12
Unscripted Encounter

Unlike most any other time of the day or night, I was fortunate enough to find a vacant parking spot directly in front of my building.

“Go figure,” I said while positioning the Impala.

The personal discussion persisted as I parallel parked and remotely locked the car on my way to the entrance. “Even still, there’s a big difference between traffic on this street at one-thirty in the afternoon versus what it would be like in a few hours,” I concluded.

Perched on the stoop atop the concrete steps was the unexpected sight of Natasha, my neighbor. Unexpected, because she normally remained inside their apartment peeping out the window or watching people come and go through the partially opened front door until after sundown.

“Howv vare chu?” she asked.

“I’m good, what’s up?” I responded.

Her attempt at soliciting conversation couldn’t have been more obvious, “Chu home earlvy,” she said.

I stated, while passing through the double doors, “Yeah, for a minute, but I have to go back out later.”

I hadn’t noticed her walking into the foyer and up the stairs behind me until she spoke, “Me likes zat muzic chu flays.”

In the process of unlocking the dead bolt on the front door of my place, I asked, “Do what?” I was somewhat caught off guard, and her poor English didn’t help matters, “What was it you just said?”

Apologizing for her challenging communication skills, “Sory, me szay me vlikes zat…May-be no szay vright,” she repeated.

“No, no, that’s okay, I understand. I think,” I responded while trying to be sure I’d heard her say she liked the jazz. I commented, under my breath without realizing I’d spoken loud enough for her to hear me, “The obvious question would be from where? My music is never so loud that it can be heard outside the apartment,” I said. Instinctively, I covered my mouth with one hand while tossing the keys on the kitchen table, “Oh damn! That wasn’t a dream.”

Natasha moved closer, “Chu no zemembver?”

“Yes.” I extended my hands to keep her at a safe distance, “No…wait! Wednesday night didn’t happ…well, it shouldn’t have happened and definitely can’t happen again. I’m your neighbor. You’re engaged…and…I’m your neighbor!” I immediately began replaying the events of the unforgettable, regrettable event that evidently happened a couple days before. As it turned out, I hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. I yelled at the thought, “But my apartment was clean! The stereo was off. The ice pail…the table centerpiece…the condom! Oh, damn!”

Looking at me with those eyes I remembered from my dream which, as it turned out, actually wasn’t a dream. “Me knows, me kleanz up,” she said.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” was my only response.

Lowering her head, “Chu no vwant?” she asked.

As the events of the experience flashed repeatedly in my mind; careful to position myself so the table remained a constant obstacle separating us, I realized the more I recalled of the last time we were in this situation, the distance was as much to keep me from her as it was to keep her from me, “No. I mean, yes I want…but no, I can’t. We can’t. Oh damn!” I replied.

She asked again, “Chu no vwant?”

“No... No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I can’t. You can’t be in here. You have to go. You’re engaged, and I…well, I…I have somebody,” I said, before realizing it.

Natasha tried to discount the remark, “Me no zsee zu vit…”

As I contemplated the meaning of my own words, “Well, it was just earlier today,” I hesitated. It had only then occurred to me the reason for the feeling I had when talking to Ernestina; I dismissed it. “But the reason you don’t see me with nobody...anybody, is because I work a lot. I don’t have much time for things like that.”

“Chu make time vor me udder dayz,” she said.

“Yes, but no, not again,” I said. “Haven’t you ever heard; you don’t get your meat…” It occurred to me as to whom I was talking. “Oh, never mind. We just can’t do this anymore. Now, you have to go so I can get some things done.”

My neighbor posed from a place of genuine concern, “Vwat chu hab do?” she asked. And again, moved strategically, trying to get at me from the opposite side of the table, “Vaant me helvp?”

“No! I mean, no…you can’t help me,” I responded. “Not like that. Not again. Now, I really need for you to go.”

“Go vwhere?” she asked.

Being short, “Go home,” I replied.

“Me vwaant szay here. Novody atz me home. Me no vwaant bee der,” she said.

I was beginning to get a bit annoyed, “Okay look, you don’t have to go home.”

“Chu vwaants me sztay?” she interrupted.

“No,” I demanded. “You don’t have to go home, but you’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

Natasha lowered her head sulking, as she rounded the table and hurried toward the door. “Chu no vwaant Natasha,” she whined.

