Chapter 2: "Do You Smoke?"

So oops I kept writing in a faux F. Scott Fitzgerald style (as I started to here) and I actually really like how it turned out. Is it funny? Maybe. Is it a really cool exercise in style? Most certainly. It's kinda turning into a book; hence, chapter 2.

Basically, I based it on my real life but transposed it to 1923 rather than 2013 cuz lolololol the 20s. Leggo.

CHAPTER TWO

"Do you smoke?"

January 1923

I looked up at the building which would serve as my home for the foreseeable future. A sloping roof hung over a small front porch crowded with partially-broken chairs and discarded cigarette butts, whispering indications of warm nights and friendly get-togethers both past and yet to come. The brown front door stood starkly against the light-pink paint which covered the walls and columns of the Queen Anne-style structure. My hands full with suitcases and overstuffed boxes, Chelsea left her car at the curb and joined me in front of the house.

Standing in front of number 221, my brain was embroiled in the universal mental conflict that one inevitably faces when upheaval occurs. I had never met any of the people I was about to spend several months with; I knew them only from abbreviated names on a telegram: there was a J. Gudasz, a B. Hailer, and an E. Uhlman. Who these three were, I had no concept of it.

After a few moments:

“Should we ring the doorbell?” Chelsea asked simply. I laughed, not because sounding alarms was particularly amusing, but because the succinctness of her queries always struck me as so. Economical in everything, she chose her words for maximum impact with minimal effort. Looking at her small frame, I was filled with the usual casual admiration that permeated my encounters with Chelsea. I have never respected anyone more than I respected this tiny lady, and it's unlikely that I ever will.

“They know I'm coming today,” I replied, not to her, but to a separate question of my own which had been rattling around my mind since I had left Raleigh that morning. 

“I'll ring.” Chelsea marched up and briskly pushed the pearly doorbell. 

I joined her on the porch.

Something fell in the house; the crash was answered with a bright chorus of laughter from several voices; then, the door swung open and a tall, handsome man in his early 20s was looking at us, one hand holding the door open, the other grasping the fragments of a broken piece of flatware.

“Hullo,” he said to me in a light English accent, a sly smile cracking his lips apart. “I do believe we’ve met.”

Nervousness turned into anxiety as I realized that yes, we had, but that I hadn't the slightest concept of his name. He and I had been classmates in a course several semesters ago, the specifics of which had long been obliterated from my memory by that grand and unflinching eraser called time.

Just as I began to fumble through an introduction, he turned to Chelsea and shook her hand, telling her that he was called Jason Gudasz. I mentally struck through J. Gudasz on the telegram. I had met the first roommate.

“Need help settling in?” Chelsea asked me.

“I think I should be fine, thanks, as soon as I figure out where my bedroom is.”

“Upstairs is your bedchamber, fair Ry-an,” Jason nearly yelled, his preposterous accent more affected with each word.

“I'll see you later, Ry.” I moved fully into the house as Chelsea crossed behind to exit. I thanked her for her assistance; she smiled and, with a pleasant touch of the shoulder to me and a swift pleasure-to-have-met-you to Jason, she closed the door and trotted down to her automobile.

“I like her,” said Jason, looking at her through the window in the door. His ludicrous accent had dropped away, and his real voice, gruff but clear, was infinitely more pleasant than his ersatz Shakespearian tones.

“I do too.”

“Cute girl.” He paused, and then added: “Don’t tell her I said that.”

I laughed, though for the second time in too short a span not due to any particular humor the situation had invoked, but because of the candor of this statement. Frankness, I would come to learn, was the de factor dictum at 221. The months to come would demonstrate this to the utmost degree. A resident or guest of our house could say as they felt, do as they pleased, and behave as they desired, with the sole caveat that the reality of any situation must never be denied, but accepted and addressed.

Still tense, but slightly less so, I walked with Jason down the high-ceilinged hallway. He deposited the shards of plate on a large, ugly wooden desk which sat on the wall facing the cupboard under the stairway. I followed suit.

We stopped, for the hallway had ended and now gave two possibilities for continuation: to our right and directly in front. Jason chose to step into the kitchen, right before us.

