Josephine Wins Again (3)

A Story of Love and Death | Part 3

Josephine just wants to drink wine, eat cheese, and enjoy a little romance. Somehow, she always succeeds, despite the scams, evictions, violent attacks, and untimely deaths befalling the people around her.

This story is available in eBook and print here.

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Go to: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |

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October 10

Wine and cheese again—do you detect a pattern? This time it is a housewarming for Josephine’s new place. The kitchen hangs off the third floor at an angle so sharp that when I dropped an apple it fled under the taped-over oven to live with the other fugitive detritus. A card table sulks in the corner by the only window. This table constitutes the totality of the counter space. It is also home to the drying rack, a rice cooker, a pressure cooker, a horrible little toaster, and a dirty fan that’s always on.

There’s just enough room for two folding chairs and a single plate of food.

This must be just like home for you, I say. I point to one of the dozens of painted wooden ornaments hammered into the drywall. Chez nous. What does that mean?

Basically, it means, at home, Josephine says.

Aha! I was right!

I cut myself another piece of cheese. I brought cheese and Josephine brought cheese that she stole from work.

I wonder what would happen to us if we ate all this cheese, I say. This is like five pounds of cheese. Would we die if we ate it? Or transform into something new?

Let’s find out, Josephine says.

And there. Le petit château. It’s just like France.

Yes, well, but you know in France we don’t hang things on the wall telling us we’re at home or we’re in a little house. We just live there.

Jason, the property manager, comes in and fills a two-liter soda bottle with water. He grins to reveal three gold teeth. In a thick, unplaceable accent, he asks, Getting on alright?

Josephine looks to me for a translation, but Jason doesn’t wait for an answer. He leaves, and before I can open my mouth, a new character enters—a man with a bright-red goatee and Mohawk. Dragons and wizards battle in vivid tattoo ink across the bald patches of his skull. He totters over to us and nearly loses his balance every step of the five-foot journey.

Mike, he says.

He shakes my hand for so long I wonder if he’s forgotten it’s happening. His grip is strong but his arm wobbles. A smiley face tattoo winks up at me from his wrist.

Mike looks at Josephine. His eyes don’t quite focus; they drift in their sockets, eyelids barely cracked. He sways and totters and regains his balance like an undersea plant.

Josephine, he says. Do you believe this shit, Josephine? His voice is a mixture of whine and slur. The words come out moist and half-baked. Do you believe this shit? Jake’s blaming me for this shit—how was I supposed to know? I’ve only been here a week, man.

What happened? Josephine asks.

I’ll tell you what happened. It’s goddamn Joe, Joe, Jake’s ex-boyfriend, but I didn’t know he was his ex—I thought they were still together. He came over yesterday and asked to be let in, and he called me and he told me his wrist was broken, which was true, and he needed his medication, and I felt for him because I take meds and I know what it’s like when you need your medication, and so I let him in.

You let him in the house?

Yeah, man! I thought he and Jake were still together. I didn’t know they fought. He said he needed his meds; I believed him. Well, that fucker stole a bunch of stuff. He stole like five thousand dollars from Jake, his electronics and silver jewelry and shit. That fucker stole forty dollars out of my wallet. I just left it in the kitchen for ten minutes and that fucker, Joe, took it.

That really sucks, I say. Did he steal anything from you? I ask Josephine.

No, I don’t think so, she says.

Yeah it sucks, man! Mike says. He looks at me, gravely. It really sucks. Can you believe some people are so dishonest? I thought I could trust him. I believed him. But it was a mask. He was lying right to my face and he stole that shit. How was I supposed to know? I’ve only been here a week, man. And Jake’s blaming me for this shit? This isn’t my fault. I didn’t know. I thought they were together. You know what? If I see Joe I’m gonna fucking kill him. I’m going to beat his ass. I’m going to kick him in the face. Bam!

He demonstrates, shooting out a kick that nearly hits Josephine in the face. I dart out a hand to take the blow, but Mike’s foot doesn’t connect. Mike nearly topples over.

