He’s wearing baggy jeans and a stained white t-shirt with a stretched-out neck. I wrinkle my nose as I imagine him pulling the dirty fabric up and wiping the sweat from his forehead or the snot from his nose. My eyes travel down to the bleached white skin around his flabby neck. There are gray lines of dirt and grime streaking out from the folds of his skin and numerous three-dimensional warts sprinkle his shoulders and collar bone like a bumpy necklace. He lifts his hairy arms to avoid hitting an old hockey helmet perched on the counter, which pulls up his shirt to reveal a hairy stomach and dark belly button. I stifle the instant reaction to gag and look away. He is trying to help me after all.
I limp to the front of the counter and rest my arms on the unfinished edge of the glass top. An intense smell of body odor and old yogurt wafts toward me and I can’t stifle the choked sounds that cough from my throat. My body is too sensitive right now. I turn my head in an attempt to conceal my disgust but my body takes over, bucking as it tries to empty my stomach again in vain. There’s nothing left. I raise a shaking hand to cover the sound of my heaving.
“You a’ight?” the man grumbles.
I nod, my hand still covering my mouth. I catch a whiff of the strong floral perfume on my wrist and feel relief. It’s stronger than the stench.
“Sorry about that. I’m recovering from, a…the flu,” I say, lowering my hand and placing it back on the counter. “So you said you had some ice?”
The man snorts and bends down, retrieving a chunky ice block from a small fridge on the other side of the counter. He hands it to me, careful not to let his skin touch mine again. I shake my head at the irony.
“Thanks,” I whisper, grabbing the cold pack and placing it on my sore ankle. The man continues to stare at me with an odd scowl. An awkward silence settles.
At last I try to make conversation. “So…have you had this shop for a while?”
“Twenty-two years,” he answers.
Does he think I’m going to steal his ice block? “Nice,” I say. “I’ve never seen it before. But I don’t get out much.”
“What brought you out today?”
I reposition the ice pack, shivering as moisture rolls down my bare skin, seeping into the top of my sock. “I was out for a walk, needed some fresh air. What’s your name?”
“Paul.”
I nod, not encouraged by his attitude. I place the ice pack back on the counter. “Okay, well thanks, Paul,” I say, taking a slow step away and turning toward the door.
“You one of them Wired folks?”
I freeze and look back, confused by his words. “What?”
Paul gestures to the back of his neck with chubby fingers. “You know, like a junkie. Always got one of them things strapped to them.”
My eyes bulge and my heart flutters. Wired? What a strange term. I frown.
I lift my hair, exposing my pale neck. I hope the bulge in my pocket isn’t noticeable. “No, I’m not a junkie,” I reply, my voice sounding raw to my own ears.
Paul throws up his hands in defense. “Whatever you say, darlin’. I didn’t mean no harm, just curious.” He turns away.
I take a few steps back toward the counter. “Why did you say that? Why did you think I was a…a Wired?”
Paul sighs as if my question is distracting him from his important work. I ignore his annoyed scowl and rest my hands on the counter once more, my body in control for the moment, but I feel my resolve slipping. It’s been too long. My teeth chatter and there are goose bumps on my arms. I force my fingers not to twitch toward the Vertix.
“Like I said, I meant no harm,” Paul repeats, not meeting my gaze.
“I know, I just…want to know why you thought I was,” I say again.
Paul levels me with a look. He is probably hoping I’ll leave if he answers. “I’ve been round my fair share o’ addicts let me tell you,” he explains. “They all think they’re so different, that their demons aren’t like anyone else’s. You all might be running from different things but it don’ mean it camouflages ya.”
“What?” I ask, completely lost by his statement.
Paul points in my direction. “You’re too skinny, you’re too pale. Looks like you haven’t slept for a good three weeks, and…to be quite honest with you darlin’, you stink to high heaven. Now you could either be one of them health food nuts all into that soap is bad for the earth mumbo jumbo, but you don’t fit that look either so I guess you’re a Wired. Don’ like to take showers cause you can’ with them things on your neck.”
