Zelda's
Now that he was a single man after more than a decade of being married, Phil Struthers had to find a place to live. The cookie cutter house in the suburbs, owned jointly by Phil and his wife, Maya, was put on the market. With half of his savings gone, thanks to community property laws, he lacked the money to purchase another one, leaving him no option but to downsize.
"For now, it's either an apartment or a mobile home," he dolefully declared, tossing the real estate section of the Sunday paper into the trash.
He had not lived in an apartment since college when he and two of his classmates rented one above a barber shop. Back then, he did not mind sharing a bathroom with two other people and cramming his belongings into an overcrowded crawlspace. Now, however, he was used to more comfortable surroundings. He hated to give up his garage, workshop and den.
"Look on the bright side," he told himself. "Living in an apartment is practically maintenance-free. I won't have to mow the lawn in the summer, rake leaves in the fall or shovel snow in the winter."
What Phil did not take into consideration was the high cost of rentals in the city. The only place he could currently afford was a studio apartment above a tattoo parlor located halfway down a rarely used alley in, shall we say, the "less fashionable" section of the city.
Somehow, he managed to squeeze most of his clothes into the tiny closet. The television, couch and recliner from his den furnished his new living space. The couch would double as a bed, and a set of inexpensive snack trays he bought at Sears would work in lieu of a kitchen table. There would be no more home-cooked meals for him anyway. Being single meant living on frozen dinners, meals out of a box or can and fast food, mostly burgers, pizza and Chinese takeout.
The first night he spent in the apartment he experienced some difficulty sleeping. He had expected the city to be noisy, but no traffic—human or vehicular—traveled along the dark alley at night.
It's as silent as a tomb, he thought, as he tossed and turned on the sofa.
There was more noise in the suburbs. Cars drove by his house, neighbors' dogs barked, cats meowed, crickets chirped.
Unable to fall asleep, he finally got up and looked out the window—the only one in his apartment. There was little to see. With no moon or stars visible through the clouds, only the glow of the lone streetlight on the corner of Edison Street and the alley provided illumination. As his eyes scanned the nondescript buildings on the opposite side of the street, he noticed a sign above one of the doors. It was not a neon sign nor one powered by electricity. He could only see it because it was in the direct path of the beam cast by the streetlight. Phil squinted his eyes to read the writing on it: ZELDA'S.
"I wonder what kind of place it is. Sounds like a luncheonette or a beauty parlor."
He continued to stare at the sign for more than hour. Then his eyes began to feel heavy—thank God! He returned to the couch and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
When Phil left his apartment the following day, the long-haired, bearded owner of the tattoo shop was just arriving for work. The two men nodded their heads in greeting but neither spoke. This was the city, after all, people did not normally form friendships with their neighbors. Before heading to his office, he crossed the street to examine the door beneath the sign that read ZELDA'S. It gave no clue as to what type of establishment Zelda was running.
Maybe this is the back entrance, he thought. It might be where Zelda gets her deliveries. There it is, Sherlock. Mystery solved.
As he made his way to the subway station three blocks to the east on Edison, he mulled over the name. The only Zelda he knew of was Zelda Fitzgerald, the madcap flapper of the 1920s, wife of The Great Gatsby writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
"Zelda," he said the name aloud. "I wonder what nationality that is."
Eight hours later, on his way home from work, Phil took a detour. Still wondering what type of business Zelda's was, he walked around the block, looking for a main entrance. He passed a laundromat, an insurance agency, a bar and a bakery. The only other businesses were a post office and a grocery store. There was no other entrance to Zelda's beside the one in the alley, opposite his window.
In the world of the twenty-first century, it would be easy to find out more about the mysterious business. He could have used a computer, phone or tablet to google Zelda's and come up with more than two million results. Of course, he could significantly narrow his search by adding the name of the street and the city. But in 1978, when Phil walked down the alley toward the tattoo parlor and the door that led to his second-floor apartment, he owned no smartphone, laptop or iPad; and Google had yet to be created. If he wanted to learn more about Zelda's, he had to rely on the sources available at the time.
Rather than unlock his own door, he entered the tattoo parlor. The owner was seated behind the counter, getting ready to close up shop for the evening.
"If you want a tattoo, you'll have to come back tomorrow," the aging hippie said.
"No. I'm the guy who lives upstairs. I was wondering if you had a phonebook. I need to look up a number."
"Sure thing," the tattoo artist replied and took a directory out from under the counter.
"Thanks," Phil said, immediately turning to the yellow pages at rear of the book.
His index finger ran down a column of business names beginning with Z: Zelanko's Auto Body, Zelasko and Burns Legal Services, Zelazny Dance Academy, Zelcer Appliances, Zelch Insurance Agency, Zeldes Laboratories ....
