100 Yellow Doors

august 10th, 2019, 7:32 a.m.

It was a good day to go shopping.

Julien awoke in his grimy, burnt orange motel room to petrichor and the slow rhythm of morning rain. He rolled over and faced the popcorn ceiling, laying a light hand over his chest, imagining a heartbeat kicking beneath his ribs where there was none. Sera's fingernails were ghosts across his skin. We could do it. We could own everything.

Julien didn't want everything. He just wanted to feel alive again.

He brushed his teeth with a drug store toothbrush and drug store toothpaste, flashing his fangs at himself in the mirror, and made himself crappy coffee (only decaf was left) with the in-room coffee machine. Standing at the window and watching the raindrops trickle down the glass, he called his realtor.

"Mr. Morales," said Herbert. Julien was fairly sure this man was the last one on Earth to be named Herbert. "It's rather early for this, don't you think?"

Julien rested his styrofoam coffee cup on the edge of the windowsill, glaring at it, as if only his eyes would keep it from tipping. "I'm tired of living out of a motel, Herb," he said into the phone. "Therefore, I'm issuing you a challenge."

Herbert the Realtor sighed, his voice still heavy with sleep. "A challenge?"

"I want to find the place today," Julien said. "I want to find it and buy it and be done with it all today. Can you do that?"

A pause. Julien tilted his head against the glass.

Herbert said, "No."

"Great," said Julien. "I'll meet you at the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue in fifteen. You're a black coffee sort of guy aren't you? Yeah, you would be. I'll have it for you then."

He clicked the phone off and set it on the desk. For a while longer he breathed in the rain and watched as it washed the city in gray and blue, then he packed up and headed out.

For it being the capital city of one of the most powerful nations on the globe, Julien was unimpressed. He'd left San Diego expecting this strange, alternate universe called the District of Columbia to ooze patriotism and liberty and the American dream—but the apartments were cramped and bare, all white cement and dark floors. The townhouses were charming, at least, but most were far too close to everything and privacy was of the utmost importance to Julien. The most excitement he got in the five hours he spent with Herbert was when a stray cat stopped to nuzzle against his ankle.

As the cat approached, Herbert and Julien were standing in front of the third townhouse they'd seen that day. Julien sort of thought it looked like all the others: red-bricked, black-shuttered, vine-covered. It smelled like rotting wood and old people and he wasn't even inside it yet.

The cat sidled up from an alleyway a few paces down the street, a gray and white one with piercing, yellow eyes and a notch in one ear. Julien watched it press its forehead against his pant leg and tried not to move but then gave in and picked up the creature with a sigh.

Herbert yelped, jumping away. "Oh, you can't! It might have fleas."

Julien rolled his eyes, cradling the animal against his chest and scratching behind its notched ear. It was wet and shivering and Julien was struck with the sudden realization that he would spontaneously combust if he ever set him down. "We all might have fleas, Herbert. Price?"

Herbert was silent for a moment before he seemed to realize the subject had shifted. He lifted his clipboard, rummaging through his papers. "Ah," he said. "It's sitting at about 175 right now."

"Bucks?"

"Thousand bucks, Julien. Thousand."

Julien clicked his teeth, still holding the cat against him, and turned to give the house a better look. He cocked his head. "Is that a lot?"