Watch it, I say. Careful.

Josephine and I exchange a glance. In fact, we have been and continue to exchange many glances. It is like some angry clown has come to entertain us.

I’m sorry, Mike says. Am I bothering you? What did I come up here for?

Not at all, I say. But you’re not really going to kick Joe in the face, are you?

Oh yes I am. If I see him, I’m going to stab an umbrella through his chest. What are you eating? Is that cheese? What did I come up here for?

Yes. Here, try some. I put a piece of my least favorite cheese on a cracker and hand it to him. He takes it and eats it mechanically, arms at his side, head lolled, eyes shriveling closed.

Thanks, man. What are you drinking? Wine?

I suspect Mike has come up to get himself a drink. I pour wine into Mike’s mug and say, Here, have some. Actually, it’s a relief to share. Josephine and I have gotten into the habit of splitting a bottle of wine and it’s too much for my head in the mornings.

Oh, you cannot handle your wine, Josephine says. Poor baby.

Thanks, Mike says. I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t know what’s going on. I took like four Valiums tonight. He wanders downstairs.

I like him, Josephine says. He is very funny. He does not stop moving.

That’s the guy living next to you who plays the loud music and smokes weed?

Yes. But I don’t mind. At least there are no mice.

As far as you know.

No, I know. And there is heat.

Yes. That is good. And the area is safer.

Stomping feet—and Mike shambles back up. He pulls a pot of coffee out of the refrigerator.

You want some coffee? he asks us. It’s double brewed. It’s really fucking good.

Double brewed? I say. What does that mean?

Mike looks at me like I’m an idiot. He says, Well, you brew it once, and then you brew it again.

Okay, but how? Do you just pour the first brew back in with more coffee? Or do you concentrate it somehow?

Try it, man. It’s really good. I used to run a coffee shop and people would line up outside to get this shit. I’d make like seventy dollars in tips a day.

I’ll try some in the morning.

Josephine? Mike says, holding the pot out towards her. He pronounces her name like Joey-sah-fin.

No, thank you.

Mike looks at the door next to us and frowns. He says, There’s no way Jake can blame me for that shit. I didn’t know. He can’t press charges. He starts to pound on the door, and yells, Jake, Jake, open up!

There’s no answer. Mike stops pounding and totters in front of us. Am I bothering you?

I look at Josephine and she looks at me. We shake our heads no.

I like your music, I say.

You like my music? Mike says.

Yeah, what you were playing.

Yeah, man, Mike says. He raises his arms high and then crosses them over his chest. Yeah, heavy metal, man. You know I’m making an album? It’s gonna be so sick. I’ve been working on it a year. I record everything myself. I play like fourteen fucking instruments.

What instruments do you play? Josephine asks.

I play the guitar, the trumpet. And in fucking Manayunk someone threw out a trumpet and I found it and that shit was solid silver. Can you believe that? Fucking Manayunk bros. Just throwing that shit out. I’m gonna get like six thousand dollars for that on eBay. Am I bothering you?

No, not at all, Josephine and I say together.

Yeah, I play like fourteen fucking instruments. I wrote, recorded, mixed everything myself. It’s gonna be sick, man. Damn, where is Sean?

He looks at his phone.

Shit, he says and runs downstairs. Then he runs back up and grabs a bottle of gin from the cupboard. He fills his mug with gin and runs back down again.

I smile at Josephine. She smiles back. I grab her hand and squeeze.

I love your new place! I say.

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That night I fall asleep to metal and funk pulsing through the wall. I’m awoken by the sound of an argument.

…you’ve got to let me handle this, baby doll.

I’ve got to talk to him. He can’t press charges.

Let me handle this.

I wait until I hear the door close and Jason stomp upstairs to his room before I go to the bathroom. The washer and dryer squeak in the hallway. They’ve been running since I got here.

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In the morning, I open the fridge to try the double-brewed coffee, but the pot is empty.

It’s not that great, Josephine says.

Still, I say. I wanted to try it.