Tag: Short Story

Results Of The Interview

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The homeless man was lurched forward again, hands-to-feet, chin-to-knees, asleep. He sat 3 ft off the wall of a diner. Opposite him was a parking garage; cars eased down the one-way street to enter or pass it. On either side of the street, pedestrians ambled, oblivious to me and the sleeping buffoon. Despite his earth brown skin and dark clothes, from a distance, he chucked light like a comet. His ability perturbed me, for I was unsure of just what was blinding me. Was it the torn, overturned, Styrofoam containers, glistening white in the city morning? His pale, disfigured Nikes and mismatched socks? The orange-green substance usually beside or in front of him that hopefully wasn’t what I thought it was?

I could never look right at him. Why would you stare at the sun? But I thought about him a lot in the brief moments our bodies shared the sidewalk. Never the big Why? or the accusations—Faker, Drug Addict, Dealt a Wrong Hand. I wanted to know, What’s Next? Obviously his dreams held some answers—for the realm of unconsciousness unsheathed spiteful swords and unmasked adorned desires—but not the full picture. Only with temperate meditation could his latent aspirations be sussed out. He had nothing but time. Surely I could rouse him into ponderance.

With one hand shielding my eyes from his glow, I used my other and yanked my cheeseburger wrap out my backpack. It was a day old, and I could always buy another. I dropped it on his back. When he continued snoring I sighed and, begrudgingly, deigned to shake him.

“Gub daye,” he said. His head rolled slowly upwards til its aim found my face. Jesus, what makes druggies talk like that?

“Hey man,” I said. I squatted to his level. “What’s up?”

Like a zombie he unraveled into a sitting position. Torso exposed, his radiance had reduced. He was just a normal man now.

“’Scuse me, do you haf a few dollars? I need sum bus monie.”

Normal enough.

“Listen, uh… sir. I have five dollars. And this cheeseburger wrap. All yours if you could answer a couple questions for me.”

He sipped on a breeze. Belly full, he smacked his chapped lips, as if assessing the air’s taste. Then he let out a long, sputtering wheeze, like a car choking on gas. I jumped back, shielding my face. I thought I’d see smoke flying around us. After a few coughs, he looked prepared to respond.

“Why, tank you. I appreceete that.” He held out his palm. The cheeseburger wrap was lying beside him. Untouched.

I ignored his hand and began my investigation.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years? Or five years. Five days?”

He blinked, his mouth agape. Before he could start, I persisted.

“Will you still be on this sidewalk? Will you find blankets? What’ll you do once the 15th street church gets shutdown? Where will you crash for the night? What are your goals? What are your hobbies? What hobbies do you want to learn? What do you want to do?”

He blinked a few more times. It wasn’t until his silence that I realized I had been shouting. While cars cruised by, passersby opposite my sidewalk stopped to gawk at me. Facing the homeless man, I flicked my eyes toward them. I did my best to keep my composure, but my fingers grew tremulous. To keep them steady I gripped my thighs. Heat waved over my face and forearms. Hairs stood on end as cold sweat splotched my underarms.

Today was Tuesday and Gary, my boss, was expecting me ten minutes ago. At Gary’s office I’d be holed up in a den with a sock on the table, dirty dishes in the clean cabinets, faucets that were caked with grime, and a wall of books so packed they were actually spilling off the shelves. The bronze floor was eclipsed by dust and muck. To this office I came every week, applying for grants on Gary’s behalf or chasing reluctant business partners. As ecstatic as I was to pick up the weekly grind, some issues dogged my plans. A bitter gathering of nuisances.

I had never missed a class, not even on those occasions Professor emailed in advance, ‘class not mandatory, attend at your own risk.’ There hadn’t been a single club meeting I skipped: not the research collaborative, not the programs board, not the wellness center’s indulgent sex and drug seminars. I was a consistent talker in class, quick to correct the mosaics professor when he confused teleology with destiny, or the sustainabilities T.A. when she said ecocentrism would better humanity. My efforts notwithstanding, not a soul thanked me for throwing myself over the line, exerting energy from my body to better their lives.

Sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eyes. The wet bits of sodium stung my sclera. I was still bent forward, facing the homeless man, but the strangers watching me lost interest and continued walking. My shaking fingers began to calm, so I let go of my thighs. I eyed the ground below me. The tiny orange and black and red dots of the off-white sidewalk. Minerals incased in concrete? What was their purpose? How did they get there?

“Mah mom told me, ‘don’t talk to strangers,’” The homeless man said. “But you look like you need a friend.”

A droplet rolled into my eye. I looked at him. He was standing now.

“Ahm Jerold. And you are?”

“I’m… a student.”