More instinctively than any other reason, I grasped her left wrist with my right hand and gently tugged to prevent my neighbor’s escape, “Look, I don’t want you to leave like…”

“Chu no wvaant Natasha vleeb?” she concluded.

With our bodies briefly coming into contact, I explained, “No. I mean, yes, you have to leave. I just don’t want you to leave like this. You’re pretty upset.”

There was a distinctly pleasant aroma of mint as I felt her breath on my face when she responded, “I all vright. Chu no vwaant Natasha; me goes avaay.”

I was mesmerized by her beautiful brown eyes that drew me in like metal to a magnet. “No. I don’t…want…”

Almost without warning, those succulent lips engulfed mine and she thrust her satin muscle deep into an unsuspecting mouth. My mind was adamantly protesting the unrestrained actions of an eager body as I submitted to the will of Natasha’s passionate attack. It was as though I was having an out-of-body experience witnessing her rip the shirt open and devour the flesh of my neck, then, consume a broad chest with the fullness of her lips. I would like to think my reaction was involuntary, but it would’ve been a task within itself to prevent Nature from taking the predestined course. An eager heart pounded like it was trying to tear out my chest as the two of us undertook a passionate session, seemingly, attempting to swallow each other’s face. Clothing somehow found its way from the position on our bodies onto the floor. We’d both stripped down to our underwear when the sound of reality summoned.

BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBR
RRIIINNNGGG. The scream of the cell interrupted my trip to ecstasy.

I fumbled with the phone as Natasha, unfazed, continued kissing my neck and chest, “Um…Uh, hell-o...hello,” I recovered.

The concern in her voice was unmistakeable, “Yes Willie, this Ernestina; you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, baby…I’m good,” I managed.

“I was just calling to give you directions to my place. It looks like I might be able to slide out of here a little earlier than I’d originally intended. You are still coming aren’t you?” she asked.

I was desperately trying to get Natasha to stop kissing me; at least for a moment until I finished the phone call, “Yes…uh, okay, baby. I’ll be there to meet you after work.” I quietly confirmed plans with the welcomed, unwelcome caller while attempting to ward off my neighbor with a free hand, “Ernestina, I need you to hold on a second.”

“Me needs stop?” Natasha asked rhetorically.

“Excuse me?” Ernestina questioned.

I cleaned up the comment, “Oh, I was saying hold on a minute while I turn down the volume on the television; get some paper, and something to write with.”

Ernestina continued giving me the address to her apartment and detailed directions as to the quickest way to get there from the Village. “Uh-hmm,” was the only audible response I could muster to each comment or question without incriminating myself. I tried to cut the conversation short.

“I ha-ve to go, so I c-a-n come…by. Uh, so I can come by and pick you up,” I corrected.

Ernestina asked, in an insinuating tone, “What are you up to?”

“Get-ting rea-dy,” I replied.

She whispered into the phone, “And just what are you getting ready to do? Sounds to me like you having a good time all by yourself. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say…are you naked?”

“Uh…yeah,” I responded. “That normally is a requirement when getting ready to shower.”

Ernestina questioned, trying not to let me hear her giggle, “Sounds like you’re getting ready to do more than just take a shower. I caught you in the middle of something?” She asked. “You don’t appear to be the least bit embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed at having to shower?” I questioned.

“Now, you know darned well that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about what you’re doing,” she said.

I was concerned that maybe she could hear Natasha, “And just what do you think I’m doing? I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon. But I do need to go…seri-ous-ly…so I can shower and get ready.”

“I bet you do need to go,” Ernestina smirked. “Normally, I think I’d be a little put off, but I’m rather impressed by your openness,” she commented.

Not realizing Ernestina really didn’t know what was going on, at least, not all that was going on, I asked, “Openness with what?”

She concluded, “Well, I always say a man can’t please a woman unless he first knows what it takes to please himself. I’m going to let you go so you can go on and work that out.”

It wasn’t until then that I caught on to what she must have been thinking but knew there was no way I could offer any other logical explanation. The realization that I’d just narrowly escaped a burning building prompted me to hold my peace.

“All right babe,” I remarked.

