The access card didn’t work. I slapped it again against the stubborn device that was happy to reject my card each time — and was smaller than my palm — about three-four times this time, and each time i had brought my eyes closer to inspect the red light it emitted, hoping that it would turn green, but it didn’t. Tired and had it enough, I rested my aching bones against the wall. My skull rolled left and right as though i was lying on a bed, waiting for someone to open the glass door.
But i didn’t wait a second, or rest one second. Soon, a black man, tall, his short hair was a tangle of tiny black coils, came towards the glass door. “Thank you,” I told him for the door had been opened. And i walked, i only know how to walk these days, didn’t jump as much as i was a young boy, though i do dance a little when no one’s looking, to the mailbox and reached for a bunch of keys in the right pocket of my blue jeans.
You have to remember that all my jeans are blue.
One hundred forty something? What the hell ever happened to my meter? I thought while reading the white sheet i took from the mail box : the insanely expensive electric bill. Why not one million so i can tell my friends a really funny story and ask them to laugh with me?
I pressed the button and waited for the elevator. I walked into it with 3 other people when it finally arrived. A guy, a woman, and a young boy, a young boy with a short hair who sang the national anthem on the way up in the elevator.
“Negaraku, tanah tumpah nya darahku.” He sang, happily.
The guy corrected him, or tried to, “London bridge is falling down, falling down,” with a thick chinese accent he tried to correct the kid.
“Negaraku, tanah tumpah nya darahku.” He sang, happily still.
“London bridge is falling down, falling down,” the guy tried again.
But to no avail, the kid sang louder this time, “Negaraku, tanah tumpah nya darahku.”