"Damn it," he said in a low voice as he closed the phonebook.
"Didn't find what you were looking for?"
"No. The place must have an unlisted number."
As he turned to leave, it occurred to Phil that the shop owner might know something about the neighboring establishment.
"Hey, what do you know about Zelda's?" he inquired.
"Never heard of it."
"It's the place right across the alley. See the sign above the door?"
"I never noticed it before."
"So, you don't know what kind of business it is?"
"Sorry. I haven't a clue."
* * *
Phil woke on Saturday morning wondering what he would do with his day off. Cleaning a studio apartment did not take much time. All he had to do was run the vacuum cleaner over the carpet and push a mop over the linoleum. Since he slept on the couch, he had no sheets to change and only a coffee cup to wash. Once the toilet bowl and shower stall were wiped clean, he gathered his dirty clothes, put them into a Hefty bag and headed for the laundromat.
As soon as he emerged from the outer door of his building, his eyes went to the sign across the street. He did not question why he was so interested in the unidentified business. Frankly, he was glad that something took his mind off his divorce.
With his bag of dirty laundry slung over his shoulder like Santa's sack of toys, he crossed the alleyway and stood in front of the door to Zelda's. There were no windows either in the door or beside it, nor was there a doorbell or a buzzer. He reached out for the doorknob and turned. It was locked. He knocked, but no one answered.
Maybe Zelda's is no longer in business, he concluded.
With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned around and headed toward the laundromat. There were more important things in life to think about. Now that Maya out of the picture, he had a life to rebuild.
It won't be an easy task, he thought in a moment of self-pity. Like Paul McCartney said, "Suddenly, I'm not half the half the man I used to be."
Close to half an hour later, when he put his wet clothes in the dryer, his mind again wandered down the alley to the sign above the door. He walked over to the elderly laundromat attendant who was mopping the floor.
"Hi. I'm Phil Struthers," he introduced himself. "I just moved into this neighborhood."
"Glad to meet you. My name's Melrose. I've lived on this street my whole life."
"Then you must be familiar with Zelda's."
"No. I can't say that I am. What is it?"
"It's the building right around the corner, with the door facing onto the alley."
"You don't say! I never heard of the place."
Phil found it odd that two people who worked within shouting distance of Zelda's knew absolutely nothing about it.
Maybe the business isn't closed; maybe it hasn't opened yet, he reasoned.
That would also explain both the lack of customers and the fact that there was no listing for the business in the phonebook. Although he felt fairly confident that he had hit on the correct explanation, it did not stop him from questioning the woman at the post office and several employees at the supermarket. However, like the man who owned the tattoo parlor and the laundromat attendant, they had never heard of Zelda's.
* * *
While they were married, Phil and Maya often went out on Saturday evenings. Their nights on the town usually consisted of dinner and a movie. Since the marriage broke up, however, Phil spent his Saturdays at home watching television. He knew he ought to take his friends' advice and be more sociable. Maya was not the only woman in the world, after all. However, social lives cost money, money he didn't have. With his lawyer's fees hanging over his head—not to mention he still owed thousands of dollars in school loans—he could barely afford to eat after paying his rent.
As he searched the channels for something to watch, he promised himself that once his legal bills were paid, one of the luxuries he would allow himself was one of those new VCRs, which would allow him to watch movies on videocassette. Until then, it was CBS, ABC, NBC and a handful of local stations. Thankfully, it was baseball season. Watching the Yankees play the Red Sox was a good way to pass the time. When the Bronx Bombers tied the game in the ninth, the game went into extra innings. Finally, after Thurman Munson hit a homerun in the twelfth, the game came to an end.
Once the marathon of a ballgame was over, he turned off the television and headed toward the bathroom. As he passed the open window, he heard the rhythmic sound of high heels walking on pavement.
It's midnight. Who can that be at this hour? he wondered.
Phil looked outside and noticed a woman entering Zelda's. Unfortunately, he saw her only briefly, just moments before the door closed behind her. The glimpse of a shapely leg beneath the hem of her skirt or dress and a red high-heeled shoe told him only that it was a female—either that or a man in drag. He did not know if she was young or old or if her hair was long or short or its color was blond, brown, black or red.
In an attempt to satisfy his curiosity, he kept watch at the window for several hours, hoping she would emerge from the building. By four in the morning, however, he could no longer keep his eyes open. He stumbled across the room to the couch and promptly feel asleep.
"Thank God it's Sunday!" he exclaimed when he woke up after nine. "I really need to get some rest today."
There was little else for him to do. After showering, dressing and rinsing out his coffee cup, he was left with the entire day ahead of him.
"Maybe I'll take a walk around the neighborhood and get some exercise."