* * *

A white glare shot down from the sky and penetrated my eyelids. Closed, I saw red, and open, I saw burning white. My chest heaved with each step I made walking down 13th Street, annoyed by the May heatwave. Ironic. My furrowed brow only exacerbated the heat. And my shorts and short-sleeved shirt hardly cooled me off. Once I reached the corner of 13th and Sansom, by the fashion boutique right next to Gary’s office, which I quit, I looked down Sansom Street. At the far end of the block was the TD Bank I passed whenever I headed to work. Then there was that stretch of road cars traversed, the parking lot, the dry cleaners next to it, some back alleys, the diner across the street. Absent was Jerold. In the months since our introduction, black paint from the nearby street sign was clawed off—done I assumed by another homeless man—people gave a bag of oranges or croissants to us when they saw me against the wall, next to him, and we shared drinks while I was on my lunchbreaks.

I turned and looked down 13th Street, by the Wawa and the crochet store. College kids, construction workers, suited men, but no Jerold. I picked at the knots in my hair. Oh well. We had a good thing going. Who else would listen to my musings on cause and effect? On how the minutia of our actions cannonballed into overwhelming changes we couldn’t comprehend later on? And that’s not even mentioning quantum physics. But with the homeless man gone, I would no longer be subjected to his foul stench, which I unfortunately became nose blind to. Imagining the sick particles from his body hovering down my nasal passageways, the invisible aerosols sticking to the little hairs, bacteria of various strains, thousands of each, infecting my healthy bacteria and healthy cells—I shuddered at the totality of it. If I mulled over it long enough I would go mad.

The sun’s rays continued to seize my body. The humidity made my skin feel like sandpaper. For a man like me on a day like this, all that was left was to buy some ice cream. Just up 14th Street was a Dairy Queen. I walked to it.

Mid-step my arms got squeezed to my sides. Try as I might, my foot couldn’t move another inch, and I felt hot breath press against my ear.

A raspy voice, like a taunting phantom, said “Heeey” and I shivered. I broke from his embrace and pushed him back a few feet.

“Hey! Watch your grip. What did I tell you about touching elbows?”

Jerold laughed mischievously.

“Sorey man. My bad.” Without blinking he asked, “What’s fer lunch today?”

I brushed off my shoulders fervently—a vain effort. Whatever sickness traveled with him had long infected my body. By now I was probably immune.

“Today we’re getting Dairy Queen. In the mood for a sandwich?”

He nodded. So we made our way there. People still stared when they saw me with him. Some looks of contempt, some of shock, some of respect, a couple of disgust. But what did it matter? It wasn’t like I did anything wrong. I even left him ten dollars whenever we parted. What he did with that money I didn’t know or care.

We reached the DQ and I waited for him to open the door for me. He smiled dumbly, and I wondered why telepathy couldn’t be a thing, why people required so much prodding to get anything done. I opened it and we walked to the counter. After we placed our orders we took the first booth by the window.

“So,” Jerold started. “Anything new you’re up to?”

I looked up from my folded hands.

“Of course. One always must maintain vigilance. The worlds of knowledge never sleep.”

He smiled.

“How is yor college going?”

“Good.”

Jerold was silent, expecting me to say more. I sighed.

“I’ve a semester left til I get my degree. BA in technical writing. The knowledge bus stops along the way were enjoyable, but nothing would please me more than having the ordeal concluded. Classmates can be quite petulant.”

“But I thought you biked to school?”

“No, Jerold. Knowledge bus stops. It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh.”

The store became a bit noisier. I looked toward the front counter. High school kids were gathered there, noisy and lackadaisical like I’d expect. They stared at the homeless man.

“And you, Jerold?” He looked at me, broken from a trance. “What future plans do you have? Have you devised a plan to get a home? A steady income source?”

He shook his head.

“By the way, have any monie? Maby, fifthteen instead of ten? Have a twonie?”

“No, Jerold. You can’t. My fee to you is one of pittance. It’s also incentive to keep you around.”

“Buht please!”

A woman at the front called out our orders. I walked up, took them, and returned to the booth. We both got hoagies and ice cream. My vanilla scoop with rainbow sprinkles sat in a cup. The push of my tongue against my teeth while saliva secreted from glands left, right, and above… how crass. But I couldn’t help myself. The divots imprinted along the scoop’s bottom, the hard disk hugging its perimeter, its smooth circular top, dotted with bright sprinkles—I lunged with my spoon, a carnivore grin spread from ear-to-ear. So crass. Eating dessert before the main course. Jerold picked at his strawberry scoop, staining his gray beard pink.

“Buht, man. How will I get around? I got-, I got-” His eyes flicked to the ceiling. They ticked left and right. Just as quickly he dropped them on me. “I got ta visit my family!”

Some snickering came from the side of the room. The high school kids were bunched at a table, not even trying to conceal their amusement. Let them laugh.

“You don’t have any family.” I gulped an icy scoop. “And if you do, you still don’t. Not until you get off your bum and work. I gave you suggested readings. Who wouldn’t want to hire a smart man?”

But Jerold still looked antsy. He knew I wouldn’t give him the money, and his face shriveled like he had to pee.

“I hope you’re not going to waste that ice cream,” I said.

He looked around the room and started shivering.

“Jerold, what do you do with the money I give you?”

