Penthouse

There was a single dot of land I could make out in the dense mist. And it was the support under my feet.

In that short glance that I had originally taken downward, I saw the clouds gather just below the point where the floating mass of stone was cut off. I refused to quiver in the towering heels, imagining I was a puppet being lifted from strings, forced to keep the spine perfectly straight, body perpendicular to the nonexistent ground. My support was fragile and floating, I was midair, in a sky of nothingness. In comparison to the immense stretches of taken space, I was a hidden, discardable human. And yet, as though the world could not bear to just be nothing, thoughts erupted, bringing color in my mind, all nonsense accepting and dripping in humility. I was alone again, but in this new setting, something had altered within.

I remained on my rock, somewhat fearless, but not daring enough to take a leap of faith, perhaps end it all here. The fog felt like cotton balls at my eyes, congesting and blurring my sight as hours passed. Tiny scratches of pebbles fell from the edge of the island as I breathed in and out, and I wondered the time before my stalagmite would deteriorate and leave me falling, shooting towards the ground like an internally damaged rocket.

As though it could sense my thought, the atmosphere blandly gave the sounds of a fumbling engine: its muffled roar and stiff groan and blindness as it tempted to stay in the air for more than a second without tumbling down in the absence of a parachute. As though the rocket’s bottom were slapping against something jagged and cracking, so it was before me.

Asphalt patches, like stepping stones became nonexistent as a vintage car shuttered through the air, bopping up and down in the uneven patches of road it passed over and destroyed. The fog cleared before the rumbling engine and formed a cylindrical tunnel straight at me. Then the driver pulled over a few yards away.

My eyes were wide to all of the car’s traits: the exhaust in the pipes was an acidic blue, electric and bizarre to my eye. Before I could process much else, below it, a stream of road formed, dotted with yellow lines for bikers or pedestrians; it ran under my feet like an unfurling carpet and seized to stop until at a length where it disappeared in the mist’s hugging arms. In closer proximity, it connected the vehicle and I like a bridge.

The front door hinged open, its window patched with a sticky-looking cow’s fur. The driver, with an oil-stained rag draped along its body and a snakeskin of vivid tattoos gave the same, patchy feeling as it gripped the roof of the car and swung. It was barely tall enough to have its feet hit the window as it somersaulted onto the roof, looking at me with lively, livid green eyes. But it wasn’t the creature’s fixated stare that captivated me. The driver was a larger creature of what I knew to be a garden gnome.

“Well this is an odd predicament. Come in, come in.”

A female voice. She tapped her back, arching it as though she would be able to spot what lay beyond the reach of her wrinkled face, “Nothing to fear, not even him—” she pointed to a dragon tattoo engulfed in a circle of white rays on her shoulder blade, “Although, I’d get off of your little island now that we’re here.” She stared at my rock with fearful eyes, “That thing looks like it’ll give out any moment,” and absurdly laughed at the prospect.

I took slight steps forward, legs suddenly aching at the weight of my body, panging in who knows what—the adrenaline worked up from being on the ledge—that I had rejected to admit until now. I took the seat beside hers, as there were no doors to the back of the car, thinking she was probably right above my head as I sat. The thumping noise of heavy feet confirmed that.

“The name’s Harlow,” she dangled while clutching the car door and aimed a kick at the front. An opera began to play, fading in until at a volume perfect for getting on someone’s nerves. I nodded simply at her introduction, and turned away. A few minutes later, she flipped back in, this time, knobby knees latching onto the roof and upside down as she spoke.

“Comfortable yet, miss? As I live to serve and please in this—” she flipped like an acrobat to the previous position, mouth tight in emotion. Her yellowed toe kicked the side of the car, out of frustration or strategy, I was unsure, as her aim dented the front portion inwards and moved the gas pedal to a more appropriate height. With every phrase, she aimed another perfect kick, fixing the lopsidedness of the roof and links that connected the steering wheel to the car, “High-maintenance, unappealing mound of metal and tangle of wire of a vehicle.” She slapped the trunk as she bounded across, “And would you stop snoring!”

“I think that’s the music,” I interjected, eyes paneling the stubborn knobs in their spread that sang in huffs of high, harmonious hymn. There was a pause, not to be taken in silence, for the static-filled radio singer proceeded to holding the same note and unwavering, kept it steady for a good minute and a half.

Harlow peeped her tiny head in with her hands holding tightly to the roof she’d clamored on, a shock of tall white hair brushing the ceiling. She took and steadied the wheel, “If you do not enjoy this music, then you must not enjoy me.”

"Music isn't you," I said. The engine revved and she slammed the door shut as I continued, "It's a portrayal of yourself through someone else's lyrics and... well, in this case, just sound."

It didn’t seem like she was listening as she slipped a seat belt around my waist, an anchor-shaped receiver with a little sailor charm sealing me in. When it clicked and she resumed to the road, she said, "On the contrary."

