Chapter 3 - The District of the Dead

   The building itself, that Davis currently resides in, is quite the odd structure, especially when regarded towards such stalwarts of construction that has been built around it. It is in fact one of the few remaining vintage structures that still stands, as most had been bulldozed years prior in order to pull up the current standings of the city. Where as most buildings around have an abundance of the ordinary, davis', oddly enough, is quite the stout masterpiece of artistic architecture.  Beneath each corner of the building stands a pillar that appears to be cut straight from the mouths of the Roman Empire, that seems to impossibly hold up the entire building upon its back, which gives it quite the unnerving site for newcomers an passersby. Where as the very top of said building begins to dwindle down slowly to a small point that almost looks as if a hand of some sort reaches out towards the heavens themselves. The odd thing about it, in davis' mind, is the small structure in the midst of the pillars that has the only function of acting as an elevator to each resident currently living their. Which is not quite odd in itself, it's the fact that this particular elevator only goes so far as the first floor which in turn turns out to be the lobby. An if  anyone would take said elevator, would quickly realize that they now need to take a secondary one in order to find their way to the apartment. This one fact, has always puzzled Davis to no end, why go through all the trouble to make the simple fact of getting home so terrible difficult. Was it the ever ambitious drive towards an artistic endeavor, or was it the acts of an overzealous man trying to best his contemporaries, which in turn can still, to some degree, be found around the city. An even if one of these turns out to be true, wouldn't one imagine that someone, along the way, would speak up about the mere fact of such an idiotic an, let's be honest, obvious design flaw. But maybe that is why it has been loved so much over the years. As could it very well be, Davis wonders, that the mere fact of having imperfections could in a way make one perfect, or is it just the idea that when people see car wrecks they tend to slow down to see how exactly the carnage went about. It's a question, Davis realizes, that he ponders all too much. But he has always had a piqued interest in the dynamics of human behavior. Always been fascinated by the wonders of the human race an the choices they decide to make, the pure contradictory nature is one thing that both infuriates an fascinates him. As he often finds himself wiling away the time pondering such innate questions as such.
   Finally awaking from this self imposed slumber, Davis realizes that he now stands in the mostly empty lobby, except for the short slender woman that stands precariously behind the desk to the right of the secondary elevators. An as he sits there examining this young woman for a second, he realizes that he has not seen her before.  She does not sport the normal attire, or even the same grim outlook the others have found after hours spent standing in silence. Davis than, does something that he would normally never have the idea to do.
"Excuse me.. Miss!" He says in a low grumble, as if his nerves have risen spontaneously to the brim.
"Yes sir!" She says quite mechanically, as though she has repeated this very phrase on multiple occasions." How may I help you?"
   Davis, has never seen such a woman in this particular position, a woman so seemingly perfect it's as though she had been ripped right out of some fashion magazine. Her hair, that falls complacently over her face, shines as if the sun itself has somehow awakened before him. Her skin, as far as he can tell, shows no signs of aging, as though it had been grafted to her just recently. She, as well, sports this mid length red dress, that seems to slightly hug her every curve in a apparently teasing manner. Even the necklace she wears, gives the impression of being appended with it, as though they had been adjoined at birth like Siamese twins.
"Yes." He says." I was just curious, as to what had happened to George, the man that used to work here. As I have not seen him in some time."
"He was let go a week back, as his services were no longer required."
"Oh.. I see, says Davis," is there any reason why, if I may ask?"
"The company who now owns this property has decided to do certain cut backs, an sadly his name was on the list." She says, with a odd smile, a smile that makes it seem as though she has just learned that facial expression fairly recently from this particular conversation.
"Oh.. Okay." Says Davis, with a wink of confusion besmeared about his face.
"Thanks, I appreciate the candor."
"You are welcome sir!" She answers, like a knife swiftly cutting through the air in the most obtuse of manners.
As Davis awaits patiently in the elevator, he notices a man standing off to the side like a spider would hiding in the darkened corners of every room he may find himself. An as he takes a quick glance to see whom it may be, he notices that its one of his neighbors from the top floor.
"Its Fred, right." He asks." Sorry my memory for people's names isn't very good."
"That's alright," he smiles," I don't really recall your name at the moment either."
"Its Davis. Listen, I was just wondering, if you had the chance to talk to the woman at the front desk?"
"It just so happens that I have, lovely person isn't she. Its hard to believe that she is one of those   An-d's is it not."
"Right right! That actually makes sense, I had no idea. As she had come across as a tad.. Cold."
"Yeah she is like that isn't she. An you know the weird thing." He says, slightly moving ever closer as though letting me in on some secret stock tips. " I heard that some of the newer models are even, anatomically correct, if you catch my drift."
"Seriously! That seems a bit on the useless side doesn't it
"I guess, but hey! You never know what catches peoples fancy."
"Yeah, I imagine so, I imagine so."
  The particular design of the elevator has always been a fascination for Davis', as it always struck him as a tad off, considering the contrasting design choices of the rest of the building. As every time he finds himself upon it he cannot help but muse on what exact era it is supposed to be sporting. The dark green wall paper, that sits upon each corresponding wall, has these thin, barely visible, white lines that race across in a maddening manner. At first glance they do not seem to hold any pattern, but with further inspection one can find an octagonal fixation running throughout. Its just that the design itself is so apparently dizzying that one fails to see any form at all at first glance. This, as well, is all matted together with dark oak sidings running up each corner as though each wall has been framed like some renaissance painting.