“Hey old-head!” a snickering voice yelled. “Why you shakin’?”

I looked to side of the room. The high schoolers were becoming brazen.

The boy looked at us and said, “You got a problem? I take yo food if you don’t want it.”

A girl his table responded, “Would you stop that? He obviously don’t wanna be bothered.”

“So? He up in here stinkin’ up the place, and he barely touching his ice cream.” They all chuckled.

“I think he just need to get lit up,” another boy said. “Or get some crack.”

I spooned the last of my ice cream. And with that, I was finished. If Jerold couldn’t help himself or help me, why should I help him? I grabbed my hoagie and got out of the booth. By the time I made it to the door, they were throwing trash at him. The woman at the front and her coworkers scrambled to discipline the miscreants.

I felt cooler thanks to the ice cream. Still, the heat seared my skin within seconds. I resolved to go home and eat my hoagie in comfort. As for henchman, Jerold was a lost cause, but I could always find another.

Nostalgia Knots

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In the dim light, black dust drifted just above the floor of the shop. Specks of it crept from nowhere and vanished just as quickly—twirling and hovering about. They lingered by a red armchair that awaited the day’s clients. Clumps of it littered the floor around the chair, Clumpy knots fastened by thousands of curls. Their umbral shade was imposing. Olive fragrance emanated from them, mingling with the shop’s cologne and worn shoe smell. The curtains were closed, and the lime walls had three paintings fixed on their concrete surface: a dark-skinned DJ and a woman dancing; puzzle pieces approaching completion; an onyx continent unfurled across white-blue foam.

The owner swept silently. Paint chipped blades gyrated from above, and that black dust evaded capture. Besides swipes from the broom and the fan’s thrumming, it was dead quiet. A lamp beside the desk mirror lit the shop and accosted gray light peering through the curtains. Facing the desk, atop the console table, a flat screen droned, mute, playing a court skit from The Richard Pryor Show.

The owner managed to get some large clumps off the floor. Other pieces were spread out or stuck on the tiles. It was tougher than usual, his shoulders stiff from a bad night’s rest. He hoped the day’s clients had stories to tell.

Bells chimed as the glass door swung open. “Hey, Mr. Tristen.”

Phillip turned and straightened his back, searching for the unscheduled entrant. It was a young man, his hair in a fade that’d been curled with a twist sponge. A thin jacket sagged on his shoulders. It was carbon around the abdomen, lead from the chest up, the inside collar vermillion. He knew that jacket.

“Heyo, Bobby!” He let his broom thwack against the wall and gave him a pound. “What’s good young brother? You’ve had a growth spurt.”

“I know, I know. I’m thirteen now.”

“Thirteen? Boy, you done grown so tall. You not done yet?”

Bobby laughed, his face folding into a crescent so familiar to Phillip. Phillip turned, eyeing his unkempt floor and his muted TV.

“You come for a cut Bobby? Your hair’s already fresh. Sit your jacket off, I can shape you up.”

“No Mr. T. Just wanted to catch up. Haven’t seen the place in a minute.”

He walked around Phillip to the TV, then scanned the milkcrate of books below and beside it.

“You always had good reads,” he said. “Remember that book of world records?”

“Yeah. They weren’t records. More like world’s weirdests. Ripley’s Believe it or Not.”

“Like that woman with the fingernails?”

“Pshh, don’t remind me. Every step she’d take would make the ground screech like a chalkboard.”

Bobby picked up one book at a time. He opened, flipped through, saw just about all the pictures, then set it back. He turned to Phillip.

“I could bring chalk if you want. Could scrape some on your window. It’ll be like she’s here to visit you.”

Phillip marched over and waggled a fist.

“Now I’ll beat your butt if you do that.”

“Are you sure? I know you love screeching noises.”

The two giggled, wrinkles tight on their mouths and foreheads. Laughter bounded from wall-to-wall, filling the soundless shop with life. When it quieted, Phillip decided the day was young and he ought to have some sound instead of his mental acrimony. He unmuted the TV.

“So Mr. Tristen, how the customers treatin’ ya?”

“Oh you know. Same stuff as always…” he said, walking towards the entrance. He adjusted the curtains to let in natural light. On the windowsill was a ceramic pot. It was coil shaped and painted blue, shiny in the light. Potted in it were bamboo stalks—for good luck.

“…every time I’m giving one guy a cut, another comes in fifteen ahead of schedule. Like they shouldn’t have to wait.” He shook his head. “But the funny ones. I forgive em.”

“At least no one’s causing any beef.”

“No, no fights break out here. The worst are the loiterers. I usually do appointments only, but that doesn’t stop some gutsy fool from tryin’ to squeeze in.” He hopped on the windowsill. “How about you Bobby? Breezing through your classes?”

Bobby waved a hand.

“I have to. Mom would have my head if I got anything below a B.” He paused. After clearing his throat, he stood and said plainly, “I’m moving. And not to a different neighborhood this time. We’re going to New York.”

Phillip recoiled.

