BEEP BEEP BEEP!
A high-pitched electronic signal stirred Hutch Anderson from the folded arms of his light snooze. He stretched with an audible sigh, uncurling himself into an upright position at his desk, and swiped the corner of his mouth when the obnoxious tone prompted again: BEEP BEEP BEEP! Yawning, Hutch blinked at the fuzzy text on the screen of his computer before realizing the unbearable noise was bellowing from his printer below. He rubbed the slumber from his eyes and pushed his reading glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before bending down to inspect the blinking display of the all-in-one. Awesome, he thought dryly, seeing the black cartridge was in need of yet another replacing—third time since yesterday. "Piece of shit," he muttered, kicking the printer's edge as he collected the stack of cooling papers from its tray. He'd be more angry about having to buy ink again if he wasn't so genuinely thrilled about the material he'd been printing off all afternoon. This was precisely what he needed: an independent project, a creative outlet, something productive to harness his energy and frustration towards. Hutch assigned the pile of documents to a special clearing at the edge of his desk before closing the software programs and terminating whatever was left of the print job. He had enough promising information to peruse for now. As it was, the considerable stack of research would probably keep him up all night tonight.
Pivoting 180-degrees in the well-worn swivel chair, Hutch cast a weary gaze out the bedroom window, down into the streets of a seasoned Detroit neighborhood. He checked the time on his wristwatch: a quarter after five. It was still early enough. Reece would surely be headed home by now, but also unlikely to walk through the door for at least another ten, maybe fifteen, minutes at best. Long enough for a quick drag. Hutch stood to shimmy the frame of the window up by an inch before fishing the crumbling carton of a smashed smoke pack from his back pocket. After lighting one of the remaining butts between two slender fingers, the photographer reseated himself in the chair, folding one leg up to his chest, and leaned especially close to the window opening, watching as puffs of smoke danced and curled in intricate patterns out the window. Hutch took a heavy drag, letting the wretched smoke fill the chambers of his lungs, and held his breath before exhaling slowly. Truth be told, he didn't even enjoy the taste that accompanied smoking anymore, but a couple of hellish weeks at the Metro Times had proven enough to make the him pick up on the horrid habit once more. It soothed his jittery nerves, calmed him when he felt like cracking the corner of his camera over his editor's fat red face—the micromanaging prick. Hutch could hear the sound of young voices shouting from down the block and the distant hum of the eastbound I-96 traffic, but mostly, he listened acutely, anxiously, for the clatter of the heavy latch on the apartment's front door. While a verbal reaming from his roommate was one of the last things Hutch desired, the cigarette was too good to pass up right now. Between puffs, Hutch cast a long look over his shoulder, considering the contents of the freshly-printed papers. They sat with intent beside his bulky camera bag, purposefully beckoning to him. Something about the subject of his most recent obsession had made his blood begin to buzz beneath his skin, undeniably. Something akin to anticipation, eagerness maybe, and... something else he couldn't quite identify.
The Brother Islands, Hutch mused. A pair of New York island properties that had been closed off to the public for the past five decades. A decomposing ruin at the center of the East River, suspended in a moment of time, losing itself beneath growth and vegetation, simply begging to be documented in its glorious decay. It could be an excellent excursion, if only he could convince Reece. Pursing the butt of the cigarette between his lips, Hutch stretched an arm out to collect a few pages from the top of the pile, skimming the headlines and titles as he flipped through them. While both of the islands had a long and unsettling history dating back to the 1800's, it was the northernmost island that gripped Hutch's morbid fascination. "'The lost world of the North Brother'," Hutch read aloud with a latent crease in his brow. A sentence written by a no-name New York journalist stood out in one of the opening paragraphs: 'Teeming with crumbling debris and wet mildew, it's difficult to believe these echoing hallways once housed anything other than indescribable misery.' First, the island had been established as quarantine zone for patients riddled with disease like smallpox, tuberculosis, and typhoid fever. Hutch had already mostly familiarized himself with that part. Gradually though, over time, the retreat transformed into a grim and neglected leper colony, isolating patients from society, even against their will, forcing them to reside together with the staff in unbearable conditions. After many years, the island labyrinth eventually tapered into a rehabilitation facility for young drug addicts before being permanently closed down in the 60's. Throughout the assorted articles, Hutch also noticed the vague recurrence of some notable maritime disaster in the East River but, past that, he still hadn't read much into it. He wanted to save some material for tonight anyway.
