A Black Deeper Than Death
NOT QUITE SO NUMB
The bouncer shoves me out of the Frog Bar. I stumble down the concrete steps, pass the people waiting in line, and fall to the sidewalk. Although I land on my hands, I still hit my head. But with the three vodkas and cranberry juice from the bar mixed with my black market Lexapro and Xanax chaser, I don’t feel a thing.
“Don’t let me catch you in here again,” the fat bald-headed bouncer in a bad wool pullover says. “Crazy bitch.” He walks back inside, rubbing his aching nuts that I kicked.
I remain on the ground and inhale a few icy breaths. I slide my arms under my numb head and listen to the people talking. At first I’m pissed that I’m not going to be able to see the rest of Blonde Redhead’s set inside, but I’m also glad to be away from that guido Jersey Shore wannabe who thought I was going to blow him in the corner of the room. I mean really, what is a wife-beater wearing, tan-skinned, Jersey-accented asshole doing in a place like the Frog Bar?
“Baby, you okay?” some guy asks.
I roll over on my back and glare at the bohemian with a brown leather jacket, jeans, and…earmuffs? His twiggy girlfriend poses next to him and checks me out like I’m some kind of mutant that crawled out of the Hudson. I might as well be compared to her fur jacket and skin-tight black dress. I bet she’s not even wearing underwear.
“Don’t I look okay?” I ask. “What’s wrong, never seen anyone lay on the freakin’ sidewalk? Fucking New York City, asshole. People all over laying on the sidewalk.”
The guy holds his hands up and smiles. “Okay. Okay.”
The fur coat bimbo laces her arms around his waist like he’s some kind of prize. Yeah, a prize that wears sandals in the winter? “C’mon. She’s probably some teenage, runaway hooker or something.” She pulls him away.
“Doesn’t mean she don’t need some help,” he says.
I sit up and mutter, “Runaway hooker my ass.” Do I look like a hooker in black pants, purple sweater, and my $900 leather jacket, bitch? If they knew who I really am they would probably be sucking my ass. Just as well, I’m so not in the mood for an ass-sucking.
Two agonizing minutes later, I stand and join the rest of the downtown nightlife. Some people glare my way, most just ignore. When you get down to it, having someone thrown to the sidewalk is not that unusual.
I check the time on my cell phone: 10:13 PM. Do I hit up another bar? Or should I go home?
“Fuck,” I whisper. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket to make sure that the bartender gave back my fake I.D. It’s there. Going to another bar sounds like the next best move.
I zipper up my jacket and stick my hands in my pockets as I walk Hudson Street. I curse myself for leaving my hat at home. The breeze funneling between the buildings windburns my ears and makes my nose drip.
I continue down the streets and wonder if I should call Corey to see if he wants to hang out. Then, through my alcohol and chemical haze, I remember he has a date tonight with some rent boy he met in the Lower East Side. I so hate drinking alone, but I also hate crowds.
Feeling dizzy, I stop for a moment on the dark street. Where the hell am I? The huge buildings look like warehouses, but since the windows aren’t boarded up to hide what’s inside, they could be converted condos. I don’t make out any storefronts or entrances to the buildings, just loading ramps, steel shutter gates, and skinny metal stairs. I must be way off course since cobblestone has replaced the asphalt. The average person should freak out a little, but I have my butterfly knife with me if some freak gives me trouble. I spot cars driving down the cross street ahead and decide to continue on. Where there’s traffic there’re bars, right?
I walk to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid the dark alley on my right. Last thing I need…
…the hand releases my hair…the knife slashes my face…and again…I scream and cover my stinging face only to have the knife serrate the back of my hands….stumble to my feet and lean against the brick wall of the alley….”Stop please stop,” I cry….the dark figure in a short dark coat and derby hat stands over me….knife in their hand….large dripping blade…”Little whore thinks she can do better,” the figure rasps….”Help me,” I scream….look down the alley and see no one coming…cold steel punctures my stomach…. Blood fills my mouth…liquid warmth down my neck…the blade penetrates…and again…the pain fades…and again…hot breath gasps in my face…and again…until all turns a deep black….
END OF A SHIFT
“Miss, can you hear me?”