Ernestina then informed, “Oh yeah, you know, I like when you call me baby while you caught up in the moment,” she detailed. “That is such a turn-on.”

Relieved to find out she was none the wiser, I reiterated, “Well, I re-ally have to go. I’ll give you a call whe…when I’m on the way.”

She commented through her own embarrassment, “You enjoy…bye.”

“Later,” I responded, almost simultaneously pressing the end button on my phone and dropping it to the floor. “Natasha…Natasha!” I yelled in a whisper. “You have to stop! I’ve got to go shower.”

She interrupted her Lady Dracula impersonation long enough to say, “Me goes shover vwit chu.”

“No,” I said. “If that happens, I’ll need to take a shower after the shower. I have an appointment.”

“Chu haab deate,” she responded.

“What?” I asked.

“Chu goes ouvt vwit vwoman,” she clarified. “But ist o-kay, I be herve vwhen chu kome beaack.”

I was somewhat shocked at the thought; a woman so understanding she was actually willing to take back seat. The fact that Natasha wasn’t at all hard on the eyes was an added bonus. The ultimate dream of every Neanderthal of the male gender I’d ever encountered. For a split second, I actually entertained the idea of a purely sexual relationship with no strings, no expectations, but was shaken back to the realities of life with a Black woman when my phone rang again. BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBRRRIIINNNGGG. Natasha had her arms wrapped around my torso and held me in position, refusing to allow the opportunity to retrieve my phone. The more I squirmed, the tighter her grip became until it appeared we’d engaged in a wrestling match.

I continued the protest, “Natasha, this isn’t supposed to happen. Not again. The other night never should have happened. It certainly can’t continue happening.”

After what seemed like an hour long fight with a northwestern grizzly bear, Natasha suddenly stopped, reached over, picked up the phone, and gently placed it in my hand, “Chu haab go; no?”

For a second I considered calling Ernestina to cancel. Then I realized the consequences of such an action. “Yes, I have go. I mean, I have to go.”

Without so much as a single word, my assailant gathered her things, straightened her pony tail using the darkened television screen as a mirror, kissed me on the left nipple of my still bare chest, and simply walked out, leaving the door to my apartment partially open. I sat motionless for at least fifteen minutes before checking to verify the missed call on my cell.

It was one for which I’d been eagerly waiting, but now, wanted to avoid. I pressed “send” to dial the number. BBBRRRIIINNNGGG.

Ernestina answered on the first ring, “Hello.” And didn’t bother waiting for a response, “Please tell me you are on your way to my place,” she said.

“I’ll be leaving shortly,” I answered. “Is there a problem? Was there something you needed?”

“No and yes,” she stated. “There’s no problem; at least there won’t be when you get here, but there is something I need.”

“Well, I’m not quite dressed yet but let me know and I’ll stop by the store on the way up,” I said.

“Oh, you won’t find what I need at any store,” she commented. “That phone call earlier got me so worked up I had to leave the job as soon as the conversation ended. I’m at the apartment taking a hot bubble bath.” She was silent for a moment, then added, “Come to think of it, I could use some double-A batteries for later; maybe after you leave,” she explained before politely stating, “I didn’t realize how long…well, never mind. Just get your ass over here.”

“I must say, I’m a little surprised at your indiscretion,” I said. “Those don’t sound anything at all like the words of that sweet little innocent police officer I remember running across in Harlem several days ago.”

She was a little more insistent, “Stop playing, get your fine self in that car, and come up here as soon as you can.”

I assured her, while thinking; what the hell have I gotten myself into? “Okay, okay, I’m on my way.”

“I keep remembering that phone call and visualizing you with no clothes…,” she reminded me. “Man, if you don’t hurry up and find your way to Harlem, I’m gone have to go ahead and get started. You know all it takes for us is a good flex hose on the shower massager.”

Reviewing events of the past hour, I was having a serious moral debate with myself when I commented half-jokingly. “Now, you know I don’t have any business trying to push up on you after our only knowing each other for a few days. What ever happened to a gentleman wining and dining a beautiful young lady before trying to strip her naked and jump her bones?”

She questioned, “So, you’re saying you don’t want to jump my bones? What ever happened to a man throwing caution to the wind and doing whatever it takes to satisfy the woman he loves?”

