The Plastic Seed

by Maisie Porter

  Once they do look inside the box and discover these shoes – decorated with chintzy buckles, footwear nobody would want to wear – I will be sheltering away from their complaints in the mildewy storeroom. Reaching up to the topmost shelf on the shop floor display, I wedge the box in tightly to make sure it doesn’t slide out and fall on my head. Satisfied, I slump my backside onto the metal stool that has ‘Property of West Glassport Discount Shoe Shop’ stencilled across its top.

  Stretching out my pale legs, I take out the dispiriting letter I received a week ago from my skirt pocket. It’s creased so I rest it against my thigh and smooth it out with my clenched fist. As I re-read the letter, my cheeks fizzle up with self-pity at experiencing yet at another setback.

  Dear Mrs Jean Hima,

  We are writing to thank you for applying to work as a Wellness Practitioner, but regret to inform you that you have not been granted a licence.

  We will recommence the intake again in six months, and you are most welcome to apply once more. In the interim, we suggest you work on your qualifications in the field of wellness and health to increase your chances of qualifying for a licence. As you are aware, this is a very sought-after and rare qualification, and we can only offer it to people that have demonstrated experience in the field. It will be of benefit to you, and is strongly recommended, that you undertake work experience with a person who is already running a successful wellness operation.

  We wish you every success with your next application.

  Signed,

  The Department Of Health And Wellbeing

  Two years earlier the government had put restrictions on the number of people claiming to be wellness experts. The argument offered for restricting the number of people teaching wellness was that there were too many bloggers preaching that people didn’t need material possessions to make them happy. This overflow of people giving misinformed guidance had resulted in the vast number of people who followed these bloggers ceasing to buy things. The government realised these teachings were not beneficial to the economy and had decided it needed control over who and how many people were giving out advice. Legislation was introduced making it illegal to have a blog offering advice or teaching others about how to live a happier, healthier life, if you had not received a licence from the government. Every few months, individuals were now invited to submit an application to be granted a licence as a wellness teacher. Only ten permits were offered at a time.

  Since I had lost my career as a midwife, I had applied for various positions in the medical field, but I always received a similar response as to why I was not suitable. Usually, it was pointed out that my past behaviour, under the influence of alcohol, was an indication that I would not be able to provide patients with reliable care. It was unfortunate that my problems with alcohol were on my permanent record as, since I had become unemployed, I had worked hard to stop drinking. I couldn’t bear that fact the house that we had been forced to move into was in between an alcoholic and drug user. I had pictured what the scene would have been if someone had taken photos of the fronts of the three houses at any point of the day. It was an image I did not want to be a piece of.

  During my one of my unfruitful job searches, I had come across an announcement saying that applicants were welcomed, to apply for a Wellness Practitioner’s accreditation. The licence the government was offering had the trimmings I sought in a job; I could teach people the necessary health skills and, more importantly to me, I could work for myself. Amy had told me that I should apply because I was caring. She sometimes said I was too caring.

  At the same time that I encountered the advertisement, Amy was arrested and then sent to prison for selling drugs, which unfortunately resulted in me missing the deadline to apply for the licence. When the announcement was published again, I made sure I did not miss the application cut-off date. I had posted my application and waited patiently, only to receive this letter.

  At least it didn’t mention my alcohol problems, but it was still disappointing. I wished that I had discovered sooner that I needed experience in the wellbeing field; there is always something holding me back in my life. I was sure that my background as a midwife would have been enough to secure the grant smoothly. Amy had mentioned that people who had established wellness blogs were looked upon favourably, but I didn’t listen to her as I think she told me near the time they arrested her.

  A solid object smacking the pavement outside the store interrupts my thinking, dozing. I think that the pounding is just in my head, but it becomes stronger and louder. I turn towards the front of the shop; there is a boy with spiky orange hair, he is roughly six years old, aimlessly he is hitting a ball against the pavement with an occasional bounce against the shop’s glass window. Before I can stand up and indicate for him to stop, I see a flash of pink. Loretta, appareled in a clownish jumper, runs out of the storeroom towards the pounding.

  I follow her to the window to pretend I am concerned that the ball bouncing on the glass is causing damage to her store window. She lifts her head up and down and examines the window for cracks and, even though the window looks unfractured, she turns to me.

  “You, Jean will pay for this out of your salary,” she says, wagging her bony finger at me.

  “Can I have these in matching sizes? There is a six and a nine in this box.” I turn around to face an attractive woman I hadn’t even noticed was in the store. She is holding out the two different-sized shoes in my direction.