I want to argue with Paul’s description of me, but I can’t. He’s right about everything. I clear my throat and scratch the back of my neck, feeling a thin layer of dead skin gather beneath my overgrown fingernails. I keep forgetting to cut them.
“Like I said…I’m no junkie,” I whisper, not looking at Paul.
“And like I said, it ain’t none of my business but you asked so I’m gonna tell you,” Paul replies. “Apart from what I just described, plus the way you ran in here screeching like the Devil himself was tormenting you, I assume you was on something. I thought it was drugs at first, with you being so skinny, but then you kept touching your neck.”
I feel myself blush and involuntarily reach up to run my fingers over the small circular burn mark the Vertix imprinted on my skin. I didn’t even realize I had been touching it. I drop my hand as Paul nods.
“But the biggest clue is your eyes. My mama used to say, the eyes are the windows to the soul and honey, your eyes are telling me that your soul is long gone, taking a permanent vacation,” he jokes.
Fear grips my gut. “What do you mean?”
Paul sighs and opens a Blu-Ray case, inspecting the silver disc inside for scratches. Once satisfied, he puts it back into the circular holder and looks me in the eye for the first time since I returned to the counter.
“You’re dead inside, darlin’. There’s nothing goin’ on in your mind other than what that little machine shows you,” he says, his dark brown eyes unblinking. “Now, you don’ have to take my advice, but I get junkies in here day after day trying to pawn off garbage to get through until their next hit. They sacrifice everything for that next high. You don’ want to be one of them, trust me. So get yourself together and dump that device in the first trash can you come across. Otherwise, you and the people you love will end up gettin’ hurt.”
I shake my head, turning to leave. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Paul shrugs. “I’ve heard that before. Just think ‘bout what I’ve said, darlin’.” He looks down at the next Blu-Ray, and the sound of the plastic case popping open makes me flinch. “Hey, what’s your name?”
I shouldn’t answer. I should just get away, get out as fast as I can. “Maggie,” I answer quietly.
Paul nods. “I’ll be sure to look for ya.”
I walk to the door and don’t look back, determined to keep the tears from spilling. He doesn’t understand.
Dear Ms. Stone,
It’s been several weeks since I sent you the edits and I have yet to hear your feedback. I’ve been working with my editor but we can’t advance until we hear from you. Frankly, I am upset with the lack of communication from your office. I’ve sent numerous emails and feel as if I’m being ignored.
I’d like to be a part of the Red Leaf team; however, I am not happy with the service and attention my manuscript is receiving. If I don’t hear from you by the end of the day, I will cancel our contract due to inadequate representation on your part and seek representation with another agency.
Sincerely,
Robert M. Bruit
“Margaret, how are we doing this morning?”
With a start, I whip my chair around to find Ms. Robins standing behind me, looking fresh and beautiful in a clean white blouse and knee-length red skirt with matching red frames. Her cat-like emerald eyes size me up like a hunter waiting for its prey to step into a trap.
“Hello, Ms. Robins,” I greet, my voice gravelly
from lack of use. Pause, I instruct, freezing the happy video a blogger posted to Wall Art of her toddler trying to ride a bike for the first time. His little legs can’t reach the pedals but he loves chiming the silver bell.
“I was wondering what progress you’ve made with the school project. I just got off the phone with Linda Reynolds, the principal of Excel Academy,” Robins says. Her lips are set in a tight line and her eyes betray nothing as she stares at me.
I wrinkle my forehead and try to recall my conversation with the principal. I must have called her a long time ago. Did I even call her? My right eye wanders back to the sweet scene I’m participating in, clapping on the sidelines with the child’s mother as she watches him kick the pedals with his light-up Ninja Turtle shoes. The memory can’t be that much longer, maybe I’ll finish it and then talk to Robins, I ration but a sharp slap causes me to jerk back, jumping out of the memory all together.
Robins retracts her folder from the surface of my desk, the source of the slap. “Linda Reynolds, Margaret. Do you even know of whom I’m speaking?”
