RACHEL CASCELLA

Rachel Cascella has been published in Brides, Action, Spectacle, kerning, and Writing Disorder. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and son. https://www.rachelcascella.com/

PEOPLE PEOPLE

Miles’ greatest pride—besides his daughter, Lotus—was being in a special class of folks he liked to call, ‘people people.’ He knew that it wasn’t book smarts or precise calculations that got the world’s most successful people to where they were in life, but rather a sense of knowing exactly what people want to hear and giving it to them sweet and easy. For his job as a doorman, operating off of feeling was Miles’ most prized gift. Whether it was late at night, five in the morning, or smack dab in the middle of the day, Miles always knew what was best for the people of 342 West End Drive: when to flatter, when to lend an ear, who needed a reminder about the weather, who needed a cab, who liked to walk. He alternated between discretion, gossip, tact, and delight with the deftness of a politician, his whole face reflexively stretching into a subservient smile at the opportune moment. But then the cab crashed, and his precious Lotus died, and Miles changed. His anguish pooled inside of him, then overflowed. He took to dragging his grief around like a carpetbag, ready to unload its abundance on whomever passed, whether they were willing or not. His ‘people people’ was numbed. Over time, the tenants that once loved and relied on him timed their building exits with the mailman or a barking dog, averting their eyes as they skirted out the door. Gently they nudged him into an early retirement. Blank-eyed and fingering loops of grief into his blanket, Miles’ pain glued him perpetually to his chair in the living room of his walk-up apartment.

For an hour Miles waited, forgetting she would never come. It was gnawing hunger that finally got him out of his chair. Bones creaking, he made the last of the coffee and scraped crumbs out of a package from the cavern of the cupboard, dunking each one in slowly and shoving it between his lips. Crumbs fell on his robes unacknowledged before he remembered that Shirley wasn’t coming to bring him fresh groceries or his medicine. He missed her toothy smile, her jovial, “What is Mister Miles up to,” as she entered with her key, even though he was always doing the same thing—nothing. What was he supposed to do again? Slowly, Miles stood, the chair and his joints creaking in unison, and scooted towards the calendar tacked to the wall. He found what he thought was today and saw that rent was due, the address of the management company written on a sticky note next to the calendar in Shirley’s looping cursive.

In the bedroom, Miles removed his robe and sat for a moment, trying to remember what to do next. It took a lot of effort to loosen up his rusty mind and even longer to work his knobby fingers, but once he settled into intuition, he found that the following step came naturally. Miles reached into the drawer and put on a fresh shirt. He made sure to get his wallet. Miraculously, everything he needed was inside: MetroCard, ID, checkbook, cash. Every month, Shirley wrote out his check to the management office and took it in with hers, groaning about having to make the trip, and how old-fashioned it was that they required it in-person. Miles wasn’t sure he could work a pen, but there was bound to be someone there that could help him fill it out. He inched towards his cane at the door frame, checked his pockets, and made for the door.

It took him half an hour to get down the three flights of stairs. He didn’t register his neighbors’ impatient huffs as they painstakingly scooted around him on the narrow stairs, or how their faces scrunched at the musty, lived-in odor trailing behind him. All his energy was spent in placing one foot in front of the other. On the ground floor, he passed Shirley’s. The door was partly open. An unfamiliar picture hung in the hallway, toys were strewn on the floor in the narrow living room beyond. Peering from behind the doorway was a tiny boy, bowlegged and not yet two years old. He stared at Miles, his diaper sagging and his fingers shiny in his mouth. Miles stared back, until a woman appeared, hair askance and t-shirt stained, and in one exasperated motion, scooped him up and slammed the door.

Out on the stoop the day was gray and the bits of sky between the buildings loomed close and heavy. Clearer before in the apartment, Miles’ mind muddled underneath the weight of it and confusion set in. He decided to let intuition slowly guide him towards the subway station two blocks down the street. For years he’d gone this way to work, surely he could get there now. The station looked the same as the last time he took it seven years earlier, only grimier—if that was possible. Miles fumbled with his wallet as people rushed past him, tapping their phones at the turnstiles, and when the train arrived, he shuffled onto the car.