“Dang, that’s a hike.” He put a hand to his chin. “You excited about it?”

Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference, I guess. Either way I’m going to high school next year.” The two knew each other for some time, so it wasn’t hard for Phillip to see Bobby’s furtive urgency. For one, his insistence on nostalgia. Then there was his tapping foot. It tapped at this moment, to an incongruous rhythm parallel to his unspoken thoughts.

Phillip dropped his hands. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

His eyes shrank to marbles. He shrugged again.

Sitcom laughter rang from the TV. Richard Pryor, who was playing a Southern, racist lawyer, made a failed attempt to solicit evidence from a ditzy and duplicitous victim; instead of saying where she was when her supposed assault occurred, she described the beginning of Alice and Wonderland.

Bobby’s home the last three years was a cramped, rented space. It was a rectangle: two floors, vertical, and as narrow as a back alley. His parents’ plan was to save wherever possible so they could pay for his college. Phillip didn’t dare ask what the New York home was like.

Instead he made a hard blink and tried to focus. “It’s not easy. You’re not only gonna have more freedom than before, you’ll be in a totally unknown environment. My advice, start off slow.”

“It’d be easier to do that if my friends were there. I’ve never ridden a bus before, I don’t know any hangout spots in NY.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Your dad’ll show you the bus route to school. But when you have some free time, just walk around your block. Get familiar with the place and who knows. It might start to feel like home.” Bobby’s gaze began to soften. “As for friends, keep contact with the ones you got. You’re getting older. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to come back and visit.”

With a brusque exhale Bobby nodded, then eyed the room. He looked at the paintings—his favorite being the DJ, Phillip remembered—and the TV and for a few moments the red chair before he finally turned and asked, “Why didn’t you sweep up yesterday?”

“Hah, just tired is all.”

“That’s it?”

Phillip hopped off the windowsill and waltzed to his broom.

“Yup. Needed to catch up on some sleep. It’s good for your brain, you know. What’s it, around 75% of memories recorded during REM sleep?”

Bobby cocked his head. “Huh.”

“Don’t worry bout it. Stuff you think about when you’re older—my age older. Have you decided what you’re gonna do when you grow up?”

“I dunno. I could be one of those people that gets paid to play videogames. But I should just get money—for free, for being myself.”

“Seriously. What do you like to do that makes you happy?”

“Alright, alright. Well, I like to talk a lot. Kids in class like to listen to me, even the teacher sometimes. I guess I would be a lawyer.”

“That’s the ticket! You’ll be an excellent lawyer. Use that creativity of yours. Go and tell the jury a story.”

With a wide smile and between laughs, Bobby said, “Yeah. Yeah I will. Thanks Mr. T.”

Phillip dipped his head in approval. He was slightly startled when he noticed Bobby, laughing, was backing away towards the front door.

“Alright Mr. Tristen. Imma head out.”

“Okay Bobby, you take care now.”

Bobby waved and bells chimed at his opening the door.

Phillip threw a hand up and called out, “Hey Bobby. Come down to visit from New York sometime.”

The door shut.

The ceiling fan gyrated, incessantly, but it could hardly be heard. The TV eclipsed all sounds. Gusts swirled to each corner of the shop, and on the floor those black clumps bumbled liked tumbleweed. Phillip sighed and retrieved his broom. Lifting his shoulders made the joints crack but swaying them made them stiff. How would he get this hair off the floor?

Gritting his teeth, he swept.

Within Arm’s Reach

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Work uniform buttoned to the brim, perspiring, and ready to swoon, Phoebe Watkins couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

She wanted to choke him.

“…If you’re having problems cooperating with Alyssa, I’d be more than happy to help. If you would just speak up and tell me. But your tardiness is unacceptable.”

Stanley’s biceps were larger than his head. His head was a rock, held by a sturdy, symmetrical pedestal of a neck. Buzzcut, completely symmetrical. Yes, Stanley was tidy in every way—which was probably why his personality was as dull as a smooth stone.

The formal figure gestured at her while he talked, as if she were still listening. They were in the postal lobby, an employee lounge/office in the USPS headquarters. Dense, windowless and lit by dim orange light the room set the mood exquisitely. Phoebe alone with her boss. Such a sensual scene, but he’d never see it. Three years ago when she first got the job (and moved to godforsaken Philly!) she saw his bodybuilder bod and asked him to take her out for a drink. Stanley’s response: ‘Sorry mam, but alcohol is no good for the brain.’ Which, okay. Ripped guy was a health nut. She could work around that. So when she accosted him a second time, tipsy, demanding to go to his house and he replied ‘I’m just not that interested in a relationship’ she nearly flipped out! Then Stanley gave her a strike for drinking on the job.

“Alright Ms. Watkins.” Stanley said. “It’s 4:45. Alyssa is covering the houses you missed this morning. Be on time tomorrow.” Brown hair, blue eyes and balsa wood colored skin. Where would she find a combination like that again?

