidently. “You gotta let some light in though,” she said, moving toward my blinds.
“Those don’t open,” I said quickly, hopping in front of her.
“The blinds don’t open?” she repeated.
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes, they don’t open.”
“Uh huh…” she muttered. “Well, hope you don’t mind I came a little early. Thought us coworkers could waste time getting to know each other better over coffee—over drinks, I should say. You don’t like coffee,” she said as if to remind me. “Let’s go!”
“Well, I—” I began, trying to cancel.
“Ugh!” she huffed, reaching behind her neck. “I can’t take this anymore! You got scissors?” she asked me. I looked at her in confused silence.
“This stupid tag is driving me insane! I look left—feels like a razor. I look right—feels like a fifty-foot splinter! I need to cut it off. You got scissors?” she asked me again. I shook my head.
“No? How do you get your packages opened?” I didn’t get packages.
“This tag is beyond unbearable. Honestly—yeah, I’ll do it. I’m crazy enough… Where’s a knife? I’ll just be a second—I’ll go and cut it off in the bathroom.” She waited for my response, her hand still cricked and anchored behind her neck. I looked at the floor.
“I…don’t have knives,” I said.
“Girl, what do you have?” she asked. “Hold on a sec—I’ll use my car keys.”
She walked to the bathroom and was back out in minutes. “That’s soooo much better. You ready?” I was too afraid to say no. “Great! I’m parked right out front!”
Her driving was…decent. Not as maniacal as I had imagined. She stopped at red lights and yielded to oncoming traffic. But she liked to talk, and the car swerved with each syllable that flew from her lips.
“My friend Amy said they wait the tables. Isn’t that crazy?” Gretta asked me. The car veered to the right. “I’ve never been to a coffee shop with waiters before,” she continued. A jolt to the left.
“My other friend Hayley said it’s not too expensive either. Like, they wait on you, serve you, bring you the bill…like a proper restaurant, I guess!” A jilt to the far right, nearly cutting off a gray minivan.
“Oh, whatever!” Gretta grumbled as the minivan blared its horn. “It’s right up here on the corner—yeah! Look, there it is.”
She pulled into a large yet packed lot. The brick building was painted in a forest green color with black trimming round the windows and doors and bright scarlet carnations planted out front—a true testament to the beginning of Buckeye autumn season.
“It used to be a bookstore, I think,” said Gretta, slamming her car door closed.
A hostess smiled as we entered, and I noted another set of doors along the wall to the right and an opened window to the left. And, of course, there were the doors through which we just came.
“Two today?” the hostess asked. Her nametag read Beth and was embroidered with little golden suns. Gretta nodded and told her so.
“Great!” Beth said with a large grin. “This way!”
We followed her to a small table perched in the center of the large room. “Right here,” she said, motioning for us to sit. Gretta did, but I remained standing and looked over my shoulder, fiddling with the fabric to my shirt.
“Hellooo?” Gretta sang, trying to get my attention. I quickly looked to her. She looked back with slight understanding.
“Uh, actually, you got a different table?” Gretta asked, standing.
“Oh,” started Beth. “Of course. Does that one work?” She pointed to a table against the wall. I nodded.
“Alright, I’ll let you two look over the menu then.” She handed us orange laminated sheets as we walked to the secluded table.
“Oh, they got sandwiches and deli wraps too… And that iced caramel macchiato? Mmmmm, sounds so good!” Gretta squealed. She looked up at me, but I stared down at the menu, that is, if my eyes happened to wander that way. I watched the doors.
“You good?” Gretta asked me. I responded with a quick nod to her voice.
“Uh, well, what are you gonna get?” she asked. I shrugged, glancing back at the menu.
“You said you liked tea, right? They got black tea with cherry-chocolate flavoring.” She pointed to a picture of it. I nodded again.
“Girl,” Gretta sighed. “You gotta start using your words. You want this? Or do you want something else?”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Well, that’s progress, I guess,” Gretta sighed again, sinking into her chair. The hostess, now also our waitress, returned.
“Alright, have we decided?” Beth asked, pen in hand.
“Yes, we have—you first,” said Gretta, locking eyes with me. My cheeks began to burn.
“Uhm…” I started, reaching for my menu and turning it over. I pointed to the picture Gretta had just shown me.
“The Cherry-Choco Black Tea?” Beth asked. I nodded. “What size?” My nose was red now.
“Small,” Gretta said, coming to my rescue. “And I’ll have a small Iced Macchiato with caramel and a Turkey Wrap on the side.”