  Jean, 7:45AM

  I take off the plastic that surrounds my new phone and aim it for the wastebasket next to my bedside table. I am hopeful that the phone will not be difficult to set up. It has been tough for me these days, not having Amy here to help me understand modern technology. She was always so tech-smart, instantly being able to work out how to use continually developing gadgets.

  I take the phone out of the case and flip it over, I press the button on the side of the device, and the blue screen lights up. What next, though? I could call Amy, using my old phone, the one that she set up for me five years ago before we were forced to move. But she is probably preparing to leave prison. I’m not sure if she’ll want to be held up by speaking to me. I will talk to her in person soon. I put the perplexing object down on the table in front of me and look at it. It was so expensive. I saved for three months from my measly pay to buy it, but as soon as I had completed the purchase, I was overcome with regret. The other two sales assistants at The West Glassport Discount Shoe Shop, who are lucky only to work at the shop part-time, are younger than me. It’s exhausting for me being with them in that overfilled cheap shoe store, having to hear them chatting about the latest technologies. I felt embarrassed every time I took out my outdated phone, but at least it was easy to operate.

  I leave my new phone on the table and walk to the other corner of my bedsit. Standing in the kitchenette I look through the translucent curtain, across the verandah. I can see directly into Jenny’s kitchen. This simple apartment complex may not be clean and is lacking in necessary safety provisions, but my neighbours are friendly, and the tenants look after their pets. Jenny has a dachshund that she walks every morning and afternoon, and Beth next door to me has a cat named Lexi, that has a part of its ear missing due to an unfortunate kitten-hood.

  As I pour myself a glass of water, I wonder if Beth is awake yet. I need to use her printer; it is my only Wednesday off this month from the shoe shop and the day when Amy is coming home. I have decided to use my free day to deliver the photos to my old neighbour Carlana. I want to surprise her with the pictures I took through the broken fence. No, No. I stop, slam the glass down on the counter, the water sloshes around the glass. My plan will work, this will not be the only day I have off from that miserable shop. Soon there will be many more days of freedom to bask in, thanks to Carlana.

  Before I successfully tracked down Carlana Land (who fortunately after marrying hadn’t changed her surname), I had always wondered if she still lived on the side of town we had resided in
together. Of course, I was too busy sorting out the mess she made of my life to bother tracking down where she went. From the moment Amy was arrested, I couldn’t utter Carlana’s name without having visions of what I wanted to do to her. Once I discovered that she had been successful in getting the Wellness Practitioners’ licence, while I hadn’t, my motivation to use her life to better mine was justified.

  Before long I discovered that plotting payback was a pleasant, soothing interruption to my suffering. Finally, today, it’s time to put the reprisal plan into action – for Carlana to pay for where I have ended up in life. I have a job that I despise and would do anything to be free from, and I live in a modest apartment in West Glassport. Even when I could afford to move out of the horrid housing commission unit I lived in with Amy, I decided to stay on in West Glassport. Yes, it is rough here and was hard to get used to at first, but it has its benefits – like being able to buy a gun, which I had managed to do after some initial setbacks.

  Recently I’d had the good fortune to unearth the fact that Carlana and her new husband Evan had put their house up for sale. They live in Butter-River, four train stops away from me here in West Glassport. It’s not a long distance away from this poverty-stricken suburb, but I have seen what the houses look like there. It might as well be another universe.

  How did I discover she lived in that affluent suburb? It is because what I lack in being able to operate gadgets, I make up for in investigative talent. I’ve perfected the mindless trolling of social media accounts. As long as I’d followed her on social media and looked at her posts, she had done a stellar job at keeping her whereabouts private; no photos of her daughter in her school uniform with the school emblem displayed, no pictures at the local supermarket. She is very social media savvy, and at the same time professional. She doesn’t flaunt her life online; she never posts selfies or photos of her child. Everything she posts is purposeful in conveying a message of her dull, oversimplified life, as well as calculated. Her strategic use of social media to reflect her brand makes it hard for me to keep track of her movements.

  But, in a rare moment of oversharing – I assume from excitement – she posted that she and Evan were moving to Denmark. During my investigation as to which estate company was selling their house, I had discovered a short video where her address was displayed, so potential buyers could go and view her house. I might not have dug up the address otherwise.