Phoebe shook her head still gripping her sudsy toothbrush. No time to reminisce over the sexy stubborn boss. It was 6 something AM. Gotta clock in before 7 something. She grabbed a floss pick and worked magic on her teeth.

* * *

Several swift minutes later Phoebe was fully dressed. Her USPS employee uniform was packed in a black leather book bag. She was at the dressing mirror beside her bed admiring the outfit she wore. Skinny jeans—‘comfortable-tight,’ nicely exaggerating her derrière—a white silk dress lined with bright green stripes and a dark green fleece jacket. Who says you can’t be in style at 45? She felt like a million bucks!

Slowly, she felt doubt creep in. She gently brushed her hand across her face, over her jagged dimples which protruded like tectonic plates. Over her round nose that was sturdy when left alone but a hollow bone when moved. Her hand ended at her eyelashes, which were longer than a normal woman’s eyelashes. Darker too, which was a chore when she wanted to decorate them. Despite her outfit looking fresh Phoebe couldn’t look past her skin. Smooth, copper colored, free of erosion. Beautiful. Yet after all these years she was just not accustomed to it. She could drown in that sea of unfamiliarity if she focused too hard.

“One last glance,” Phoebe said to herself, wary of time. A last glance at her 5’10 tallness, teal eyes and brunette straight hair. Someday she’d have a man picking apart these details for her.

“Time to go.” She said.

She searched her dresser for a charm to match her outfit. A bracelet would do. Most of what she had was silver, though she didn’t get to wash the brown spots off of everything. Phoebe took pleasure in the fact that most of her selection she shoplifted. Getting away with theft was catharsis for her miserable life.

Phoebe picked up a thick bracelet with a green gem in the middle. She snagged this prize after she bought some cheap earrings. ‘Buy one get one flee.’ She smiled. She put on the bracelet, tied on her black hijab, snatched her book bag and ran outside to catch the Septa bus. As fun as stealing was, she did feel remorse. Penny would never shoplift. Or have to wash her jewelry.

* * *

“Watch out! The Muslim Brotherhood has arrived!”

Phoebe let out a sigh. She got to work on time, clocking in at 7 something on the dot. Unfortunately her getup didn’t garner any attention from men during her commute. Maybe it was the hijab—religious devotion doesn’t exactly scream sexy. Though she was not well versed in the faith, she needed the hijab. It was saving her life.

The words were said by Alyssa. She leaned against the mailboxes of the postal lobby, arms crossed. Grinning. Alyssa Ettel was 47 and racist. She’d scowl at any brown person within fifteen feet of her. To avoid them, she requested her delivery route be moved to Roxborough. She was 5’6 and chubby with dirty blonde hair that was actually dirty. So dirty that it looked like she got done working the field in front of a trailer park, accruing soil and twigs amid frazzled strands of hair. Unlike Phoebe she was born in Philly; she was accustomed to the city’s filth. She would often rave about how she was going to the pub after work, or that she’d prefer to have cheap booze than work with Phoebe. It was ironic how uncivilized she was, considering her middle-class upbringing. Meanwhile Phoebe showered twice a day, cleaned her home several days in a week and was dirt poor. Alyssa didn’t know this about Phoebe, but tortured her regardless. Stanley only let her behavior pass because of her tremendous pride. He respected pride, even if it was foolish pride.

“White trash, good to see ya.” Phoebe said. “D’you pawn off that baby so you could continue your abortion streak?”

“No, I kept her. Decided she had worth unlike you. Don’t think I don’t notice you staring at Stanley’s ass. He’s never going to notice you.”

Phoebe knew she shouldn’t act aggressive since Alyssa was reactive. But—

“How’s your mom been ‘Lyssa? Bet she can’t get enough of you. Cooped up in her home cause’ you don’t know how to SAVE. All that money spent on private school and you decided ‘uh, no thanks college.’ You’d rather kick it with your man. Except, he didn’t want you after that abortion failed. Six years as a mailwoman. She must be so proud!”

As sudden as she said it a force knocked Phoebe backwards. Her vision rushed from wall-to-ceiling. She landed hard on her back, her wrists slammed like stones against the hardwood floor. The same hardwood floor that had black scuff marks from unclean boots tramping on it day in and day out. If she put two fingers there it would be tough to lift them, and once they came off there’d be a stickiness on them similar to dried syrup. Phoebe looked at her wrist. The green gem on her bracelet had cracked. Above her stood Alyssa who grabbed her hijab amid the fall.

“Prissy bitch.” Alyssa said. “Stuck up like a rich girl but deceptive like the brown person you are. My life is none of your business.”

Her back was vibrating with pain. Her wrists felt stiff. She was definitely sore from the fall, but it got her adrenaline pumping. Summoning a strength she didn’t know she had Phoebe got off the ground and ran up in Alyssa’s face. Alyssa didn’t flinch but she didn’t care. She had her against the wall. Attacking her ribs would be so easy. Fingers balled into fists, Phoebe reveled in her newfound power. Energy was coursing through her veins. She stared intently at Alyssa, waiting to see fear form on her face. Alyssa hadn’t so much as blinked. The two stood motionless for a while as Phoebe reflected on her actions. Was this a good idea? Could I even hurt her? Phoebe’s tight fists loosened. She couldn’t move, her legs refused to. She felt vicious claws clenching her insides.