Taking a final drag, Hutch mashed the butt of the cigarette against the sill before flicking what remained of it out the window. Papers in hand, he stood to fan his room quickly of any lingering smells, leaving the window cracked for circulation. A road trip to the vacant islands would certainly be thrilling and adventuresome alone but, if Hutch wanted to capture truly impressive photographs of the dilapidation—which, he did—then he'd have to convince Reece to tag along for the ride, helping with gear and supplies, providing the much-needed muscle that Hutch unfortunately lacked. Belatedly, Hutch realized he could probably, at the very least, start cooking up dinner if he wanted to increase his odds of swaying his friend's opinion in his favor. So he bustled hastily into the kitchen, throwing his papers down on the rickety dining table, and began to rummage the cupboards and pantry for something resembling appetizing. (Which, to him, was essentially anything that didn't require microwaving.)
El Taco Taco:
Fuck cardio, fuck cardio, fuck cardio.
The words blurred together into an unintelligible mess of resentment as Reece Kelham began to sprint. His thumb fumbled with the speed controls on the treadmill, slick with sweat. The motor filled his ears with a tortured whine, the belt flying faster and faster beneath his feet. He shook the sweat out of his eyes, ignoring how his calves ached, forced another explosive burst of energy to catch up with the belt. Forty more seconds. Forty more seconds. Forty more god damn seconds of fucking sprinting for his life and trying not to trip or cough up a lung in his exhaustion—oh, hey, ten seconds.
The treadmill lurched as Reece stepped off the belt onto the sides, bent over the control panel and breathing in sweet, sweet oxygen. His thumb met the beautiful down button until he could resume a leisurely pace. Sweat pooled in his 'I-Haven't-Shaved-My-Head-In-Three-Weeks' hair. His scalp itched. Reece drained the rest of his water bottle, his thirst out-competing his need for air. The treadmill finally slowed to a stop and the world began to come back into focus. The headphones in his ears buzzed something with bass and drums and little concern for hearing damage. The gym was packed, echoing with the wet slap of flesh on flesh and shouting coaches correcting form. Reece had been grateful to find the gym, even if it was nearly an hour long bus ride away from work. He would have bussed three hours one way if he had to. He didn't mind his job; the water treatment plant had decent pay and he got to dick about in the lab all day, but nothing compared to the rush of fighting. Fighting, however, did not pay the bills.
Luckily the gym was only a twenty minute walk away from home. A large bag draped across his shoulder, Reece beat the familiar path home. He liked walking. He would walk everywhere if he could manage it without getting stabbed, to be honest. It gave him time to decompress and process his day. He never could manage to unwind on the crowded buses, never could relax with the stink of sweat and the crazies that frequented his route. As entertaining as his commute could be (Hutch had particularly enjoyed his story about the dancing woman who had accused the driver of being a Satanist and begun screaming obscenities at everyone on board), it was nice to simply walk. His music continued to blare through cheap headphones, but he couldn't hear it. Reece's brain was busy sorting through the day, compartmentalizing his To-Do List, taking inventory over the aches and pains in his joints, planning out his evening. First things first; shower. The lab had a weird smell, one that got into your hair and clothes. He'd taken to keeping his work clothes at work and shaving off his hair. This, coincidentally, was number two on his list, along with a good shave. Dashing although stubble may be, it itched like a motherfucker when it got sweaty.
He finished his planning by the time he reached his building (shower, shave, food, email Dan about the supply order, Yoga, a couple rounds of video games, bed—it was a good list). He fumbled with the lock—they really needed to get on their landlord about fixing the thing, another item for the list—and opened the door to the smell of something that could be called food. The door cooperated and locked neatly behind him. While the outside of their building could be accurately described as "Jesus Christ, what a shithole", Reece had worked hard to make sure the interior couldn’t be. Without fail her devoted half of his Sundays to cleaning the place and keeping it orderly. His mom had been all too happy to help him decorate and make the place feel more like a home, even installing a box garden in his kitchen window. He had never been fond of spending money on crap, and damned if his home would fall into that category.
Reece dropped his gym bag by his room. He’d have to go down to the Laundromat tomorrow. Another list would have to be made. Scratching his too-long hair, he followed his nose and wandered into the kitchen. Hutch, cooking. He could cross food off of the list.
“Heya,” he greeted intelligently. “What culinary masterpiece have you crafted for me tonight?"
SlummyChap:
Strutting through the front door practically on cue, Reece had arrived home precisely when Hutch had predicted, almost eerily down to the minute. After some movement and shuffling, Hutch heard his roommate deposit his belongings down the hall before his friend's voice came from the kitchen threshold. "Heya," Reece had greeted intelligently. "What culinary masterpiece have you crafted for me tonight?"