I then questioned through laughter, “Oh, so now it’s all about love,” I poked. “You’ve gone from meeting me on the street to being in love in a month. Have you no dignity?”

“Actually, it has only been about a week, give or take a couple days, and I honestly do like you enough to possibly take a chance with my heart. But, tonight doesn’t have a damn thing to do with love, or my heart,” she explained. “Tonight ain’t hardly ‘bout nothing but some good old-fashioned S-E-X. Something I’ve been in need of for a lot longer than I like to be without it,” she stressed. “Now get off the damn phone and make your way up here before I have to do this on my own. We’ve talked long enough that you could’ve been here by now.”

“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll be there within the hour,” I confirmed. “But that means you can’t start without me.”

“Don’t worry, if I do get started, I’ll be sure and save enough for you to have plenty to occupy yourself,” she advised. “Now stop all the unnecessary chatter and bring your ass!”

I reassured, “See you in a bit.” Hanging up the phone, I cursed myself. “Damn you; the chance you’ve been waiting for with the woman you wanted, and you’ve gone and fucked yourself out of the opportunity…literally.”

I slowly got up from the chair where Natasha had caused me to actually break a sweat fighting her off, thinking how most of the guys I knew would be feeling on top of the world if they were in my situation. But for some reason I felt like the world was on top of me. I remembered the comment Ernestina had made about a man doing whatever he could to satisfy the woman he loved. Is that what this feeling’s about…love? I wondered to myself. The bigger question though: Was that what I really wanted?

To shower only took about fifteen or twenty minutes but it seemed like the hot water massaged my back and shoulders for hours; offering much needed relief from the tension building at the thought of my actions. A vivid reminder of the experience with Natasha only a short time before, the feeling of the soft terrycloth towel actually made drying off more of a task than usual. Often, I found myself strategically going over specific areas of my body for a second and third time while day-dreaming about her velvety touch.

“Damn,” I uttered while shaking my head from side to side at the thought. “Damn!” Came the comment again while I draped the towel over the bar leading into the bedroom as I passed from the bath.

As was normally the case after showering, my clothes were matched and neatly arranged on the bed. I noticed the reflection of my bare body in the mirror when moving to pick up the matching Hanes boxer-briefs and tank set. Looking into the full-length mirror, I commented, “You’s about a greedy bastard.”

Imagining the response from my alter-ego, I mumbled in a squeaky tone. “Yes, we most certainly are a greedy, selfish pair aren’t we?”

Once dressed, I left the apartment to discover Natasha sitting in her usual place on the stoop entering the building. As I descended the stairs it was noticed that her hair was still damp from the apparent recent shower she, herself, had just taken.

I hesitated for a second and then passed out the doorway. “Natasha,” I said, simply to acknowledge her presence.

She responded without ever turning her head, “Vwillie.”

For the first time since moving into the building, I sort of regretted having found a parking space right directly out front. Approaching the curb, I remotely disarmed the security system and reached for the door to climb in. I was secretly checking out her reflection in the car’s window as she sat motionless like the carved statue of a goddess.

I heard her call out, as I closed the car door, “Haab gute time.”

In the process of backing out, I asked myself aloud, “Was she being sarcastic, or genuinely sincere in her comment?” Oh well, I thought. It’s not like she doesn’t know what time it is.

The clock on the CD player displayed “8:45 p.m.” by the time I hit Broadway at Columbus Circle. Remembering that I never did write down the directions when Ernestina gave them to me earlier due to being distracted, I figured this would be about as good a time as any to call and “verify” how to get to her apartment. That would also allow her sufficient opportunity to get out the tub and be dressed by the time I could make it up to Harlem. I spoke while dialing her number, “Cause you know how I hate for folk to make me wait.” BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBRRRIIINNNGGG.

“Hello, Willie?” she asked.

I tried to make light of the fact that it had taken a lot longer than I’d planned, “Yeah, did you miss me?”

She began explaining, “I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind about coming over or, even worse, if something had happened to you,” she said. “I was in the bathtub so long that my hands started to wrinkle.”

I asked, simply for the sake of making conversation, “Are you still in the tub?”

Sounding a bit agitated, “No. Didn’t you hear me say I was in the tub? As in past tense,” she said. “Where are you? Have you left the Village yet?”