While Alyssa was short and chubby she had the strength of a lumberjack. As much as she wanted to give Alyssa a black eye, Phoebe was not a fighter. She could picture events playing out, Alyssa lifting her and slamming her on her knee, breaking her back in two. Phoebe was paralyzed by the thought.

Alyssa began to laugh and walked around Phoebe who was still frozen in place.

“Nice move, Watkins.” Alyssa said laughing.

A rage came over her. I’ll show you some moves, Phoebe thought. She turned and smacked Alyssa back and forth several times in succession. Each smack echoed swiftly making the rhythm of a rapid fire metronome. Of course, this was in her head. Alyssa could break her back in two.

“Gotta go. Some of us have work to do.”

The door slammed shut. Alyssa dropped Phoebe’s hijab on the floor on her way out. Phoebe slumped against the nearest wall. She felt weak. Her arms swung loosely by her sides. Defeat. What a way to start a morning.

* * *

Time to get to work. Phoebe changed into her work uniform and stuffed her book bag into a locker. She wore USPS standard wear, much less glamorous than her previous outfit. It was a light blue button up shirt that felt coarse like sandpaper. The company logo, a crude drawing of an eagle, was pinned at the top left corner. She wore navy blue khakis. Her black hijab was tied on as well. Disgruntled from her encounter with Alyssa, she had thrown her cracked green gem bracelet in a trash can.

“Stupid bitch.” She grumbled. “One of these days you’re gonna get yours.” To Phoebe, the worst part was that she almost had her. During that encounter Alyssa was only two feet away. Maybe Phoebe’s job was already on the line, maybe punching her annoying coworker in the stomach would have gotten her fired. But she would have stood up for herself. Phoebe almost had her, but in the end she didn’t.

* * *

8 AM. Gray light beamed through the blindfolds. A wavy, ladder pattern formed on the hardwood floor. Cardboard smell merged with plumes of deodorizer. In the living-room’s corners were large unopened boxes. The walls were pure white. Besides the couch and boxes and TV the room was completely empty. Not a single particle of dust floated in the air. It was exactly the same as when she first moved here. Three years ago.

She was sprawled on the couch, head cocked back, arms out on the pillows. On the TV Mike Jerrick and Alex Holley carried out their usual banter on the morning news show Good Day Philadelphia. Defeated, the natural thing to do was to combine her two allotted break times so she could stay home for half an hour.

Phoebe never wanted to live here. Philly, where every block held litter and where someone else’s garbage always made its way into her can. Where graffiti covered every home, corner store, street sign and fire hydrant in sight. She never fully unpacked, holding out hope the hitmen hunting her down would stop or that her soulmate would introduce himself and whisk her away to a better life. He was taking his time.

There were only a few things that held her interest while she awaited him. Jewelry, dressing herself up, and cleaning. The city was such a mess, it was only natural she formed a new habit to combat it. After every meal she swept. After dinner she mopped. Every Saturday she vacuumed the corners for any crumbs that escaped her dinner plate. She also made an effort to wash the walls but that was a task she hated. Anything that involved wall cleaning was grunt work. She was used to people doing that for her. Why shouldn’t they? Phoebe was a catch.

She wanted some booze. Drink her misery away. But it was 8 AM, she wouldn’t be able to deliver to a single house if she were tipsy. There was an episode of Single Parents that came on the other night. The Christmas episode. Poppy was by herself because her son was spending the holiday with his dad. She planned on being alone the whole day, wallowing in sadness, when Douglas and his daughters came over and invited her to a holiday party. Reluctantly, she joined and ended up having the best Christmas of her life. And, Poppy discovered she was crushing hard on Douglas. It was not Christmas anymore in Philadelphia. Phoebe watched the front door through the corner of her eye, awaiting someone to knock and invite her to their life.

* * *

She woke up from a nap. Drowsily, she got up and turned off the TV. She plopped back on the couch and stared into space. There was a pain in her chest. With every beat her heart pumped a little too hard. Connected veins were being tugged. Her chest felt hollow. The bones there were crumbling back, squeezing her lungs so she could breath only a pint of air. There was no one there to help her. No one to explain this ache she felt. She’d been running from this feeling for three long years but she knew she couldn’t hide from it forever. She was lonely.

Perhaps she knew loneliness more than anybody, even the poor, in this city, because she was not from this city. She knew loneliness more than Penny, that was for sure. Loneliness was a concept Penny had not known even existed.