I try to focus, but the video is distracting and I can’t turn it off and I can’t look away. “Yes, I think I spoke with her last week and she said not enough kids were interested in doing the program,” I lie.
Robins crosses her arms. “Is that so? Because I just reached out to her and she said she’s never even heard of you or Red Leaf Literary,” she hisses. “A month ago I asked for a volunteer to help with this project and your hand shot right up. Now, after I’ve given you plenty of time and put up with all of your excuses, I find out that you never even called the schools in the first place. How do you explain yourself?”
I glance around, conscious that my colleagues can hear Robins’ accusations. “Um, can we discuss this in your office? It’s kind of private—” I begin to say but Ms. Robins interrupts.
“The time for being delicate is over Margaret,” she says, her expression stoic. “I have sat by idly for weeks now watching as you fold in on yourself, neglecting all of your responsibilities and your teammates. Two days ago, I was forwarded a call from a client of yours, a Robert Bruit? Does that ring a bell?”
“Yes, I was actually just about to reply to his email and—” I start, but again Robins talks over me.
“That email is over a week old,” Ms. Robins says. “Check the date. Mr. Bruit was good to his word and when he didn’t hear from you, he personally called me to deactivate his contract. Luckily, I was able to reassure him that we only employ the best literary agents and he signed with Avery. The book will launch the second week of February. That was the best Avery could do after your lack of progress. Honestly, Margaret what has come over you? You used to be someone I could rely on, but now…”
She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. I know what’s coming.
“The best literary agents?” I ask, my voice still hopeful even though I know better.
“Yes. Only the best. And that no longer includes you,” Robins says firmly, drawing herself up to her full height. “I am very sorry to do this in light of the holiday tomorrow, but you’ve left me with no choice. Please pack up your things and leave within the hour. Your final paycheck will be delivered to your account next week.”
Without another word Ms. Robins walks away, not sparing me another glance. For a moment I stare at the spot where she stood, still able to see her faint outline. I slowly spin back around to face my computer, feeling like a balloon that has just been cut free from the rest of the bouquet. I’m sailing higher and higher into the gathering clouds, with no way to stop. I know I should be angry or cry or feel something. But I’m hollow as I turn back to the frame depicting the little boy riding his bike.
“Oh, tough break, Maggie.” Martin sighs, peeking over the thin gray wall. “She didn’t even give you time to find something else. How bad did you screw up, huh?” He ducks back down.
Martin is easy to ignore as I continue watching the video. The little boy looks up just as he rides through a puddle and the cold water splashes against his little legs. He glances at the camera with a wide grin on his face and the memory freezes, ending the moment. I grin and move on to the next frame.
This one holds a cat wedged inside a paper towel roll, with just its fluffy head sticking out the end. I climb inside the large frame, hoisting myself up until I’m standing on the dark navy rug, watching a little kitten play with its humans. I recognize a popular girl from high school sitting on the couch.
Using the other half of my vision, I close out my email for the last time and shut down all the other programs I was running. My screen turns black and my dull reflection stares back at me. Guess there’s nothing left to do. Grab your bag and head out. I stand but in the Vertix I hesitate, walking over to the couch to perch on the round armrest as the memory loops to the beginning.
Two women sit next to me; one an elderly woman with a long dress resembling the curtain pattern and the other my schoolmate bouncing a laughing infant on her lap. She has a light green Vertix decorating her neck like a glowing emerald necklace, recording the happy scene.
I relax into the soft couch while two young boys and a handsome guy with dark brown hair wave a feather in front of the cat. I sigh, content. It feels like a happy family reunion. The only minor detail being this isn’t my family.
I remain seated for another minute or two and then leave to browse other frames. I’m about to climb into one with a large waterfall when a dark shadow stretches over me.
I tilt my head up and see a tall man looming above me, the Rent-a-Cop badge shining brightly on his chest. “Excuse me, miss. I’m here to escort you out,” the gruff guard says. He looks me up and down with a smirk.
