The 15th Floor and Forwarded Mail

I looked down at my white fluffy slippers, my eyes stinging from the overhead lights. My Bethel University sweatshirt, stolen from my Moms closet during COVID, drapes over my shoulders while the hood provided my headache with just enough relief to make it out of my apartment for the first time in two days. I can feel the knot  in my neck preventing me from looking over my left shoulder-a result of the accident but heightened by sleepless nights on the couch due to my unit's leaky AC system, my inability to adjust the heat, and the required time it takes to process a maintenance request from the previous Friday night. As I look down, I notice that my toenails are painted and praise myself for not “letting myself go” and abiding by the sacred rule of having painted toe nails when wearing open-toed shoes.

The elevator dings and I thank God the kid from the 16th floor with the aggressive dog isn't waiting for me to get in. 

I open my mailbox and watch as handfuls of mail spill out onto my feet. I have been able successfully push this moment off for weeks but I come to terms with the fact that I, inevitably, will have to sort through the mess at some point.

 But I decided it would not be tonight. 

Instead I would go back to my room, have a popsicle, stretch my neck, watch bad TV and hope that the headache mirroring the small scar on the left side of my forehead would shrink back to its regular, much less inconvenient size. 

“At least my toe nails are painted” I say to myself as I shuffle into the elevator and look dreadfully down at the mail spewing out from my folded arms. Yellow stickers fill the bottom left corner of most the envelopes indicating a change of address. Its funny to think that much of this mail was going to the light blue townhome, located on “woodduck Dr” with sweetest pond where I used to admire the ducks in the spring time and watch turtles bob their heads but got redirected to my now stuffy, blank, claustrophobic closet of an apartment. 

Both my mail and I wonder how we got here. 

When I make it back to my floor I can hear a cat meowing so loud that it is sure to cause a noise complaint, and I instinctively know it is Agnes, my foster cat, whom my landlord doesn't know exists and I will also, inevitably, have to deal with. 

Before I am able to get to my door, I stop and look out the giant windows that sit across from a bigger, much more expensive apartment building and see two neighbors watching the Wild vs. Blackhawks Hockey game on their flatscreens. I admire the high resolution of each screen, and send them gratitude for placing their very nice TV in the perfect position for me to watch if I ever got bored of Dr. Phil and Keeping Up With The Kardashians. And I thought about how they were watching the same game just on the other side of each other's wall. 

And I wondered if they both were die hard Wild fans, or if they just really hated the Blackhawks, or if either of them placed bets on the game. I thought about how nice it would be to enjoy their unit that definitely had adjustable heating and cooling systems, and imagined having a cold drink while rooting for something I felt invested in after a really long day. I wondered if they knew each other liked hockey, or if they knew each other's names, or what each other even looked like. 

And although I doubt my neighbors are also watching spongebob while smuggling foster cats into their homes, It did make me think about all the people on the other side of all the walls that I occupied. 

I thought about that kid whose muzzled K9 scares me and how his room is always loud whenever I have to pass by to do laundry. How it sounds like a bunch of boys playing video games, and enjoying the time they spend together and whatever it is that they do. I remembered how funny it was that my 80 year old neighbor let her cat roam the halls, meowing at 4am and how it woke me up, and confused the hell out of me at the same time. Or the homeless guy who uses our lobby space at night, and sometimes watches TV in the common space or plays a guitar to pass the time.

 I thought about how the family two doors down helps pay for the groceries of the older gentleman on the opposite side of the hall- the one who always wears a toupee and has a cup of coffee in his hand- and when he says he will pay them back they always say “dont worry about it”. And how their highschool aged son and his girlfriend always make tiktoks in the hallway that I get caught in the background of, and how they seem really sweet to one another, and how proud his mom was when she took pictures of them in the lobby last week for homecoming. Or I think of Eric and how he always says things like “God is good” or “I am here so I can't complain” whenever I ask how he's doing lately, even though he sometimes looks stressed and how we bond as we complain about the need to do laundry weekly. And how much I appreciate it when he tells me to “have a good day, sweetheart”. 

I can see that the game is close, but Agnes’ meow reminds me of the few hundred dollar fine I am convinced I will have to eat next week and rush to open my door. She practically claws her way out and demands food despite my strict schedule and generous portions. I can feel the change of air from the hallway to my apartment and immediately feel the need to shed the 2XL stained hoodie that hangs off of me. I give Agnes a squeeze and hurry to fill her dish and put a few more ice cubes in her water. 

I throw the mail onto my desk, a perfect place for it to be ignored for a few more days and scurry back to my kitchen.

I reach into the freezer and pull out my OutShine Coconut Popsicle, lay flat on the floor with a towel under my neck and close my eyes, waiting for that headache to diminish. 

As I laid there, I started thinking about the mess of the mail and how I hope I still get peoples Christmas cards this year, despite the address change and wondered what pictures, if any, that mine would have. I thought about how I still wanted to know about all the weddings, or showers, or parties even though I haven't done a good job keeping in touch with everyone.

Agnes nuzzles her way unto my chest, which frightens me given her past history of  biting my nose, and barricades herself between my face and the much needed cool treat, and I convince myself that the apartment isn't too hot- as long as I have popsicles, and how there is a liquor store conveniently located on the corner, and how most mail is just spam, And that maybe a few of my neighbors would enjoy my christmas cards, and how I am really grateful that a piece of me can still produce friendly banter in the elevator. 

I thought about how painful it has been to be human lately, and how I am just glad I get to be a person surrounded by other people. And sometimes I wonder how my neighbors ended up here too, if we have more in common than what would meet the eye. And that maybe they felt the same things that I have been feeling lately too. And how lucky I am to live a life next to people-new and old, known and unfamiliar. 

And how  getting to observe the world around me and choosing how to see it is somehow both equally terrifying and empowering

 and reminded myself that even on the days where being a person is really hard, at least my toe nails are painted.