Penny, the blonde haired beauty of San Francisco. She had a small nose. Soft cheeks. Always showed a blissful smile. She was also rich, Phoebe could never forget that. Money buys happiness and she had a lot of it. Her father was a retired marine and her mother was rich, so Penny was rich. As in living in a tall hillside mansion with a wall of glass on one side to view the ocean. It was a diamond compared to Phoebe’s shack of an apartment, which was clean but small since it was a rowhome. In her beautiful home she had butlers that did all the cleaning for her, something Phoebe envied greatly. That beautiful home on a hill must’ve made Penny happy. That and the parties her friends invited her to. Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time her friends invited her to an outing. With all her wealth Penny was never alone.

Usually she slept around with different men but in her college years Penny had a boyfriend. Richer than her, he made her happy. It’s tragic that her carefree attitude is what got him killed. His rich father wanted revenge and has been after her ever since. He sicked some guns-for-hire have been after her, and they’d been on her trail for nearly two decades.

So, she had to hide away. Go underground. Dye her blonde hair brunette, tan her skin, get facial surgery and fake being Muslim. And ditch her wealth since the hitmen could track her with it. Her final step was changing her name. Penny became Phoebe.

Which was a damn shame because Phoebe missed her name more than anything. Penelope Walker. A pristine flower. Now she was Phoebe Watkins. Watt-kins. What, was she an electrical engineer? And her soft white skin, now clay brown. Not necessarily abhorrent. Beach tanning was a nice change in style. But having to tan 24/7, never to see her milky skin again? It was quite frustrating.

Eyes closed, she let out a sigh. It’s been twenty years since she’s been hiding away. Her money, gone. Her family, probably thought she was dead. Just because a little carelessness, because a single life lost, her old life was now unattainable. No one in Philly was clean or friendly, no man wanted to date her—and suddenly her phone was ringing.

It was Stanley. What time was it? 8:45, crap. She should be on the road already.

Stanley intoned, dragging the ‘n’ in her last name, “Ms. Watkins. I see you’ve clocked in on time. How are your deliveries going?”

“Fine. They’re going fine.”

“Are you sure? I’m not hearing confidence in your voice…”

“I’m about to, about to, ah—”

“…Where’s your enthusiasm? You need to be more full of life, Watkins.”

“Right.”

“Have I ever told you the story of how I came to this city?”

“Yes, boss, you’ve told me several times.”

“I came to Philadelphia on my hind legs. Crawling, a mere ten year old with no parents around,” Stanley said. There was no stopping him once he got started. “You may not know this, but my little brother is paralyzed.”

Phoebe knew this because Stanley told her this story several times.

“Half paralyzed. His poor little legs can’t do anything. I had to hitchhike from Atlantic City, a dour place where the rich are poor and the poor are poor, all the way to Philadelphia to make opportunity. I was sad. Tired. Destitute. Uneducated. But I still made something out of myself and got my brother the care he needed. I have been postmaster of this city for 25 years. And you know what? I’m happy with my life.”

She rolled her eyes.

“If I can do that, Watkins, then you can be happy with your life. Get some energy. Make friends with Alyssa. Live your life!”

“Got it boss.”

“Alright. Don’t miss any homes on your route.” He clicked the call finished.

It wouldn’t be long before he realized Phoebe lied about starting her shift. She made her way out the front door and got in the mail truck. Off she sped to start her delivery.

* * *

Her route was in North Philly, close to home but not within walking distance. On either side of the street were row houses. Three floored and narrow, they were rectangles turned on the small side to create pillars. Each was colored some variation of tan, light or dark, with a red or brown brick stairway. There were a few men loitering on either side of the sidewalk, wearing wrinkled t-shirts with logos that had faded from age. These men weren’t unfamiliar. If she had been here earlier, they’d be calling ‘loosies, loosies’ to kids on their way to school. Cigarettes, used and loosed from a pack and sold to pedestrians for a dollar or two. The disgust on Phoebe’s face was palpable. They did not try to sell her one today.

Beyond the alley she was delivering in was a distant and large factory. She’d been near it once. All sides were blocked off by an orange fence—that didn’t stop hoodlums from smashing most of the windows and graffiting gang signs on the walls. There were many sites like this in the city. Apparently Philadelphia was a metropolis of manual labor in the 1900s. But with most of its inhabitants being broke, the factories were shut down. The city itself was too broke to pay for the demolition of these factories.

The delivery truck was parked two blocks away. On foot, Phoebe speed walked from house to house. She darted up a set of steps, slid the mail in the envelope slot, rushed down the steps and moved to the next house. In the process her calves began to burn. The muscles tightened like binded strings. They grew hotter with each step. Working was bad enough, but physical exertion would normally leave Phoebe fuming for days.

Somehow, though, she was not upset. In fact a smirk had formed on her face. She felt amused by the prospect of starting work late without her boss knowing. If she was able to make her delivery quota, that would mean she could start work late every day without getting caught! Stanley would be none the wiser.

Pacing to the next house, Phoebe stopped at the sight of a cat sleeping on the top step. Its fur was soft and glistening like a shiny pillow. The cat was white with patches of light brown. Not a trace of dirt covered it. Phoebe lunged and hugged it in awe. It was adorable! She had always loved animals, and now one was hers.

