“Hey, I’m going to be late coming home,” said Dave as he made his way to the apartments on Madison St.

“Why? What’s up?” asked Elizabeth.

“Billy called. I haven’t spoken to him, but he said he needs help. Something about Cliff. It’s urgent.”

“Okay… Well, let me know what’s going on.”

“I love you!”

“I love you too.”

Dave hung up. He made another call; Billy didn’t answer, and Dave couldn’t help but worry. His mind was stuck in the place between ‘anything is possible’ and ‘few things are probable.’ If it were that big of a deal, he’d call the police before he’d called me. It can’t be all that urgent.

The Madison St. apartments were the biggest roach motel Dave had ever lived in; it was where he and his wife had lived when they first married. They go out as soon as her lease was up. In the span of his stay, Dave learned about how roaches check in and never bother checking out. It wasn’t just a few; it was ten or twelve every time you turned on the kitchen light. It was dollar store sticky traps filling up overnight. It was multiple landlords refusing to fumigate their individual apartments, and poor young people who didn’t know how to take action. We’ve come so far; materially, things have been so much worse. We had to take that step to get here. I have to take another step to get somewhere else.

The apartments were built on the side of a steep hill. The small parking lot sat in a bowl at the bottom of this hill. Both single lane entrances served as exits. Dave drove down the hill looking straight at the ground; driving into Madison Manor was like driving down a wall and every time it reminded you where you were in life. The bottom. The only advantage of living here is that it was less than a quarter mile walk from the college, which is why it was full of young, dumb bodies for the roaches to live off of.

Dave parked in the one empty spot left. He got out of the car and turned around to look at the three storied, yellow brick hovel. That yellow reminded Dave of sick; he remembered it looking almost pleasant in the sunlight. Billy was sitting on the stoop at the back door, the more commonly used entrance.

“What’s going on?” asked Dave.

“Cliff’s on a rampage,” said Billy. “Macey called me to get some help with him; I think she said he’s been drunk for a week. We’re driving him to rehab tonight.”

“Alright, let’s go inside.”

“We can’t. The door’s locked. We have to wait for Macey to let us in. I think her phone’s dead.”

“We don’t have to wait,” said Dave as he messaged Elizabeth. ‘Cliff’s drunk. Taking him to rehab.’ Dave ran to the car and started rummaging through the back seat. He found an old pair of needle nose pliers. Perfect.

“Watch this,” he said as he ran back up to the door. He pulled the door toward the hinges, increasing the crevice between the door and the frame. He pinched the latch with the pliers, levering against the frame, sliding the latch into the door as though he’d turned the knob. The door opened effortlessly. Dave had forgotten how light and fragile it had been, like a giant index card painted and put on hinges. It kept nothing out that wanted in.

“I used to leave my keys inside all the time when I lived here,” said Dave with a wry smile.

The inside of Madison Manor usually had that welcoming scent unique to old buildings; something kind of stale but altogether homely. Today, the bottom floor reeked with cheap cigarettes and old ashtrays. Sick yellow lights lit sick yellow walls. The carpet was almost black from years of being carpet, years of being cleaned with no more than a weekly vacuum. Dave and Billy went up the stairs on their right.

There was a narrow doorway at the top of the stairs that lined up with the front door of the building; a long and narrow hallway stretched between the two doors. Dave remembered an old feng shui lesson he’d come across about a front door and a backdoor lining creates a flow of money in then directly out. No reason this place is decroded.

Billy stopped in front of apartment twelve. They could hear screaming on the other side of the door. Billy hesitated, his hand fluttering between knocking or trying the knob. He knocked twice.

“Who the fuck is that?” yelled Cliff.

Macey opened the door. She looked like sleep had turned to torture; her brown eyes were dark and stained with tears. Her blonde hair was a wild mess.

“He’s in the living room,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. Billy didn’t say a word as he walked inside; he just waved his hand in front of his face like something smelled.

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“Hey, Billy! Where you been, man?” yelled Cliff. “Have a beer. No, yeah! Have a beer!”

Dave stayed out in the hall. Macey was less than a person at the moment. He noticed her trembling. She’s exhausted. She’s been through Hell this week, I bet. What can I do for her?

“What’s going on?”

“He just won’t stop,” she said. Tears starting rolling down her face again. She sniffled.

“He’s been drinking for a week?”

