Lock, Cock, and Barrel
Mark Ostrowski
I found number 40, squatted atop my suitcases, and waited. Daytime-deadened neon formed
the words CLUB FLAMINGO above my head. A fleshpot unbeknownst to me, festering away on a
street ugly enough to make even the rats wince.
Twenty-odd minutes later an old guy turned the corner; his swagger was that of the
typical Spanish grandee. The landlord.
"I though you said you were Mexican," he said.
"American, same difference…we’re like brothers."
"The hell you are."
As we walked up the wooden steps, the grandee told me about a Colombian girl who just
moved into the apartment next to "mine." She had good references, he said. Good
references, my ass. What he meant to say was she gave good head. When rent monies
aren’t forthcoming, take the flesh equivalent…
He pointed to an oddly undersized door and motioned for me to walk in first. The place
was a tiny cell, no better than a crawlspace, and the ceiling was up to my shoulders. I
was forced to adopt a posture that would make a limbo champion seem stiff. With my head
still grazing the ceiling, I kicked off my shoes and gained a precious half inch of
headroom. The grandee, seeing me all hunched over, pointed to the skylight. "I know
you can stand up straight under here!" he said, spittle forming on his lips. I went
over, and he was right. It was the only place I could be on my feet and not do
irreversible damage to my spinal cord. I put on a scowl to match my stoop and asked him
the price again. It had come down some; he had a heart after all. I gave him the first
month’s rent on the spot, which left me almost broke. He pocketed the wad, left the
key in the door, and walked out. I heard every wood-creaking step down the stairs. From
the bottom he yelled, "I’ll be around next month to collect!" Just what I
needed: a hands-on landlord.
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