Chapter 1

Rusty apartment building, room 101, has three things Nigel, a loan officer with a masters in finance and a minor in Political Science, likes about it.

One of those things is that his apartment is named complex 101 but artfully dubbed room 101, which often reminds him of George Orwell's Dystopian novel 1984, which helps soften the suffering that it is to live in complex 101 because it is exactly as it is dubbed, a room.

Another is that room 101 is the only 100 number on the hall, except for room 100, and that is because the plates switch from the 100s down to the lower digits, like 90, because—yes, that is correct—Nigel lives on the very last, top floor, at the very end, of the last hall. Nigel also likes that his room ends on an odd number because, and this may be his mother's fault, he's always preferred oddity over expectation.

Nigel had always been a smart kid, always needed glasses, always expected to major in

finance—not just math but finance. Partly, because as a kid he'd asked his mom

what in her life causes her the most stress and when she'd jokingly said taxes,

he'd asked further until reaching the conclusion that financial debtors are the

cruelest people known to man; they are also top of the food chain.


Nigel hadn't wanted to become a finance major to be one of those though, what he

really wanted to do was ease the pain his Mother went through, take care of

her; though he did also want to be top of the food chain.

Nothing can touch you at the top, he'd thought as a naive child.

So, he studied finance. He was a fool. He fell

into the trap of security, being stable and unchanging makes you the most

fearful person of all.

That's why, when the end of high school came, he'd asked out his crush; a man. No one expected that of him. Just like how no one expected him to waste his minor on

political science. If it were up to him and not his counselor he would've said

screw it and spent it on fine arts for the fuck of it.

But even in the work place unpredictability hit and elevated him to dealing with

people as a loan officer rather than handling cash and numbers as a bank

teller. In the end it didn't matter, he doesn't use his minors, just as how his

crush-turned-boyfriend of 6 years now, all of a sudden, has no use for him.

He tries not to let it bitch around his life but, well, you can only like to

expect the unexpected for so long. It's when it turns around and bites you that

makes you bitter. Maybe that's why Nigel hates those three things he used to

once love about this apartment. Now there's not much to love about it.

Wes doesn't live in it, they don't bump hips when they do the dishes, there's a

chair in there sitting at a table that's always empty and a window stuck

perpetually open to the point that he might not even get his deposit back, it's

been left open too long to close. It's how Nigel feels. How can Wes close their

life together so quickly? How can he move on without even looking back once? It

was unexpected, unpredictable, it came out of nowhere. Nigel hates it, oddity

in a stable and predictable life that he had had. He no longer has it, all

because of oddity. 

So no, he doesn't like that room 101 is so small that it could barely fit Wes and him,

that it no longer has to try so hard and that it feels almost too large. He doesn't like that it's the last door at the last stair of the last floor. He doesn't even care much for the reference to 1984 because Winston and Julia lose

their love in the end too and that, it just reminds him of Wes all over again.

Nigel's thought about moving, over and over, again and again, sitting at that table

with an empty chair—he's thought about it. But, no, he couldn't, not after what

happened that night on summer's eve.

Nigel has a neighbor. Prior to this, this hot and humid night, this night in which he

comes stumbling home from the bar where Wes has dropped him off to after their

final goodbyes—it was supposed to be closure—Nigel hadn't known of the neighbor

that lives in room 100, an even number, a number thought of at first glance;

predictable. But he met him in the most embarrassing way possible.

It's hot, that's all he's really aware of after making it up those 70-odd steps. Odd, he

laughs to himself. Funny. Not funny at all, he thinks twice, as he just about

catches his face with a wall. His hand saves him, nearly, then his shoulder.

God, how much did he drink?

He'd been drinking before Wes, then with Wes, then after Wes. Nigel's forgotten all

time apart from him, Wes. His entire universe revolves around Wes, or used

to—still does. There's no way he can move on so fast, not when he feels like

this, not when he still feels— his knee catches him this time, but it's not

strong enough to hold him.

