This is the first chapter of a book I wrote about living in Philadelphia. It was very much inspired by Voltaire and Mark Twain.
One day everything will be well, that is our hope. Everything’s fine today, that is our illusion. - Voltaire
Preface: The Innocent Observer
Our tale, which is to follow, will be told primarily from the perspective of a sixteen year-old boy. His name is Quincy. He was born and raised in Philadelphia, at least in terms of physical location. Though, unlike most of the other people in Philadelphia, Quincy had rarely ventured outside of his home. His mother, who had recently passed away, had done her best to shelter her dear son from the outside world. She never let on to Quincy that there was anything wrong with the world outside. Instead, she portrayed the world as a perfect place where everything happened as it should. And anything that might seem out of place truly had a rational explanation. Thus we must not judge Quincy too harshly for the few things that he misjudges about his city. At the time this story takes place, Quincy had moved in with his father who also lived in Philadelphia. He also had begun attending a public school and had already figured out many of the mysteries of city life.
Chapter 1: Human Alarm Clocks and Furry Roommates
“Yo Tweet!”
“Yo Tweet!”
“Yo Tweet!”
“YO TWEET, you up man?”
Quincy opened his eyes, and peered over to his alarm clock. Just as he assumed, it was 5:43 A.M. Ahh… but such is to be expected in life. There will always be neighbors who cannot afford an alarm clock or a phone, and thus they must hire someone to come into an alley in the morning and yell at the top of his lungs to wake them up. The fact that the rest of the forty people within range are stolen from their sleep long before they had intended is simply an unfortunate example of collateral damage. This is just the way things are, and what one can expect from life.
After fighting the urge to recapture his sleep time, Quincy decided to take a shower. The first foot reached the floor and braced itself for the follow-up foot. As the other foot landed, an odd sensation went up his leg. Something gooey mixed with something furry was under his big toe. His mind raced to remember the item he had left on the floor that his toe had discovered. The only thing he could remember that he had placed on the floor was a mousetrap with a piece of cheese. Neither of the two had fur or goo in their makeup, and so he decided that the optical nerves would have to do some reconnaissance. Sure enough, a mouse had joined Christ on the list of people who had encountered their last supper. Only, now Quincy’s big toe encountered the blood soaked fur of the dearly departed. Such are the joys of city life. Where else does one get to enjoy the subtle splendors of nature at all hours of the day?
To fully understand the joy of city life, one must experience the glory of bending over and yanking up a dead mouse carcass from its slightly hardened blood. As always, the trap will be flipped upside down. This always leaves you to wonder if the mouse was too modest to die in plain sight, or if the mousetrap had a natural urge to be face down. Now, one should rest assured that the first yank is never quite hard enough to free the mouse, still this is usually the moment when you are treated to the first glance of the cuddly face of the co-resident of your living space. The face has that natural innocence that will strike a bit of guilt into your gut. This is slightly different then the excitement one feels when setting the trap, and hiding on a chair in the dark waiting to hear the crunch of the mouse’s skull. Still, the pleasure of the second yank is much greater. For this attempt is usually successful in unlocking the naturally occurring red glue.
The real excitement comes when the mouse’s tail begins to shake. It is only natural that you will fear that, despite the pool of blood the mouse slept in last night, it is still alive. Most of the time the mouse will be dead, but never rule out the possibility of acquiring a new pet during this process. Once you have concluded that the mouse is dead, you must then find the nearest garbage can. Unfortunately, the garbage can nearest to the former roommate is never coated with a garbage bag and thus you must embark on a cross-country journey to the kitchen. Here, a brief prayer is said before the mouse is placed in his final resting place, usually on the soft mixture of macaroni and cheese and stale donuts. As the ceremony usually does not include a viewing, the bag is removed, tied up and taken to the external resting place. This is mostly in effort to prevent allowing the smell of dead animal to leak out, but also out of fear of surprise resurrection.
After Quincy finished the memorial to his friend, he ran to the bathroom. Though he considered testing his mother’s theory that touching dead mice could lead to acquiring some rare disease, he was quite sure his mother would not mislead him, and his week was pretty packed as it stood already. As usual, the soap dispenser had seen better days. But the well had run dry, and so Quincy did the next best thing. He applied the water treatment. After shaking up the water he had poured in the soap dispenser, he convinced himself that the slightly bubbly water would be the perfect cure for his dirty hands. Once he finished washing his hands in the lead laden water that his landlord assured him was only lethal in large doses, he stripped down and climbed into the shower.
Nothing feels as good as the hot water running down your skin first thing in the morning. And so Quincy enjoyed the five minutes of hot water that his water pump allowed him before he took a journey to the frigid waters of the Antarctic. Yet, this was the best that one could expect from life. Should one really get to enjoy warm water for an extended period of time? What would one look forward to in the next day, if not for the next delivery of the five-minute supply of warm water? Further, his father’s landlord covered the cost of heated water in the rent, and so it would be far too greedy of Quincy to think that he deserved more warm water. After the water reached a temperature that he was sure was below freezing, he turned off the water and remembered that he had left his towel on the hanger across the room.
He had arrived at the proverbial crossroads. Should he quickly retrieve his towel and risk soaking the floor? Should he drip dry? Should he partially drip dry and then go for the towel? The options seemed endless, but quickly the chilled winter air crept past the once believed impenetrable wall of the shower curtain. Quincy sprang for his towel and the crossroads of his life was now only a memory.
After getting dressed, Quincy made his way to the kitchen. He found himself wondering where his father had been for the past week, but was sure that his father was out on important business. He knew this because his father told him that he had some deals to make. His father never really told Quincy what his job was, but Quincy had figured out that his father sold sugar for a living. Though Quincy was unsure how his father could convince people to buy the quality of sugar that he sold, since the sample he had found in the plastic baggy had not tasted so good on his Cheerios.
While in the kitchen, Quincy proceeded to fix his breakfast. It was his least favorite meal of the day. He always craved steak or pizza, yet felt bound by the laws of society to eat something more breakfasty like Raisin Bran.
He grabbed the box of Raisin Bran and a bowl and sat down in front of the T.V. to watch the morning cartoons. His hand forced open the box of cereal, and he began to fill his bowl. As he poured the cereal, he heard a thud. His first instinct told him that the cereal had clumped together, but soon he saw that his former roommate’s pal had been greatly saddened by the death of his friend at the hands of the mousetrap and was eating away his sorrows.
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