  As the elevator stops, Fred gives off one final word as he turns his torso toward Davis an calls out in a muted voice."But I wouldn't mind seeing what its like, you know." Before he disappears behind the quickly closing doors as Davis hears his maniacal chuckling reverberate into oblivion.
Davis' apartment lies on the west wing of the building, with an ocean scape being projected onto the window on the far wall, which is as well adorned with a long sandy beach, empty, all except for the crushing waves that continually pull themselves back up onto the sand. Oddly enough, as far as Davis believes, there is a setting on the projector that enables the strange ability of having people roaming the beach in a fit of noisy fun. Why anybody would ever want this ability has always been beyond him, but I guess it goes with the imagined atmosphere of having beach side property.
   Being on the west wing as he is, Davis has always gotten a fair amount of sun year round, which lights up the room in a most grandiose of fashions, in turn giving the projected images of a beach side property all the more pleasing of sensations. His apartment, being mostly empty, all except for the few skillfully placed pieces of furniture that adorn the hard wood floors, that in fact are only plastic models made to look as such, is more of a pad if you will than a fully active apartment. Gone are the active electronics that supposedly make ones life easier, there are no automated fridges or ovens that do all the work for you, in turn turning society into nonfunctional slobs.
   Davis has never seen the need for such technological advances, as he finds very little use for such automated artifacts as a self cooking kitchen, especially one that cleans itself after the fact. But Davis has always been the one to do things for himself, if he is so able to do so. Which, in this day an age, has the source of mild ridicule from his colleagues an friends, as though he is some backwoods redneck of old, with a gluttonous disposition of old school mentality. Which, as Davis sees it, is an obvious notion of exaggeration that the male side of the species do to each other to ward off emotions. But he has never been one to be fully aware of societal conventions. Its at that moment, sprawled upon the bedside, in what one could only call an epic struggle to get ones shoes on without tearing said heels, which just so happened not too long before, that the phone decides to ring.
"Hello!" He says." This is Davis." In a long winded voice." Who's calling?"
"Davis.. Its Sally, Sally Rather's. I just figured we haven't connected in a while, an thought maybe you wanted to meet for lunch?" Sally, is a colleague of his from work, in which they first met, an became fast friends. They tried the dating thing a while back, after one night of drunken mistakes. In the end though, they found that it just didn't work out, an vowed to be friends thereafter. At first, it was weird, an difficult, which could be the reason behind the recent distance that has been put between them.
"Yeah." He says feigning interest. "That sounds great, I was just heading out to eat anyways."
"Great! I will meet you their, you know the place."
   The place in question is a restaurant they used to frequent, that is located up a few blocks in the district of the dead, which is named for the fact that at one point in the city's illustrious career, was home to a cemetery. But when they ran out of room to build, all the bodies were therefore dug up an cremated, with the land being paved over by the city itself. It is not something the city officials like to talk about all too often, as the bad press had died down years before, an the mayor is not someone to dig up certain proverbial dirt. But it does make one wonder why they would believe that such an idea was good enough to go forth with in the first place, as there are certain taboos with these type of ordeals. An even with that, the one thing they must have realized, if history would have taught us anything, is that the press is going to run with such a case no matter how one may spin it.
   Outside, the fog is now greeted with the falling rains, that drizzle forth like threads of silk. Which in turn gives the city a wholly new feel, as the few people that pass by do so like specters flickering into existence if only for a moment. The city itself, being mostly washed out by the thick haze, gives off a distinct feel of abandonment, as the opaque walls of clouds makes the city appear as though it is only a figment of ones imagination. Even the smell, which normally consists of such wonders as newly formed asphalt, an drunken escapades of nights before, is now replaced by a new aroma, an almost sweet, musky scent, as though in the midst of a deep forest, like the mildewy drops of a forested canvas. As Davis gets ever closer to the restaurant, the city appears as if it slowly mutates into a different form. No longer is each building a construct of normality, as the walls that lead to each alley are adorned by graffiti of differentiating complexities. There is even a small park, with pre-made plastic trees that are fixated throughout this grassy abyss. Off in the distance, lies a playground, all deserted except for the few crows that adorn the swing sets, giving off a most distinct atmosphere of some old school horror movie. Davis, cannot remember the last time he has seen a fog of such density, especially in the midst of the city. The
aroma, is even a relic of times past, as there hasn't been a forest around these parts for quite some time, which is exactly the reason behind such plastic monstrosities that adorn every park an street side corner.
   As Davis creeps ever closer to his destination, he finds the fog beginning to subside, as he gets ever further from the ocean. An as he is about a block or so away from said restaurant, it has now become nothing more than a fine mist that is washed out by the ongoing presence of the ever ascending rainfall. The adjacent wall of the restaurant, that faces a small alley, is painted in a marvelous set of graffiti, that depicts a heavy forest, with the sun rising out of its canvas. The sky is a slough of multicolored acid trips as though evoking the very spirit of Van Gogh's Starry Night. The restaurant in question is called the Machiavellian, apparently a statement made in regards to the very fabric of the political exploits of this fair city. Which is a statement Davis has always found to be on the more ironic side of things, seeing as a lot of what they are against is the murderous exploits the politicians have on said environment, an the wiping away of cultures of its people. But Davis imagines its all part of their agenda to clear the idea of this district being built on the gravestones of the dead.