If Walls Could Talk

                          It's fitting, that winter was the time of year in which I met Jacell. Winter is a funny season, always unpredictable, seemingly cold while secretly having the potential for warmth. Jacell was that way. To this day, I believe it was by fate that we met. Because during the long grey winter of my 14th year, that was the one thing both he and I shared.
                   I moved to the town of Roseville with my father when I was eight years old, and grew as a shadow that blended silently away into the cobblestone sidewalks. My father was a local politician, highly acclaimed by the people of our town, but the name of his daughter, the name of Kizzi Jones, was rarely more than a fleeting thought. I convinced myself that I didn't care. My father was a busy man, and the city was a bustling place, and I was an obligation that they didn't have the time for. That was the way of it, and I'd learned to accept. Until I met Jacell, I'd never even allowed myself to think about it.I chose solitude over the social life. I had an entire city to explore, and with a single parent who was always on the job, my boundries faced no threat of limitations. With the end of each long school day came the clanging of the bell, sounding to me like a king's glorious fanfare. It was an announcement of freedom---my freedom---however temporary it may be. It was the sound that granted me entry to a whole new world, to a thousand wonderful stories that lay hidden in the history of Roseville's past.
                   Our town had a long-running and prestigious reputation, but in my eyes, its star qualities were the historic buildings. Those dear, old structures: some fashioned from plain brick, others bearing such extravagant architecture that they seemed fit for a queen to board in. From an early age, those buildings had been my friends, my teachers. many had been transformed into elegant museums, while others were shut up and left to gather dust, until their names and legacies slowly faded from the lips and minds of the city folk. It was these silent, stony entities that I turned to. The museums: schollarly and proud in their bright lights and heated halls, filled with modern visitors were beautfiul indeed, but the sancitity was gone from them. The abandoned were my loves---the air within them cold, yet heavy with the people and the voices that had once settled there. Their pasts remained untouched. Creeping down corridors armed with nothing but a flashlight on a chain, I felt as if I had gone back in time. I was an explorer, joined body and soul with a being wiser than myself, who had stories to tell and many a lesson to teach.
                   I, Kizzi Jones, was an eager learner.
                   But that chilly mid-December, what I learned from jacell would affect me more than a thousand museum exhibits, or a million secret expeditions. It was a lesson that would serve as a beacon to light my way for a very long time afterwards. Ironically, it all began on the greyest day of the season.

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                   " Ms. Flanagan......" I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next, trying to appear polite to the woman seated before me. Not that it mattered---her full attention was drawn to her computer screen, where she was squinting at a jumble of text that I didn't even bother trying to decipher. Reluctantly, I tried again. " Ms. Flanagan, I----"
                   " Can I help you, dear?" Her voice was absent, her eyes still locked on the screen. Slowly, she turned her gaze upon me, stared at me uncomprehendingly.
                   " I....um.....I just wanted to tell my father that we got out early from school....Christmas holiday and all....I didn't get a chance to tell him this morning, and I---"
                   " Your father,dear?" Ms. Flanagan's eyes had strayed away once more, and she was frowning slightly at the screen before her. " And who's that?"
                   " Mr. Jones, ma'am." I didn't bother to mention that she'd seen me nearly every day for the past 3 years. She was my father's current secretary, after all.
                   " Oh....oh, that's right. Sorry, Lizzie dear."
                   " It's Kizzi."
                   " Of course. But I'm afraid your father is tied up at the moment. He's in the middle of an important meeting with the City Council. Something to do with that old hotel on 9th street. The J-C Building, I believe it's called. The old thing's been condemned for over a month now...it'll be good to see that horrible eysore brought down and out of her, that's for sure."
                   " Condemned?" The word tasted bitter in my mouth, and my tongue felt heavy. It was the 6th one that year. I knew the J-C Building well, though I'd never been inside. They said it had been quite the place back in its prime, a hotel of the highest aristocracy. There was a time, when Roseville was small, that the entirety of city life revolved around that building. Now it was to be reduced to rubble just like the ones before it.
