The Gaslight District, part 2

He struggled to open the heavy oak door, and once inside, he began his trek up the dimly-lit hallway. The old stairs creaked and groaned under his weight as he made his daily trek up to his fourth floor apartment. He had promised himself for years that he’d move into another building on the other side of town, where the then-new building codes required that there be an elevator, but years later, he remained in the same place. He walked through the quiet hallway, down to the end of the hall, and stopped in front of apartment 8A. He turned the key in the doorknob, and forced open his frequently-stuck door. I need to fix that. He knew he never would, of course, but it made him feel like he was accomplishing something by noticing that it needed to be done.

He walked over to his television, and retrieved the picture of his wife that was sitting on top of it. As part of his ritual, he kissed the picture, set it back down, and walked to his kitchen table. He looked out his window, over all of Beacon Hill, and watched the gaslights slowly being exterminated. Even the city had not yet adjusted to the autumn season. He turned his attention back inside his apartment. His hands searched the cluttered kitchen table for his journal. He found it and opened it, its old leather cover stretching and straining upon opening. He started writing, his rambling prose detailing all of the sights and scenes of the day. He wrote of how the young family had reminded him of himself when he was younger – minus the child, of course – for that little detail was never to occur. He wrote of the fluttering leaves and the busy waitress and the half-asleep assembly line of customers, and anything else that happened to enter his brain at that particular moment.

A cloud formed overhead, and the light inside his small apartment slowly began to dim. He walked across the room and switched on the light, and the overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered and buzzed as the room quickly brightened. Hours had passed, and he returned to the window, now watching the children returning home after their day at school. He watched as the fleet of yellow schoolbuses rolled over the hills, winding in and out of the streets, and marvelled at the ballet of little feet splashing in puddles and picking up fallen leaves in the street. A little girl paused and examined a chestnut tree, and upon obtaining some of its riches that were deposited on the ground, promptly skipped on down the street, making sure to jump in each and every puddle along the way. The cloud became thicker and more pronounced in the sky, and he was sure a storm was coming. Whether it would be rain or snow, he could not be sure. It was that time of year.