640 West 48th Street

640 West 48th Street

I’m a meticulously organized person. In my closet, on the left hang my shirts and suits, on the right hang polo shirts and jackets. In the back on the left is my shoe tree. On the right my ties, (only neats and clubs). I’m a meticulously organized person. My six drawers are neat and orderly, three on each side. The right side contains underpants in the top drawer, dark socks in the middle, and pajamas in the bottom drawer, all perfectly folded. The left contains undershirts in the top drawer, white socks in the middle, and handkerchiefs in the bottom drawer, all perfectly folded. I’m a meticulously organized person.

I live on the sixth floor of a brownstone in NYC. Its façade is gray; years of foul air and greasy smoke have deposited an oily slimy film on its face. Sometimes, I feel angry about this. The few unbroken windows are fogged by a noxious haze, but not my window. It’s clear and spotless. I clean it twice a day at precisely 7:30 AM and at precisely 7:30 PM. Why do others in my building permit their windows to become filthy? How can they live this way? Don’t they realize it’s a poor reflection on themselves and my building? This makes me angry sometimes. I feel I must discuss this personally with them soon.

I walk down grimy stairs; unread newspapers stacked at each landing. Scraps of paper and dust stir in the breeze raised by my passing. Yellow bulbs hang from the ceiling by a single wire, casting shadows on graffiti-covered walls. I open the door and am swept into the flood of strangers and criminals. I hate and fear them, but I reach into my coat pocket and am comforted by what is there.

Chuck Lampert
(300 words)