                   " Can't they fix it up?" My voice sounded pleading, but Flanagan barely took notice.
                   " It's cheaper to tear it down. The city's been sohrt on money lately and we need the space for the new mall. It's a smart choice. Besides, that place is as old as the hills---it's a public hazard. Now run along, I've got more than enough work to do and so does your father. I'll tell him you came by. "
                   " But---"
                   " Not now, Izzy. Please, let me work. Go play with your little friends. No more school, you can do whatever you like now! Go on."
                   Frustrated, I gave up, left without another word of protest or even a feeble attempt at trying to correct my name. Or the fact that I had no " little friends" to go find. I pushed it all away and headed directly for 9th street, as if beckoned by some unseen force.
                   The J-C Building was placed on 9th street's corner, far away from the hustle and bustle of the holiday crowds. There it stood, a silent tower of cold, crumbling concrete, bricks and wooden beams. The school kids could have struck it rich with the stories they told about the old place, how whoever dared to enter would bef frozen in their tracks, trapped for all eternity inside its cold walls. At least, that's how my dramatic mind translated it. Their version was not quite so poetic---usually along the lines of: " If you go in there the ghosts will eat you, or if they don't, the hobos will." Because apparently, hobos were cannibals. Of course, they never told these stories to me personally. Most steered clear of me, the "weird girl" who spent so much time in the very kind of place they feared. Some even whispered that I was married to a hobo.
                   It was ridiculous, all of it. Shaking my head, I approached the door, which was boarded up and locked tightly shut. Taped across it was a sign that read:
                   PUBLIC NOTICE. KEEP OUT. STRUCTURE CONDEMNED BY ORDER OF ROSEVILLE CITY COUNCIL. HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS---UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY NOT PERMITTED.
                   Not permitted? Bah. I let myself in through an open window.
                   The hotel's interior made the outside seem cheerful and merry in comparison. The late evening sunlight filtered in through the windows opaque with grime and filth, a million flecks of dust dancing in its light. The floor looked as if it had once been very grand, perhaps stained and polished like a ballroom's stage. But now it was dull, covered in dust with jagged holes that led down into the basement's depths. Stepping carefully, I gazed about: at the shattered windows, the stripped concrete walls that were painted over every inch with harsh, vulgar graffiti. The acrid smell of paint fumes drifted towards me and I sneezed, starting as the noise echoed through the vast room. How empty it all seemed! It shouldn't have been that way, something told me as much. In the stillness of the space, I felt an unknown force, like the breath of life--subtle at first---then growing stronger around me with every minute that I stood there.
                   It was the ghosts of history, the spirits of the past.
                   It was the slightest flicker of movement that caught my eye, flitting about the edge of my vision like a candle flame challenged by a fierce wind. Startled, I froze. every warning I'd ever recieved about my unsupervised explorations flooded my mind, all the stories of shifty characters that were sure to be lurking in the shadows of every corner. Rapists, druggies who would do anything for a fix....
                   .....and hobos.
                   My heart raced, I struggled to breathe. I'd always written it all off as paranoia....oh, why hadn't I just listened?
                   " Who are you?" The question was sternly spoken, though the voice was soft and hoarse. Squinting, I tried to focus through the shadows, and found a pair of eyes watching me there. The figure moved again, stepped into the fading sunlight and gazed down at me from the top of a rotting staircase.
                   Never again in all my years will I witness a being as strange as he. He wore the guise of a young man, but the youthful face was pale and shadowed, with lines around his tired eyes. His hair was dark and tangled, sticking out unevenly around his head. He stood tall, with pride, but gripped the railing with one hand for support. A ragged blanket was draped around his shoulders, with a dingy shirt, tie and dress pants visible beneath. He looked sick, and cold, and completely exhausted, and my heart twinged with pity for him in spite of my fear.
                   " Get out of here," he growled, but the effect was ruined by the weakness of his voice. He coughed, swaying on his feet.
                   " Hey.....take it easy." Cautiously, I approached him, wincing as the wooden steps creaked in protest. I took his arm in an attempt to help him down the stairs, but he pulled away.