The gnome had skeletal pink fingers that curled around the wheel, stretching the flapping bags of skin at every hardened, crinkly knuckle as she distanced herself from the car’s actions and road. Her position of thought had her little body hovering over a single digit and hunched spine shapely, so if I positioned my head back on the seat’s rest, I would see in plain view her prized dragon tattoo. I used my eye instead of making an obvious movement and bit down my tongue as I stared at the area, her stretch of skin, an inky palette of intertwining mythical creatures and oriental blooms. The traditional dragon bore a coat of fiery spikes and was malevolent, giving an angry impression that carried onto the entire right side of her printed back.

“Haven’t been arrested for any of them yet.” She smiled widely, “Not even my latest, Caelum or by his proper name Grabstichel! Means chisel in some fancy-pants of a language. Ha! A bloody one he was too, righ’ t’ere!” She prodded her sagging palm with rippling folds, like wind on a pond exterior, and smoothed out the area with bizarre fingers. There was a web of paper-thin skin connecting fingernail to fingernail—bat-like.

“I don’t see a tattoo—” I began, eyes having combed through the length of creatures and ideas on her wrists and forearms: snakes and burning trees and clovers and yellow-colored cardinals. But she silenced me impatiently, and beckoned my eyes in closer. As though a black calligraphic brush had been spattered across the room and its remnants burrowed in her flesh like pests, there was an area of skin that held a number of black dots. I saw it, but it looked nothing like a chisel, or carving tool whatsoever. It was four light dots.

“I don’t think you," she trailed on suggestively with her forlorn eyes staring upward and childishly at me, "find me very pleasing." She swung her neck in a circle, rasping in cold laughter then spit in the cigarette tin. The wheel swerved and spun from out of her loose grip as she leaned into the dashboard, distracted with a creature stoically staring back.

"What are you doing!" I gasped. Fear clawed at my stomach and my fingernails clawed at the broken door handle, snapping its joint plainly in two. Her eyes flickered up and she reached a hand so it enveloped mine, eyes staring indifferently, then cornered the beady black ant between the stereo and windshield wiper switch. She was absolutely calm.

"Why... why aren't you doing anything?" I asked in wonder, for the ground still felt even, the car not flipping in circles.

"Looking down might give you a hint." Harlow said with a pressed mouth.

I peered down at the grating tires and then backwards, at a black cloud of stony pebbles that had broken off from the street. The road was being drawn out according to our car; it was listening to us and as soon as we passed, deteriorating, vanishing back in the mist. We could go anywhere and it, I concluded, would lead the way.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"You don't know?" Her eyes were wide with disbelief, but she answered nonetheless.

"This is Endless Road." There was a grumbling after that.

"Pardon?" I blinked.

“This is Endless Road.”

Although I found it remarkable for her to bear the same tone and expression upon repetition, I failed to catch the sentence she mumbled after that. Phrases, I thought.

“Umm, pardon?” I remained insistent.

"Endless Road, anagrams of just that. Endless Road," she shrugged a shoulder, "Loads denser, lands erodes, slandered so...” Her hand worked its way up as it spoke, as though it were racing the speed of a tire, rolling quicker as we sped and talked on, “It’s an obsession of mine, I’ll admit. I used to be an employed wordsmith, you know, but now I’m more—" I recrossed my ankles as she returned both hands to the wheel, “A freelance artist,” she toothily grinned, “building words of the mind, assisting you with my craftiness and agile use of the human tongue.”

“I didn't ask you to be here,” I bluntly contradicted. Her face, previously gloating with pride, mellowed out.

She waved a hand, “Ah, but you did. At least, your mind was lost and I, sent to find you, and make you un-lost… Make you un-lost, tenuously amok, you salute monk, unto musky aloe…”

"You're still uncomfortable," she asserted, mindful with her driving now the mist had somewhat cleared. “You have questions for me?”

I drew my wrist to find the watch had gone and the stereo didn’t read a digital clock either, “Yeah, I think—”

“Time should not be of your concern. The road will cease to exist only when your thoughts and queries are no longer there to maintain its solid structure.”

“My thoughts—?”

“Are keeping you stable and safe with me? Yes.” She added slightly to the side, “Good question,” as though cuing me for more thoughts for her to cut off.

“I don’t know…” The question was a little desperate, as I hadn’t queried any setting until this, “how did I get here?”

"You had to give something to be let into the room," the gnome inhaled deeply, eyes glinting. It sounded for a moment she would say something more, but continued to carry out, promisingly every wordless activity, all of which seemed to require keeping the eyes peeled on everything other than the road. Despite the knowing there was no possible way we’d fall, I still felt uncomfortable jostling like baggage on a plane in no direction.

I lay my head against the window, watching the frost bite its way along the cracking glass. When a shard broke loose, the whistling of the wind caught my breath, but in a second the sound was gone in our tracks, the pain of glass glistening and repaired. The window was more advanced than its ill-repaired sister on the other side, with the dripping cow fur sealing it to the car door.

“You probably had a key of some sort. You seem like the sort of person to have given a key upon entry.” At my face, she tilted her head, all-knowingly, “You give something and get something when you enter the room. Considering my garbs and yours… Well, forget the key theory. I think I know what you received.”

I glanced down at the frilly corset and clicked the satin shoes together, feeling less dainty than I had originally. It was hard to tell if she thought my sacrifice been a bad one, as her perception was entirely envious.

