It was the best day of Ike Raymond's life. As he drove down the street in his road weary, but paid for, tan Lincoln Town Car, he winked at himself charmingly in the rearview mirror. A tattered eight track tape protruded from the dashboard and the Glenn Miller Orchestra provided the perfect background music for his care free drive home. The only piece of modern technology in the vehicle was the wireless cell phone headset that connected his heart to his girlfriend, Marcy.
"Sorry I'm running late," he cooed to his steering wheel, "There was paper Mache and baking soda everywhere." On their last day of school, Ike had allowed his sixth grade science students to finally construct volcanoes, complete with baking soda and vinegar eruptions.
"Oh my! What time will you be home then?" She asked casually.
He glanced briefly away from the road to check his glow in the dark Mickey Mouse watch that had adorned his wrist since he was twelve. "I would say in precisely twelve point two five minutes. How's dinner coming?"
"Fine fine," she paused and he heard her suck a little pasta sauce off her wooden spoon, "It's the perfect first meal for your new apartment. We'll have stains on the carpet in no time."
Ike cringed, repulsed by the thought of tomato paste all over his virgin white flooring. "Let's not get carried away," he muttered as he came to a steady halt at a red light.
He could practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. "Lighten up! I'm only fooling around. How long until your home, again?"
"Eleven and half minutes," he chimed with a small smile at her girlish eagerness. In the passenger seat next to him rested a huge bouquet of three dozen daisies dyed unreal shades of lavender and fuchsia. In a flurry of romance, he had decided to be spontaneous for about the third time in his life. He had been running through the plan all afternoon. He would rush into the kitchen, unannounced and five minutes early, sweep her into his arms, and bestow upon her the most passionate kiss ever to leave the lips of a man. It was flawless; he could already hear her giggles of surprise. "I have to go now; it's not safe to drive while distracted."
"All right," Marcy sighed, "I'll see you soon." And with a click she hung up the phone.
The street leading up to Ike's new home was lined with signs that, word by word, spelled out "If you lived here, you'd be home by now." He grinned smugly, feeling superior because, unlike the dozens of other cars passing by, he actually was home. He rounded a corner and pulled into a parking space at the far end of the lot.
The complex was composed of three identical high rise buildings. They had just been opened the week before and the paint was a sterile shade of white. A triangular courtyard, peppered with trees, was framed by the buildings, a pool at its center. These tall structures were harshly contrasted by the squat administrative office at the front of the parking lot. A sign above it labeled the entire area as "Olympian Heights" He approached it, walking with his hands in the pockets of his neatly pressed khaki pants, to pick up his mail and an extra key he had requested.
An electronic bell rang as he opened the door and stepped inside. The lobby, much like the building itself, was long and thin. A single door leading to the offices in the back was guarded by a wooden counter and one of the landlord's daughters, Cal. The words "How may I be of service?" were engraved on her nametag. This statement, however, was severely contradicted by the death glare she gave Ike as he approached. She wore a black beret that hung over her left eye, the other stared at him with a blend of pure hatred and blood lust. After dunking a crumbly white wedge of what appeared to be either cake or cheese into her black coffee, she raised it to her painted red lips. Her entire outfit reeked of smoke and bad coffee house poetry. She turned a page in the magazine she was reading and took a long sip from her mug before acknowledging him.
"How may I be of service?" She groaned apathetically, not looking up from what she was reading.
"Hello miss," he tensed his jaw in an attempt to keep from slapping her, "I'm Ike Raymond and I'm here to-" He was cut off on in mid sentence by a manila envelope that was flying at his face. Caught off guard, he leapt back just in time to send the projectile skidding across the floor.
Cal cut him off before he could protest. "Anything else I can get for you?" Crumbs of what she had been eating formed globs of brownish sludge on her teeth and gave off the faint aroma of spoiled milk. Ike was so fascinated by them that he watched her mouth form every word, going so far as to continue staring at them while she looked fiercely back. Finally she closed her mouth and broke his trance.
"What is that you're eating?" He finally asked, words oozing from his mouth accidentally. He was so captivated by the goop that he completely forgot the situation at hand.
Her unfashionably thin eyebrows gathered together at the center of her forehead. "It's uh, feta cheese," she stammered.