"Oh, don't get your hopes up, you poor tramp. You'll make me feel bad," Hutch replied with a light chuckle. "Hardly masterful—It's vegetarian," he warned, tossing a fiendish look over his shoulder before flipping the thick sandwich that had been grilling in the plate of the skillet. The sizzle of olive oil surged and Hutch turned the burner down low, waving the spatula in his hand theatrically, "Tomato and mozzarella sandwiches, if you please. We had leftover pesto and potato salad so I hope that sounds appetizing?" Hutch didn't wait for an answer as he set down the spatula and glided to the kitchen sink, rolling up the sleeves of his relaxed sweatshirt, "I can make enough for seconds," he offered as an afterthought.
Hutch had created something of a clutter across the length of the kitchen counter. He always did when he cooked, it was just a bad habit. He seemed to zone out whenever he focused on a task and, in his absentmindedness, frequently forgot to put items away as he finished his need for them. He'd withdrawn some Tupperware from the fridge, a bottle of oil, still opened, and the package of mozzarella that was slowly growing warm beside the heat of the stove. On the cutting board, there was a knife, a pile of sliced tomato rounds, and a half-wrapped loaf of bread. A dish rag sat rumpled beside plates and utensils and a freshly-opened bottle of beer untouched beside the sink. Hutch seemed oblivious to the disarray though and he maneuvered effortlessly around each item in the mess of his design.
While the hot water ran, Hutch peered at his mate, who somehow managed to look both exhausted as well as spirited all at once. He wasn't sure if Reece gave everybody the impression he could pounce at any moment or not, but Hutch presumed he was one of the few that could see it in him. After witnessing first-hand the incredible reserves of strength and agility that Reece could tap into during his matches, Hutch recalled having made a mental note to Never fuck with Reece's rough side. Ever. Not if he wanted to keep his balls. (Which, he did, thank you.)
Hutch observed the round of sweat that lined his friend's collar and made a face while he rinsed his hands. "You look grimy," he muttered, amusement in his eyes and tone while he not-so-subtly suggested, "I just barely started if you'd like to go shower before stuffing your kisser. I can't smell you quite yet, but you look like you reek something offensive." Hutch motioned to the pile of documents on the dining table as he dried his hands on a dish towel. "When you're done, I have a... proposition for you. Please, stay open-minded," he pleaded.
El Taco Taco:
While tomato mozzarella sandwiches could hardly be called gourmet, it was still several orders of magnitude more delicious than top ramen, and Reece was not complaining. He didn’t miss the cardboard noodles and their strange mouth-feel. He had binned all the ramen in the house the instant his first paycheck at the water treatment plant hit his checking account and gone grocery shopping in celebration. He had then proceeded to eat his bodyweight in bacon and eggs and get thoroughly smashed in the process. It had been a magical night.
“Mmmmm, carbs,” Reece opened the fridge and looked inside to have something to do, then shut the door. Buy bacon was added to his To-Do list. “I think I need to be a fatty-fat-fat tonight,” he remarked sagely, “Seconds is a good idea.”
Hutch had this way of being insulting-but-not-really that had always amused Reece. It hadn’t always endeared others to him, and it had gotten the pair of them into trouble more than a few times, but Reece didn’t mind. Hutch possessed a legendary snark that could demoralize a man at fifty paces. Living with Hutch had been like crack for Reece’s trash talking abilities, a useful skill both in the ring and in video games.
“I don’t smell that bad,” Reece sniffed his shirt, and promptly corrected himself. “Never mind. Lab smell plus sweat, lovely.”
He perked as Hutch mentioned a proposition. Propositions and Hutch could go one of two ways; it could be a great idea, like moving in together had been… or it could be like The Taco Truck Incident, of which they did not speak. Reece raised his eyebrows inquisitively. ‘Open-minded’ made him more than a little wary. And instantly rather curious. He considered blowing off his to-do list, but the lab smell in his sweat insisted he take a shower. Now.
“Riiiiiiight,” Reece shot the small mountain of documents a look, then shrugged. “I’ll be out in about thirty minutes. Need to shave the skull.” He drummed his knuckles against his scalp.
Thirty minutes later, almost on the dot, Reece returned to the kitchen. His hair freshly shaven and dressed in clothes that smelled less like a rotting corpse, he frowned. The kitchen remained untidy. He couldn’t help himself from beginning to put things away, navigating the small kitchen around Hutch rather easily.
“So,” he spoke as he wrapped the bread tightly and returned it to the bread box, “What’s this proposition? You know my stance on pinatas, so don't go there."
