The Sunset Apartments #6
Floor: 7
Apartment Number: 714
Complaint: Ceiling fan is broken
Name: Rebecca Johnson
“Whatever you do, don’t tell her your favorite color.”
“What?”
“We’ve taken some strange service tickets today, yeah?” Asked Hector.
Vartan shifted his body weight and replied, “Yeah, but the last two weren’t that bad.”
“This one is. Just don’t tell her your favorite color, man.”
“Ok, I won’t.”
The super nodded, turned from Vartan, and knocked on the door. “Ms. Johnson, it’s Hector. We’re here to address your ticket.”
“Oh, just a sec!” Several footfalls later the door opened and behind it stood a young woman sporting dyed red hair pulled up into a messy bun being held together with paintbrushes. “Thank you, Hector!”
“Not a problem Ms. Johnson.”
“It’s Rebecca, I’ve told you that before, and you…” She pointed at the assistant. “...you’re new. What’s your name?”
With a hint of caution, he responded, “Vartan.”
“Vartan, that goes for you too.” She motioned the two men to come into her apartment. “The fan is back here. In the guest bedroom.”
“Does it not turn on?”
“Nope, I’ve tried everything, too.”
On their way toward the two bedrooms, Vartan took in the main room’s esthetic of maximalism. It was adorned in vibrant floral wallpaper with plants hanging, resting, and growing on any surface available. Hanging among the plants and wallpaper were paintings. Various portraits, landscapes, and scenes whose frames were being encroached upon by the creeping leaves of the print behind and the living plants in front of them. In the middle of the room, where there would normally be a TV, stood an easel and a stool. On the easel was a roughed-in painting of a man in a suit. The oil paints and brushes sat next to the canvas, waiting for their master to return to their work.
He didn’t linger for too long, as Hector caught his eye and motioned with his head toward the work area they were there to address. Catching up to the super, he nodded toward Jessica as she walked back to her easel, and pulled the tool cart along with the new ceiling fan in-box. “She painted all of the art in the living room?”
“And in here, too.”
He turned back to find her leaning in the doorway as she motioned toward the guest room, which was filled with the same vibe as the living room—floral print, plants, and paintings. Vartan smiled a little at all of it. “You probably don’t need to hear this, but you’re good.”
She flashed a smile to show she accepted the compliment and said, “It’s taken a lot of time, but I’m happy with it.”
“Hey, the great critic, pay attention to up here.” Hector tapped the step ladder he was on. “We have other tickets to address today. Let’s get moving.”
“Okay, okay.”
She pushed off the door frame and walked away from the two workers, saying, “Hector works hard, but I suspect he’s a softy underneath. Most men like him are.”
After a moment, Vartan handed Hector a Phillips head screwdriver and asked, “What’s up, man? You’re suddenly on edge, and I thought the torta would have calmed you down a little.”
“You don’t want her.”
“Uh, what?’
“I see the eyes, the way you two were looking at one another.”
“She got an S.O. or something?”
“S.O.?”
A small sigh escaped his chest. “Significant other.”
“What?”
Vartan’s eyes rolled as he took the uninstalled fan motor from his boss. “Does she have a boyfriend or girlfriend, man?”
“Naw, she’s single as hell. But you don’t want her. She’s got things going on.”
“So what? She’s an artist. They usually have things going on.”
“Not like her. Now open the new fan and let’s get this installed. I’m getting the creeps, dude.”
He sliced open the fan box and began unpacking it. “Why?”
Hector stepped down from the ladder. “Two things. One, she’s a tenant; don’t ever dip into the inkwell at work.”
Vartan smiled out of embarrassment as he quietly said, “Dude!”
“Two, you see these paintings?”
“Yeah.”
“They’ve killed people.”
“What?”
“Every one of these paintings has a murder in it of a very specific person donning their favorite color.” The super pointed at a landscape. It was a field, in a non-descript somewhere in the Midwest possibly, where a half-buried body of a man lay in the ground. Dirt from the digging lay on his bloodied suit, where multiple knife wounds had cut and colorized the white button-up shirt. Vartan then looked at the scene in a harbor where another man could be seen hanging from the mast of his sailboat. He looked back at Hector. “Like I said, you don’t want this one.”
“Why not? I’m cute.” The two men pivoted around to find Rebecca had returned to her spot in the doorway, eating an apple.
Vartan raised his hand and asked, “Is this true? With the paintings and the killing people?”
“Oh, yes, very true.” Her red lipstick-covered lips smiled. “If I know the subject’s favorite color, I can paint them into the grave. I don’t kill them. The painting doesn’t kill them. It merely depicts their end. How they get there, I don’t know.”
“You seem… very upfront about it.”
“It’s just a job.”
“A job?” Vartan scratched his cheek. “Are you a professional killer?”
“An assassin? Yes.”
“That’s…”
“Terrifying? It’s what keeps me single.” She took another bite of her apple. “Thankfully, I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“Have you killed any potential partners?” She took another bite from her apple. She chewed the apple. She did not answer. “Oh.”
Hector had started in on the fan assembly while they were talking. He brought the new fan up and hung the ball joint in the ceiling cradle. He then tapped his assistant on the shoulder. “I know there is a lot to learn here, and I factored that you might be doing a lot of talking to the tenants, but you need to wire this fan up.” Vartan climbed up the step ladder and connected the ground and power lines. “How’s your portrait going of him?”
Frustration animated her gestures as she said, “That one has been hard. I can’t quite capture his likeness.”
“What about the color? Could it be that?”
“No, the hue is perfect. It’s the face. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
He finished the wiring and sealed the mounting cap over the wires. “Him?”
Rebecca turned the fan on, and it started to spin. “You fixed it! Thank you!”
“Who’s him?”
“No worries, Ms. Johnson. We’ll get moving. Vartan, vamos.”
Confused, Vartan placed the tools into the cart and followed the super out of the apartment. He waited beside the elevator and asked his boss, “Who is him?”
“He, you should say he as that is the proper grammar.”
“I am asking about who you were asking about, hence my use of him and not he, as I wanted to keep my subject clear.”
“Oh, eh, you don’t need to worry about it.”
Vartan wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Is… is it me?”
Hector burst out laughing as the elevator arrived. Stepping on, he began to cool his chuckles. “Man, I haven’t laughed like that in a long time. No, no, it’s not you. I only know about it because I saw multiple paintings stacked up in the closet when I came to do a ticket for her unit.” The elevator doors began to close. “It’s Mr. Rosewater.”
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I updated the ending and a single word during Hector and Rebecca's convo post launch. Sorry about the confusion everyone, I was putting some cereal together and had a brilliant idea that was better than the ending that the original got. THANK YOU FOR READING THIS VERY PROFESSIONAL STORY!
That sure was a punchline. Choosing to believe Rebecca also had a hand in the Kennedy Assassination now. This chapter didn't feel as heavy as others but some chapters leaning more one way than the other feels fitting too.