Part I

    Jarvis Bertstrum could have been dead.  He wasn't close to feeding the worms by any means although no one would have noticed either way.  He was about as close to nonexistent as anybody could get.  At 34 years old, he had virtually nothing to his name.  Not a credit card, vehicle, nor anyone close to being considered family.  He generally avoided conversation if not avoiding people altogether.  He was skinny with blonde hair and with such a pale disposition, he was very nearly a ghost.
    Jarvis lived on NW 17th St. underneath the Blue Line Bridge outside the Southside Industrial Complex.  There was nothing conspicuous about the building; many assumed it was part of the bridge itself.  It may have been that same assumption that kept the city council from condemning it after Ed left in November of 2008.  That street, along with the surrounding blocks, comprised mostly of people meeking out a living, honest enough, or at least trying to.  The gangs had come and gone, leaving their graffiti over the fading advertisements of the 40's and 50's.  It was kids, these days, that left windows broken and had rookie officers investigating clueless vandalism.  Small businesses sighed underneath dilapidated apartments and vacant office spaces.  This part of town had seen better days too long ago.
      Unit 413, 4th floor, end of the hall on the left, was a two room example of near poverish frugality.  The main room was barely furnished.  There was a cramped bathroom immediately to the right.  The door to the second room separated the bathroom and a small, single bed.  On it, a thin mattress and a blanket dressed with almost military precision. On the far wall was a dirty window that would have offered no better view had it been clean.  Underneath the window was a table and two chairs, one of which was being held in the corner by a small tube tv.  It hadn't worked since the conversion, hence the collection of dust.  On the left side of the room was a kitchen.  The fridge, a stove with one pot, and an empty sink stared blankly beneath a row of cabinets purchased straight from the seventies.  Other than a faded red oval rug in the center of the room, there were no decorations or signs of repair to conceal the cracks growing on the dark gray walls and floor.  A slight odor of musk, moth balls, and dust contradicted an out of place feeling of warmth.  The second room was completely unknown to everyone except Jarvis and whatever silverfish happened to reside inside.
    The days inside that apartment began more unusually than yours or mine.  At 6am, Jarvis would come out of the second room, carefully slipping out to ensure that no living creature could peek inside.  He'd be already dressed most of the time in brown loafers, khakis, and an off colored shirt that probably lost a few battles in the wash.  He went straight to the bathroom and conducted whatever business was at his urge.  A bowl and spoon were then pulled from the cabinet above the sink.  Not a man to entertain, a single set of dinner acoutrements were the only other occupants inside.  He took a box of cereal from atop the fridge, a quart of milk from inside, and sat down for his breakfast.  Once finished, he washed his dishes and returned everything to their places.
    Jarvis left for work quietly, locking his door with a soft click, and walked down the hall to the stairwell.  Outside, he crossed NW 17th St., turned right at Sprigg St, and walked four blocks to the 21st Street Station.  There, he took the 6:45 Green Line to downtown and walked the remaining three blocks to the Howard Winston building.  Approximately 40-50 stories tall, the building housed corporate headquarters, law firms, medical administration offices, and a bank.  Jarvis was not a corporate schlup by any means, not even a worker bee in the hive of cubicles that filled the building.  Passing the main entrance, he walked down the alley to the side entrance.  He swiped his employee card to get in and walked down a long hall to the service elevators.  Beneath the three floors of the parking garage was the mailroom where Jarvis sorted the building's mail from 8:00am to 5:00pm, Monday through Saturday, with Sundays and holidays off.  He sat at his table and emptied bins upon bins of mail, sending each item through the shoot to its proper addressee.  For lunch, he had a plain ham sandwich on white bread with a cup of water from the break room.  There were no other significant details to his work day that anyone cared to notice.  At the end of the day, Jarvis left and took the same route home.  Three blocks to the downtown station, Green Line to 21st St., Sprigg to NW 17th, up four flights of stairs and into his apartment as quietly as he left.  He carefully opened the door to the second room and slipped in.  A soft light glowed underneath the door and he would not seen for the rest of the night.
    This was life for Mr. Bertstrum.  Changes in his routine were brought on through necessity though to no significant degree of variety.  Precipitation brought out an faded brown field jacket.  He might stop at the convenience store on Sprigg for a bag of groceries.  A late check from a forgetful accounting office was picked up from the supervisor's desk unfortunately more often than not.  It is presumed that he conducted the normal errands and chores of life.  However, to waste time on the monotony of watching a washing machine in a laundromat, scrubbing a sink, or taking out the trash would do no further to raise interest in his story.  There was nothing outwardly unique, interesting, or appealing about this man.  To think of a day that he enjoyed a movie, stopped at Harry's for a cheesesteak, or even sat on the steps to his building in the evenings was too far from expectations.  He had went on this way for years; the peculiarity largely dismissed by most of the Southside regulars.  Then there was Angus Jefferson.

Reviews

[M.E.Lyle]

You are very businesslike in your approach. You don't mess around with sensless dribble or useless cliche. You seem to take a very direct and purposeful direction in the discription of the life of Mr. Berstrum.

[Raven Starhawk]

It is a well defined play on extremely gifted visionary delights. I think people may not be able to fully grasp the artistic weaves you combined with this but that is their loss. It is wonderfully penned.