“Cheese on that?” Beth asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Alright, I’ll be right back with those.” She nearly ran to the kitchen—the place was so busy.
Gretta turned to me. “My gosh,” she said. “You are so painfully shy! We gotta work on that.”
“We?” I asked.
“She speaks!” Gretta exclaimed, raising her voice and arms. I shrank back into my seat, and her smile slowly faded.
“Hey,” she said, softening her tone. “I didn’t mean to come off so loud and pushy… It just seems like something’s bothering you—if there’s something wrong, we can talk about it, if you want. Coworkers can be friends. You gotta have at least one of those, right?” I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Do you like this place?” I nodded again.
“Okay, first lesson of friendship: communication. What do you like about this place?” she asked.
“I dunno—”
“No, no. Think. Name one thing you like.”
I looked around. I used to go to a coffee shop back in California. It was called Darla’s Donuts—the lady who owned the place was named Darla. Or, maybe it was her mom. My parents took me there on the weekends, and we would each order an ice cream sandwich and hot chocolate. My dad and I kept going even after my mom left. I even tried to get a job there after high school, but when my dad got sick, I was the only one to care for him. I went to the shop less after his funeral. Six months later, I stopped going altogether for a different reason.
“The lights,” I said. “I like the lights.”
“They’re pretty cool,” Gretta agreed, looking up. They were modern fixtures with silver wires that curled around each other like snakes, forming a crumpled tumbleweed shape that encased the lightbulb inside.
“Here we are,” said Beth as she returned. She quickly laid our orders on the table. “Anything else I can get you ladies?”
“No, thanks,” said Gretta. “We’re good.”
“Awesome! Enjoy!” said Beth, running back up to the full lobby.
“This is a-maz-ing!” Gretta oozed after sipping her macchiato. “You have to try this!” she said, pushing her cup toward me. I shook my head, but all she did was glare back at me.
“No, thanks,” I said. She smiled and retrieved her cup as I brought my tea to my lips.
“How’s yours?” she asked me. It was regular green tea.
“Good,” I lied.
I looked to Gretta’s cup. After she had swiped it back, a different side of it now faced me.
Gretta.
My eyes widened and nose scrunched. Gretta noticed.
“What?” she asked. When I didn’t respond, she followed my gaze to her cup. “What? Is there something wrong with my drink?” She leaned in and hunched over her lid to see what I saw without touching it. She paused.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s sweet—my name’s on it.” She looked back up at me. “I thought there was something really wrong—like a bug or something was on it!”
“But—” I started.
“But what?” she asked, trying to stifle her excitement at my maintenance of the conversation.
I shook my head, replaying every moment since we parked. “You didn’t give your name.”
“Huh!” said Gretta. Her confusion soon shifted to flattery. “That’s so cool that they knew! Maybe that’s this place’s thing, ya know? Rad enough to already know your name… Yours must be facing you or on the side of your cup,” she continued. “I don’t see it.”
She was right. The writing wasn’t facing me; it was facing the bare brick wall to the left. I was left-handed and didn’t see it when I gripped my cup the first time. Gently twisting it toward me, I saw the name and immediately squeezed my cup tight, sending drops of tea splattering across the table and floor.
“Oh my gosh!” shouted Gretta in disgust, wiping the hot liquid from her cheek. “Did they spell your name wrong or something?” she asked. “Sheesh!”
My hands began to sweat. Like a radar, my panoramic gaze scanned the entire room.
“No,” I muttered, quickly standing. My lungs felt like they were going to burst.
Spotting a trashcan, I slid over to it unnoticed and released the full cup of tea into the black hole, peering down inside to make sure the name wasn’t visible.
My left hand felt tacky. I raised it to my face; the ink had blotted off onto my clammy palm, stamping the name in a backward, smudgy mess. I wiped my hand along my pants as I demanded his voice to leave me—an internal vocal war ricocheted from the deepest crevices of my frail mind. I would not let him speak my name.
Gretta gave me an odd look when I returned to our table. A stranger covered our bill, she told me as we drove to the grade school. Good news for her, a worse realization for me.
At least I was good at this job—in three short weeks, I knew how to ride the floor buffer while following Gretta as she swept up any stray pieces of trash in my way. Once, Gretta found a note scribbled on a piece of notebook paper by the girls’ locker room that read: Meet me in the upstairs bathroom at 3. This made sense later when we removed ten rolls of shredded toilet paper from the bathroom’s stalls and sinks. Whether it was a prank or fight, we didn’t know. But it was a mess, so naturally, it was ours.