I open my eyes to see a cop and a woman standing over me. The name pinned to his shirt reads Ricco. The cop is young and kind of cute. He has one of those square-jaw faces that look like it will only stay cute with a crew cut. I wonder if that’s why he chose to be a cop. The woman is older with way too much makeup. She must have slathered on the pink eye shadow all the way up to her forehead with a paintbrush. Catching an odor of onions and shit off the breeze, I’d say she’s homeless. But her short black wool overcoat appears new, so you never know.
“I can hear you,” I say. “What happened?”
“I was crossing the street when I heard you screaming for help.” Crazy make-up lady leans over me and hugs her huge handbag as if the contents are going to rain out. “When I found you, you were laying right here on the street. I pulled you over to the side so that no one would run you over.” She smiles wide, revealing white bonded teeth.
I fake a smile back for her. “Thanks.”
“Were you attacked, miss?” Ricco the cop asks. “Are you hurt?”
I suddenly remember what happened. I pat my face and stomach and find no wounds. “Holy Jesus,” I sigh. I have never felt anything like that before in my sixteen years of life. I can still feel the cold knife slicing through my gut like a paper cut that sends a shiver down your spine.
“Right here I saw her.” Crazy make-up lady sniffles. “I didn’t touch her. No I didn’t. See?”
“Are you hurt?” The cop sighs. The frustration of being with two crazy women finally getting to him, I suppose. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”
I sit up and face the dark alley. “No. I’m not hurt. But someone else is.” I point to the darkness. “Someone was killed back there. A woman.”
The crazy make-up lady’s eyes widen while the cop’s scrunch up with doubt.
I glare at him. “What?”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
“I’m not playing with you and I am not drunk,” I say.
Ricco the cop shakes his head in disbelief. He can probably smell my breath.
“Listen, okay,” I say. “Please. I know what I saw.”
Ricco helps me to my feet and I walk to the alley. He motions for the woman to hang back while he follows me inside. “Are you saying you saw a woman murdered?”
The streetlights barely penetrate the darkness in the alley.
“You got a light or something?”
He removes the huge flashlight off his belt and shines it down the alley. I lead him in deeper and scan the area. Garbage bags and cans line the graffiti enhanced brick walls and send a horrid stench up my nose. A few metal doors lead into the buildings.
“Listen, my shift is almost over,” the cop says. “I’ll be glad to help you if you need it, but I am not in the mood to be jerked around here. Were you or were you not attacked tonight?”
I turn to the jarhead cop. “I’m not jerking you around. For fuck sake I saw a woman murdered in this fucking alley.”
He stops and shines the light to my side. His face creases. “Step back.”
I give him room and he walks past. I can see what he’s shining the light on: a foot in a green high heel shoe. I move up behind him and cover my mouth. Although she’s laying facedown in a puddle of blood, I know it’s the same woman from my vision.
“I said, step back,” the cop’s nervous voice says.
I obey him, never taking my eyes off the dead woman. Memories of the pain she felt when she died race through me, making me hug my shivering body.
A DELICATE BALANCE OF TRUTH AND LIES
I stand across the street from the alley and wait. Ricco the cop calls more of his co-workers in. Then the ambulance arrives, which is kind of a waste of time. The crazy make-up lady stands next to me and watches them section off the scene of the crime. I try to stand to her side so that the breeze doesn’t blow her noxious smell my way, but wherever I move she follows. At least she doesn’t talk to me. She just mutters about how terrible it is that the woman was murdered and what not.
Ricco walks back to us and takes out his notepad. He asks crazy make-up lady how she found me on the street. It’s kind of weird hearing someone talk about you and what you did when you have no recollection of it. I guess this is what alcoholics go through when their families confront them after their binges. Crazy make-up lady recites the address for the YMCA on 23rd street, breaking down my homeless theory. When he finishes questioning her, the cop tells the crazy make-up lady to go home and that the investigating detectives will contact her if they have anymore questions. But she doesn’t leave yet, too into the lights in the sky.
Now it’s my turn. After I give him my basic info like name, age, phone number, and address, I start my story. I craft my words and avoid saying “I was stabbed in the stomach”, which is exactly how it happened. Instead I say, “I saw the killer slice at her face and then stab her in the stomach until she died. Then I fainted, I guess.”