The small room was filled mostly by the counter, which was cramped with unwashed dishes and cups and which wrapped along the walls of the kitchen like some helpful culinary serpent, lying in wait to aid us in preparation of our meals. Next to a window on the back wall stood a rickety wooden table, and in equally as precarious chairs sat two young women. The taller of the two was dressed casually, her brown hair cascading down her broad shoulders. The shorter girl opposite her had piled her wavy black hair on the top of her head and had wrapped a shimmering gold headscarf around the entire coiffure. She and Casual Brunette were engaged in an intense match of staring past each other at imaginary yet indelibly fascinating objects on opposing walls.

“Brittany, Ryan’s here.”

Brittany moved her bescarfed head in my direction, reluctantly abandoning her riveting illusion. She stood and I could see the scintillating black fabric of her long dress catch the light as it crept in. She carried herself so that one was intimidated by her very appearance and simultaneously completely beguiled by it, and she wore her clothes as if she were doing them a favor.

Then she smiled and the seduction was complete.

“A pleasure,” she said in a voice devoid of any regional trappings. “We’re delighted to have you living here.”

I had now met B. Hailer and J. Gudasz., leaving E. Uhlman as the final mystery. I turned to Casual Brunette and asked her if she were the unknown third housemate.

Casual Brunette laughed and stood as well. “No; I’m B. Smith, actually—Brea Smith.”

I shook hands with both of them.

“Brea practically lives here,” remarked Brittany, sweeping past me into the hall and then quickly into the living room (the other of the two options offered by the end of the hallway). “So you’ll likely see her around a great deal.”

”Then who’s E. Uhlman?”

“Does someone request my presence?” came a drawling voice from the living room. Intrigued, I followed the rest of the party and found myself in a dark, spacious room, the walls the color of a sweet, red wine. In the far corner stood a phonograph, flanked on either side by a couch—one pea green, the other the identical color of the walls. Brittany and Brea deposited themselves on separate couches. I noticed that, above the red couch (and, consequently, Brittany’s head) hung an empty gilded picture frame—to be filled, I was sure, with the alluring mirages only one’s individual mind could invent for itself.

Directly across from Brittany: the fireplace, its white mantle gleaming even in the dark of the room. Between the hearth and the mantle moved the form of a small being, her face clouded by a thick wisp of haze which hung indifferently in the air. The creature took a step forward and the low-flying cloud was obliterated; I could now see the pretty face of a small girl with bobbed brown hair. In one hand she held a disproportionately large cigarette lighter; in the other, its object—a light blue holder freshly adorned with a newly lit smoke.

“You asked for an E. Uhlman, didn’t you?” she said, looking at me with a delightfully playful look, her voice low and inviting.

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, your wish has been granted.”

“Elizabeth,” Jason said, pressing me forward a slight touch of the shoulders, “this is—”

“Ryan, yes, I heard,” she responded, her voice brusquely rising in mock anger and twisting into an exaggerated rage. “I have ears, ya know!”

“I was just trying to be helpful, ya dumb flapper!” he answered, matching her tone and face.

The good-humored look was back as she turned to me and took a drag of her cigarette. In one deft movement, she turned the holder to face me. “Do you smoke?”

Realizing it was an offer, I made a bizarre, tense gesture and shook my head slightly. “I appreciate it,” I choked out. “But I don’t.”

“Oh, but you will!” boomed Jason, his false British accent returning suddenly. “If you live with people like us long enough, you certainly will!”

“Smoking is a very important part of our lives, Ryan,” Elizabeth intoned in an imitation of Jason’s imitation accent. Her warm smile unwavering, she looked at me. I smiled back. “You must get accustomed to it.”

I took in the room and its inhabitants. Brittany and Brea had returned to their wordless contest (I’m not sure how I could tell, but I think Brea was winning); Jason had picked up a small black and grey kitten that had been swirling around his ankles and was teasing it mercilessly as the kitten was hardly resisted; and Elizabeth simply smoked, smiling and enjoying every second of every moment.

I exhaled, finally letting out the nervous breath I had been holding in since Chelsea and I gazed up at the enigmatically comforting structure. I had resisted its effects then, but I now allowed them to wash over me and permitted the happy future which stretched before me to ruminate in my soul.

I live here now, I thought.

I was at peace.

I was home.