Miles only had a moment to find a seat before the train would start again, barreling down the tunnels and sending him crashing into other people as he feebly gripped the pole. Frantically, his eyes scanned for an open spot, and he found one just to his right as the doors clambered shut behind him.

His body sore from disuse, pain seared all over, so Miles sat facing the black tunnel whirring past and tried to busy his thoughts, which naturally led to Lotus. It was incredible the way his memories were crystallized, and he looked in at them as he did each day, sitting in his chair. Lotus. First, her dimpled baby hands, reaching for a piece of cake—her first taste of sugar. Then, a booboo on her knee and tear-stained cheeks morphing into a charmed smile over the princess bandaid daddy used to cover it. Next, a slightly older, nervously giggling Lotus in a lavender dress on her first day of middle school, tugging at the hair daddy managed to tuck into neat braids, after lots of practice. Arthritis wasn’t even a thought then. And finally Lotus, nearly all grown up on her college graduation day, effervescent and smelling sweetly of flowers. Almost like a real woman.

Miles peered in at the memories now flowing past of their own accord. He tried to stop them as they drew closer to the present, but his face sagged, and suddenly it was nighttime, and Miles was waiting in the living room. He paced. He checked his phone for messages. Out of the corner of his eye, red and blue lights flashed, reflecting in the windows of nearby buildings. Miles walked to the window and peered down into the street. It was wrong, unnatural. The way traffic was stopped, and the yellow cab was crunched up into the rear of an SUV in the middle of the intersection. If it weren’t for the different colors, he would’ve thought the two cars a single mass. His shoulders stiffened, his heart skipped a beat. And still he was flying down all three flights of stairs and into the street, past the caution tape and into the rod-like arm of a police officer. Miles couldn’t find the words to tell him, only settled into the knowing as they dragged the lifeless body of a young woman out of the back of the decimated cab and saw that the body belonged to Lotus. He howled, louder than any siren, and fell to his knees as his soul drifted away from his body, and darkness shrouded everything.

A firm hand steadied Miles’ shoulder and he came to, his body rocking back and forth. He looked up into the face that belonged to the hand, expecting to see Shirley. Instead, it was the face of a man he did not know, though it wasn’t an unkind face.

“You good, brother?” the man said. Miles tried to speak but his mouth was so dry, his tongue a slab. He looked around the car at the other people, some of their faces staring at him. Miles managed a nod, and when the doors pressed open, used his cane to clamber to his feet, pushing himself off the train.

On the platform, Miles saw signs that read ‘World Trade Center.’ That wasn’t right; he’d gone too far. Miles let the more able-bodied rush past him before inching up the stairs one by one. Up top, he searched for the stairs leading to the train heading in the other direction. Finding none, panic gargled in his stomach.

“Yo,” a voice called out. Miles turned and saw a woman on the other side of the entrance pressing her face between the bars. Miles shuffled towards her.

“Yo, what you lookin’ for,” she asked, with eyes that would not focus.

Miles’ voice, long disused, came out scratchy. “I’m trying to go back uptown.”

“I can help you, I can help you with that. You just gotta let me in,” she said, chewing on her crusty lips, eyes roving back and forth. Relief washed over Miles.

“But first, you gonna get me something to eat?”

As if on cue, Miles’ own stomach rumbled with hunger, the remnants of cracker long digested. The woman made her way towards the turnstiles and Miles took her in; bristly matted hair, clothes worn through to holes in some places, but also a sense of something warm behind her unfocused eyes. Could it be his ‘people people,’ lighting up after all this time?

“Okay,” he replied.

Miles passed through the turnstiles, and the woman took her hand underneath his elbow, as if she was a gentleman. She smelled yeasty and sour, but he didn’t notice much. Together, they glided up the long escalator and into a gigantic place shaped like the belly of the whale, the woman rambling all the while. It was hard for Miles to focus, especially as he looked up into the sheer white massiveness that sparkled and stretched, making him dizzy.