Beginning the night, we trudged to the cafeteria to de-trash, de-gum, de-slime, and de-slush various kitchen utensils and lunch tables. While Gretta collected orange peels and pizza crusts, I gathered leftover slop that stuck to the sides of pots, solidified across seats, and was caked along the bottoms of lunch trays.
“Disgusting,” Gretta huffed as we dumped our findings into the trashcans. “I know they’re like, twelve, but c’mon.” I grinned and headed toward our cart to grab a mop and bucket while Gretta stacked chairs onto tables. Returning to the trashcans, I paused. The bags were tied shut.
I looked to Gretta and watched as she nearly completed her task. She caught sight of my puzzled glance.
“What?” she asked.
“The trash bags…” I said.
“The trash bags…what?” she asked.
“Thanks?” I said, trying my best at a compliment.
Gretta shook her head in confusion and walked toward me. “Thanks for what?” she asked. I pointed to the secured bags. She shook her head again.
“I didn’t do that,” she said. “Or, maybe I did, but I don’t remember? Muscle memory, I guess.”
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“Doesn’t matter now,” she said. “Just throw ’em out—that’s where they were gonna end up anyway.”
I rested the mop and empty bucket against the wall and collected four, very full trash bags. Throwing them into a wheeled basket, I pushed the contraption through the cafeteria’s swinging doors and through a long hallway. I kept my eyes locked on the dumpster outside, which sat beyond the glass of the school’s exterior doors. Shoving the heavy doors open, I listened as they crashed closed behind me.
The rusty squeak of the wheels turned to a beat. Reaching the dumpster, I hoisted each bag onto my shoulders and tossed them out. I grabbed my keys from inside my pocket—the outside doors locked automatically after being opened. But when I looked up, they weren’t closed—they were propped open by the same mop and bucket, now full of sudsy water, I left in the cafeteria.
My right hand dropped the keys while my left clasped my mouth. The evening breeze pushed the basket a couple inches away as I let go, but I didn’t notice over the thick lump in my throat slowly sliding down my esophagus—like a fat slug clogging my windpipe.
I wanted to cry or run. I couldn’t. My eyes fluttered, and my shoulders rose to hide my neck. It felt like I forgot to breathe.
“Gretta?” I panted. She was not there. Tears began welling in my eyes and streaking down my cheeks. I was alone outside in a large, empty parking lot, but the school’s distant walls and the playground’s faraway hedges seemed to be lurching forward, completely surrounding me and whispering a sadistic chant with no words. Just a deep sigh: HHHHHHHH.
I squeezed my eyes shut and squatted behind the wheeled basket. I covered my ears to rid them of the criminal sound breathing down my spine. My jaws clenched, and I heard my molars scrape and crunch. Even the sound of his breathing drove me to insanity.
“Carly!” a voice shouted inches from my face. Strong fingers gripped my shoulders, and I gasped, my eyes wide open.
“What are you doing?” Gretta asked. Her thick hair blocked the moonlight from above, casting a dark shadow over me. She looked more scared than I felt. “You were gone for like ten minutes—where’s the trash basket?” She lifted her gaze from mine and caught sight of it wheeling down the parking lot. She looked back to me.
“Are you hurt or something?” she asked. I couldn’t see her face through my tears, and I could barely hear her over my exploding heartbeat.
She said something, something probably like: Stay here. I watched her leave me, her profile shrinking and growing blurrier the further out she went.
HHHHHHHHH.
I whipped my head back around to catch the culprit. Nothing.
“What happened?” Gretta asked, suddenly by my side again with the basket. I shivered. She shook her head and squatted down in front of me with one hand on the basket so it wouldn’t roll away.
Looking me in the eyes, she spoke in a calm voice. “Take a breath.” Inhaling and exhaling together, she softly lifted me to my feet by my elbows. I was still whimpering.
“Let’s go back inside,” she said. “Don’t worry about the rest of the stuff,” she continued. “The cafeteria’s pretty much finished, and the hallways don’t look that bad. Let’s just call it a night.”
She guided both me and the basket back through the doors, which were still propped open.
“Is this what took you so long? Trying to keep the doors opened?” she asked, pointing to the mop and bucket. My spine began to tingle.
“No,” I whispered.
“No?” she asked.
“No,” I repeated, trying not to cry. “I didn’t do that.” Gretta flashed a worried glance over her shoulder.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll, uh, file a concern with the school. That’ll be our reason for the early night off.” I stood by and watched as she lugged the basket in, fished the mop supplies inside, and closed the doors. They clicked and locked behind her like they did for me. Only, this time, they stayed that way.