He made it as far as the bakery on the next block before it began to rain. As he rounded the corner, heading back to his apartment, he saw a woman walking down the alley in the direction of Zelda's. His heart beat faster when he realized where she was going.
"Hey, wait up!" he shouted.
A moment later she was gone, having unlocked the door and gone inside. Despite the rain, he followed and knocked on the door.
"Hello. Zelda? Are you there?"
He waited, but no one answered. Again, he had not seen her face. The umbrella she carried covered her head and upper torso. All he was able to see was the bottom of a black dress (or skirt), her stockinged legs and her red high heels.
Soaked to the skin, he went back to his apartment and put on dry clothes. Then he placed his chair in front of the window and waited, like a sentry at his post, never taking his eyes off Zelda's door. It was hunger that eventually called him away. He hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch, so by seven in the evening, he was famished.
Dinnertime was when he missed Maya the most—not so much her but her cooking. As he looked through the meagre contents of his kitchen cabinets (Chef Boyardee canned ravioli, ramen noodles, Kraft macaroni and cheese, Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and Hormel corned beef hash), he thought about his wife's—ex-wife's—homemade spaghetti sauce, meatloaf, roasted chicken and shepherd's pie.
"Don't torture yourself!" he said, reaching for the can of corned beef hash. "This ought to be easy enough to make. All I have to do is put it in a pan and heat it up; and although it's a far cry from being a home-cooked meal, with a little mustard, it doesn't taste too bad."
Plate in hand, Phil returned to the window and ate, all the while keeping watch on the door across the alley. Hour after hour he stayed there, getting up only to run to the bathroom around nine o'clock. Three hours later he dozed off in his chair. Suddenly, just after midnight, he was awakened by the sound of high heels on pavement. He opened his eyes to see the woman emerge from the door. Since the rain had stopped, she carried no umbrella. Yet he could still not see her face because she wore a large floppy hat that obscured his view of her head.
Despite being barefooted, he jumped from his chair, ran to the door of his apartment, down the stairs and out into the alley. With no sign of her, he ran to the corner and looked in both directions, east and west.
"Where could she have gone to so quickly?" he wondered aloud, when he saw that Edison Street was deserted.
He ruled out the possibility that she got into a car because, surely, he would have heard it drive away.
"She must have gone into one of the nearby buildings," he reasoned. "She probably lives in this neighborhood."
The thought gave him comfort, for even in the city people often ran into their neighbors even though they made little effort to get to know them.
"I've caught a glimpse of her three times already. I know I'll see her eventually."
It was to be another week before Phil encountered his mysterious neighbor again. Like the previous time, the weather was bad. The forecast called for heavy rain and thunderstorms. Carrying a bag of groceries, including a few more cans of Hormel corned beef hash and Chef Boyardee ravioli, he left the grocery store, anxious to get home before the rain started. The wind was strong, blowing the litter in the streets this way and that. When he turned the corner, a mighty gust blew dirt in his right eye, and his hand went up to rub it away. He opened his teary eye again and saw her.
"Zelda!" he called as she stood in front of the door with her hand on the knob.
She turned in his direction. He felt his heartbeat race with excitement. This is it! He was finally going to see her. At that moment, however, a gust of wind blew her long hair in front of her face, concealing her features.
"Wait!" he screamed as he saw the door open.
A second later, it closed, and she was gone. Phil dropped his groceries and ran to the door, banging on it and calling her name.
"Please!" he shouted. "I just want to talk to you."
He remained on the doorstep for ten minutes, pounding on the door and entreating her to open it. The sign above him seemed to mock his efforts.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. Soon thereafter the rain came. He scrambled in the alley, picking up his canned goods; and then once he had his groceries in the bag, he ran for the shelter of his own apartment.
* * *
Over the next few days, Phil questioned the people in his neighborhood—the tattoo artist, the woman at the post office, the elderly laundromat attendant and the cashiers at the grocery store—about the woman he saw enter Zelda's.
"She's about five feet four, one hundred ten pounds, long dark hair," he said, doing his best to describe her.
"I don't recall ever seeing anyone like that around here," Melrose, the elderly laundromat attendant, replied.
"No, that description doesn't ring any bells," the postal clerk answered.
"Sorry, I see so many people come in here. I can't remember them all," the cashier said.
"I'm sure I would remember if I saw someone that looked like that," the tattoo artist declared.
Like Google and the Internet, smartphones with cameras were waiting in the future to make their debut. Relying on what was available at the time, Phil searched through his boxes of belongings until he found his Kodak instamatic camera. The last time he used it was three years earlier, when he and Maya spent a four-day weekend at Niagara Falls. Fortunately, there were still three exposures left.
All I need is one, he thought.
To once again quote his favorite Beatle, Paul McCartney, "There's a shadow hanging over me." And that shadow was Zelda!
