Jackson, Oregon, USA
The thumping of a hammer on wood above the ceiling burst through the quiet dawn and Guy muffled tossing on his narrow bed, he groaned_Tired of this shite apartment. He thought tossing the blanket over his head.
The lights from the curtains beamed through the nearly transparent blinds and he stiffened at the feeling of being awakened, he didn't feel the need to get up and start the day but the lights made him groggy, he hustled to the blinds and flapped them up, overlooking the busy streets of Phoenix, as the sun rose over the top buildings uptown.
His eyes narrowed at two persons fighting at the front of the lodge over a newspaper and a stray dog lingering by startled by the sudden uproar. He lived in something far worse than the suburbs, almost as suffocating as a slum. The line of clothes was already hung northwest of where he looked and inhabitants walked by.
His eyes followed the line of flashy black cars droning through the streets in a beeline attracting attention from passersby as well and followed them to a large skyscraper that projected a big M on top, mocking him. He closed the windows and his crushed dreams followed into the darkroom.
Pockets of sunlight blessed the faded brown paint of the walls and holes made from bashing the nails in too hard. He turned to the drab apartment where his davenport was layered with a blanket and a pile of clothes as a pillow and a displaced remote.
He sat back on a brown armchair by the window in exhaustion and set his legs over the table in nothing but boxers to put up with the heat of the small room, his TV loomed in the darker corner where he could sit and stare at "people" making sense of their "lives". When he couldn't make sense of his. He rubbed his forehead at the train of things to do.
He cursed at the headache that followed after the hammering ended and started with grunge music and whooping sounds from on top with power drills in the works.
"We will we will rock you!"
He sighed raking his hair. I'm up, what do you fucking want?
By the white entrance door, there was a dark corner where his bathroom was and a roach lingered rummaging around, he grimaced at the dusty coffee table and the smell of rusty pipes and wet rug hung back. He wasn't sure a dash of bug spray would be a good combination so he stuck to the old ways and grabbed a broom to whack it dead and missed. It recoiled as soon as his shadow encompassed it and he rubbed his eyes wondering how he missed it.
He was tired of living in the gallows like a mole but this was what he had to put up with, he had to do a bit of spring cleaning because just the smell alone was unbearable.
Guy was brought up by rich parents, Wayne and Sarah Thomson of the Thomson Foundation, in Houston, even they had their lion's share of the fortune, he was fortunate to have finished a private high school and his father Wayne was eager to throw him into the family business to which he so declined. Guy was sorry to think that he shared in the line of the old Thomsons' intelligence and he wasn't even financially savvy.
He wasted his time gaming and staying out with friends, till Wayne Thomson eventually gave up on him and decided to invest in his shrewd brother Robbie Thomson, who was a top-class business whiz in college.
He hated to ration in the negative but that wasn't meant for him, he just wished he saved a whole lot of his handsome allowance to make something decent of himself and not live in this rat hole.
He washed up in the eyesore of a bathroom and found himself an old clean grey shirt, sweatpants and sandals to match and brushed his fingers through his green hair in front of the mirror, a lot of heat-induced freckles streamed across his rough cheeks and his blue eyes gleamed as he worked at getting it in decent shape and huffed carrying his laundry basket to the last floor walking through the dark narrow hallway, between the smelly laundry and hints of smoke, he would rather have a lung full of wet laundry, his vision widened at the glass entrance door and the dainty checkered floors.
There were two houseplants on massive ceramic vases on both sides and the leaves wafting under the breeze of the creaky ceiling fan.
The doorman at the front desk leaned over already set for another day's work fanning himself.
The yellowed walls were almost entirely concealed in racy posters and by the right, there stood three working washing machines and a fellow hunched over one that appeared not to be in use, texting while his clothes were in a spin in two of them.
"Out of the way"
His eyes didn't conceal his apathy from being prompted to scooch over and he executed submitting to a phone call as he spoke in a soft raw voice foretelling a loved one leaning behind the wall.
Guy shoved the clothes in it and his eyes narrowed at the figures on the knobs he blinked reviling his limited vision and scowled then inclined a look for assistance to the doorman's irritation.
He squirmed_ Believe me, I would not want to do this in a million years.
He graciously opened the slab and turned it on with gloved hands.
"You got that?" His dingy eyebrows rose with a curt smile.
"I already know how a washing machine works" Guy muttered through clenched teeth as the teenage boy was casting them looks by the wall, talking, he stepped out to check on his laundry.
"Right,"
"Thanks a bunch, I have a qualm, my friend, the neighbours at 34B, are their walls thick enough to nail anything?"
"None, the best there is the fourth floor upwards, but none'll tell you that" He winked and ambled to his column to sit back and delve into his magazine.
Guy muffled a groan, the clamouring was going on for two days, he was sure they opened a construction site there. He huffed and waited tapping on the top and trying to read the card at the end of an exotic dancer's picture. Ripping out the end, his nerves grew taut from asking the doorman again for help.
He shoved out the laundry and the teenager hopped on his feet impatiently and he replaced the next batch, he held out his hand to Guy.
"Where's my money?"
Guy turned his head to him and said; "You're not getting any, buzz off pipsqueak"
He put a hand to his throat, aware of his cracked voice, his lips thinned pulling up his basket.
"Have fun...loser" He muttered racing up the stairs.
Guy tapped the wall and shook his head, sorry that he let him get away with it. He waited, nerves taut still checking his watch_Ah, I need to see a doctor.