"That's absolutely disgusting." He couldn't control himself; the spell of the cheese was too strong for his feeble mind.
She blinked, transforming from a hardcore coffee house regular to a baby deer watching the headlights of a semi truck grow closer. She opened her mouth once as if attempting to speak, but words failed her and she fell silent again. For a long, awkward moment, the two just looked at each other blankly.
Ike cleared his throat and broke the prolonged pause. "Well, it's best I be going then." He picked up the envelope off the floor and left the building, heading back to his car to get the flowers.
After an extended struggle with the door of his car and again with the lock, Ike Raymond was well on his way to his apartment, girlfriend, and total romantic bliss. He seemed to be gliding on the pavement like a champion ice skater without the tights, cradling the bouquet delicately. In a matter of minutes he had ascended the outdoor stairs to his second floor apartment. Whipping the newly made key out of his pocket, he thrust it into the lock, wiped his feet on the welcome mat Marcy had laid out, and stepped inside his new home.
Almost immediately, he was struck with a feeling that something wasn't right. The kitchen where he had expected Marcy to be lovingly stirring an oversized pan of sauce was completely vacant, save for a pair of overturned wine glasses. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a thin trail of tomato paste drizzle leading from the kitchen to the closed door of his bedroom. His usual urge to clean was suppressed by his overwhelming curiosity. He padded across the floor and laid his hand gently on the door knob. Then, twisting it slowly, he held his breath and prayed silently that he would not find his girlfriend's dismembered head lying on the other side.
What Ike saw was much, much worse. Marcy was spread out on the bedroom floor in a golden string bikini, noodles streaking her hair like cheap highlights. Her feet were completely drenched his spaghetti sauce. Licking it off of her feet was his large, hairy landlord, Mr. Heaton. His back was turned to the door and his fleshy body obscured Marcy's view. The beast stopped sucking marinara off her big toe long enough to grin at her.
"Give me noodles baby!" He said in his horribly thick, European accent.
"Oh, that's a one spicy meatball!" Marcy moaned in return, arching her back.
He returned to running his tongue between her toes and she rolled onto her side. Suddenly, her eyes widened and almost fell off her face. It took a minute for the ape-like man to realize her shock. He turned around cautiously as if facing a loaded gun. Sauce stuck his chest hair together in huge chunks and stained his tacky, lightening bolt boxers.
Marcy managed to smile weakly at Ike. "Oh honey," she said, brushing linguini from her hair, "You're home early."
Ike stood in the doorframe, completely frozen. Still clutched in his hands, halfway extended in front of him, was the bouquet of daises. For a long, awkward minute nobody said anything. Finally, Mr. Heaton looked from Marcy to Ike and asked, "You want to join, maybe?"
Ike shuddered, sending a few petals tumbling to the floor. He turned to storm out of the room but the overly dramatic procession lasted only a few steps before he realized that one could not storm out of his own home. Pivoting on his heel, he marched straight back to the door of the bedroom. Rage had replaced his usual sense of chivalry and set his scrawny frame ablaze with masculinity.
"You, both of you, out now!" He yelled, going red in the face. To prove his point, he gestured menacingly at them with the daisies.
Marcy had never seen her boyfriend like this. She leapt to her feet, sauce dripping off her body and onto the carpet. She walked to him and put her hands on his chest, leaving behind red handprints on his shirt. "I don't know what came over me," she stammered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I-"
"Don't be," He snarled, thrusting the daisies into her arms before crossing his own over his chest. Dejected, she looked down at the flowers and swaggered sadly towards the door. Mr. Heaton followed close behind, humming Taps like a funereal procession.
As soon as the door closed on the pair, every ounce of testosterone seeped out of Ike's body. His narrow chest began to heave under the neatly pressed folds of his shirt. The man's entire frame wilted as he collapsed into tears. Though he promised his friends that he wouldn't do it, and he managed not to for almost a year, he knew that he now must succumb to his one weakness. He trudged slowly to the kitchen cabinet, sinking more into his shoes with each step. He opened it and stared at the bottle with disgust. Then, without as much as a second thought, he grabbed the Windex and set off on a sorrow induced cleaning spree.