“I was looking at subscriptions and wanted a catalogue model’s clothes.” I remembered. “Before I found this place, I think…”

“Ah, logical. If I had known better, I would have made sure to have my guy on my mind.” She turned to the adjacent window, allowing me a better look at her guy—her dragon. He was moving along her back, holding snorts that released orange and yellow flames.

“That would have made a better ride than the default.” Harlow said, rapping a curled fist against the dashboard, “Ha, can you imagine putting a saddle on ‘im! Instead, I was fantasizing a new friend for my big toe. He’s big, alright, but awfully pathetic in person. Bloak’s been dozing off back there, unaware and uninterested—”

“In your trunk!” I suppressed a squeal with a surprised hiccup.

“Why, yes. I suppose so,” she chuckled.

Now that I listened closely, there were heavy snores erupting from the back. It wasn’t the music, but a living version of whatever tattoo she had wanted next.

“Is it a lion?” I was nearly perched on the edge of my seat, swaying slightly. I could imagine the great golden head tossing back and forth as we swerved in teetering arches along the forming road.

“Now, answering that would ruin the fun.” Harlow smiled slightly.

“If it stays on my mind, we could be here for awhile.”

She paused for a moment, eyes twinkling, “There’s nothing more troubling you than the passengers on my vehicle?”

Her stare made me squirmish.

“Aha,” she smiled, “Go on.”

“My payment?” I bit my lip, and as inaudible as her grumbling anagrams, I let on, “What was my payment to have access?”

“Pardon?” she said, voice astonished, mimicking by hoisting her shoulders back and scoffing: a mock of me and my original decision of self-superiority.

“To get in,” I clarified, letting my fingers trace my temple. "What was my key?"

“Can you recall what you saw when you first walked in? Normally you see a final trace of what you are giving up, since that is what is essentially parting from you at the time.”

“I—” I frowned for a moment, for the memory was a stain, “Blood. Blood on the walls, like people just bled. Sat there and,” I shook my head, “bled all day.”

“Interesting.”

Her eyes were peeled wide now, fingers winding the volume to a mere minimum. My shoulders relaxed in relief.

“See, if I had been correct—and you had received a key—you would have seen something pertaining to locks upon your arrival. Locks, keys, and handsome locksmiths, perhaps Louis XVI, for he took quite an interest in making tiny keys… A post office vault, or a hardware store with the pokey, little guy behind it and heavy machinery to duplicate keys—he would have been making keys for you perhaps and for others, yes, that would have been useful information. In order to get out, see, you must find what you lost upon entry, and if it were keys they were making, there would have been keys for others. Useful information to the beholder: useful and,” she ended bitterly, “falsely optimistic.”

“Why optimistic?” I questioned.

“Maybe, then you would arrive, possessing the answer, the key to get us all out. I’m not the only one traveling on forever here. There are others like me. And we grow tired of always being limited inside. Forever wandering on Endless Road.”

“Am I travelling on then too?”

“You are for the moment,” she said and lightly, “But I do believe you won’t be here for long. I have an inkling…have an inkling, knave inhaling, a linking haven, hiking van lane! Henna la Viking—!”

I squeezed her arm and her eyes immediately focused. “You’ll move on,” she whispered, voice breaking. Her spare hand cranked the volume and the speakers belched another opera.
“And I’ll move on when I have no more thought?”

“I assume the road will run out—this one will, anyways. You exit in some way, painlessly of course and I will fall for awhile, then a new road will come running, maybe bringing me another visitor, maybe it will be just I. And I will carry on.”

“My payment was blood.”

“Yes.” She answered simply.

“That’s… strange.” I asserted. A memory was faint, a hazy recollection on the day of a donation where I had been pricked and the tube shot red and I had grown quite dizzy. After greedily setting aside my pint with hundreds of others’, they’d according to procedure, watched me eat a complimentary cookie. I could almost taste the sweetness on my tongue now: not creamy and rich like theirs that was chocolate, but more of a sweetener like the ones diners left out on tables next to bottled ketchup and tin napkin dispensers for ice tea and cappuccinos.

“I think we’re nearing your stop. You can…” her black tongue lapped at the air, “Taste it.”

“If I had a key… an answer, you know I would help—” I began.

“We all have answers,” she nodded with celerity, “You have answers.”

“Yes, but I don’t know how I can help.”

“You will one day,” she said, flexing her wrists and leaning back as though a ghost parting with body. Her chipped toenails gripped the wheel and flung it in all directions, face taking on a new sulky attitude with it. I gripped the seat belt, nauseously knowing it would be a long time until the ride graciously ended despite the air’s forewarning or Harlow’s insistence that my stop was coming up.

I had a thousand more questions that needed calming, needed answers, like a thousand locks out there needed keys. But in all honesty, from what the room had shown me so far, I didn’t want to find one notched and grooved instrument that, upon rotation would allow me to leave. I couldn’t recall what had so plagued me beforehand, for I now saw my old life to be normal upon reflection, but all I could think in the moment was that I wanted to stay here forever.