“Yes, I have,” I answered. “But time did get away from me when I was taking my shower.” Not wanting to tell a complete lie, I said, “Funny, I just realized a few blocks back that I don’t have the directions you gave me.”

“Men,” she replied. “I was honestly surprised you even took the time. I don’t know what it is about most men that they just will not write down directions when somebody gives them…like all of you can just know how to get to where you’re going after hearing somebody say it once.”

Pretending to be disappointed, “Okay, so you don’t want to give me the directions again?” I asked. “I mean, if you don’t want to see me, I guess it won’t be too much trouble to run on up to 133rd and Broadway to see Moms and Poppy.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, she asked, “Why do you call them that?”

“Damn idiot!” I yelled, suddenly switching from the right lane to the left when someone pulled out from the curb in a gray Volvo without checking for traffic. I then questioned, “Call them what?”

Ernestina anxiously inquired, “What is it?”

“Some fuc…some doggone tourist,” I corrected myself.

“You don’t have to be so polite,” she noted. “You forget, I am a New York City police officer. I imagine I’ve heard just about every profane word that was ever uttered.”

“Well, with me, it’s a respect thing,” I explained. “Has a lot to do with the way I was brought up. If I was in bed and so much as dreamed about disrespecting anybody, my mom would slap me so hard in the dream I’d wake up on the damn floor in the morning. She’d knock me out of bed all the way from Georgia at the thought of it.”

Ernestina questioned from behind a veil of confusion, “But, I thought Eunice and Sam in Harlem were your mom and dad? Any time you speak of them, you always say Mom and Pop. Well, actually, you call them Moms and Poppy. That’s what I was just asking: Why do you call them that if they’re not your real parents?”

Thinking about my biological family back home, “Truth is,” I paused. “My real parents are down in Georgia, where I’m from originally.”

The comment came all the way from the back of her mind. “Rea-lly, I thought you talked kind of funny, just couldn’t place the accent. But you don’t sound like anybody from the South that I ever met,” she said.

Without elaborating, “I get that a lot.”

She went back to her original question, “So, this Sam and Eunice, exactly who are they? And I thought you were talking earlier about taking your dad to the doctor? Wasn’t that Sam you were talking about?”

“No.”

“But you said something was up with your old man. I thought you were talking about your dad…who would be your pop…who I figured was Sam,” she deduced.

“No. You assumed the reference to my old man was about Sam because I refer to him as Poppy. Just like you assumed he was my dad,” I explained. “But listen, the references to Poppy, old man, and dad all represent different people for different reasons,” I said.

“So, how many dads, pops, or old men are there in your life, and which one is really the sperm donor?” she questioned.

“Look,” I changed the subject. “I’m coming up on 110th Street; are you going to continue interrogating me until I get to New Jersey or are you going to give me directions to your apartment?” I asked.

She laughed before stating, “So, now you all anxious to get here. It’s your own fault. You could have been here an hour ago…before I got waterlogged.”

“All right then, six more blocks and I’ll be past you. I’m not turning around and coming back,” I said.

“You’ve got to come back past me to get down to your place in the Village anyway,” she said.

“I don’t have to,” I replied.

Ernestina was fishing when she asked, “So what, you got some soft warm place you can stay uptown if you’re out past your bedtime? Is that why it took you so long to want to get together, because you were preoccupied?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted. “If I get caught off uptown and just don’t feel like driving all the way back down to the Village, I can just stop off at old girl’s house and relax my cares away,” I said. “There’s always a good meal waiting, I don’t have to lift a finger to do anything, and can hang out as long as I want without worrying about anybody bothering me.”

Her tone turned serious. “Sounds to me, that’s where you need to be on your way to then. I don’t know why you bothering to stop by me at all. Now I’m beginning to see the picture a little clearer,” she said. “Talking all sweet when you met me on the street, but taking a whole week to dial my damn number; what the hell was I thinking? That’s probably where you were on your way to when I saw you that day!” She scolded.

I tried to interrupt, “Ernestina, it wasn’t more than a couple days.”

She continued the rant, disregarding what I’d said. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking: a fine, good-looking specimen of a man alone in this city! I must have been out of my damn mind…getting all sentimental and displaying feelings and shit you aren’t even interested in.”

