The Sandbox

After almost an hour of meandering, he was home. Noah’s apartment was a work in progress. He was lucky enough to find an affordable studio apartment. He walked up the stairwell and unlocked the three locks that provided a barrier between everything he owned and a burglar. Noah had been so focused on his apartment that he had still yet to unpack everything. He kept the boxes in the middle of his apartment so that he would see them everyday. He originally thought that this would encourage him to unpack them so he would officially be moved in. One day, he would be motivated enough to do it. Throughout the bare walls of his apartment, glimpses of his life were found in frames. There were the occasional pictures of his family around the various rooms, a few pieces of poetry he had managed to get published, faux art masterpieces, and pictures of writers that he admired. His bed, always unmade, was in the far right corner of the room. His kitchen had dirty dishes sitting out and two cheap, empty wine bottles. The rest of the apartment, aside from the bathroom, was open space. He had managed to hold on to a few pieces of furniture that he decided weren’t too tainted with gin and cigarette burns to use in his first real apartment. He had a rickety futon, two end-tables, an old stereo sitting on a couple of egg crates, a TV stand, and minute bookcase. Reading was one of Noah’s favorite pastimes. This bookcase, due to its small size, could not hold the amount of books that he had collected over the years. He instead has small piles of Hemingway, Burroughs, Larsen, and Fitzgerald all of over his apartment. Noah walked over to the stereo and turned on his stereo and put on his Nina Simone cd. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He picked up a file that was sitting on the counter. It was all the information for a new case he was opening. It was typical. A single mom was busted for heroin possession and lost her kids. Noah was going to be helping this woman get her kids back. Noah already had 6 cases that he was trying to close. He had seen children with burned by parents, eating only occasionally, and living in dilapidated homes. His job wasn’t always a nine to five. He had to be on-call at all times. He never knew when he would have to leave a movie early or get a phone call at 4 a.m. because a child ended up in the hospital.