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The Residents of Cranberry Street – Part 01

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed. ‘Tis almost fairy time.

—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

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George Washington says… 1

Me? I’m a one-dollar bill from the United States of America. A sharp look, don’t you think? First, take a look at the front. There’s the distinguished face of the first president, George Washington. On the back, there’s a stylish green geometric pattern. Yes, I’m the most widely used and cherished bill in this country.

Old, you say? Tearing in the middle, the corners rounded and tattered?

That’s right. I’m an old bill. In other words, a living witness to history! You see, it all began fifty years ago. Fresh off the press at the newly opened NY Mint, I was printed alongside many of my companions and entered the world.

A lot has happened since then! One sunny morning on a corner of Broadway, I helped a young aspiring actress buy a bag of bread crusts. One night, I was used in a gangster’s gambling game at a bar in Little Italy, where whiskey spilled on my edge and left me feeling a bit tipsy myself.

Oh, and one evening at the Federal Reserve Bank, I even encountered the infamous bank-robbing gang, The Kid & D’Artagnan Brothers, known from newspapers and wanted posters. The young Black man, D’Artagnan, boasted, “This is a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck! You lot can brag about seeing us!” He fired a machine gun, and I was utterly terrified. The fierce shootout between the gang and the police left a pile of corpses and a pool of blood. One of the gang members was riddled with bullets right before my eyes, dying on the spot. Even for a villain, it was a brutal end.

One lazy Sunday afternoon, I climbed the Statue of Liberty with a young couple and their child. It was a wonderful experience. Oh, yes, back then, there were stairs inside, and you could climb up to look out through the eyeholes. Together with the young family, I gazed at the dazzling blue sky and the breathtaking view, my heart full to the brim.

On the way back, the couple used me to buy a toy for their child. That was where we parted ways.

So, you see, I’ve spent a long time drifting from one nameless New Yorker’s life to another, moving quickly to the next hand, living the life of a wanderer. Well, it’s the fate of a bill, after all.

I drifted here about ten or twenty years ago. This place is 37 Orange Street, Brooklyn—the Druid House. It’s a rare single-story building for this area. The interior is eerie, with hidden doors here and there. An odd place, to be sure.

The owner is a kind elderly person who rarely goes out anymore. Well, I’m an old geezer myself, so I’ve been tucked away with other bills in the back of a milk bottle in the dim living room, spending my twilight years in peace. I’ve heard there’s been a big war outside, but I know little about recent events.

It seems my days of adventure are over, and I’ll fade away quietly here.

Oh?

Someone’s outside. Visitors are rare. There’s quite a commotion. What’s going on?

“This is the house, Victorique. Number 37.”

“The Druid House.”

“I knew we’d need a chair.”

“Ah!”

“Kujou, what are you doing? Stretching in someone’s garden in the morning?”

“No, I’m not!”

What’s all the racket? I’m feeling sleepy.

“That’s a window! Be careful, you’ll fall!”

“The Book of Kells. The most beautiful book in the world, they call it.”

“What did we need again?”

“Um, a chair.”

The rattling sounds outside continued. I heard the voices of the earlier pair and the homeowner.

The front door creaked open. Footsteps shuffled closer. Three voices drew near.

The living room door rattled. Oh my, it seems they’re coming in here.

I don’t know what’s happening, but this won’t do. A talking bill would draw undue attention. Young one, I must keep quiet.

Until next time!

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Chapter 1: The Residents of Cranberry Street

One sunny summer morning.

At a Brooklyn street corner stretched out a black-and-white cityscape that resembled a finely crafted toy town. A metal plaque reading Cranberry Street, dangling from a flower-bud-shaped streetlamp, clattered in the summer breeze.

Narrow, modest apartment buildings, three to five stories tall, lined either side of the street. Potted flowers placed at each entrance added splashes of color to the otherwise muted surroundings. Pale pink blossoms adorning the roadside trees swayed hesitantly in the wind.

The scene felt plucked from an old European fairy tale.

The apartment at number 14 was particularly small, leaning slightly. On the stone steps at its entrance, a girl with short red hair and freckled cheeks swung a baseball bat with gusto. She wore a local team’s cap tilted to one side and a pair of shorts. Imagining herself hitting a home run, she shielded her eyes with one hand and gazed triumphantly at the bright summer sky.

Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang!

