My brother opens the driver door with flourish and hops out. As we walk up, I am very curious. How does Daniel live now that he has gotten his act together? I spot an ashtray balanced on the second floor railing of the complex. From the angle we ascend the stairs I can make out the Jamaican flag on the underside. My powers of deduction tell me that the closest door to that ashtray would be Daniel’s apartment. He opens the door and disappears inside, into a near pitch black room. Stepping through, I imagine the door frame to be a portal or some kind of supernatural gateway. The interior reinforced this feeling.
The door— or stargate — shuts behind me, sealing me in. I take stock. Every window is covered in a half-assed tapestry: one of Bob Marley in the bedroom, one of the Dallas Cowboys’ star in the living room, and the remaining windows with some vaguely paisley circular shape that makes the viewer nauseous. I am curious what kind of store would bother selling such tasteless nonsense. Sunlight seeps in through a few odd corners, creating around six miniature spotlights highlighting the filth of the carpet. Walled around the thin path leading to the bedroom is a landfill of fast food dregs, mostly Whataburger, piled high enough that the cushions of a musty couch are level with the half-empty boxes of fries and burger wrappers. The smell is that of pot and patchouli hidden behind a solid wall of rancid french fries. The fear sets in again, but a cockroach finds his light under a sunbeam on the carpet, so as to wave with their antennae and reassure me. I smile, and find some solace. While I am physically uncomfortable, I am also unsurprised. I remain silent while Daniel roots around in what I believe to be his bathroom.
Minutes pass while I stand in front of the door, dedicating time to gawk at each corner of the room. When he emerges, he is holding a silver tin in his hand.
“Here.” Daniel hands me the tin.
“What?” I ask.
“Look inside.”