Manny opened it because what else do you do when your building’s already on fire twice this year and the super’s response time is „sometime between never and when hell freezes over.“
The thing on his fire escape was about three feet tall, wearing what looked like a bar napkin toga, and holding a bottle of Jameson like it was a scepter.
„Hey,“ it said. „You got ice?“
Manny blinked. „You’re drunk.“
„I’m elfen drunk,“ the thing corrected, stumbling into his apartment without invitation. „There’s a distinction. Also, your fire escape is a death trap. I filed a complaint.“
„You filed a— what?“
„Complaint. With the building. Or the city. One of those. Look, do you have ice or not? This whiskey’s warm and I’m not an animal.“
Manny, because he was a New Yorker and this was somehow still not the weirdest thing that had happened to him this month, got ice. The elf – she, Manny decided, noticing the voice and the fact that she was currently trying to high-five his cat – introduced herself as Tinsel.
„Not my real name,“ she clarified. „That’s unpronounceable. Also, I’m not supposed to be here. Technically. But technically I’m also three whiskeys past caring.“
„Where are you supposed to be?“
„Elsewhere. You know. The in-between. The shimmer. The place where your lost socks go. Look, it’s complicated and I’m not doing it sober.“
Manny poured himself a drink because at this point it felt rude not to.
„So,“ he said. „Why my window? Why not, I don’t know, Central Park? Some nice tree? A museum?“
Tinsel snorted. „Trees are overrated. Museums charge admission. And Central Park? Please. That’s tourist elf territory. I’m a borough elf. Brooklyn. Specifically. I haunt bodegas and dive bars. Occasionally fire escapes.“
„You haunt bodegas.“
„I frequent bodegas. Haunting is so … spectral. I prefer loitering with intent.'“
She took another swig from the Jameson, then offered it to Manny’s cat, who wisely declined.
„Here’s the thing,“ Tinsel said, suddenly serious, which on a drunk elf looks like someone trying to remember their own name. „I’m not supposed to get drunk. Like, really not supposed to. There are rules. Ancient rules. ‚Don’t drink the mortal hooch,‘ ‚Don’t file false complaints with the housing authority,‘ ‚Don’t tell humans about the shimmer.‘ But here I am. Three whiskeys deep and I just cited municipal code at your super.“
Manny’s phone buzzed. Text from the super: „who keeps filing complaints about the fire escape. it’s fine.“
„That you?“
„Might’ve been.“
„Why?“
„Because it’s not fine, Manny. Look at it. It’s held together by hope and rust. One good sneeze and it’s a gondola to the sidewalk.“
Manny looked at the tiny, drunk creature in the bar napkin toga, who was currently using his remote as a pillow.
„You care about my fire escape.“
„I care about structural integrity“ she corrected. „Also, I like this building. Good bones. Bad management. Classic New York.“
She passed out somewhere around 3 AM, curled up next to the radiator like it was a long-lost friend. Manny covered her with a dish towel because it seemed like the thing to do.
In the morning, she was gone. The Jameson bottle was empty on the table. The fire escape, Manny noticed, had been quietly reinforced with something that looked like starlight and duct tape.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number:
*Fixed the thing. Don’t tell anyone. Also, you’re out of decent whiskey. Fix that. —T“
Manny didn’t believe in magic. But he did believe in good contractors, and whatever Tinsel had done to that fire escape, it wasn’t coming down anytime soon.
He bought better whiskey that night. Just in case.
The end.
Or: To be continued, depending on whether Tinsel files another complaint.