The Yellow Hibiscus-Chapter 6 Illumination Book Chapters
The office downstairs was packed, so I hastened out as if an inferno was after me!
Chapter 6
He didn't appear to have noticed. Eying him, he seemed preoccupied, so I stepped on the key, slowly pushing it out of direct view under the front of my stove. I continued as if nothing had happened.
I was pleasantly surprised when he helped me to wash the dishes.
I started comparing him to Ari, who'd never done that when I invited him over for a rare home-cooked meal.
"I wouldn't have taken you for a modern-day man who cooks and cleans up too! Very good." I complimented.
He laughed, drying his hands with paper towels from the upright stainless-steel rack on the marble surfaced countertop.
"I was always saying I will never get married, so Rosa, the lady who raised me, sage advice was that since I was destined for a life of bachelorhood, I should strive for domestic independence. God rest her soul."
Retrieving his coat, minutes later, he was gone. I locked the door and rushed back to the kitchen, snatching the tiny key from its hiding place, reading the car attached to it.
It said, 'Inland Storage, 62390.' Those numbers coincided with my birth date. Why would Mother put it in the bag this time around? Were my parents aware something might happen to them?
Suddenly the ringing of my home phone pushed me back into reality.
I answered quickly, "Hello, Good morning."
"Good morning," a voice said at the other end greeted. "I am calling from Inland Storage. You are an emergency contact for Simon and Helen Shade. Their bi-annual storage fee is two days overdue. We have been unsuccessful in locating them."
She went on to explain, "You could make payments at any of our eight locations in the New York City area. We also accept credit and debit card payments."
"Can I call you back," escaped from my lips without a thought.
After hanging up the phone, I sat in deep thought, 'What did they have in storage?
Why didn't she tell me?
Was she hiding something?
What was it?'
After a quick Google search, I found their toll-free number. I dialed and listened to the prompts on the automated answering system. It was asking for a five-digit code.
It must be the number on the key', I instinctively surmised. While I was deciding what to do, a female voice at the other end of the line announced, "Inland Storage, may I have your five-digit code, please."
I hesitated for a moment, then quickly gave her the numbers written on the card.
"May I ask you to hold a minute, please?" the voice asked.
"Sure."
I heard computer keys punching away, and after a brief pause, she was back on the line. "Well," she commented, still pounding away, "Our records show your payment is overdue."
"Where is your nearest location?" I asked.
"You always go to our Coney Island branch, but you could go to any branch closest to you. And from your address on file, there are two locations in the Bronx." After another brief pause, she said, "If you pay today, you will avoid a 1% per day penalty, and we do accept all major credit card payments over the phone."
"I will go to the regular branch and pay in cash. Thank you," I said, hanging up. My mind wondered. Why go all the way to Coney Island in Brooklyn to pay storage fees? There were two locations closer to her in the Bronx, plus two more in Manhattan?'
Because whatever she had in storage was in Coney Island,' my inner voice advised. I copied down the address for the Coney Island branch and headed for the shower. Minutes later, I was on my way to Brooklyn.
I hopped the Lexington Avenue 6 train three and a half blocks from my apartment. Then I got off at 42nd Street Grand Central. Transferring to the shuttle to 42nd Street Times Square, and then jumped on the D train to Coney Island-Stillwell Avenue Brooklyn. Inland Storage was in a substantial gothic five-story building on Mermaid Avenue about five blocks away. The office was on the first floor. For a moment, I thought I was at the post office! Bulletproof glass and a massive steel door were obviously to discourage burglars. A blonde female sat behind a computer. She was filing away at her nails, chewing gum, and periodically yakking away on the mouthpiece of the receptionist's headphones.
The music flowing from the chimes that accompanied the door's opening didn't get her attention. I stood staring at her behind the thick bulletproof glass for a few minutes until she disengaged the call and dragged herself to the window.
"Our computer is down. If you are here to get your stuff, you must come back another day," she informed, sounding like a well-rehearsed parrot with a high-pitched nasal Brooklyn drawl.
"Look, I came from the Bronx," I begged.
She stared at me a little angry, then said with utmost discourtesy, "I am sorry, but that's our policy."