SlummyChap:
When Reece emerged from the bathroom, looking much more refreshed and hygienic, Hutch had just turned off the stove and began dishing up. "Trust me, we're not going anywhere near piñatas," he said reassuringly as he thrust a plate towards Reece, stacked with two sandwiches and a modest side of potato salad. "Eat," he commanded, collecting his own dish and his beer. He'd been hoping to ask his friend about his day at the lab in an effort to gauge how well of a mood Reece might have come home in, but it seemed Reece's curiosity had gotten the better of him, making him anxious to learn more. Now or never, Hutch supposed, prepared or not. The two of them sat down at the dining table together (which was a rare enough occurrence to begin with since Hutch usually ate in his room where he could edit photos, search for gigs, and blare his music) and began to eat.
Midway through his first bite, Hutch began to rifle the contents of the printed papers at the edge of the table, searching for something specific. "Patterson's been... an unbearable tit the past week—as you know," he muttered around a half-full mouth, reminding Reece of his unpleasant editor. He'd vented to his roommate on many occasion about Escott Patterson's noteworthy ability to tick off anyone within a five-foot radius about him, so it didn't require further explanation. "But, I've been staying optimistic, because—" Hutch continued lightly, at last locating what he was looking for, "I think, I've finally found a location for my spread." He pushed a printed satellite photograph across the table to Reece, undeniable excitement in his smiling eyes.
The aerial image was nothing truly exceptional, featuring two densely forested islands surrounded by gray shores and murky waters, but Hutch remained hopeful that Reece would hear him out before fully rejecting the idea. In the photograph, the southernmost island was a very small and unassuming thing with a circumference that could probably be crossed within a few hours, at best. Three hundred meters north of the modest island was a much more expansive retreat, nearly five times the size of it's tiny companion. Extending from the ceiling of the treetops, Hutch pointed out the faint geometric shapes that didn't seem to belong in such a natural habitat. "It's a ruin," Hutch explained, leaning across the table onto his elbows, "you see?" Upon a closer inspection, expansive architectural rooftops littered the overgrowth, breaking through the branches in all sorts of assorted spots across the island. There was also the dim shape of a tattered dock to the western shore and two long inactive smoke stacks stretching towards the sky.
"Right in the middle of Manhattan. I read about it the online," Hutch grinned eagerly at Reece, gauging his friend's expression as he said, "They've got the islands closed off to the public. Nobody's set foot there for fifty—maybe sixty years? The city won't do anything with it though and you wouldn't believe the amount of rumors it's inspired." Hutch was pretty sure Reece didn't want an entire history lesson on the island upfront, so Hutch deliberately kept his presentation minimal, hoping his friend's sense of adventure and mischief would inspire him. "There's a pavilion, houses, a hospital. Even a school? All of it, just sitting there, dying in the roots. She's begging to be photographed, mate," Hutch said, conveying nothing short of passion, "I need to photograph it. She's calling to me." He took an energized swig of his beer, giving Reece a moment to consider, before seating himself back properly in his chair to continue eating, "I've already called Milo and he's said he's on board, but I can't do it without you... How would you feel about a holiday to New York?"
El Taco Taco:
Reece hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he began to eat. He tore into his sandwich with a ferocity he usually reserved for the ring. The roof of his mouth protested, but he continued to chew the cheesy-tomato goodness, washing down the burn with a lengthy gulp of water. He made a happy noise around another bite, shifting his focus to Hutch and his papers. The way his roommate lit up, one would think it was every major holiday all at once. Reece couldn’t help but be a little underwhelmed at the image provided to him. He cleaned his hands off on a paper towel before pulling the image closer to study it better. (No, he did not need reading glasses, thank you very much.)
The Brother Islands the printout read. The photographs were remarkably clear; Google Earth was almost frightening these days. As Hutch described the ruins, Reece could almost identify the buildings. It was eerie somehow. A school, a hospital, docks and everything people needed just totally abandoned and reclaimed by the dense treeline. The sandwich and potato salad sat abandoned. Reece rubbed his newly shaven head thoughtfully. It was difficult not to get taken in by Hutch’s enthusiasm. A few moments passed as he considered the image, before sliding it back.
“Yeah, I mean, I have to put in for the time off at work, but I’ve got some vacation days I need to take. We just hired another labbie, and he finishes training this week. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to join you guys.” The more Reece thought about the plan, the more he liked it. Roughing it in the woods for a few days sounded like a nice breather. He loved Chicago and all, but it would be nice to get away for a few days. Besides, he hadn’t seen Milo in a few months. A nice little reunion was definitely in order. He bit into his sandwich cheerily. “Let’s do it.”
