The Stairs, Chapter 26
Indignity Vol. 6, No. 41
THE STAIRS
© Tom Scocca, 2025
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, and events is entirely coincidental, with the exception of the events in Chapters One and Two, which happened more or less as written, on the line between Cambridge and Somerville, Massachusetts, on Memorial Day weekend in 1999.
26.
We'd made some plans. I wasn't sure I liked the plans, but I couldn't think of what else to do. The first step in the plan was the alarm on the tablet going off, vibrating under my cheek through the sleeping bag, at half past midnight. We'd decided, based on our other sleepovers, that 1:30 would be the earliest time we could really count on Mom having gone to bed.
I reached under the padding and shut the vibration off. I hadn't thought I would be able to go to sleep at all, but we'd been faking sleep since 10:30, and at some point it must have become real. Maxine and Theo were sitting up, a little groggily.
We'd left the bathroom door ajar, with the light on, so between that and the streetlights from the window there was enough to see by. I was wearing a pair of jeans inside the sleeping bag, and I'd picked out a pair of wool socks to put on now. It was stuffy in the bedroom, but it was going to be cold where we were going. Or when we were going. We weren't going to go much of anywhere, according to the plan.
I crawled over by the door to get my boots. Warren Hartstock wasn't evil, I reminded myself. That's what Norman Melk had said. Just wrong. If he understood what he was doing—what was happening to the future, because of his work on the resonator—he'd see he had to stop. Right?
Maxine had her boots on. We stood up and picked up our coats, just in case. The squirrels were awake and watching us, keeping their distance from one another.
"OK, Theo," I said. "You wait here." A lot of the planning time had gone into convincing Theo that he couldn't go along with me and Maxine—that by not going with us, in fact, he would be taking on an essential responsibility. It was true, but Theo didn't like it.
I checked my watch. "It's 1:35," I told Theo. "Remember, in 10 minutes, you have to open the door and let us back in. If we're not there yet, shut the door and open it again in five more minutes. If we're still not back, keep giving it five more."
Maxine opened the door, and a cold draft came in from the stairwell. It was not as dark as it had been at first, though it was still dim. The orange electric bulbs were burning, but along with them some daylight was filtering down from a skylight at the top of the stairs. "Let's go," she said.
The two of us stepped out onto the stone tiles of the landing. Maxine pulled the door closed behind us, and we heard the lock click, shutting us out on the stairs.
We were looking at the strange wooden door, with the brass knob and the brass numeral beside it. I stuck out my finger and rang the bell of Apartment 2.
We heard a muffled ringing inside—for a second, I wondered if we'd woken up Mom—and then footsteps coming toward us. The knob turned; the lock made a click. "Hello?" said the man in the doorway.
His figure was all black and white, with pink touches: black suit, white shirt, rectangular black knit necktie. Pinkish-white face, heavy black-framed glasses, black hair buzzed so short his pale pink scalp showed through. His eyes were a little bloodshot pink, too.
"Hi," Maxine said. "We're looking for Warren Hartstock?"
"Are you," he said. He looked us up and down, frowning a little as he considered our clothes and boots. The frown went away but what replaced it wasn't a smile. "Come in," he said.
He took a step back and aside, and Maxine and I walked in, sticking close together. We were back inside the room we'd just left, Theo's and my bedroom, but we weren't in our bedroom, either—there was the window, and the bathroom door, and the door out to the hall, but nothing else was the same. It felt like I was looking at our room and this other room simultaneously.
Here, or now, it was mostly lined with wooden bookcases, the kind with glass doors. By the window was a tilted drafting table, with rulers and straight edges lined up beside a thick but tidy sheaf of papers. More papers and books were everywhere, all neatly shelved and stacked to fill up the available space. It was the opposite of messy, but the density of it was overwhelming.
"Warren Hartstock," the man said. His voice was low and precise. "You wanted to see me."
Find previous chapters of The Stairs here.
WEATHER REVIEWS
New York City, May 6, 2026
★★★ The sun put a warm glimmer on the morning, faded out, then summoned one more passing glimmer before things went dim for good. Just past midday, a shower began gently pattering beyond the balcony rail while someone nearby kept wielding power tools in the open air. There were still dry patches on the sidewalk under the trees when the rain stopped again. By the six o'clock hour the rest of the pavement had mostly dried out too, but water lingered in the ivy. Tiny white petals speckled the steps up from the Strangers' Gate, and at the top of the Great Hill clusters of green leaves had blown down from the elms to carpet the cinder track or lie pale side up on the thickened lawn. Young maples, broad-leafed and with whip-thin trunks, shied and bowed away from the wind. A robin scuttled over earth strewn with the pink-red trumpets of discarded buckeye blossoms. A wet and squashed banana peel, along with some of the banana, joined all the leavings of the regular trees on the ground. By the gate, the hawthorns were doing their part too, laying down petals like the charming first stage of a snowfall. The muted light urged the screen-tensed eyes to relax as cool, damp currents floated over the body. Up the gentle rise of the cross street, a band of bright peach-colored light cut not quite levelly across the narrow strip of sky in the gap between trees and fire escapes.
New York City, May 7, 2026
★★★ The ninth-grader was incredulous, and reasonably so, at the news that the enduring gloom outside the windows at breakfast was supposed to yield to sun. But yield it did, and absolutely, to sharp and gleaming sun that left the subway stairs in a fog of green afterglow. The sparkle stayed, as if the day could never have looked any other way. It was a mistake to leave a jacket behind before ducking outside, but not a terrible one. Leaving the window open was a mistake too, once the sun was finally gone.
EASY LISTENING DEP'T.
Here is the Indignity Morning Podcast archive!
TOM SCOCCA
SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.
WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS for the assembly of a sandwich selected from Conservation Recipes, compiled by The Mobilized Women's Organizations of Berkeley, California, published in 1918 and available at archive.org for the delectation of all.
CONSERVATION SANDWICHES
Anchovy paste.
Shrimps.
Mayonnaise.
Rye bread.
Butter.
Cucumbers.
Spread thin slices of rye bread with mixture made of one part anchovy paste and one part butter. Chop finely 1 cup picked shrimps, add 1 tablespoonful finely chopped sliced cucumbers and 1 tablespoonful mayonnaise. Spread thickly between slices of bread. Mrs. M. Dolan.
CONSERVATION SANDWICHES (II)
Cream cheese.
War bread.
Butter.
Spread thin slices of War bread or Boston brown bread with one part cream cheese and one part butter and finely chopped preserved ginger. Mrs. M. Dolan.
OLIVE SANDWICHES
Ripe olives.
Paprika.
Sweet pickles.
Mayonnaise.
Chop olives and pickles fine. Add dash of paprika and mayonnaise to moisten. Put between slices of whole wheat bread. Mrs. J. C. Bacon.
BROWN BREAD SANDWICHES
Brown or Rye bread.
Neufchatel cheese.
Orange marmalade.
Spread cheese on one slice of bread, orange marmalade on the other; put together and press edges. Mrs. W. E. Leland.
If you are inspired to prepare a sandwich inspired by our continued offerings, be sure to send along a description of your experience and a photo or three to us here: indignity@indignity.net.
SELF-SERVING SELF-PROMOTION DEP'T.
