Mark Ostrowski

The leather handles cut into my palms as I crept down the staircase. In the dead of the night, my patented midnight rambler technique in full effect, I stopped on the third floor landing. I set both suitcases on the floor and readjusted my grip.

Just two more flights to go. I thought about Jiménez, one of the many provincial hustlers who prided himself on being able to recognize the knock of his landlords. But where did that get you? In a jail cell, on an emergency room waiting list, in a deportation line. If you were there to hear the knock, then you had already waited too long. Most landlords didn’t bother knocking, and I vowed never to be caught unawares by a master key sliding into the lock unannounced…

I exited the building, the crisp May air tickling my lungs like a good toothpaste, and made tracks down the Avenida de la Constitución.

My landlady was leaving for Cambodia in August. Originally, I had intended to hold out until then before making the move. But long-term planning always goes by the wayside when you’re in the hole. She was counting on the four months of back rent that I owed to finance her trip, or at least the diamond-buying part of it. I decided to get out while I was still ahead.

I turned right onto the Calle Covadonga and stepped into a sidrería. A few paisanos at the bar held up their theatrics long enough to give me the once over, my two suitcases obviously catching their eye. The older one smiled fleeringly. He must have taken me for a fresh-off-the-plane Mormon.