Alphabet Towers, Part I
“Ordinal linguistic personification (OLP) is the automatic tendency to animate and personify numbers, letters, months, and days. In other words, this specific form of personification-based synesthesia involuntarily associates linguistic elements with human-like personalities and genders.”
-Sally Moy
A sat at her kitchen table, back aching from being hunched over her checkbook for too long. She could hear her children, B and C playing in the other room. Whenever it got quiet, she called out to them to make sure they were staying out of trouble. A's inquiries were usually met with giggles which pleased her; a welcome respite from the task at hand. Before her on the table there were two piles of unfolded sheets of paper. The headers indicated that the correspondences were from different places, but they all had the same angry font. A picked up a letter from the first pile – the Really Past Due pile – and skimmed it for the amount that was being demanded of her. She had a system for dealing with her bills. Sort-Of Past Due bills were ignored until they turned into Really Past Due. Really Past Due bills were paid in order of importance; essentials like electricity were at the top, while cable and car insurance were lower on the list. Only once did they come home to find the apartment in total darkness. A told the kids D, their neighbor, was working on some wires. Satisfied with that answer, B and C insisted on a campout in the living room.
A started mentally subtracting the amount on the bill from the money she had in the bank. Her stomach flipped, a common feeling these days, when she realized she wouldn't be able to cover the electric bill in her hand and the rent that was already a week late. She could feel the panic start to rise in her chest. It was like this every month, and A was aging too quickly from the stress. She threw the bill on the table and ran her hands through her messy hair. The air in the kitchen shifted.
“Mom?” B asked quietly from behind her, his short black hair in two pointy pigtails, no doubt a product of C's latest obsession with makeovers.
“Yeah babe, what's up?”
“Are you okay?”
A turned around in her chair to face B. Smiling, she took his hands in hers and kissed them. “Of course I am. Just a little tired, I think. What are you and C up to?”
B remembered his current hairstyle and tried to roll his eyes. It was something he hadn't quite mastered yet, and A was grateful for that. “C cut off all the hair from her other dolls, so she needed someone to practice on. I told her if she cut my hair you'd be mad, so she did this instead.”
A gently pulled the rubber bands out and ruffled his hair. “You're a really great big brother, you know that?”
“I know, Mom. “ B glanced at the organized chaos on the table. “Is D coming over for dinner tonight?”
“Oh crap...I forgot. Yes, he is. Could you help your sister pick up the living room while I get dinner started?” A picked up the papers from the kitchen, shoved them in an envelope and threw them in a drawer. She didn't want D to know what kind of situation she was in. He did enough for her already; financial help was not something A was willing to accept.
B ran to the other room and informed C what was being asked of her. A overheard a part of the conversation that indicated C was to clean the living room all by herself, but rather than intervene, she let the kids figure it out.
“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?” H exclaimed, pulling a blue polo over his head. “That was far from fucking foul!” He tossed the stained shirt on the floor, kicking it out of his way as he looked for a more presentable shirt. J sat on the couch, his bare feet surrounded by empty beer cans on the coffee table. He changed the channel from the current sports game to another.
“Dude, find a freaking shirt. We gotta meet the guys in like, 20 minutes.”
“I know, but I need one that looks somewhat clean. Ashley works the early shift and I think I might be making progress.” H went into the bedroom, swearing as he stubbed his foot on a metal baseball bat.
J scoffed, “Right. You know she blew K in the parking lot last summer. Why the fuck would you want his used goods?”
H reentered the living room buttoning a wrinkled plaid shirt. “Hell, why wouldn't I? He emotionally destroys them and I can be there to support the heartbroken. It's a system we have.”
“I highly doubt K's aware of this system, and you're too lazy to get your own piece of ass.” J struggled to get off the sagging couch, his ever-growing beer gut making it difficult to move the way he used to. J was only 22 but could feel he'd be considered slovenly and a bit grotesque by age 30. It was a thought he tried to block as much as he could. J grabbed his keys and threw them at H.
“No way dude, I'm not DDing tonight. I did last night and it fucking sucked. Do you even remember puking in front of the bar? On my shoes? As Ashley was leaving?”
J started to laugh. He didn't remember that at all, but it sounded like something he'd do. “Is that what you call progress with Ashley? She'll never fuck you now because all she'll think is the spew in your shoes.” J was laughing so hard he didn't realize H had started shotgunning a beer.
“If I drink enough of these while you laugh at yourself you'll have to drive. So keep laughing asshole.”
The visual of H sucking beer out the bottom of a can reminded him of playing football in high school. H, I, J and K were all on the team, and they had a knack for getting wasted in the locker room before games. Once, the coach found them passed out in the showers. He turned the water on to wake them up and attempted to give them a lecture on the effects of alcohol on athletic ability. I casually mentioned a flask he found in the coach's office and the boys were out on the field in no time. J remembers winning that game, and the rest of the games that season. They were convinced the bottles of cheap whiskey were for good luck. H's chirping cell phone brought J back to the apartment.
H put down the empty can, his third in 2 minutes. “It's K. He says that the Delta Zetas just showed up and they're mostly wasted.” H’s phone chimed again. “Oh shit, I is already working that Southern, quiet boy charm on the hottest Zeta. We gotta go.”
Noticing H starting to sway and accepting his defeat, J picked up his keys. “What about Ashley?”
“Dude...fuck Ashley. Delta Zetas!”
J affectionately put H in a headlock. “I know bro, I know.”