“Where are we,” he asked.

“The Oculus. Never been here before?” she said, raising an uppity eyebrow.

Miles shook his head.

The little booth of the cafe was much easier for Miles to take in. Even though the place was scrubbed shiny clean he didn’t feel embarrassed sitting across from her as she scarfed down three chocolate croissants in succession, smacking her lips and taking big, wet sips of her giant cafe mocha in between. All he’d wanted was a cruller, his favorite, but instead he picked at the perplexing artisanal vegan donut in front of him.

“What’s your name, anyways, gramps?” She garbled, flakes of croissant raining down.

Ages came and went before he managed to say, “Miles.”

“I’m Bells,” she replied, and after a moment, “Is you slow?” He shook his head. “Well

I’m slow, that’s why I’m homeless. Can’t hold a job or nothing like that.”

Concern tugged at Miles' chest. “Are you sleeping on the street?”

“I got temporary housing from the government, three months now,” her narrow chest puffed and pride lifted the corners of her mouth.

“Is you sad?” Bells asked him.

Miles looked down at the donut. He rubbed the napkin in between his fingers back and forth, back and forth. She was looking at him without looking, and yet, she saw him.

“How’d you know?” he managed.

“It’s all around you. Your eyes, shoulders, too. Ain’t nobody looking after you?”

Miles peered into his lap. “She moved away.”

“Is that why you sad?”

Lotus’ big brown eyes were before him. “My, my, my daughter…a car accident…”

“You all alone, then.” Bells wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slid it across the table.

Miles nodded, his throat thick, eyes boring into his hands.

“Good thing I’m here, then,” she said. Miles pulled his eyes upwards, and saw she was grinning. He tried stretching his own lips across his face. It felt alright, to smile.

“And that’s why I was what they called a crack baby,” Bells was saying, oddly proud of the fact as they trudged across the expanse of the Oculus and made their way up yet another giant escalator. Perhaps she felt it gave her a note of distinction. She went on about her parents, the fact that she never knew them, or had anybody loving to care for her for any extended period of time, though she was adamant that nobody ever hurt her. She kept patting Miles’ hand, telling him he was a good listener, and that nobody had ever listened to her like that, except for some of the men she’d encountered over the years at various shelters, or that worked for the state. But they always ended up mistaking her amiability for some kind of invitation. That she did not want.

Bells had planned to take him back down to the subway, but his knees, his hips, every inch of him screamed. Instead, they were making their way to the street, where Bells was going to attempt to hail a cab, something she had never done before. “Never ridden in one, neither,” she said, again with pride, as she deposited him on the curb of Church Street. He looked back at the giant ribs of the Oculus, marveling at the columns splayed like wings. With so many people rushing past hailing cabs and dodging into the street, it was hard for Bells to get noticed. Frustrated, she stamped her feet and flailed her arms, until finally a lighted cab pulled up. Excitedly, she pushed Miles into the backseat. He looked back at her standing expectantly in the street.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Bells paused, then clambered in. Miles gave the driver the address on 20th street.

“You never know what the day’s gonna bring,” Bells yammered excitedly. “When I woke up this morning, I never said to myself, ‘Bells, today you’re gonna ride in a taxi!'”

The driver gave her a quick, suspicious glance in the rearview mirror before ripping from the curb. Miles took in the available sliver of his face through the rearview mirror. Both his eyebrows and his beard were dark, as were his eyes, with a glint of something sharp behind them. Miles’ ‘people people’ piqued, but he couldn’t focus on it. Tiredness washed over him, now that his bones were settled into the chocolate leather seat. As the cab gained speed, Miles’ lids fell heavy. Bells rolled down the window and stuck her head out like a dog, the tufts of her greasy hair immovable against the wind.

The cab dipped into a pothole, rousing Miles from his doze. They were racing up the Westside highway, Bells’ face plastered against the window. Groggily, Miles searched for a street sign, and watched 28th street roll by.

“20th street, you already passed it,” Miles said thickly.