“Baby,” I interjected.

By this point, she was yelling, “You know what, I’m glad you left the damn directions at home! And when you find them, just throw whatever paper they’re written on in the trash!” Ernestina became angrier with every word. “And since you all the way up here in Harlem, why don’t you just go on by…”

I yelled over her, “By my Moms!”

Timidly, she asked, “By…where?”

“Go by my Moms,” I said, in a softer tone. “The comment I made about my old lady; I was talking about Moms…Eunice.”

The sound of embarrassment in her voice was obvious, “Oh, I thought you were…”

Now I felt somewhat vindicated, “Yeah, I know what you were thinking.”

“Why did you let me carry on so?” she asked.

“Well, I tried to stop you,” I answered. “Now, are you going to provide the directions or do you have something else to bitch me out about?”

Her comment originated from humility, “All right, I guess I should tell you how to get here so I can apologize in person,” she said. “Where are you now?”

“I’m on Broadway, headed up town; just crossed over 125th Street…a few blocks from the Apollo,” I said.

Her tone was somewhat more subtle, “I am a cop. I’ve been living in this area as long as I can remember,” she said. “I know which 125th Street you’re talking about. But you’ve got to turn around.”

“There’s no place to turn around up here,” I explained. “And I said if you let me drive past you, I wasn’t turning around.”

Ignoring my comment, she continued. “You’ll have to go all the way up to 133rd Street by where your mom and pop live, and turn back.”

“Moms and Poppy,” I corrected. “Besides, the signs say NO U-TURN at that intersection. You trying to get me a ticket?”

“Anthony is working this area tonight,” she noted. “If he stops you, tell him to call me. I’ll take care of it.”

I reminded her of the comment she’d made this afternoon, “I thought you told me earlier today that you weren’t going to pull any more strings for me if I got into trouble.”

“No,” she volunteered. “What I said was, I wouldn’t pull any more strings until you and I had a date. Now, when you turn around, come back down to 115th Street and make a right. You go about half-way the block and there will be a building on the left with a wrought-iron fence. The gate is usually unlocked because people got tired of going downstairs to open it for visitors,” Ernestina said.

Looking around to make sure there were no police on the prowl, I made the quick u-turn at 133rd and Broadway before starting back down toward 115th Street, but then decided to cross over to Riverside Avenue.

“All right, I’ll see you in a minute; you can meet me downstairs,” I said.

The abrasiveness in her voice became distinctly more apparent, “Do you not hear very well, or do you just not pay attention to what I say when I’m talking?”

“What do you mean?” I questioned. “You just said take a right at 115th and your building is on the right, didn’t you?”

Ernestina scolded, “Well, that definitely answers my doggone question, now doesn’t it? I said the building will be on your left; and I’m not coming downstairs,” she repeated. “The gate should be unlocked. It usually is.”

More to annoy her than anything else, I asked, “What’s the building number?”

Being funny, “It’s zero-zero Iron Gate,” she said. “You won’t be able to see the number on the building because the street lamp is out. That’s why I told you to look for the Iron Gate. Or were you not listening then either?”

“Truth is,” I replied. “You have such a sexy voice I just like to hear you say everything twice.”

She joked, “And, to think, all this time I thought you were just hard of hearing.”

“Nope, I simply enjoy listening to the sweet melodies you sing,” I said. “I be hanging on your every word.”

“Apparently not,” she said. “I gave you my number nearly a week ago and still ended up having to call you to get a date. I guess you don’t like hanging very much.”

“Aw, come on, babe. Can’t we get past that? I feel like I’m in front of the parole board every time you bring that mess up,” I said.

“All right, I’ll leave it alone…for now,” she noted. “Speaking
of alone, where are you?”

“Trying to find a place to park,” I said.

“Dang that was pretty quick. How fast you driving?” she asked.

“Well I actually came back Riverside Ave. past Grant’s Tomb to avoid all the traffic lights. Figured I’ve kept you waiting long enough,” I explained.

“Why thank you for being so considerate,” she commented.

“So, you still not coming downstairs?” I asked.

“There you go not listening again. How many times are you going to make me repeat myself? Come up the stairs and turn left…its number 2-0-6,” she insisted.