Ricco raises one brow. He’s trying to keep that cold indifferent cop expression, but his eyes are giving away his suspicion. I don’t blame him. I would think I was lying too. But to tell him the truth would just drop me into a bigger hole.
When we finish up, he asks me to wait here for the detectives. I nod my head and sigh, “Yeah, sure.” He walks off back to the scene. I notice the crazy make-up lady is gone and appreciate the cleaner air. By now there’re a lot more people standing around watching the scene from the yellow crime scene ribbon barricade. Some people are even taking pictures. I turn my back to the cameras and hope no one snapped a shot of my face. The last think I need is Sharon ragging me about bad publicity before a show.
Two cigarettes later, one of those unmarked Sedans with a spinning red and blue light attached to the roof pulls up. Two guys in suits step out. One is a light skinned black man and in decent shape compared to his white partner who could afford to lose forty pounds and benefit from hair plugs. Ricco talks to the two men and then leads them down the alley. I assume after I repeat my story to the detectives I can go home and get some sleep. My alcohol deprived brain pounds against my skull and my eyes need toothpicks to keep them open. I so wish I could lie down on the sidewalk and close my eyes for a while.
The two suits walk out of the alley and stare right at me as they move closer. Their faces sculpt into non-emotion. They reveal their badges. The light skinned black guy says, “I’m Detective Otto Sampson and this is Detective Jerry Hersh.”
“Hello,” I say.
They nod and put their badges away. Sampson takes out a notepad and pen.
“Miss Michelina Radicci, right?” Hersh asks.
“Yeah, that’s me. You can call me Miki if you want.” I light up my third cigarette in the last hour to keep my hands warm.
“Had a rough night, Ms. Radicci?” Hersh asks.
I study his smirk and realize that Hersh is the asshole of the pair. “I’ve had better. Not as bad as that woman in there.”
“We understand that you found the body?” Sampson says, his voice is clear, no trace of that annoying New York accent like Hersh’s.
“Yeah. Yes.”
“Can you tell us about that?”
I sigh and shake my head. Now I know why those actors on crime shows pretend to be pissed when talking to cops. It’s kind of annoying telling the same story over and over.
“I was walking down the street here when I saw the woman get stabbed,” I say.
“Show us where, exactly,” Hersh says.
I walk them over to the curb just in front of the alley. “Here,” I say.
The two cops look down the now illuminated alley, then back at me. “Go on,” Sampson says.
“And I heard her scream and I saw the killer stab at her face. I think it was twice before she put her hands over it and he sliced her hands too. She fell to the ground, against the wall, and then the killer stabbed her in the stomach four times.”
Sampson scribbles notes while Hersh glares at me like I raped his dog.
“Four times?” Hersh asks.
“Four times,” I say.
“You’re sure?”
“Um, yeah.” Based upon the jerk’s smile I wonder if I stepped into a trap.
“Let me get this straight. From here to the placement of the murder way at the back, you saw all that in a dark alley?” Hersh asks.
Stupidity washes over me. I nod and drag off my cigarette. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Ms. Radicci, did you touch the body before the police officer found it?” Sampson asks.
“No. I was unconscious on the street.”
The two detectives exchange expressions. Detective Sampson puts his notepad away and breaks out a pair of handcuffs.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” I ask.
“Ms. Radicci, you are being arrested for the suspicion of murder,” Hersh says.
Sampson swings me around and cuffs my hands behind my back. I look over my shoulder as Hersh reads me my rights and frown at the cameras flashing.
“What’s this?” Sampson asks.
He takes the butterfly knife out of my back pocket.
He smiles and says, “Looks like a murder weapon to me.”
I’m so screwed.
TIMELINES
After they enter my information at one of the desks, an officer escorts me into an interview room while the detectives check out my alibi. He helps me into a seat and opens one of the cuffs. I sigh in relief thinking that he’s going to free my other hand. But the cop just loops the three link chain around the back of the chair and recuffs my free hand, keeping my arms behind my back. When the cop finishes, he says, “Someone will be with you shortly,” like I should expect a waiter, and then he’s gone.