“Yeah, a whole week.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“He didn’t hit me or anything. I don’t want him to go to jail; he just won’t stop. He won’t stop drinking. We don’t have any money. He isn’t going to work. He isn’t going to class. I just can’t get him to stop!”

“Hey, hey… it’s okay, man. Things are going to be different now, but we’re taking the problem out of your hands for a second.”

“Okay.”

I have no idea if I can deliver on those words. Macey burst into a full cry, too distraught to argue. Dave offered a hug to his old friend. Botticelli’s Angels, he thought once again. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

He went inside the apartment and immediately met the gross odor Billy had tried to wave off; the small place reeked of stale beer. Empty cans carpeted the floor, telling on Cliff in language of rustles and crunches under foot. After Dave shut the apartment door, all light came from the living room, which barely shone in the six feet of foyer Dave had tramped through.

Billy sat in the corner of the couch that was closer to the door, his back to Dave. Cliff sat on the far end. The sick man threw his head back as he chugged down another beer. When the can was empty, he threw on the carpet. He looked past Billy and saw Dave at the corner of the foyer and the living room. Delight snapped off his face with an explosion of rage.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I-”

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me you piece-uh-shit. Get the fuck out!”

“Calm down, man,” said Billy.

“Don’t tell me calm down. I’ll kick your ass,” said Cliff with a sloppy finger pointing at Dave.

“Oh yeah? Maybe you should kick my ass,” said Dave. His face was cool, calm and resolved. It was what it is. Something has to happen for it to be something else. “Maybe you should get this out of your system.” He looked Cliff in the eyes. It’s like staring at a piece of glass about to be smashed over your head, he thought. Alcohol had put a gloss over Cliff’s eyes leaving two blue marbles in a bright field of red framed with yellow. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Something’s gotta happen, though.

“You shut the fuck up,” said Cliff.

“No. No, I’m not gonna shut up. I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to handle things before, but I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. If that means I’m gonna be a punching bag, then go for it.”

Cliff charged through Billy, bowling him over, running at Dave through a drunken haze with an intent to kill strangled in each of his hands. Dave shot underneath Cliff and tripped him to the ground in the narrow hallway. Cans crunched under their weight. They grappled and rolled, slamming against the walls; Dave knew what he was doing, but Cliff was twice as strong. They were damp with dribbles of beer and backwash.

Dave tried to put Cliff in a cradle, but he was too weak to hold it. Cliff pinned Dave down, ready to wail on his face, to break his nose, to make him bleed.

Billy grabbed Cliff under the arms and behind the neck in a full nelson. He pulled the drunk man off of Dave. Cliff thrashed like a drowning fish; he howled like a mad beast.

Dave wrapped his arms around Cliff, helping Billy hold him down. “You’re a slave driver,” yelled Cliff. “You’re a fucking slave driver! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

Dave hopped up and socked Cliff in the mouth, trembling with rage like wolf baring its teeth. “You shut the fuck up, you little shit,” said Dave. “You lied to me! You almost cost me everything because you were selfish because you thought it was cool to get trashed and leave your cans behind my tent! I needed that job to move! I needed that money to get my wife the hell out of this shithole, and you didn’t give a damn! You just thought it was a place to drink! Who the hell is dumb enough to smoke next to fireworks!

“You shat on me! You almost got my business license taken away; like hell I was gonna pay you; You didn’t deserve a damn thing because you weren’t good for a damn thing you told me you were good for. Now get the fuck up and get in the car.”

Cliff struggle and fought. He was stronger than both of them, but he’d drank himself to a shaved Samson. They could hear Macey out in the hall crying.

“Is that what you want Cliff,” said Billy. “You want to make her cry?”

“Let me go, fucker,” said Cliff breathlessly. “Let me go.”

“Not until you agree to come with us.”

“No! Let go!”

“Either you’re coming with us, or you’re going with the cops,” said Billy.

Now Dave heard other voices in the hallway.

“Billy, I think it’s too late.”

Cliff thrashed and struggled again. He ripped free from Billy. His fist landed on the back of Dave’s head once, twice; he broke loose and ran to the door. An officer stepped into the entrance way; the two collided. They hit the ground at the same time.

Cliff fought with newfound violence, hammering the officer’s face. Macey screamed with shock out in the hall. The officer restrained Cliff, pinning him to the ground without mercy.

“Eleven ninety-nine. We have a two forty at six twelve Madison street. You have the right to remain silent,” growled the cop with anger caged behind grit teeth. Dave saw blood drip from the officer’s face as he continued stating Cliff’s rights.