The Collector
Posted: Thu Feb 20, 2025 7:12 am
Tangerine Grove Avenue wound through the back half of the apartment complex Clarissa had spent the adult half of her life becoming intimately familiar with. Well, ””””””adult”””””” infinity air quotes compared to the little thing she’d once been in elementary school.
Driving the route was a compressed moment of comfort, like the crumble of an Oreo cookie snapped clean in two with one half to be promptly nibbled at. The two lane no lane markers road horseshoe-d, four-way stop intersected with Palm Springs Road which was the central artery feeding the bulk of Skyline Height’s buildings, horseshoe-d again. Passed a small park on one side, an undeveloped stretch of rocks and dust on the other side.
Second left hand turn, rear entrance of Skyline Heights 60. The building was a six story sort of white stucco facade that pretended to be pristine and to gently sparkle in the Vegas sun. It did in well framed photos, or if she squinted really hard and played make believe.
Ten parking spots in, left side, just barely peeking out from under the awning enough that the passenger side of her car became a hibachi in minutes during the peak of summer. 638, the parking spot her parents had paid extra for when big bro had still been home. The parking spot she had inherited.
Clarissa Shoemaker sliiiiiid into her parking space with a perfect right for space left to chop in. Even amount of white parking space marker on each side. Done with two hands, though she honestly could have easily done it with one finger.
[[Top up. Parking gear, parking break, ignition killed, keys in hand.]]
Her parent’s car on her right side, parked at a bit of an awkward angle that made opening her door a bit of a shimmy and a squeeze. She never bothered Mom or Dad about it when it happened. A black 2017 Nissan Altima that her parents had bought from a used car lot when business had picked up after the pandemic.
She’d rest a moment, then bounce out of the driver’s seat with purpose and intent even when she had nothing to do. But like, never the case. Clarissa always had something to do. Even if it was messaging friends or mindlessly scrolling YouTube videos. All work and all play.
Door firmly shut. Just the right amount of thump, not too loud or sudden. One of the few things she’d really learned during the spring of ‘23. Things like math and English and such less so.
The door to Skyline Heights 60— there were definitely not sixty buildings worth of Skyline Heights, so she was noooot sure where that came from— nearest to her parking space was a bit of a walk. No ramp just stairs, so it wasn’t the friendliest to, like… the non able bodied, which, uhhhhhh?? But also, generally, it was difficult to move things up and down. Which did not affect her at all, because Clarissa never changed the furniture in her room unlike her friends because she was not cool, etc. But it was definitely the cause of her parents cussing in her presence at least a couple of times.
Clarissa preferred the stairs, because six flights of stairs, eighteen individual stairs, two steps at a time, nine Clarissa-shaped movements per floor. Fifty four medium impact cardio Clarissa-shaped motions between herself and her apartment. Good leg burn, a bit of sweat. It relaxed and soothed her mind after a long day.
And she did it, like so:
Step step step step step step step step step, and now she was on the second floor.
Windows flanked one side of the stairwell, so it was absurdly hot in the summer like what Clarissa roughly imagined an oven would become cranked to the max. Maaaaaybe she considered using the elevator on the worst of those days. Maybe. If she was a coward!!!!
Five flights of stairs later. Sixth floor, by stairs or by one of two elevators. Apt 602. Home. Welcome mat, vacuumed once every other week. Bristly weird to step on texture, so Clarissa had spent almost eighteen years of her life walking over it… minus however many years she hadn’t known how to walk because skill diffed by natal development. Fourteen months, according to Mom.
The mat said ‘Shoemaker’ in black. That was her last name, duuuuuh.
Driving the route was a compressed moment of comfort, like the crumble of an Oreo cookie snapped clean in two with one half to be promptly nibbled at. The two lane no lane markers road horseshoe-d, four-way stop intersected with Palm Springs Road which was the central artery feeding the bulk of Skyline Height’s buildings, horseshoe-d again. Passed a small park on one side, an undeveloped stretch of rocks and dust on the other side.
Second left hand turn, rear entrance of Skyline Heights 60. The building was a six story sort of white stucco facade that pretended to be pristine and to gently sparkle in the Vegas sun. It did in well framed photos, or if she squinted really hard and played make believe.
Ten parking spots in, left side, just barely peeking out from under the awning enough that the passenger side of her car became a hibachi in minutes during the peak of summer. 638, the parking spot her parents had paid extra for when big bro had still been home. The parking spot she had inherited.
Clarissa Shoemaker sliiiiiid into her parking space with a perfect right for space left to chop in. Even amount of white parking space marker on each side. Done with two hands, though she honestly could have easily done it with one finger.
[[Top up. Parking gear, parking break, ignition killed, keys in hand.]]
Her parent’s car on her right side, parked at a bit of an awkward angle that made opening her door a bit of a shimmy and a squeeze. She never bothered Mom or Dad about it when it happened. A black 2017 Nissan Altima that her parents had bought from a used car lot when business had picked up after the pandemic.
She’d rest a moment, then bounce out of the driver’s seat with purpose and intent even when she had nothing to do. But like, never the case. Clarissa always had something to do. Even if it was messaging friends or mindlessly scrolling YouTube videos. All work and all play.
Door firmly shut. Just the right amount of thump, not too loud or sudden. One of the few things she’d really learned during the spring of ‘23. Things like math and English and such less so.
The door to Skyline Heights 60— there were definitely not sixty buildings worth of Skyline Heights, so she was noooot sure where that came from— nearest to her parking space was a bit of a walk. No ramp just stairs, so it wasn’t the friendliest to, like… the non able bodied, which, uhhhhhh?? But also, generally, it was difficult to move things up and down. Which did not affect her at all, because Clarissa never changed the furniture in her room unlike her friends because she was not cool, etc. But it was definitely the cause of her parents cussing in her presence at least a couple of times.
Clarissa preferred the stairs, because six flights of stairs, eighteen individual stairs, two steps at a time, nine Clarissa-shaped movements per floor. Fifty four medium impact cardio Clarissa-shaped motions between herself and her apartment. Good leg burn, a bit of sweat. It relaxed and soothed her mind after a long day.
And she did it, like so:
Step step step step step step step step step, and now she was on the second floor.
Windows flanked one side of the stairwell, so it was absurdly hot in the summer like what Clarissa roughly imagined an oven would become cranked to the max. Maaaaaybe she considered using the elevator on the worst of those days. Maybe. If she was a coward!!!!
Five flights of stairs later. Sixth floor, by stairs or by one of two elevators. Apt 602. Home. Welcome mat, vacuumed once every other week. Bristly weird to step on texture, so Clarissa had spent almost eighteen years of her life walking over it… minus however many years she hadn’t known how to walk because skill diffed by natal development. Fourteen months, according to Mom.
The mat said ‘Shoemaker’ in black. That was her last name, duuuuuh.