My head continues to pound, but at least the nausea is gone. I try to relax as best I can even though the temperature in the room is way into the 80s and I’m still wearing my leather jacket. I check out the taxpayer-funded design of the room. The drywall is painted off-white to match the only door. Another chair sits across the table, in front of the two-way mirror. I stretch my head over my shoulder and spot a few more chairs in case anyone has plans to put me through a gauntlet. I still can’t believe that I’m here in the police station for no reason. They can’t honestly believe I killed that woman. Then again, knowing exactly how she was killed and having a weapon on me doesn’t help.
The door opens and Detective Sampson enters. He closes it behind him and makes sure it locks. He places stuffed folders on the table and sits in the chair, his back to the two-way mirror.
“Can I leave now?” I ask.
“Not yet. We’re still waiting for a coroner’s report and checking out your alibi.”
“I didn’t do anything. This is so fucked.”
Sampson opens the files in front of him and studies the papers. I guess he doesn’t give a crap what I have to say.
“Did you call your parents yet, Ms. Radicci?” he asks.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Fat chance of that.”
“You’re a minor.” Sampson looks up. “They’re the only ones that can bail you out, no?”
“You guys didn’t do your homework yet?” I ask. “You don’t know who I am? I guess cops aren’t into the arts.”
Sampson smirks. “I know who you are, Michelina Radicci. You’re an art genius. Discovered at the age of four and selling paintings for thousands of dollars by the time you were five. I’ve been to a few of your shows here in the city. You’re very talented. Although, I prefer your lighter stuff lately. This surreal business is too heavy on my little cop brain.”
I laugh. Sampson flinches.
“Yeah, well, it’s common knowledge that I’m emancipated from my parents. Press had a rave over that one. Surprised you missed it.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. My lawyer will bring you the paperwork when she gets here,” I say.
“Good.”
Silence fills the room. My body craves a cigarette but I doubt Sampson will give me one since there’re No Smoking signs all over the building.
“So who takes care of you?” Sampson asks.
“Is this part of the questioning?”
“No. Just curious. Sixteen year old girl taking care of herself in this city…” He shrugs.
“I take care of myself. I make more in one year than you do in ten,” I say. “I live with my grandfather. And a friend.”
“I can call him for you if you want.”
“My lawyer will call him.”
He nods and then focuses on the file. The door opens again and Detective Hersh walks in. “Did I miss anything? Did she tell you that she’s innocent?” He grabs a chair from against the wall.
“God, I’m stuck in some bad CSI episode,” I say. “What are you supposed to be, the stereotypical racist cop?”
Sampson smirks.
Hersh sits down next to his partner and flashes me a dirty look. “I suggest you only speak when spoken to, since you’re in such deep shit you’re gonna need a snorkel and goggles.”
“Whatever.” I sigh and lean back.
“We were just getting to know each other,” Sampson says.
“Yeah, Little Miss Art Celebrity,” Hersh says. “I guess it was only a matter of time before you filled in the stereotype. Rich Art Brat Goes Insane, news at eleven.”
I lean forward and wiggle my nose at him.
Hersh glances at Sampson then back to me. “What are you doing?”
“Since my hands are cuffed, I’m flipping you the finger with my nose.”
Hersh cracks his palm on the table. Even Sampson jumps back. He points a finger at me. His eyes flare. “I said, watch it.”
The door opens a third time, and the third time is the charm. My savior sashays in: Sharon May, my lawyer, business manager, and moral compass. Wearing one of her expensive gray suits with a skirt just above the knee to get attention from the average man, Sharon sweeps into the room and places her briefcase on the table. She lays her big blue eyes on me and opens her mouth in a gasp.
“Miki Miki Miki, what are these horrible behemoths doing to you?”
“I’m not sure, but I think the fat one is one step away from bitch slapping me.” I fake cry and sniffle.
Hersh glares at Sharon, like any other asshole would. I know he wants to ask the question. He wants to know why Sharon, as beautiful as she appears - a smart, leggy blonde lawyer with total class - has an Adams apple as big as a golf ball? Well, duh. She’s a post-op transsexual.
“Who the hell are you?” Hersh asks. “And what the hell are you?”
Sharon stares down her nose at Hersh. “I am Miki’s lawyer, Sharon May.” She then slips on her bitch face. “What am I? The one lawyer you don’t want to fuck with.”
I grin at Hersh who looks like he wants to bash Sharon’s head in. Sampson, smart enough to sense his partner’s mood, places his hand on his Hersh’s arm and whispers, “Calm down.” Hersh pulls his arm away.