“Ah okay,” I agree with a nod, bending down to grab my purse. I don’t have my messenger bag. I stopped bringing it a couple weeks ago when I stopped taking notes. Hitching the single strap onto my shoulder, I glance around at my sparse desk. My cubicle used to be decorated with numerous photos and tiny knick-knacks, but one afternoon I ripped all the photos down and smashed the figurines because all the faces were melting and laughing at me. My Vertix battery had died.Whatever, less for me to carry out.
“Don’t you want your calendar?” the guard asks, pointing to the blank calendar depicting a bleak lake for the month of October.
I cock my head to the side, annoyed. “No…if I did, I’d obviously take it down.” In truth, I didn’t even know it was there.
The guard puts up his hand and points in the direction of the elevators. “Okay, let’s move then.”
I glance over the small retaining wall to wave goodbye to Martin, but he isn’t looking at me. “Never mind,” I grumble, pressing my purse close to me and heading down the hallway. I pass multiple cubicles, all occupied with agents I thought I could call my friends, but as I pass, not one of them looks up.
We step into the elevator and I turn, taking in the busy office one last time as the doors begin to close. I remember when I saw the fourth floor for the first time, the excitement that sent my stomach fluttering. How funny that I’ve come full circle. I arrived at Red Leaf with nothing more than a notebook, fueled by ambition and now I’m leaving, forced to abandon my dreams. This time I don’t even have a notebook.
The elevator shudders as it arrives on the first floor. The guard is careful not to touch me as he ushers me forward. My flats make no sound as I cross the marble lobby. Acey is standing beside the door, but I can’t even remember the last time he said hello to me. Still I attempt a half-hearted wave as he holds open the door for us, but he doesn’t look at me.
The bitter November wind grips me the moment I step outside. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and lower my head against the fierce wind. Only a few blocks and I’ll reach the subway. What am I going to tell Sarah? No doubt she’ll freak, but it’ll be fine. I still have thousands in my savings. She won’t even know I was fired. It’s not hard to get a new job. Maybe I’ll see if Andy—
I collide into a solid wall and bo
unce backward several feet, somehow managing to remain upright. My head snaps up, expecting to see a brick wall or telephone pole that I must have veered into. Instead, startling blue eyes stare back at me.
“Oh, Jeremy.” I gasp. “Hey, I’m so sorry about that. I was lost in thought.” I smile, the motion feeling strange as my muscles stretch. Why does my face hurt? I reach up and subtly rub my cheek and bat my eyelashes.
“Hey, Maggie.” Jeremy nods, bending down to retrieve the bag that I knocked out of his hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask, brushing my hair out of my eyes. My fingers get caught in a greasy curl.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Jeremy replies curtly. “Just heading back before my lunch is over.”
“Oh, you’re on lunch? How much longer do you have? Want to go grab a bite of…something?” I ask, unable to think of an item of food.
Jeremy’s forehead wrinkles and he glances down at his dormant iJewel. “I don’t think so. I only have fifteen minutes,” he says, his eyes glancing everywhere but me.
“Oh, come on. I’m going—going on vacation for a while so I won’t see you. Come on, let’s go get a pretzel or something,” I push, conscious that my voice is starting to sound whiny.
Jeremy pauses, glancing at his iJewel once more. “Fine, but we have to hurry. Like I said I only have a few minutes,” he agrees, not looking happy.
“Okay, great. I’m starving,” I say excitedly, slipping my arm through his. We take a few steps forward and Jeremy slides his arm out of mine, transitioning his bag over his right shoulder so our bodies are no longer touching. “So what have you been up to?” I ask, turning away from the gallery of happy frames.
Jeremy sighs, his annoyance obvious. He must be under a lot of stress. This little outing might be just what he needs.
“I’m fine. Monica and I are going to New York City this weekend. She wants to see the Rockettes,” Jeremy replies, sounding chipper.
“Oh, is that your sister?” I ask as we approach the pretzel stand.
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