I want

The elevator gears grinded in a high-pitched metallic screech that had Jerry clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth so hard, he could taste milky, jagged particles of calcium landing on his tongue. When the elevator reached his floor – the top in this converted Bowery warehouse , but of course – a musty, pungent smell like cat urine surrounded Jerry’s nostrils with its tendrils. The doors opened and Jerry walked out, and as ever, the tapestry of gray floors and brown doors, torn newspaper and banana peels, plastic drug vials and cigarette butts, used condoms and open jars of KY made his eyes burn.

“Screw this fire trap,” Jerry said. “Soon as I get a job, I’m out of here.”

Jerry walked to his door on the far left side of the hallway. Somehow the walls always seemed to converge toward nothing when he approached the door, hearing the clickety-clack of his steel boots on the tile floors. Jerry always lifted his feet when he walked these floors. Otherwise he’d scuffle and hear the sandy grounds of dirt collecting weekly, monthly, yearly. He turned the key in the lock, too close to the door frame, he usually pinched his thumb. It always hurt.

He opened the door and walked inside. But instead of feeling the vise-tight pressure in his head descend into something like placid calm, Jerry felt his head squeeze ever tighter against his brain. He repelled against the thought of sitting on that $195 sofa he’d gotten on Henry Street. He’d sink into the weak cushions, see yellow foam through the tears, and smell that same cat urine that made its way into the halls.

“One more week,” Jerry said, “I get the security system sales job, I get out of here.”

Jerry swung the door shut, dropped his satchel, thought about the new life. Out at 8, in by 7, Chinese take-out and “Seinfeld” re-runs, a quick whack-off before bed, new furniture, spaghetti and meatballs, shampoo and conditioner. All those routines he couldn’t do now, no money no how.

And then he felt a blinding pain between his shoulders, every muscle being squeezed in his back, and the pain spread to his stomach, his chest, his lungs, and he fell to the floor, turning his head around just before the blackness overtook him. The man in the beige overcoat and five-day beard leaned his hairy-knuckled hands down, just grazing Jerry’s nostrils with that cat urine scent, and grabbed the satchel.