The sound of carpentry came from a room on the fourth floor, facing the street. The girl froze mid-pose, her gaze drifting from the sky to the fourth-floor window.

“What’s going on up there?” she wondered.

A bicycle, its front and back loaded with milk bottles, screeched to a stop nearby. A black-haired girl wearing a white cap emblazoned with MILK in red greeted her with a grin.

“Morning, caretaker! Want some milk?”

“Oh, hi there. Um, one sweetened for me, three unsweetened for the family on the first floor, and…”

The caretaker grabbed the milk bottles, her eyes flicking back to the fourth-floor window where the hammering persisted.

“New tenants moved in last night,” she said. “One’s an Eastern guy, kind of cute. But the other one… She’s unbelievably gorgeous, like nothing I’ve ever seen, even in movies!” She held her palm parallel to the ground at chest level.

The milk girl squinted up at the window. “So, she’s tiny?”

“I rubbed my eyes and checked three times! She’s so beautiful it’s terrifying. I couldn’t sleep last night. Had nightmares! Think I’ll get used to it eventually? Oh, and throw in two bottles of sweetened milk for the folks on the fourth floor. My treat today. Morning, sis!”

The milk girl turned to see who she was addressing.

Across the street, a girl who looked almost identical to the caretaker—same red bobbed hair, same freckles—rushed out of a shop with a sign that read BROOKLYN BAGEL.

“Hey, sis! A real looker moved into the fourth floor. She’s so stunning it’ll haunt your dreams!” Again, she held her hand at chest level.

“So, she’s tiny?” the baker said.

All three of them squinted up at the fourth-floor window. The hammering continued, stopping and resuming randomly.

“You know what? I’ll take them some bagels too. Two should do it.” The caretaker tossed her bat onto the sidewalk and dashed toward the bakery.

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On the fourth floor of the apartment, in a unit facing the main street, was an old kitchen just beyond a battered pink door.

Inside the shabby unit—with its wooden floorboards, tattered pink wallpaper, crumbling fireplace, faucet twisted like a snake’s lifeless remains—stood an indeterminate wooden object. Possibly a table, though it was hard to say. Kazuya Kujou, a young, Eastern man with jet-black hair and dark eyes, was bent over it, hammering away with utmost focus.

Beside him sat a medium-sized suitcase, atop which lay Victorique, sprawled out flat on her stomach in her nightclothes.

Her emerald eyes blinked drowsily beneath long lashes. She wore a fluffy nightgown adorned with alternating layers of white and pale green muslin frills, paired with a matching round cap. Her long, unbound hair spilled onto the floor like a cascade of silk, forming intricate, almost magical spirals. On her dainty feet were lovely slippers adorned with layers of lace.

Victorique’s glossy, cherry lips parted, and a deep, raspy voice, tinged with irritation said, “Kujou, return my bed immediately.”

Kazuya looked up from his work. “Pretty practical, huh?” he said sharply. “A large suitcase, that with a few tweaks, transforms into a simple bed. Then in the morning, you just switch it back like this.”

Bang, bang, clatter!

“Done! Ta-da! Victorique, behold! It’s a desk. A masterful illusion!”

“Good for you, Kujou. Enjoy your magical desk. Meanwhile, I will mourn the tragic loss of my bed and lie here until the end of days.”

“Oh, stop it. Move over. That suitcase also doubles as a chair.”

“What did you say?” she huffed, rubbing her eyes with both hands as she sat up.

Then, like a cat, she climbed onto the suitcase-turned-desk and sprawled out again, her frilly nightgown cascading around her.

Kazuya opened the medium-sized suitcase, retrieved a small cypress box, and closed it again. Placing the suitcase upright to use as a makeshift chair, he sat down facing the desk with his back straight, then opened the box.

Victorique moved her head slightly to peer into the box. There were banknotes, envelopes, stationery, and writing tools from a small island nation in the East.

“Oh? Did I put this bill in here?” Kazuya mused, before slipping the money into his wallet. He laid out stationery and began drafting a short letter to inform his family back home of his safe arrival in the New World.

Victorique observed him for a while, then sat up and snatched a piece of stationery.

“Writing a letter too?” Kazuya asked with a smile.

She tossed the paper aside. “No.”

Bored, she began rolling from side to side on the desk, teetering dangerously close to falling off. The frills of her light green muslin gown swayed with each roll.

Finally, she stopped and pulled out a small blue portable radio, turning it on to pass the time. The morning news crackled through the speaker.