The Yellow Door

Their door was yellow. Ours was pink. They were all color coded on that side of the street and on each of them the paint was peeling. The three and a half story brick buildings showed their age inside and out. Within our apartment it was easy to tell they had been hastily built and for bottom dollar, upkeep over the years had been minimal with the owners favoring to cover up minor problems, and only fix the major ones after months of harassing from the tenants. Instead of fixing the sinking foundation below the back wall of our apartment the owners decided it better to simply re-hang two windows and the back-door, smaller of course, to fit within their crooked frames. This was all done before I or the roommates I had recently acquired had moved into the place, I merely made a mental note that our kitchen had a low side. That back door would turn out to be a son-of-a-bitch later that winter when snow accumulated on the balcony would melt then freeze to it as ice keeping the outermost storm door from fully closing. We could shut the inside door and it would still be a bit drafty in the apartment, but we were never cold. We didn’t have to pay for heat and we didn’t have a thermostat, but the landlord must have kept the radiators going full blast because even on the coldest days it was always toasty. Rent was cheap, it was a great location, and everything I needed was in walking distance. So who was I to complain? Better yet, my new roommate whom I had met only a few days ago seemed laidback and didn’t have a problem with me moving in straight away. She was the first woman I had ever lived with, besides my mom, and I was kind of excited. Her name was Karmyn and she spoke Ukrainian. She also spoke English, a lot. She was witty and loved to talk. She would talk like she had years of experience as the ‘person-to-know’ in social circles. And she did, she was older but didn’t look-it and as soon as I arrived I had achieved a nickname. I was ‘the Kid’. Karmyn was the kind of girl everyone wanted at a party, she had great stories, spoke her mind honestly, tactful when sober, when drinking as she liked to put it, brought the shit-show. I had not yet met Pierre, our other room-mate, but he, being two years older than I took to calling me by my new nickname after returning from vacation in Mexico.

I met Elise the first time I washed laundry in our new neighborhood. The Laundromat was three doors up from our apartment, across the street, facing the yellow door. She was smoking on her balcony, the uppermost of the three and a half story building, in a knee length parka, with fur trim around the hood. I was looking at her through the Laundromat’s large picture window which was being visibly encroached upon from all sides by frost. Frosty windows, I would soon find, are a regular occurrence during Montreal’s winters. She waved and I waved back, and then returned to her apartment. At the time I figured she was just smoking a cigarette, and it could have been, but now I doubt it.

I finished my laundry and returned home. I had picked up a six pack of beer when I went out for groceries earlier in the day. It chilled in my fridge waiting for a moment like this. So far, I only knew my roommates, and I figured having a few beers in the house would be a good offering should I bring over new acquaintances. I grabbed them out of the fridge and headed three doors up the sidewalk, stopping in front of the yellow one. I turned and entered the entryway, pushing the buzzer for apartment seven.

I knew her apartment was number seven, because our apartment was number seven. They were all the same on that side of the street. Her balcony was our balcony, with the exception that our balcony was empty of everything but snow, while hers had a chair, a few planters, and was three doors up the block.

“Allo?” came the reply from the intercom.

“Salut, Ca Va? I am the guy you waved at across the street. I was wondering if you would like to share a beer?” I said, sounding nervous, and thinking to myself maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. My nervousness receded rather quickly when the intercom emitted a joyous laugh followed by a reply in perfect English.

“Come on up, come on up.” She said while continuing to laugh. In the background I could hear others talking and laughing.

The door buzzed and I walked into the stairwell and up the stairs, I reached their apartment to be met by Kristina’s shining face. She had rosy cheeks, like mine, a few freckles, and a smile that made me feel instantly at home. We embraced and kissed hello, once on each cheek.

“Welcome!” She said ushering me into their apartment. I took off my shoes and coat and we headed into the kitchen where Elise and Linda were sitting. We exchanged greetings and sat down, I passed around the beers and we all had a drink. I instantly felt relaxed and comfortable. They had turned their dingy apartment into a beautiful home; the kitchen was bright and colorful, the walls alternated lime green, canary yellow, and a muted shade of red closer to burgundy than brick. To call it crimson would be to overlook its importance. On the wall opposite the kitchen sink, an aeronautical map of Quebec was posted, it was half my height and held coordinates for every airport in the province.

At the time we listened to postal service, lemon-jelly, aphex twin, and franz ferdinand, while back at home Karmyn would belt out a few bright eyes tunes at 3:30 in the morning. I was also playing Original Pirate Material on repeat during that time. Here are a few songs that remind me of the winter of 2005.

1. Franz Ferdinand - All my friends(LCD Soundsystem cover)

2. Postal Service - Sleeping In

3. Aphex Twin - Flim

4. Bright Eyes - Train Under Water

5. Lemon Jelly - Nervous Tension