Baltica

Baltica (treatment)

by Martin Higareda

Baltimore, night: it’s cold. Gouts of white fog slowly billow from the streets, illuminated by the odd passing car; it’s late. A homeless man dances in a shadowed doorway, rubbing his hands, then glances up as a large utility van rumbles past. In the van, a boy of thirteen stares out the window, his eyes wet. The driver glances over, pauses uncertainly, then gently shakes the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy. I’ll be around, I promise you. It’s just, you know…just the way things worked out.”

“I want to stay with you,” the boy pleads, fighting a new outbreak of tears.

“You don’t belong in an apartment,” the man answers. They come to a red light, and the driver turns his full attention to his son. “It’s a good home, your mother--”

“Please! I don’t mind!”

“There’s no school here, not like yours, and I can’t take you every day. And...I don’t want you in the city.” The boy remains silent, but fresh tears pour down his face as he looks out the window again. The man watches him, thinking hard, makes up his mind. “Maybe…”

Sniffling. Then: “Maybe…what?”

“Maybe when I can get some money together, find a place closer to your school. How’d that be, huh? You still couldn’t live with me, I wouldn’t have the room, but I could see you every day.” The boy turns, hope in his eyes. “How’s that sound?”

A brave smile. “Sounds okay.”

The man smiles back. “Okay for now, huh?” The boy nods.

The light turns green, and the man begins to drive. The van rumbles down a few more streets; soon the boy yawns. “Just one more stop, buddy, then it’s time to take you home.”

“But it’s Friday night! I can stay up--”

“I already promised your mother…she’s taking you shopping in the morning.”

An exaggerated groan of defeat. They drive, turn a corner, slow down. They pull up in front of a darkened building. The man shifts to park, the van rocks, he grabs his gloves. “Okay, two minutes. You got some rules for me there, buddy?”

Monotone: “Lock the doors, don’t touch nothin’, don’t talk to nobody.” As the father begins to speak again, the boy waves a glowing cell phone at him. “9-1-1,” the boy says. The father smiles broadly, winks, opens the door to the piercing cold, and gets out. The boy watches him jog quickly round the front of the van, tapping twice on the hood. The boy taps twice on the window.

Utility lights hang on a cord strung along the ceiling and walls of a stark room; there’s shadows everywhere. The man enters, whoofing from the cold. He pulls out a flashlight, then some wadded papers, reads a moment, and looks around…sees some metal tubing and dials across the room. He moves...frowns, then stops and points the flashlight at his feet. He’s stepping on something white, and a little powdery. Ceiling tiles? Startled, he glances up, sees a vast expanse of broken, moldering ceiling. “Oh for Christ’s…goddamn it!” He quickly covers his mouth with one hand, looks around nervously. “Those goddamn asbestos mother--” He stops, thinking hard, and finally darts over to the dials, checking them with his flashlight under one arm, minutely shaking his head. “Nice sign on the door…I’m gonna kill those bastards.” He checks his papers, puts them away, satisfied. “Yeah. Fuck if I’m coming back.” He turns to take stock of his path back…and sees something. The flashlight cuts across the room, reveals a sleeping figure in the corner. “You have got to be kidding.” He slowly approaches, warily checking the ceiling. He yells, muffled by his own hand. “Hey! Buddy! Hey buddy, you can’t sleep here, it’s dangerous. Hey!”

Finally, the figure moves, slowly sits up. A blanket falls away, there's a mass of hair, someone's head. Slowly, groggy, it begins to turn.

“Come on. You know what asbestos is? You’re gonna get a lung full of--” The man stops in his tracks. His hand slowly drops.

Beautiful eyes stare back at him. Angelic, unearthly…violet.

“Fuck me,” the man says.

And one corner of a soft, impossibly feminine mouth curls up.

Outside, the boy plays a game on his cell phone, the lights making his face glow. There’s an ominous beeping from the game, and the boy rolls his eyes. Glancing outside, he sees light dancing from the building's basement window, crazily. It flickers once, twice, then goes out. The boy waits, but nothing else happens. He checks up and down the street, but it’s deserted, even by traffic. He’s alone. Shifting uncomfortably, he waits some more.