For the next two weeks, he carried the pocket-sized camera everywhere he went: on his way to work, to the laundromat, to the grocery store, to the post office. Finally, his persistence paid off. He was taking a bag of trash down to the dumpster at the end of the alley when he finally met the woman face to face.
He heard her before he actually saw her. The clatter of high heels on pavement was unmistakable. His hand went into his pocket for the camera as he quickly walked across the alley.
She can't avoid me this time, he thought as he beat her to the door.
"Zelda," he said softly, so as not to frighten her. "I've wanted to meet you for some time now. I ...."
Phil stopped speaking. The only sound in the alley was that of the Kodak instamatic camera falling to the ground after it slipped from his hand. As he had so often imagined since given that first peek of her shapely leg in the light of the corner streetlight, the woman was young and beautiful. The face framed by the long dark hair was exquisite, from the perfect lips to the finely sculpted cheekbones to the flawless complexion. It was her eyes, however, that caused her enamored neighbor to go speechless.
"Clear!"
The word seemed to echo through the alley as he stood staring in shock at the woman he had pursued for weeks. At first, Phil thought someone had remarked about the condition of her eyes.
They're not clear at all. They're cloudy.
They were the filmy, unseeing eyes of a dead woman.
"Clear!"
The second exclamation was followed by a tremendous shock that made Phil's back arch. When the sensation passed, he found himself in a hospital.
But I was in the alley ....
Above the sounds of the emergency room personnel, he could hear the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
"We've got a steady pulse," an unknown female voice declared.
Phil wanted to talk, but he couldn't. Instead the unspoken questions lingered in his brain: Where am I? What happened? What am I doing here? Where is Zelda?
When he was finally able to speak, it was the last question that he asked first.
"Where is Zelda?"
"She's dead."
The voice came from behind him, not from the doctor or his staff that had worked on reviving him.
"Who's there?" he cried.
"Remember me?" the man asked, stepping into Phil's line of vision.
"I don't think—wait! You're the guy from the tattoo shop. But what happened to your beard and long hair?"
The man turned to the doctor and asked, "Are you sure he's all right?"
"He's a little disoriented, but he'll be fine."
Before the doctor left the room, he tightened the straps that held Phil Struthers to the bed.
"What are you doing here?" the patient asked. "What am I doing here? And where is Zelda?"
"I told you. She's dead. You killed her."
"You're crazy! I didn't even know her! I only saw her a few times. I never had the opportunity to talk to her. I was finally going to meet her when ...."
"The Doc was right. You are out of it. You were married to Zelda for more than ten years."
"No! That's not possible. I was married to Maya."
"Maya was your girlfriend. She was the reason you killed your wife. You wanted to marry her, but Zelda wouldn't give you a divorce."
"This is insane!"
"You killed her, drove her body to an alley in the city and threw it into a dumpster."
Phil's mind conjured up the familiar image of the alley. Only this time the dumpster stood where the door had been. Sticking out of it was a shapely leg wearing a red high-heeled shoe. The sign above, which read ZELDA'S, was there to identify the dead woman's remains.
"No. That's not the way it happened," he cried in denial.
"But despite the lateness of the hour, you were seen. Witnesses came forward and identified you. They had seen your face in the light from a corner streetlamp."
The pictures in his brain changed. The alley became a courtroom, and he recognized familiar faces on the stand. The postal clerk, the grocery store cashier and the elderly laundromat attendant all testified to his guilt.
"I was arrested ...," he recalled as the memories slowly resurfaced.
"I know. I'm Detective Kiefer Edison. I was the one who arrested you."
"There was a trial, and I was found guilty. I was sentenced ...."
"... to death," Edison said, filling in the last of the missing pieces. "But you wanted to take the coward's way out. You tried to hang yourself in your cell. But the guard found you, and the prison doctor and his team managed to revive you."
"So, this isn't a regular hospital?"
"No. This is the infirmary of the state penitentiary. And you'll be kept here on suicide watch until your execution date, two weeks from now."
"Why didn't they just let me die? Why go through all the trouble of bringing me back?"
"Why?" Kiefer laughed. "Because the state wants you in good health when it sits you down in the electric chair."
Phil closed his eyes, looking like a defeated man.
The detective headed toward the door, cheerfully calling over his shoulder as he left, "You take care of yourself now. See you in two weeks."
But the condemned man did not hear the detective's taunts. His mind had returned to the alley where a woman with shapely legs, long dark hair and cloudy dead eyes laughed at him in triumph.
"Yesterday" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney © Sony/ATV Tunes LLC dba ATV o/b/o ATV (Northern Songs Catalog)
It's no mystery who you will find down this alley. [Spoiler alert: it's not Zelda!]