I was startled when she just went back to the desk, picked up the headphone, dialed, and started yakking again as if I didn't exist. I banged on the glass. She jumps up in fright and glares at me in disgust. She was pressing something on the phone. Then angrily dawdled back towards me.
Suddenly, the chimes behind me started to sing.
"Our computer is down," she recited.
I turned around and came face-to-face with the 'Terminator's' bigger twin. He wore a light spring coat, which he removed upon entering, revealing a black T-shirt with a giant bald eagle printed on the front, along with tight black jeans and black sneakers. He was huge, with enormous muscles chiseled to perfection.
"Doesn't your logo say, 'U store it, U lock it, U keep the keys?" he growled in his gravel tone.
"Well, yes," she agreed, flashing him a look of annoyance.
"Well, yes, I stored it. Yes, I locked it, and yes, I have my keys," he uttered with starched dry sarcasm, waving a key just like mine in the air.
She stood, staring at us for a while, as the chimes alerted us, and more and more people entered.
"Sweetheart, I don't have all morning, and it's your policy; of course, I could call the Better Business Bureau or The Consumer hotline," he threatened, pulling his cellphone from his waist.
"What's going on?" someone asks as the chimes sound again.
"Their computer is down," I notified them.
"What!" voices behind me shouted in choral.
"And she said you couldn't. . ." I added.
"What's your number?" she asked the man, angrily cutting me off.
He gave it to her. I quickly gave her mine too.
She glared at us with exhausted tolerance, then went into one of many filing cabinets behind her. Minutes later, she returned with two cards. "Helen Shade," she called out, reading it.
"Yes," I answered quickly.
"Second floor, room 76," she said, handing me a 6-inch rectangular-shaped card. She then pressed something to her left. There was a buzzing sound. I grabbed the door and hurried towards another colossal steel door, with the number 76 painted in danger red. A signature card showed payment dates going back to the year I was born in my hand. The last payment was in October of last year. The next one was two days late.
Room 76 was had filing cabinets of many sizes climbing up to the ceiling. Another blonde clone posed around a desk in front of a computer. She took my key and card, buzzed me in, then led me to one of many filing cabinets recessed into the back wall. She stopped at 380, then counted to 391.
"ID, please," she asked, walking back to me with a proffered right hand. I stalled for a minute sighed in disgust. Opening my bag, I then orchestrated a grand search for my ID, "I already showed her my ID downstairs," I lied, conspicuously fiddling around in my tote.
"Sorry, when our computer is down, we like to double-check IDs, just company procedure."
"I know I had it downstairs," I fussed, hoping she didn't hear my knees knocking, still fidgeting for my ID in my pockets. Then finally unfolded the contents of my tote bag on a nearby desk in the center of the room. "Dammit," I cried. "I just showed it to her; I may have left it downstairs; give me a minute," I pretended to turn, heading back towards the entrance after returning the contents to my bag.
"Wait a minute," she called out, scrutinizing me 360 degrees.
"Why don't you call her?" I bluffed, holding my gaze while looking directly into her eyes. My heart sunk to my knees when she walked to a phone mounted on the wall. She picked it up, dialed, refocused, and watched me like a cat watching a mouse.
Mom always said, 'everything you want to do is inside you, all of your weaknesses and strengths. You must dig deep within you.' I dug deep for the courage to smile while taking gum from my bag, offering some to her.
She declined, hung up, shook her head with the resignation of one in defeat, then said, "That girl was born with a telephone in her mouth." She returned the key and said, "This way, please," walking a few feet away, still clutching onto the card. She led me to 391 and walked away. I waited until she was out of sight, then I opened the drawer while quickly scanning around.
Inside was a brown rectangular-shaped box about 6 x10 inches. I grabbed the box, surveyed the area again, then hurried out. A familiar voice yelled after me at the exit, "Hey!"
My heart raced as I slowly turned around.
"You have to sign this, and you still have to make the payment," she insisted, holding up the signature card.
"Why it's empty, and she is . . . I mean, I'm only two days overdue."
"You have to, and please leave the key."
I nervously forged Mom's signature, which she compared to the one on the card. Having a power of attorney for my parents, I could sign my mom's signature like a pro. I slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill on her desk, "Keep the change," I said and hurried downstairs, almost breathless. The office downstairs was packed, so I hastened out as if an inferno was after me!
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