THE STAIRS

The Stairs, Chapter Five

Indignity Vol. 5, No. 207

Tom Scocca

12 Dec 2025 — 7 min read

THE STAIRS

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.

5.

It was snowing, all right. A good inch or so was covering everything, and flakes were blowing through the streetlamps. There was something funny about the light; it was warmer and more golden than the regular streetlights. I was staring at the lamps when Theo said, "What kind of cars are those?"

There were three or four of them in view, parked up and down the street, and even under a coating of snow their shapes were weird: big fat fenders, long flat hoods, rounded back ends.

"That," Maxine said, pointing at the nearest one, "is a 1936 Chevrolet Standard Six town sedan." She squinted down the street. "And that," she said, "looks like a Buick Special coupe, probably '37 or '38."

"Are they filming a movie?" I asked. Sometimes in Old Marble, you'll see a crew shut down a street and fill it up with really nice old cars and people dressed up in old-fashioned clothes, for some movie set in the past.

"Do you see any movie cameras?" Maxine asked. I did not. "Any trailers or microphone crews or people with clipboards?" There were none. The street was quiet.

The stairway, we saw, had let us out onto the east side of the building, on Willis Boulevard. The normal front door was on the opposite side, Carter Street, facing west. Or at least that was where we would have assumed it would be, if we had gone outside and around the point of the building to Willis Boulevard the regular way. Right now, who knew?

Maxine turned around and started fussing with the latch on the inside of the door. "There," she said. "That should keep it from shutting behind us." She let the door close gently, keeping hold of it, and it thumped to a stop, staying open a crack.

"Now what?" I said.

"Now we see what's up here on the corner," Maxine said, starting along the side of the building. She left footprints in the snow with my rubber boots as she walked. Theo and I hurried after her. The snow was really coming down.

The big first-floor windows by the point of the building, where the pizza parlor or the record store would have belonged, were lit up. The glass was steamy on the inside and melting snow was trickling down the outside but we could see a counter and some tables and somebody moving around.

"It looks like a diner," I said.

"Let's dine there, then," Theo said, and he marched around the front of the building to Carter Street.

Over the door of the diner was a red neon sign reading WALT'S, with smaller white letters underneath that said EATS. We pushed through the door, making a bell jingle. The man behind the counter looked up. He was sturdy, with a flushed pink face, and he was wearing an apron and a light blue paper hat. Under the hat he had a crew cut.

"Whadya want?" he said.

Theo was looking at a glass dome on the counter, under which there was a pie. "Is that apple pie?" he asked.

The counterman nodded. "Ten cents a slice," he said.

"May I have a slice of apple pie, please?" Theo was being very polite.

"Who else?" the counterman said.

Maxine and I looked at each other. "We'll each have pie too," I said.

"Three slices of apple pie," he said.

"And a cup of tea," Maxine said.

Along the counter were tall stools, the kind like pedestals, attached to the floor. Maxine and I sat down, and I helped Theo climb up. He sat there swinging his boots as the counterman lifted the glass dome, cut three slices of pie, and put them onto three thick white plates.

There was only one other customer in the place, a skinny young-looking man with glasses at the far end of the counter, eating a sandwich while reading a book. Now and then he would put down the sandwich, pick up a pencil, and mark something in the book.

The counterman brought over our plates of pie. He was carrying them all in one hand, clamped between his thick fingers. He set them down with three solid clunks, while with the other hand he set down a steaming mug.

"Are you Walt?" Theo asked.

"Nah," said the counterman. "I'm Eugene. Walt's my cousin. I get the nights."

Maxine swallowed her first forkful of pie. "This pie is delicious, Eugene."

"I'll tell Walt," he said, and began rattling dishes around behind the counter.

Maxine was right. The pie was delicious. The apple slices were the apple-iest I'd ever tasted. The crust crunched between my teeth and then dissolved.

"How long has this place been open?" Maxine asked.

Eugene looked up. "Let's see," he said. "Walt had a lunch counter in Shoreburg Bluffs, and he closed that and moved down here in, when was it? Musta been '25."

"He was 25 years old?" Maxine asked.

Eugene frowned. "Walt? Walt woulda been nearly 40. I mean the year. It was 1925."

"So that was—" Maxine said, trying to sound offhand.

"So 15 years," Eugene said. "We been here 15 years."

I scraped up the last forkful of my pie. "We need to get home," I said to Maxine.

"I'm still eating my pie," Theo complained.

"Finish," I said.

Eugene laid a slip of paper on the counter. "Thirty-five cents," he said.

Theo, still chewing pie, felt around under his coat, in his shorts pocket. "I've got a quarter and a dime," he said. He put them down on the counter.

"We need a tip, too," I said, starting to dig in my pocket. Then I froze. Eugene was glaring at the coins Theo had set down. Before I could do anything, he'd picked up the quarter and was holding it up between a thumb and forefinger. His red face was getting redder.

"What are you kids trying to pull?" he barked.

LET BLUESKY KNOW ABOUT THE LATEST CHAPTER OF THE STAIRS!

Find other chapters of The Stairs here.

EASY LISTENING DEP'T.

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SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.

WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS for the assembly of a sandwich selected from Cassell's New Dictionary of Cookery, published in 1912 by Cassell and Company, London, New York, Toronto, and Melbourne, and available at archive.org for the delectation of all.

HAM SANDWICHES.

Take slices of stale bread, two days old, and the eighth of an inch in thickness. Cut them neatly with a sharp knife, butter them, and cover one slice evenly with thin slices of ham, cut into pieces about an inch in length, and from which all the skin and unpalatable parts have been removed, Spread a little mustard on the ham, and place another slice of bread and butter on the top. Press them together, and cut into pieces about two and a half by two inches. Arrange them neatly on a napkin, and garnish with parsley. Sandwiches are very good made with potted ham, instead of plainly boiled ham. Probable cost of boiled ham, 2s. per pound.

HAM, POTTED.

Take one pound of lean ham and a quarter of a pound of fat, or, in place of this, two ounces of fresh butter. Pound the meat to a smooth paste, and flavour it with a quarter of an ounce of powdered mace and a pinch of cayenne. Press into a dish and bake through gently. When cold pour melted butter over. Keep in a cool place. It may be used for breakfast or luncheon, or for sandwiches. Any remains of cold ham may be potted. Cooked ham need not be baked. Lard or dripping should not be poured over the ham while hot.

HAM SALAD.

Slice up very finely two small onions, a lettuce pulled into small pieces, and some endive. Put them into a salad bowl, and shave some lean cooked ham on top. Sprinkle with lemon juice, dredge over with salt, cayenne, Jamaica pepper, a little castor sugar, and a soupçon of garlic. Add a little vinegar and oil, sprinkle powdered hard-boiled yolk of egg over, and serve.

If you decide to prepare and attempt to enjoy a sandwich inspired by this offering, be sure to send a picture to indignity@indignity.net .