Sharon opens her briefcase and slaps a piece of paper on the desk. “Are any of you gentleman familiar with the preliminary report on the body of Katherine Moore?”
“Who?” I ask.
“The poor young lady they’re accusing you of murdering, sweetie.”
I nod.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I just received it before I got into the room,” Hersh says, showing his own folder.
Sharon frowns, showing sympathy for Hersh. “Oh, you poor thing. You must have had a hard life climbing the ranks to Detective when you can’t read English.”
“What are you talking about?” Sampson asks, grabbing the report from Hersh.
“As you can see,” Sharon says, “Although they need to do a full autopsy, the coroner at the scene clearly states that the time of death for poor Ms. Moore was between 9:30 and 10:00 PM this evening.”
“Okay?” Sampson says.
I shake my head, feeling sorry for Sampson.
“Did you check out my client’s alibi at the Frog Bar this evening?”
Sampson turns to Hersh who studies his hands.
“Yeah, we checked it out,” Hersh says. “She was there at around 8:30 and wasn’t kicked out until 10:15 and before that time she was engaged in a violent confrontation with a patron and a few bouncers.”
Sharon crosses her arms, glares at me, and shakes her head. “Really, Miki. That wasn’t very mature what you did to that poor man’s testicles.”
“Oh, my God. You know very well why I aim for them,” I snap back.
She turns back to the cops. “Therefore, I believe you have no grounds to hold my client and why isn’t someone taking those cuffs off her. Clearly she’s too young for your kinky sex games, Detective Hersh.”
“Wait a second,” Hersh says. “What about the fact that she has details of the victim’s wounds that coincide with the coroner’s prelim report while she claims that she did not touch the body or a weapon.”
“Let me guess, you think my client had previous knowledge and was in cahoots with the perpetrator. Then the murderer divulged the facts to her? Even the D.A. outside doesn’t believe my client would have enough time to get such detail before she fainted. Plus, why the hell would she even report the murder to the police if she was involved?”
Sampson lowers his head in the coroner’s report and says. “The comparison with the butterfly knife and the wounds doesn’t match.”
Hersh huffs and crosses his arms.
Sampson stands up and frees me from the chair.
“So I’m free to go?” I ask.
“As a bird,” Sharon says, packing away her file.
“Miki, wait,” Sampson says. “I’d still like to ask you some questions.”
“Why?” I ask.
“You know a lot about the details of the murder. I’d like to know how you know it.”
“Cause she’s guilty as hell,” Hersh mumbles.
I turn to Sharon. I would like to help, but I’m so not in the mood right now. Besides, the woman is dead and I don’t know much about the murder besides experiencing it, which is something I don’t want to get into with them.
“It’s up to you, sweetie. You just pay me. But I will be with you.”
“Listen,” I say to Sampson. “I’m tired. Can we do this another time?”
Sampson throws his hands up in defeat and Hersh exhales his aggravation as he stands and walks out of the room.
Sharon holds the door open for me. I glance at Sampson sitting at the table and flipping through the papers. He looks as beat as me and I can’t help but feel guilty about it.
THE MEN OUTSIDE
Sharon escorts me to the window to retrieve my confiscated possessions. The cop behind the window passes me an envelope filled with my personal items and a clipboard to sign. I open it and take out my wallet, cigarettes, Zippo lighter, a little cash, and my cell phone. I give the cop a dirty look and ask, “Where’s my knife?”
Sharon pulls her attention from her Blackberry and reviews the list of possessions.
The elderly cop tilts his head. “Did they arrest you with a knife?”
“Uh, yeah. A 5-inch butterfly. Perfectly legal in this state.” And the one my uncle gave me before he went to jail.
The cop checks out his copy of the list. “It’s not here.”
“Of course it’s not there.” I turn to Sharon. “The cop took it out of my pocket after he cuffed me.”
She frowns. “Then he probably logged it as evidence.”
“But I didn’t kill anyone. God, people are so stupid.”
“I know, sweetie. Just calm down. Once the medical examiner completes their report, we should be able to get it back.”
“Anything else?” the cop asks, looking at me as if I’m wasting his time.
“Fucking’ unbelievable.” I flip him the bird and stomp off. The cop calls after me, but I just give him my back.
