In the last few years Nelson’s apartment building had, in his words, rotted from within. His own apartment, a shrine of memorabilia, sagged with age. Baseball photos and faded pennants, world’s fair trinkets, souvenirs from all the colorless places he’d traveled selling everything from insurance to Texas grapefruit—all of it covered in a film of decay. He couldn’t see it. Ensconced in a Lazy-boy, TV tray to the side holding a box of cigars that were never smoked—only chewed, he’d scan the room smiling at the memories.
With the kitchen window opened to draw in the cool morning air, he jammed up his toast, no butter—like the smoking, butter had been stricken by the doctors—and sat at the yellowed, paisley kitchen table reading about the damn liberal mayor and his coddling of the homeless.
The last bite, perfectly nibbled to deliver a crustless, sweet crunch, was on its way to his mouth when a wind-born odor slipped into his nostrils—curry, heavy on the onions.
“Shit!” He crammed the bite in, but the moment had been lost. “Goddamned immigrants.” He dumped his half-full coffee into the sink. “Curry for goddamned breakfast. Who the hell…”
Last night it had been allspice and oregano from the Jamaican family, wafting in when he tried to catch the evening breeze. Lunch was the worst, an onslaught of garlic and peppers, smells from cooked meats, “that sure as hell ain’t beef.” And the ever present miasma of discordant music that filled the commons.
He slammed the window shut, its single pane rattling discomfort, and, not for the first time, marched in his slippers out the door and down the hall. “This is the last goddamn time,” he told himself. He stood outside his neighbor’s door, a purple and gold tile hung above the peephole depicting a Hindu word beyond Nelson’s understanding.
Gladys, from the end of the hall, opened her door. “What’s the matter, Mr. Hammond? You alright?”
Nelson looked down at his housecoat and slippers, fingered his beard and turned toward her. “Mind your own business, Gladys. I’ll handle it.”
The woman slunk back inside and softly closed the door.
As Nelson raised his hand to pound his complaint, he heard the chain-lock slide open. Before he could move to pretend he’d only been walking by, the Prakesh family’s door swung wide. Nadja Prakesh stood holding a trey loaded with opaque plastic containers bearing lids of green and blue.
“Namaste, Mr. Hammond, sir. I was just coming to offer you a meal for you to have for your lunch or dinner, perhaps. I know you prefer chicken, and are watching the quantity of, umm, calories you are eating, so we, my daughters and I, we cooked this with low-fat yogurt and with only a little bit of ghee. The naan is also made with you in mind. I hope you do not take offense of us thinking of you and your, umm, diet. But we admit that the wonderful smells that come from our apartment must make you hungry at times and so, well, namaste, Mr. Hammond.”
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
Love it. You really captured the setting and character so well!
LikeLike
Thanks, Suzanne.
I have a question to ask you. A number (many) of the blogs I follow I do so with a sense of duty; you scratch my back… A few blogs, yours among them, I actually read with intent, desire even. Ignoring this particular blog, I wouldn’t want to know the answer, about how many blogs (%) do you read in these two diverse ways — assuming this dichotomy applies to you?
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s an interesting question. I only follow about 70 blogs, which sounds like a lot, but some don’t post very often. I’d follow more but I just don’t have time–if I follow someone it’s because I really like their writing and I try to engage with them at least once a week whenever possible. Some of them don’t follow me or engage with me outside of liking or responding to my comment, and I don’t follow or engage with everyone who follows me–but there are certain people, like you or Paul that I always get excited when I see a new post. No obligation there:-)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great ending.
Hammond’s neighbours are showing him an act of kindness.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Small pieces with a single emotional feature explored. Thanks for reading, Chris.
LikeLiked by 1 person
In all fairness to Mr. Hammond, that curry stuff DOES smell everything up for days.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Namaste Mr. Dave.
And Aloha to you. By this I refer to the full meaning of the word which is shown below.
The Meaning of Aloha
“Aloha is an essence of being: love, peace, compassion, and a mutual understanding of respect. Aloha means living in harmony with the people and land around you with mercy, sympathy, grace, and kindness.”
And this you do in spades.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Mike.
And Aloha to you, as well.
LikeLike
sagged with age. This is one of my worst habits, too much distance. Rewrite this bit without your effing colon, the place sagged. Loaded with etc. Great randomness BTW.
Eased instead of an adverb. The paragraphs are all where they need to be which is cool, but Jesus a couple of them are a right mess. This reads like me before a reread! Signs of a messy mind trying to keep up, eh? By any chance did you know my now deceased father-in-law?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah yeah. I need some distance from ths one to gauge its problems.
LikeLike
I would say something like “Seriously? How much distance you need, Magoo?” but it would be taken as snide when that is not the intent. Never kick a man when he’s down, unless his screams are music to your ears. Carry on. I’ll send you a polite email.
LikeLiked by 1 person
OK, so, I went through and tuned it a bit. If ugliness remains then I’ll just have to chalk it up and move on.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fixing a good story is one of those no choice things, no matter how uncomfortable it becomes. Leave a mess and you’ll continue to repeat it. Whipping a gift into shape is your job, it’s not all Aunt Edna thinks I’m brilliant, it’s wax off, wax on.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Phew. I’m glad you said “good” story. I’m guessin’ we can leave the crappy ones in the drawer.
LikeLiked by 1 person
None are crappy. We all have a bucket full of under cooked ones. Things that seemed like a good idea until we got into them. There are no bad stories, just bad execution?
LikeLike