Free Phantom Angel by David Handler Page B

nice, normal, age-appropriate guys like Myron is that they insist on being put first. And Rita won’t put him ahead of her work. She may be forced to choose. You’d better prepare yourself.”
    I drew in my breath. “You mean we may lose her?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean.”
    â€œWe can always find another computer wiz. But we’ll never find another Rita.”
    â€œNo, we won’t,” she agreed somberly. “Sweet dreams, Bunny.”
    I climbed the stairs up toward my apartment. When I reached the third floor landing I encountered Mr. Felcher of 3-B pounding on the door of Mrs. Felcher of 3-A. Mr. Felcher, who is well into his eighties, wore a pair of billowy powder-blue boxer shorts and nothing else. The boxers did not exactly smell fresh. Nor did Mr. Felcher, who is squatly built, hairy and unremittingly grouchy. He and his not-so-adoring wife have been living across the hall from each other since the 1970s.
    â€œOpen this goddamned door!” he hollered, pounding on it with his fist.
    She hollered something back at him through the closed door that sounded vaguely like: “Fuck off, you old fuck!”
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Felcher. How are you doing?”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œIs there anything I can help you with, sir?”
    â€œI blew a fuse and that bitch won’t give me one.”
    â€œWant me to get you one?”
    â€œI want you to take better care of this damned building. I never blew fuses when your father was around.”
    This was true. But my dad also insisted that the Felchers pay their rent every month, which Mom’s too big a softie to do. She thinks it’s a sin to dun the elderly.
    â€œShall I get that fuse for you, Mr. Felcher?”
    â€œAre you still here? Why can’t you mind your own damned business!”
    â€œCertainly, sir. I can do that.”
    Mom’s floor-through apartment is one flight up on the fourth floor. Mine’s on the top floor, which is freezing cold in the winter, because our furnace is dying, and toasty warm all summer long because, well, heat rises. I also enjoy unlimited access to my own private tar beach—also known as the roof.
    I inherited roomfuls of comfy overstuffed furniture from my grandmother’s apartment in Flatbush. I swear it still smells like kasha knishes on hot, muggy evenings. The apartment does have cross ventilation, and I keep an assortment of strategically placed fans going day and night. Plus I have a window air conditioner in my bedroom. But I can only use that when I go to bed. If I try to run it while I have lights on anywhere else then I’ll blow a fuse just like Mr. Felcher had. Our building is one of the only ones left in the neighborhood that still has fuse boxes instead of circuit breakers, and it’s getting to be really hard to find fuses at a hardware store. Really hard to find a hardware store for that matter. There used to be a big one around the corner on Amsterdam that had been in business forever. It’s now a bar where hip young professionals go to drink mojitos and play Ping-Pong.
    I stripped off my clothes and took a long, cool shower. Flossed carefully after I brushed my teeth because Myron said that if I don’t floss regularly my gums will recede and my teeth will fall out. I don’t think Myron likes me. I drank two tall glasses of ice water, turned off every light in the place and took my laptop and cell phone with me into my bedroom, which has a big four-poster walnut bed and matching chest of drawers. I flicked on the AC, climbed into bed and lay there in the darkness, fighting to stay awake as the room began to cool. I don’t welcome sleep. I never want to sleep.
    My cell rang just after midnight. It was Rita. “Did I wake you up?”
    â€œNot a chance. What’s going on?”
    â€œWell, I’m in bed with all three of my laptops.”
    â€œThat doesn’t leave much room for