I took the next three nights off work and was planning to take a fourth. That is, until pounding returned to my door.
“Carly!” Gretta shouted through my locks. “Open up!”
I tiptoed to the door, allowing weight only on certain floorboards to avoid their creaking whine. I peered through the peephole.
“Carly!” she shouted again. “They’re talking of letting you go! Open your door!”
My heart sank. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I hated myself for it. She waited another eight minutes before angrily stomping away. Five o’clock rolled around, and I knew I needed to leave. I was a sitting duck otherwise, I heard him whisper through my ears. I hurried out.
“Look who decided to show,” said Gretta as I walked through the school hallway an hour later. She was sweeping, presumably thinking she’d have to clean alone again.
My eyes were still swollen. “Yes,” I said. Nightmares of his face without a voice and then his voice without a face resurfaced. I shuttered.
“Good,” said Gretta, smiling and unaware of my thoughts. “My back’s killin’ me,” she continued. “You mind sweeping while I ride the buffer?” I nodded. “I’ll go grab it,” she said.
She handed me the push broom, and I continued where she left off. Hearing the low hum of the machine, I forced a smile as she rode it toward me.
“Beep beep!” she shouted at three miles per hour.
I led the way, shoving paperclips and dirt from kids’ shoes away from the polisher’s brushes. We conquered the downstairs hallways and approached the elevator to clean the upstairs.
“Now I know why you always wanna polish,” said Gretta. “It’s easier.” I grinned and continued to listen to the machine’s girthy rumble.
The doors dinged and slid open. Expecting to complete the upstairs floor quickly, we soon realized we wouldn’t.
Glitter, streamers, clumps of dried glue, confetti, stickers, and loose sticky notes adhered to lockers, sprouted from floors, and dangled from ceiling squares. Gretta turned the polisher off and slowly dismounted.
“What on earth—” she trailed, her eyes widening. “If I knew they threw a party, I woulda gotten here earlier to clean.” Her shoulders slumped.
“I’m gonna head back down and grab another push broom,” she continued. “Heck, maybe I’ll grab ten—we’re gonna be here all night.” I shot her a concerned glance.
“I’ll be right back,” she said in a reassured tone. “Clear a little space real quick for the polisher so I don’t have to ride it back down.” I nodded and pushed a pound of fine glitter to the left.
“Oh, this’ll be fun,” she said, riding the contraption off the elevator. “Be right back,” she repeated. I nodded.
“I’ll sure miss you, Gretta. No, no, Carly—it’ll only take like five minutes. Oh, but Gretta—you’re like the bestest friend I ever had. Oh, stop. I’m blushing. But you’re just so great! I—” Gretta paused her mock conversation to look at me. A strange noise escaped from my lips.
“Did you just laugh?” Gretta asked. “It’s official—I have superpowers. That was a miracle. Who knows what I’ll do next? This is unbelievable…” The closing elevator doors muffled then silenced her voice the further she rode down.
I looked at the colorful hallway. Drooping my head, I began zigzagging back and forth, clearing generous portions of the floor in minutes.
Gretta was taking longer than she said she would. My stomach churned, but I kept sweeping. I paused to look further down the hallway. Guilt burned inside me, reminding me of how I missed several nights and shoved all the work onto Gretta.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the broom further into the recesses of the dim hallway. After all, it wasn’t the darkness I was afraid of.
My brush got caught. Reaching down, I fished a HAPPY TEACHERS’ DAY! garland out from the sea of trash.
“Oh,” I said, now understanding the mess’s origin. I pushed the broom forward again, soon getting it stuck once more.
“C’mon,” I grumbled. Sifting through tangled ribbons, I felt a large, flat object. It was a neon green posterboard.
“You rock, Mrs. Garciaaaa…” I trailed, tilting my head to read it. The child who drew the letters started too big and curved the teacher’s name down the side of the posterboard to make it fit. I looked up and searched for a matching room.
A Garcia placard hung above a locked classroom door. Clearing a path to it, I slid the poster along the tiles and under the door’s crack. More minutes passed, and Gretta still had not returned. But nothing strange popped out, and all the doors were locked. I felt…better.
Half the hallways were cleared. Maybe Gretta was getting back at me for making her work alone. I deserved that. Trudging further with the broom, I glanced at the other decorations and signs: We love you, Mlle Sortez! Best teacher ever, Mr. Smith! Thank you, Mrs. Johnson! Long time, no see, R—
I nearly tripped. Clutching the broomstick with white knuckles, I read the last poster again to be sure.
I was sure. That’s what it said.