“Construction, there was construction, couldn’t turn,” the cabbie barked.

Senses raised, Bells snapped her head forward. “Are you cheating us? You better not be cheating us.”

Miles locked eyes with the cabbie in the rearview mirror. There was a look, sharp and daring. In one jerk, the cabbie swerved into the right lane, cutting off a black sedan. Horns blaring behind them, he pulled onto 30th street and halted to a stop.

“Out,” he barked, smacking the meter.

“What? Why? You better take us back,” Bells said.

“Get out, I said!”

Miles fumbled with his wallet, but he couldn’t grasp the bills. Bells took the money and handed it to the driver. She helped Miles get out of the car, then jutted her chin towards the closed window.

“Thanks for nothing,” she shouted, eyes roving.

Miles wasn’t sure he would make it. It was more action than he’d had in years, and though his mind had loosened up considerably, he wasn’t sure his body could manage. But Bells tucked her body under the weight of his arm, and shouldered him for the ten long blocks down the avenue. When they reached the management office, she promised to wait for him downstairs.

“You’re not coming up?” Miles asked her, shoulders heaving with his breath.

Bells shrugged and kicked at the sidewalk.

He was greeted by yellowed walls and fake plants drooping under the weight of dust. Miles hadn’t been inside the management office in years; he couldn’t begin to remember what it looked like before, but imagined it was unchanged. He approached the desk where a heavily made-up lady yakked on the telephone. Her short, teased hair warbled with each word she pontificated into the telephone.

“One second,” she mouthed to Miles through thick burgundy-colored lips, and held up a long taloned fingernail that matched. Miles started for the chair in the corner, then thinking that he might not be able to get out if it, leaned awkwardly on his cane. He stared up at the gigantic orange water stain spreading across the paneled ceiling.

“Alls I’m sayin’ is, youse the plumber, so youse figure it out, alright?” she said, then slammed down the phone. She looked up and smiled warmly at Miles.

“What can I help you with?”

“I’m here to pay my rent,” he mumbled. She stuck out her hand for the payment, busying her eyes with paperwork. Miles felt his face grow hot.

“I’m not so good with my hands, I have arthritis….”

She looked up again, eyes softened. “I can help you,” she said, and took the blank check from Miles’ shaking hand.

“Name and unit?”

“Miles Peabody, unit 4C, on 37th street.”

Again she looked up, her face awash with concern. “Peabody?” Hand to her chest, she turned and shouted into the open door beyond. “George, George get out here. It’s Peabody from 4C.”

She turned back to Miles. “Thank god you’re here.” She lowered her voice and cupped her mouth. “We thought you died.”

Miles turned a deep shade of purple, wishing to sink far below the building, past the subway and into the earth. A large, bloated man in a cheap, shiny suit with dozens of moles dotting the rolls of his neck rounded the corner.

“Peabody, where ya been,” he said, running a hand through slicked back hair. “Why haven’t you paid rent? Or answered any of our letters? We were actually going to send someone out there later today to,” he lowered his voice, “check on the place.”

Miles’ head grew cloudy. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t understand.

“We asked, oh, what’s her name, the old tenant from 1B…Knowles.”

“Shirley,” said Miles.

“Yes, Shirley Knowles,” George said. “We asked her about you before she moved. She insisted you were just behind on your payments, but that was a few months ago. We were about to go to collections with it.”

Collections?

“Didn’t Shirley…bring my checks,” Miles said, voice quivering now like the hand grabbing his cane.

George and the woman exchanged glances, shook their heads. The woman rustled through her papers. “No, no she never did, never. I would remember. Not for months now. Were the rents coming out of your bank account?”

Miles thought for a moment, trying to remember. Watching Shirley open his mail, showing him the bank statements. Slowly, he nodded. It took him a moment to realize the gravity of what they were saying. The feeling of betrayal washed over him so strongly tears sprang hotly to his eyes. First, they thought he was dead, now he was sobbing like a baby. His cane shook and his knees wobbled.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “Listen, you give us this month’s rent now, and talk to your bank, and maybe there’s been some sort of mistake, and you can get it sorted. We can give you a little time but, you know, we really need the money.”