He expects the floor, predicts it. He doesn't get it.

A warm, hot, hand holds him under his bicep, a soft chest and meaty shoulder.

Whoever this body belongs to smells like almonds and aftershave and something

tangy like sweet and sour sauce. He, Nigel feels a slight stubble rub against

his ear as he tries to find his balance against cheek and shoulder, smells

fucking amazing. Or maybe Nigel's just drunk and tired of smelling vodka.

Either way, he's sweet, in manner and smell.

"Hey buddy, you okay?"

He uses all his grip and part of the wall to get Nigel up and stable on his own two legs. The

distance between them gives Nigel a chance to see him, his knight in shining

bathrobe. It's pink. Baby pink. It suits his tan skin.

"'M fin'e." Nigel shrugs, wall so stiff that only one arm really goes up. He's not

fine, not at all.

He still wants to cry.

He could.

He might.

The stranger seems to see that, sparkling eyes that look like an animal, a deer or

something, maybe a hamster, "Alright, where do you live? I assume on this

floor, I've been hearing your shoulder all along the wall there."

Nigel stares at his mouth, trying to pick apart the syllables. He gets the sense the

guy is saying something, a lot of something, like Nigel was bothering him so he

came to check and help him to his room, his complex—his room. "T'ny thin'g,

these," he breathes, brow pinching in a blank stare, "complexes."

The strangers eyes are wide, "huh?" He asks then, the slightest hint of a smile

starts to expand, "hah," he shakes a lip, "Oh man, you are drunk bud."

"Mm. Astu—te." Nigel hiccups.

The stranger nods, thick tight lipped grin. He's enjoying this. Nigel's glad at

least someone is.

He just wants to go home.

"Alright buddy." The stranger says, coming up by his side, "let's get you home. What

room?"

"Room 101." He says in his best O'Brien accent.

The stranger stares at him a single moment then laughs. "Okay Big Brother, I'm

serious, what room?"

Nigel looks down at him like he's crazy, is he crazy? Maybe he's just new.

"Room 101." Nigel says, then he points, down the hall beneath the flickering light by

the guarded window, lies a door.

It's not much further from room 96, the wall Nigel occupies, and really it's right next to room 100, he figured the stranger could

figure that.

"You know you've got a lot of snark for being a drunk man on a Tuesday."

The stranger says.

"Guinn, call me Guinn." Guinn says.

"It's summer." Nigel says in defense.

"It is summer Nigel."

"How'd you know my name?" Nigel asks.

"You're drunk, you're speaking aloud."

Embarrassing.

Guinn shakes his head and giggles, downright giggles at him. Nigel's never

heard a grown man giggle, not even Wes.

Guinn sobers, "Who's Wes?"

Nigel looks down at him, the wide eyes gaping up beneath his shoulder, equally wide

grin framed by plump cheeks.

Nigel looks away, down the hall, "Room 101."

Guinn does deliver him to his room, even helps rifle through his pockets for his

keys. It's not invasive but there are some accidental touches to thigh and,

other extremities, that by the time Guinn has the door unlocked his face is so

bright it acts as a lamp.

"Well!" Guinn claps, hands now free since Nigel has found the door, "I take it that's

the end of tonight's 'venture."

Nigel nods, "Thank you Quinn."

"Guinn." Guinn smiles. 

Nigel nods, "'Jen."

"You are so drunk." Guinn giggles to himself, closed hands coming up to his lips

like he could wipe the smile away himself. "Drink as much water as possible

before bed."

And then he's gone, waving by down the hall as he enters his own home. The last thing Nigel hears as the door closes is a song,

"Honey! I'm home!"

Must be nice to be greeted at the door.

It's quiet and empty the moment Guinn is gone. And Nigel, suddenly reminded of

closed doors, drinks as much water as he can before bed.

 #


It was his mother's fault for his oddity

complex. She was a planner, much like Nigel, if anything she raised it in him.

