On the third floor, I fished my keys from my purse as I kicked off my shoes and picked them up. Once inside my apartment, I locked the door and sighed in relief, until I noted the mess.
The smell of cigarettes still hung in the air, beer bottles littered the coffee table, and dirty plates sat in the sink. Nylons and bras had been laid over the lampshades and the back of chairs to dry. I shared the one-bedroom apartment with another stew named Donna. I loved her like a sister, but she definitely had a problem with her drinking and partying. Thankfully, our schedules rarely overlapped, but I oftentimes came home to evidence of her chaotic life.
After dropping my suitcase, I went to the window and opened it, hoping for some fresh breeze to air out the place. Unfortunately, I also had a birds-eye view of the demonstrations. The two groups yelled and screamed at each other, and after a moment, the fists flew and the blood flowed from a few noses. Sirens howled in the distance, and I suspected Mr. Killian to have called them. I cringed at the hand-to-hand fighting and quickly shut the window once again. It only drowned out a bit of the noise, so I walked over to the record player and dropped The Beatles on the turntable, set the arm to the beginning of the album and turned it up.
As I surveyed the apartment, I decided the first thing I needed to do was get out of the uniform and girdle. I dug through my drawers and located my gray sweats and red sweatshirt then disrobed, tossing the girdle on the bed. I hated the wretched thing. Since I really watched my weight, I shouldn't have to wear one, but the airline mandated it on all stews. We represented them, and flat tummies and slim hips were an absolute must in order to keep working.
On the bathroom mirror, I found a scrawled note from Donna.
Ringo is next door with Charles. Sorry about the mess. I overslept. Hope to see you soon. Love, D.
Ringo was our cat. Before retrieving him from our neighbor, I decided to clean up a bit first so I could give all my attention to the tabby. Besides, he also liked to knock over bottles and chew on cigarette butts. Having him partake in making the mess worse would only anger me.
As The Beatles crooned, I sang along as I dumped the empties into a garbage bag and dusted the tables. I soaked the dishes as I unpacked, then laid my own bras and nylons into a tub of soapy water. After picking up all of Donna's undergarments, I folded them and set them in her drawer. Every now and then I'd glance at the surreal site outside. The police had finally arrived but seemed to be having trouble breaking up the melee. Personally, I hated the very idea of war, yet, I understood sometimes it was necessary. I didn't know if the Vietnam conflict would fall under that category, but I certainly didn't like the way the veterans who came home were treated by the anti-war protestors. Yes, one had rescued me from a pickle today, but spitting on someone who has served his country did not sit well with me.
I quickly scrubbed the dishes and set them to dry next to the sink. After rinsing my clothing, I hung them up around the apartment, just as Donna had done. I couldn't wait to change the sheets on the bed and get some sleep.
With the apartment in order, I took out the trash to the shoot, then headed back inside and looked out the window. The protest had been broken up. A few demonstrators sat on the sidewalk in cuffs, their faces bloody, while the police chased the other stragglers away. I opened the window once again to air out the apartment and hoped the violence had remained on the street and hadn't oozed into our building.
It was time to fetch Ringo.
I hurried next door to Charles' apartment, who happened to be a war vet himself and suffered from some mental issues, but I'd never asked him for the official diagnosis. It simply wasn't my place. What I did know was that spending time with Ringo helped calm him, and he loved taking care of our cat when we were out of town. I wondered what he thought of the demonstrations? Did I want to ask, or would that only upset him?
After knocking gently so as not to distress him—loud noises often did—I waited patiently for him to answer. Chances were high he was home as he didn't go out much. Oftentimes he asked Donna and me to pick up a prescription or groceries for him, and he had other friends who dropped by on a frequent basis, but I’d never formally met any of them. Honestly, I found that quite strange. Yet, I’d never questioned Charles about it. Live and let live was my motto. If Charles didn’t want his friends acquainted with me, that was fine. He was kind to us and loved Ringo like his own. We helped each other and I had no reason to stick my nose in his business.
“Charles?” I yelled, then knocked again.
I pressed my ear against the door and thought I heard voices. Perhaps the television? Then Ringo's distinct meow came through. The cat sounded like he was right on the other side of the door.
“Hi, Ringo!” I called, hoping Charles would hear me. “You okay, buddy?” The cat meowed again, and I once again rapped my knuckles on the wood. “Charles?”
Maybe he'd gone to sleep? He’d often complained that he was up at all hours of the night due to his mental issues from the war. When he did sleep, he'd told me