                   " Don't touch me. You're just like....just like the rest of them---you're nothing but trouble for me!" As he faced me I noticed something else that didn't mesh: faded, foreign markings that seemed to blend into his skin, just like the graffiti on the walls around us. He smelled of dust, and rotting wood, and the harsh chemical odor of spray paint. They were scents that filled the whole building, but standing before them, they were the strongest. As if that odd young man were somehow the source of it all.
                   " I'm sorry," I fumbled, trying not to stare.  " But I think you're mistaking me for someone else....."
                   " Oh, no. You're a human, and you're all alike these days. You've come here to....come here....to...." he groaned and fell against the railing of the staircase, breathing raggedly. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and helped him sit down, sinking onto the floor beside him.
                   " Are you okay?" I asked, when he had somewhat recovered. He laughed bitterly, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.
                   " Do I look okay to you? Look around!" He gestured to the space around us. "I'm sick as a dog---with a body like this, you would be, too!"
                   " Your....body?" I stared at him, then glanced about. Back to him. He must have seen the confusion on my face, for he took it upon himself to explain.
                   " Yes. My body. This building. This place that was once in such good shape has since then been smashed and marked and stained....imagine someone beating you with a baseball bat and then leaving you alone and weak in the rain and the cold. It's something like that. Only worse."
                   I became aware that my mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it.
                   " You can't mean that this hotel is your body."
                   " I can. And do."
                   " You're telling me that the old J-C Building is....you?" I tried from every angle to wrap my brain around the idea, but it just didn't add up. The man's face twitched with irritation, turned indignant.
                   " J-C Building indeed," he scoffed, disengaging himself from my arm and leaning his back against the railing for support. "My proper name, thank you very much, is Jacell. The Hotel Jacell."
                   I giggled. " That sounds like a girl's name. And it rhymes."
                   Jacell glared at me.
                   " I was named after my creator's wife, Jacell Malone. It's a name that I carry proudly, and I do not appreciate people botching it up. Miss Jacell was a fine woman. My creator built me for her." Jacell's face took on a faraway look, and he smiled softly for the first time. "Mr. Malone was a very rich man indeed, and he promised Miss Jacell the world, if only she would marry him. Of course she accepted, anyone could see that they were hoplessly in love. During their engagement he had me constructed, and then they were married in these very halls. You see that staircase?" he pointed, towards the crumbling steps from which I had ascended. "To see her walk down it, dressed all in white, she was vision to behold, let me tell you. I stood right up here where we are now, watching her, with the guests all laughing and dancing down below...."
                   Absently, tenderly, he touched the railing, his hand almost seeming to blend as one into the aged wood. He frowned,and his eyes grew dark.
                   " Things were like that for years," he said tonelessly. "I was never empty, never alone. Being a hotel had its benefits.....we had the strangest guests here, frome very culture and walk of life. Roseville always was a melting pot. I guess by giving me to her, in a way Mr. Malone really did give Miss Jacell her own little piece of the world. Just like he promised, eh?"
                   " It must have been wonderful," I said quietly. Jacell gave a half-shrug.
                   "It was. But then my creator and Miss Jacell both passed away, and I fell out of ownership....a few random proprietors took me over for awhile, but it was never the same. Finally in the 1980s they shut me down, but someone always managed to find their way in. I guess it's the curse that comes with being a hotel. As you can see, I've hardly been treated with respect."
                   I studied his face, how young he seemed, and resisited the urge to smooth his hair and rub the paint away, just as I tried to ignore the dust and rubble beneath me.
                   " Jacell, this building...I mean, you, were built in the late 1800s. That was over 100 years ago! So why...."
                   I trailed off. He was looking at me again. I wished he wouldn't do that. I always hated it when people stared at me that way. Like they were looking straight down into my soul.