But she was, a degree harsh. She was paralyzed without a plan. She could not

function without a plan. She was afraid, violently, of everyone and everything.

A plan was her way of controlling that fear. It was her method of control.

That must be why in times of struggle he reverts and takes on her traits.

He's done the dishes and prepared the washer for the next time he needs to do the

dishes.

It is 4am.

He's unpacked the refrigerator and moved all the old produce to the front in order of use.

It is 4:15 am.

He's checked all the expiration dates on the boxes in the pantry and likewise, they sit front of the row in order of first bought first serve. It's a method of control. He will not be

taken by surprise when a nasty odor stinks up his fridge or when his cereal

goes stale.

It's a method of control, and it is innocent. It is all he has got.

It is barely 4:32 in the morning on a Wednesday. He does not go into work until 7:00, does not leave til 6:00 to get in a half hour early. His first appointment is

not til 9:00. He is over-prepared. He should be asleep. But he does not control

that. It makes him restless.

With nothing to do Nigel sits himself on his sofa and stares at the window costing

him his deposit and the second reason he has hesitated moving out for so long.

He could get it fixed, then get his deposit back. But it would cost more than

the deposit is worth in the end.

He spends an hour thinking about it, solving

the problem, when at 5:45 he hears the first reason he has yet to move out.

At the time he had not known him as such, he had only known him as pink bathrobe, the

man who lives in apartment 100, but he had learned something knew that morning.

Guinn is an early riser. It felt like solidarity.

There are few things you can control, but waking up in the morning before the sun

rises, is the most unpredictable predictable thing you can do. And Guinn, a kid

with wide eyes and a healthy face, was the last person Nigel expected to be a

morning person. Oddity at its finest. But it didn't feel like a bad one. It sits safely tucked next to his political science minor, the oddity of Guinn from room 100.

There are many oddities Nigel learns, of Guinn from that day on. Little things he

notices simply because he knows there's someone living next to him now, it

almost makes him hyper-aware. But one of the most surprising things is that,

that night hadn't been their first time meeting at all.

Nigel and Guinn first met on the stairs, Nigel going up, Guinn coming down. Guinn's

always going somewhere, out. Nigel feels like he's always coming home, despite

not having any reason. He wonders if it's the same for Guinn, he's got no

reason to go out, but he does.

It's a simple routine, "Good morning!" Guinn had greeted first.

"Oh, Good morning." Nigel had reciprocated as he walked up those steps and passed

by.

The first thing he recognizes is the height difference as they pass each other on

the flat, then Guinn's going down and Nigel's going up.

It happens again, and again, and Nigel begins to notice how in sync their

schedules really are. 

"Good morning neighbor." Nigel greets this time.

It is 6:28, Nigel is heading off to work.

Guinn looks over his shoulder, nearly running into Nigel, "Oh Good morning!"

And then they pass each other, going opposite directions out of the building.

The bank is located in a busy part of the city, luckily it's not a far trip, he doesn't even really need the car he takes but he takes it anyway because sometimes he's worried if he walks he'll run into someone he knows. It's better

to drive the car he spent a mini fortune on just to get it running.

He walks in to the bank at 7:00, lightly greeting Mrs. Anong at the front desk,

before walking down the long hall to his office. It's neat and orderly but every morning it smells a bit of dust and Nigel spends these early hours cleaning up.

He takes the wipes from his briefcase and removes the bobbles from his desk. He

ignores the picture frame in his drawer when he clears away the trash from the top roll. He clicks on and starts up his monitor and cleans out his email list. He marks a sticky note to remind himself to respond to one from a new customer, an elderly woman looking to take care of her house and finances before her passing.

By the time 9 strikes, his office is ready for visitors.

The day goes by quickly, with little annoyance or surprise. It's all very predictable, comfortable. Or it's supposed to be, but it mostly just feels stale, stagnant, like dust. And the only unpredictable thing is easily solved, a customer shows up late for an appointment.

He reschedules for a day later. Problem solved. Now he has no more problems left.