Sharon walks at my side. “I know. I know. But that’s the system. I’ll look into it.” She slips her arm around my shoulder as we weave through the mixed crowd of cops, civil servants, and criminals. “Focus on the positive now. You don’t have to spend the night in jail and perform bowel movements in front of a group of desperate women.”
I nod and try to go along with her reasoning until I step into the downstairs lobby of the police station. To the naked eye it would appear that an old Italian man in brown pants and a worn, black wool overcoat is fighting with a fifteen year old, skinny Southern black boy in baggy jeans and a skintight, black denim jacket. But to the trained eye like mine, this is business as usual.
Grandpa Blaise shouts and waves his arms at Corey sitting on a bench. Corey shakes his head and plays bored; probably because he doesn’t understand a single word of Italian that Grandpa shouts. I cringe at the scene as embarrassment runs through my veins. Some stare at them either scared or worried that he will break out into violence. Others are amused since Corey has his arms crossed with his head back and his mouth open, faking a horrible death. This is nothing compared to what I’ve seen them get into at home. This time though they’re probably not fighting about Corey’s homosexuality. I imagine Grandpa’s been shitting a cow since Sharon informed him of my arrest. He probably thought another generation of Radiccis would build a rap sheet.
“Would you two shut up, or you’re going to get thrown in jail,” I approach them and open my pack of cigarettes.
“My sweet bambina,” Grandpa Blaise takes me into his arms. I rest my head on his chest, press to his potbelly, and inhale his cologne. I smile, wondering why he had to put on cologne when Sharon probably woke him up in the middle of the night. “Did they hurt you, my Michelina?”
“No, I’m okay.” I kiss his stubbly cheek and turn to Corey. He hugs me and I press to his skinny frame.
“This is so crazy,” Corey says, showing off his thick Southern accent. “I don’t know how they can think you would kill anyone.”
“Weeelllll…” says Grandpa Blaise.
I slap his shoulder and laugh. “I didn’t and that is that. It’s just a big old cop mistake or maybe they’re trying to fill an arrest quota.”
Sharon hugs me with one arm and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be in touch, sweet Miki,” she says. “Don’t forget we have to go over the details for this week’s show.”
I light up a cigarette and nod, “Got it. Thanks again, Sharon.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Corey says, rubbing her arm.
Sharon awaits Grandpa’s thanks. He rolls on his feet and his scared eyes look to the tiled ceiling. I slap his arm. “What? Huh?”
I make angry eyes at him.
He scratches his bald spot and says, “Oh, yeah. Thank you, Mr. Or Miss. Er, very nice...of you.”
Sharon shakes her head, grins, and pecks my cheek. As she walks out, I catch a few guys checking her out. I smirk and roll my eyes.
“What time is it, anyway?” I ask.
As Grandpa checks his watch, a cop shouts, “Hey, no smoking in here. Take it outside.”
I exhale smoke and mumble, “Fucking Bloomberg.”
“Hey, he’s a good mayor.” Grandpa puts his arm around me and shows me out of the police station. Corey keeps to my other side and rubs my back. I leave the police station with two of the most important men in my life and I have never felt so safe.
HOME BUT STILL POISONED
In the cab, I sit between Grandpa and Corey. A million volts run through my veins and my heart can’t stop it. I rest my head on Grandpa’s chest, close my eyes, and try to relax.
“I was so worried about you,” he says.
I sigh. “I’m sorry to put you through that, Grandpa. But Sharon took care of it. It’s all over.”
“No, not the arrest,” he says. “I was worried about the other thing. You never experienced that before. No?”
I’ve experienced various emotions and pain from other people throughout my life. People getting beaten, hit by cars, stubbing their toes, suffering the emotions of losing a loved one, and even the burn from a relationship break up, to name a few. But have I ever experienced a murder?
“No,” I whisper. “This is my fist.”
Grandpa kisses the top of my head. Although he has never suffered the curse since it came from my grandmother’s side of the family, he knows the right amount of compassion to give while also keeping a safe distance and not bombarding me with questions and concerns.
As soon as we get home to my studio condo, Grandpa Blaise kisses my cheek and tells me for the millionth time how glad he is that I’m all right. He then says good night and heads up to his bedroom loft.