“Maybe I’ll make a friend in this city after all,” she said, snuggling the cat. Its eyes were drooping, annoyed at being woken up.

“You’ve been through a lot. It takes effort to keep clean fur likes yours clean in this trashy city.”

Phoebe hummed into its ear, then had an epiphany.

“Yes, I can see it now. Your hard life. You probably went by a delicate name, like my old one. You were a Cynthia. A beautiful flower with the entire garden under your control. Your last owner was a navy veteran. A general, just like my father in the Marines. I can see it in your lime green eyes. Cynthia, you were a loyal cat, watching the property while your owner was away. But when he never returned and the food ran out you were forced to wander Philly’s putrid streets for…5, 5 long years. I can see your tiredness in your eyes. We’ve both been waiting a long, long time.”

Phoebe lifted Cynthia above her head. Her fingers nearly slipped, Cynthia was gaunt despite her large fur, but she held onto her. They maintained eye contact, Phoebe making a duck face. Cynthia let out a tired meow.

“But we’ll get our victory. We’ll get what we deserve.”

Cynthia placed her head in the space between Phoebe’s neck and shoulder, purring gently. Then she bit her.

“Ow! What the hell?” She pried the little devil off of her and looked at it. What she didn’t notice until now was Cynthia’s foaming mouth. She threw the cat to the sidewalk and it landed perfectly on its feet. It growled at her and scurried away.

“Rabies…” She said. “The filth in this city is contagious.”

* * *

Only two houses left for this street. After that, Phoebe could hop in the van and drive to her next destination. It would be as if she had been on time the whole time. She’d take care of the rabies bite later so Stanley wouldn’t find out she was slacking off.

She ran up the stairway of the second to last house. When she got to the top she swung open the screen door. Now to get those letters. She opened her mailbag and began digging. Everything was jumbled together. She felt bent envelopes, pens and a wooden clipboard. A hot scowl grew on her face.

Suddenly the front door opened. Phoebe shot her head up. In the doorway was a middle aged woman with lemon blonde hair in a tight ponytail. Wrinkles lined her cheeks, which would have stood out if not for her eyepatch on her right eye. Her other eye was hazel. The woman wore a Philadelphia police uniform.

“Well good morning,” the officer said.

Phoebe looked back to her satchel, still searching for the mail.

“Your letter’s comin’ right up…” Phoebe replied, disinterested.

The officer continued to smile.

“That’s a nice headscarf you have. How long’ve you been practicing?”

“My whole life,” Phoebe said. “It’s called a hijab.” Her heartbeat quickened.

“Ah. My apologies. You don’t look like the experienced type. Something in your eyes.”

“Yeah well, you look like yours need to be checked.”

The officer leaned back chuckling. It was in this motion that Phoebe noticed her muscular arms. Makes sense, considering she was a cop. She must’ve gone after dangerous people.

“So. How long have you been on the run?”

Phoebe pulled out a stack of mail, disproportionate, with many different names and addresses. She delivered to this woman’s house multiple times. It’s been her route for three years. But for some reason, she couldn’t remember her name. Her fingers trembled against the stack.

“What do you mean?” Phoebe asked.

“You know. From your dead ex’s father. You haven’t dated in twenty years. Post-adulthood your sex life has been quite uninteresting.”

Phoebe didn’t reply.

“Penelope, there’s a way out.” The officer backed into her house, giving Phoebe a view of the living-room. It was tidy, with a glossy wooden floor and an elephant gray memory foam couch. Not a single particle of dust was in the air. Protruding from behind the couch was a rocket launcher that leaned against the wall. How could a home HERE be so spotless?

A mix of emotions played through Phoebe’s mind. Fear and hope.

“How do you know that name?” She asked. Very few people knew about Penelope. Some engineering from her past is what got her a new life and records to prove it.

“I know the identity of every person in this city. You are Penelope Walker.”

“Why do you have a rocket launcher?” She pointed at the hulking weapon. It was thick, like a giant tube plucked out the sewers.

“Oh this? It’s a trophy really. Just something I show to my clients so they know I get the job done.” The woman pressed her finger on her eyepatch. “For my clients, I always get the job done.”

It was impossible for Phoebe to hide the bewilderment on her face. She had a feeling she knew what this woman was. Such an ominous aura. It only came off of people who’ve seen danger. But she had to ask to be sure.

“Just who the hell are you? What are you?”

“I’m Veronica. Mercenary. Your father was a marine, but more importantly he was rich. I know how much you hate this place. How you’d do anything to get your old life back. Your money and your power.”

Veronica held out her hand.

“I can help you get it back. I can kill the men who are after you. For a decent pay.”

She felt as if she could faint. A door was opening for her. The chance to finally get what she deserved. But would she be caught by the men who were after her? Would Veronica double cross her and steal her wealth? Phoebe already missed her opportunity to fight back Alyssa. So what would she do now?

Take the hand or leave it. The choice was within arm’s reach.