Nigel is a thinker, a solver, it's what he's comfortable with and honestly gets a bit

excited by. Him and Wes used to have a multitude of problems, maybe that's why

he was so attracted to their relationship, it gave him something to do—something to solve. But now, sitting in this office with a clock that tells him when to leave and when to come back, it all feels, dull. It's boring.

Nigel misses a little problem in his life.

But he can't say he misses surprise. That would like saying he missed the day Wes came home with bruises on his neck. Or like missing the day Wes left him at that restaurant and bar to drink himself to oblivion just so he didn't have to handle him anymore.

No, Nigel doesn't miss that. So really, he's grateful for this boring and stagnant life. He can control it. He's grateful, he tells himself, and tries to believe it.

It's nearly dinner time now, Nigel is on his way home and he is coming to a new realization. Maybe their schedules are out of sync instead? Him and his neighbor that is.

 "Good evening." Nigel waves.

Guinn looks over the railing, smile beginning to grow only to crescent at the sight

of him, "Good evening!" 

It is now 6:30pm, he wonders where Guinn is off to so late in the day. He may never

find out, he figures, as he watches the man's back disappear down the

stairwell.

Nigel fishes for his keys, finding them stuffed in his briefcase among an empty pen

and old receipt. It lets him into his home easily but the wind from the open window tries to keep him out. Luckily, he wins. The door closes behind him.

He sighs, dropping his brief case gently onto the table by the sofa, then he begins to fight with his tie. It comes off submissively and he wins another day against the cloth. He hangs up his blazer on the hanger by the door, rolls up his sleeves, then gets to work.

It's Wednesday.

He starts in the kitchen, taking out the dishes from the washer, putting them away, then putting on a pot to boil some rice. He opens the vents in the bathroom and gathers the bleach in a bucket to scrub the sinks in the kitchen. He airs out the grill of the oven, puts the old dish clothes in the laundry. By the time he's done cleaning dinner is ready. Vegetables and rice and a Tupperware of heated up meat; beef. It's delicious, even when eaten alone.

After his meal he starts on the living room. He flicks on the radio, low jazz filtering through, as he passes by. The sun starts to lower and the lamp is clicked by the toe of his shoe. He vacuums the sofa, wipes up the table with a

fiber cloth, feels his bangs fall into his face. He wets his hand when ringing out the rag and uses it to push his bangs back. They sit for a minute, then begin to fall.

Nigel's so lost in the control of cleaning that he startles when the door closes to the

complex next to him. It's only when he hears that tale tell song, that he recognizes it.

"Honey, I'm home!" Guinn's home.

Nigel wonders, for a short moment, who he lives with. He's never seen them before but

Guinn greets them every time he returns. It's a curiosity, an oddity in Nigel's daily stagnant life and that's really what this is all about. This strange almost analytical account of his neighbors daily life.

Nigel's being strange, but he's bored, this occupies him at least. So he lets himself wonder, about the unknown partner his neighbor lives with.

He cleans the bedroom. It's a successful cleaning day, it's easier to clean when

there's less mess, but, it's systematic and dull. There's no socks in the way of his vacuum, no feet poking his back when he fixes the bed sheets. There's no extra dishes in the sink when he goes back to ring out the rag. It's dull.

Nigel finishes cleaning, feeling unsatisfied. It's the reason he reaches for the wine

cabinet. The jazz station plays on as he uncorks and drinks from the mouth.

There are a few reasons Nigel hasn't moved out yet, besides the deposit and his

neighbor. But most of those reasons have to do with sentiment and Nigel just can't find it in himself to let go. He knows he has to, but he doesn't want to. Not yet.

Plus, there's Guinn next door.

Nigel doesn't know what that means yet, but in the point of time that he's thinking back on how this all came to be, he knows it's the sole reason he stays. Nigel will understand soon how important Guinn is in this decision, but for now he blames it on sentiment and a broken window. And he drinks.

He drinks to oblivion.