                   " Why do I look so young?" he said at last, finishing my sentence for me. " Because I was once a youthful place. Back when this town was small, I was at its center. Everyone who was anyone knew about me, came here." He paused, scrutinizing me. "And now I have a question for you. Who are you? Why can you see me? Nobody else can. I'm not a ghost, I was never truly human. I choose to wear this form for its convience, but I'm no different from your soul inside its own body. And no one can see that. So why is it you can see me?"
                   " I'm pretty sure that's more than one question," I joked, but his face remained solemn. I sighed. "My name is Kizzi Jones. My dad works for the City Council here in Roseville, and I heard them talking about you, and I love to explore places like this. But the Council's been getting rid of them like crazy, lately. You're one of the last ones, Jacell. And now you've been condemned, too." I waited for a reaction, but his face remained impassive.
                   " People talk about you a lot," I continued, feeling awkward. " They say you have a vibe so cold and apalling that it'll give you nightmares for a month."
                   A flicker of amusement lit Jacell's eyes.
                   " And you, Kizzi Jones. What is your verdict?"
                   To be honest, I thought he was charming, in an odd sort of way. I thought he seemed brilliant, full of more stories than a whole library could probably hold. I thought it wasn't fair, that he was incapable of sharing them with anyone else. I thought of how much he was like me----a girl who had once been much younger at heart, less cynical---a girl with a mother who was still alive and a dad who was not estranged. A girl that people paid attention to. I realized how, like Jacell, I had come to fade into the shadows of my heart, distancing myself from others. I lived in the past, not wanting to face the present.
                   Jacell had no choice. But I did.
                   I never got the chance to tell him this. When those thoughts first flooded my mind was when the bulldozer came through, when the front wall came down. Above the roar of the machine and the cracks of splintering wood and brick, I heard Jacell cry out. Trembling, he slumped to the ground, clutching at his side that was now a gaping wound.
                   " Get out!" He yelled, pouring what strength he had left into the volume of his words. Below, the claws of the machine sunk deep into the rotting floorboards, tearing at them like paper. They didn't know I was there.  Jacell's teeth gritted in pain, his chest now too was mutiliated and exposed.
                   " Kizzi,listen to me," he demanded, his voice startlingly clear. " This isn't the end of anything. Nothing, no one, is going to last forever. Everyone has their time, and this is mine. But you're a bright girl, and this is your beginning. You still see things that most people can't anymore.Don't waste what you've got, the time you have. You know my story. You can share it with others.  You've got a voice, you've got a life ahead of you. Use them."
                   I just stared at him. My feet felt like lead.
                   " Kizzi......" his voice was growing weaker now, his eyes were threatening to close. " Did you hear what I said? Do you understand? Will you do what I said?"
                   Numbly, I nodded. The machine was getting louder, now. Jacell heard it, too.
                   " Then go. I've witnessed a lot in my day, but there's still one more thing I want to see. You, safe. Go, Kizzi Jones. Please."
                   I went. I ran, stumbling down the staircase , past the bulldozer whose opperators gaped at me, startled and confused. They switched the machine off, called out to me,but I kept  running, out the door, down the sidewalk.....
                   .....and straight into my father's arms.
                   It had been a long time since he'd hugged me, since we had even exchanged words with any more meaning than the daily weather forecast. He hugged me now, close against him, muttering into my hair. I thought I'd lost you, he whispered, on the verge of tears.I thought I'd lost you in there, Kizzi.
                   " I thought I'd lost me too," I mumbled. It didn't make any sense to anyone but me, but I didn't care. I spoke and he heard me, for the first time in years. Vaguely, as if in a dream, I felt a piece of paper being pressed into my hand. Pushing the hair away from my eyes, I blinked, my vision focussing, becoming clear as I read the printed words before me.
                   " On this day of December 24th, 2009, the Roseville City Council has unanimously decided to pass the request for the maintience and regular upkeep of the Hotel Jacell of 9th street, under grounds of high historic value to the public and the community."
                   Blinking back tears in disbelief, my eyes scanned down to the untidy sideways scrawl of my father's handwritten message below.
                   " Merry Christmas, Kizzi. We're going to give this old place a brand new start......and maybe it can be a new start for you and I as well."