I immediately felt like vomiting. My knees began to shake, and I was sure I was going to faint. My breathing shallowed, and I began backing toward the elevator.
VRRRMMMMMM.
The polisher had started up again.
“Gretta?” I called out. I heard nothing but the machine. “Gretta?” I repeated, walking toward the noise. No response.
“Gret—” I stopped. The nose of the polisher poked out from behind one of the bends in the hallways. It continued its slow pace forward, and in seconds, its whole body appeared in the middle of the corridor. But with no rider. While the machine’s sensors could be programed to create and follow an automated path without a driver, it needed someone to first turn it on. And Gretta was not back upstairs.
A heavy crunch sounded behind me, immediately followed with a light tap to the back of my left heel. I jumped and whipped around, raising the broom shaft like a spear. There was nothing. But glancing down, I saw a tightly wound roll of tattered blue ribbon, its tail originating from deep inside the hallway. Black letters written in familiar handwriting were scrawled along it. But the message was cut off—hidden by its own coiled presentation.
I looked back up, refusing to break my gaze with the hallway. Slowly bending my knees, I touched the spool with my index finger and thrusted it behind me. I watched more letters appear out of the corner of my eye as it unraveled toward the elevator.
I missed you, R—
Small chunks of the hotdog I had for lunch spewed down next to a bright pink sticky note.
Not hard 2 find, it read. A lackluster doodle of a daisy decorated the corner of the small square. Looking back up, I noticed the hallways were filled with secret messages.
No one spoke, but his intention was so clear. Suddenly, the polisher’s hum became very loud, heading down the part of the hallway I hadn’t yet cleared.
Standing, and trying to spit the disgusting taste from my mouth, I stumbled toward the machine to shut it off. But I was too late—its brushes collided with the mess, sending exploding plumes of glitter into the air, crumpled sticky notes against lockers, confetti strips springing upward only to slowly float back down again as if relaunched… He was celebrating his return.
HHHHHHHHH.
Wailing, I turned from the machine and toward his familiar rasp. “Get away from me!” I shrieked, tears surging. An outline of a dark figure rested just feet ahead of me. The bright moonlight illuminated the small pockets of air not consumed by sparkles and shredded paper, allowing an eerie glow to shine round the silhouette of what I soon recognized to be a man—a tall, broad, still man. I knew his shape well.
The polisher rammed into the backs of my knees, sending me tumbling to the ground once more. Loose debris clung to my sweaty palms and teary face. I pushed myself to my feet and sprinted to the stairwell. The elevator dinged open.
“Sorry I was so long—I could not find another broom to save my life. WHAT—” Gretta stood in the elevator, watching in horror as the polisher ran free through thick clouds of dust, dirt, and glitter. Ribbons were entangled in its brushes, and the horrible smell of burning plastic filled the air as sticker packets clogged the machine’s ventilation and began to melt. Balling, I ran past her and did not look back.
I ran all the way to the bus stop. The vehicle finally approaching, I hiked up its stairs, paid my fee, and huddled into a seat—my seat. The last row on the left side. That was my spot to and from the school every night. I could see everything from there.
I sobbed into my arms as the doors folded and the bus lurched forward. It would be ten minutes before it reached my apartment complex, and I collapsed into the smallest ball I could.
I knew where along in the journey the bus traveled as it shifted back and forth. We were close—I didn’t need to look up. Momentum slowed as the bus’s breaks whined, echoing the same bloodcurdling HHHHHHHH that suddenly reappeared, slithering down my shoulders. Lifting my head from my arms, I whisked around, only catching sight of my own horrified reflection in the bus’s window.
A fresh blob of streaked condensation clung to the pane. Its artist had large fingers—his strokes were wide. Intelligent. He drew a face, its foggy smile kackling at my terror as I read the message beneath its crooked teeth.
You look the same, R—
The bus halted two blocks from my apartment to let someone on, but I ran out. It began to mist, and my clothes coated me like saggy armor in the drenched humidity.
Reaching my apartment, I slammed the door behind me, ran to my window, and watched the bus drive away as the rain picked up.
“How did he find me?” I cried, throwing myself onto my sofa. Everywhere I looked, my name—my real name—glared back.
Reeda.
Such unique spelling; it was hard to get right. And hard to forget—I could never really lose it. But he would know. He wrote it on my cup, along the ribbon, on the bus window… It was clear that Cleveland was not far enough from Sacramento. It seemed nowhere was.
Then, a soft, leery knock at the door.
HHHHHHHH.
Terrified, I lunged for the coatrack.