Miles felt his head nodding as he hobbled towards the elevator. He could not speak, could not find any words. How could this happen, he cried to himself in the safety of the elevator. He had people people—he wasn’t some chump. Bleary-eyed he staggered into the street, panic rising into his chest faster than he could control it. In an instant, he didn’t register the blaring of a car horn, then the car slamming on the brakes, stopping just short of Miles’ kneecaps. Pumping wildly before, his heart halted, and Miles collapsed, cane clattering to the street.

“I didn’t hit him, I swear, I swear! I would’ve felt it. I’m sure I would’ve,” a man’s voice was saying.

Bells’ face was above him. Her scrubby eyebrows were furrowed but her eyes roamed everywhere. The door to a Mercedes was open and the owner crouched over Bells’ shoulder a few paces away. He clutched his chest once Miles opened his eyes.

“Oh, thank god,” he said. The man came forward, but Bells held up her hand.

“Miles,” she said. Taking his elbow and hoisting him up. “Does it hurt?”

Miles nodded.

“You gonna be okay.”

Statement or question, Miles wasn’t sure, but he let Bells bring him to his feet. A light, airy feeling came over the lower half of his body as blood rushed to his ears. The events of the management office came flooding back, and Miles ripped his arm from her grip. Confused, her face collapsed.

“Let me go,” Miles said, and made to walk. The pain in his hips was so acute Miles swore he heard his joints splitting.

“Miles,” Bells said.

The man in the Mercedes looked at Bells, shrugged, and climbed back into his car. Miles dragged his body along the sidewalk.

“Miles,” she said again, coming to his elbow.

“I said let me go,” he said, yanking his arm back. He couldn’t look at her, he could not trust himself. He was afraid to discover in place of her perceived smile a menacing grin.

“Miles, I thought we was friends,” Bells cried, standing with her arms at her sides, watching him recede down the sidewalk.

He didn’t get very far. His mind, numb this morning, perpetually raced. A rush of confusion, shame, and fear washed over him, culminating into a giant ball of an entirely new feeling, rousing from its tangled cobwebbed stupor. The feeling continued, curling his hands into knobby fists and bubbling up in his chest so ferociously he had to pause against the grimy glass of a deli as it took hold.

For a while he resisted until finally he relented, opening his mouth and unleashing a guttural wail of fury.

Several side-eyes fell irrelevantly at Miles’ feet as he wailed, letting the emotion take over. Eventually, after several minutes, the sound petered out and his mouth collapsed. He was exhausted. Yet somehow, he felt an incredible lightness in his arms and shoulders, in his chest—even his heart. Miles picked up his body and crossed the street before slumping its weight onto a nearby bench in front of Chelsea public housing.

He did not notice the decrepit figure lurching towards him, strewn in rags and stinking to high heavens with his crusty hand outstretched, until Bells shouted, “Shoo!” The man slunk off down the sidewalk. Miles was relieved to see her there. Warily she approached, then slid onto the bench next to him. They sat quietly for a while.

“Somethin’ bad happened up there, huh,” said Bells.

Miles nodded. Gathering courage, he slowly turned to her. Squinting, he peered into her face. He nearly shuddered with relief with all he saw there was what he’d noticed before:

kindness, innocence, a raw sense of hope.

He slid his hand towards hers.

“Will you be my friend,” he said.

Her roving eyes lit up. “Miles,” she said demurely, “I told you I was.”

Miles’ heart soared. They sat on the bench as the warm glow of afternoon took over.

Miles’ bones ached, but he felt happy. For once, he felt.

“What are you doing tomorrow, Bells?”

“Well, that depends on what you’re doing,” she said.

“I have to go to the bank.”

“I can take you there. But first, we better get you into a cab. Don’t fall asleep this time, don’t want nobody cheatin’ yuh,” she said.

“I won’t,” Miles said, smiling. It felt alright, he thought. To smile.

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