  From the moment I found out Carlana and her husband were moving to Denmark, I felt a need to accelerate her repayment to me. Driven by the intense jealousy of someone who hasn’t had a holiday in ten years, I was eager to undertake my project. I had always had the material hidden away to use against her. I just had to work out how to use the proof about the kind of person she is, in a way that would take away what she valued in life. The concept took some time, research, and patience. I needed to find out the workings of her life and, finally, I had to get an idea of what she prized most.

  I thought it was likely that Carlana valued her husband the most because, whoever he was, he had made her very wealthy. But Carlana had not once posted a photo of her spouse. I thought he must be quite unattractive if she didn’t want to show him off on social media. It was when I went next door, celebrating Beth’s birthday, that I discovered who Carlana was married to. Beth had kindly invited me to spend her special day with her and her family. While I had been helping put candles onto her cake, I had spotted a Glassport Recycling Plant newsletter lying on the kitchen bench. Right there on the front page had been a photo of Carlana, looking very different from how I remembered her. She was sitting next to a suave-looking man.

  I asked Beth who the people in the picture were. Beth said that I had just reminded her the work newsletter should be in the bin, because she didn’t want to think about the director of the recycling plant where she worked, or his wife Carlana, on her birthday. It was the first time I had ever spoken to anyone about Carlana, because I had learnt in the last few years not to trust anyone. I told Beth that the woman in the photo reminded me of my old next-door neighbour, who caused my misfortunes. I didn’t tell her she was my next-door neighbour. Beth loved hearing my story, and she also cannot wait to see how it unfolds.

  The revenge scheme has brewed in my mind for some time, but I have chosen to carry it out today, because today is an exceptional day. Amy is coming home. For her joyful homecoming, I gave myself a challenge – this morning I will travel to 53 Hummingbird Street, Butter-River, and leave the letter with my written request for Carlana to fulfil.

  I slide open the drawer in the kitchen and take out the USB, the one that I have kept for close to six years since I first copied the photos onto it, as I did not have the opportunity to share the images back then.

  Disappointingly, I have spent no time on preparing the physical elements of the scheme; I must trust that the USB does not have a use-by date; it hasn’t been put into a computer for many years. I clench the gadget in my fist and grab my old phone, along with a letter I handwrote last night, and throw them into my bag, which is full of all the other crucial items I need to survive in this ruthless world.

  I scan my small room to see if there is anything else I will need. My eyes stop on the bottle of essential oil. I have been using the strawberry-scented oil on my body in my attempt to stop drinking; I thought up the idea of utilising a smell to halt my cravings myself. And yet the authorities think I wouldn’t be an acceptable wellness practitioner, hmmm.

  I spray the oil on my neck, throw it in my bag and hook the strap over my shoulder. I open the front door and step out onto the apartment’s shared verandah. I consider if the jumper and long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing is appropriate for this warm winter morning, I have a lot of walking to do. It should be all right, though; just because it never rains any more doesn’t mean it doesn’t still get cold occasionally.

  I knock on Beth’s front door. Beth works during the night, so I am aware she may not be impressed with me visiting her so early in the morning. But Beth is a good neighbour. Surprisingly, she opens the door, and the smell of wet paint greets me. Beth’s hair is assembled messily on the top of her head, and her blue overalls have smears of white paint along the thighs.

  “Morning, Jean, come on in,” she says. “Jeff let me paint the flat in exchange for one week’s free rent,” she explains with a sweeping motion of her paintbrush. I step inside the room and stand next to Beth. “Look, Lexi is helping you paint the apartment and the verandah,” I say, as Beth’s black cat strolls next to my leg and onto the verandah, leaving white paw prints behind her. Beth looks up from watching her cat, and her eyes travel from my feet to my head. She stops.

  “Is today the day?” she asks. I hold up the USB in reply.

  “Well, you are out of luck this morning, my printer’s broken,” she says. My shoulders drop, and Beth must realise that her banter is not funny, she quickly adds, “Nah, just kidding, I’ve been waiting too long to see those photos.”

  Evan, 8:00AM

  It is my sinful pleasure to go to the McDonald’s drive-through and order a breakfast burger in the mornings. I’m certain Carlana would think that I am loathsome if she ever found out I enjoyed eating fast food.

  Steering my car down the lane, I stop next to the food pick-up window. I smile at the young girl at the counter. It annoys me how her hat is sitting lopsidedly on the top of her head; I don’t like that. At once I relax my lips. She doesn’t deserve a smile. She should fix that hat up before she even begins to think of serving customers. It would unimaginable for me to even consider hiring a person without neat presentation. Personal appearance is crucial.

  Disgusted, I snatch my order out of the slovenly girl’s outstretched hand and drive to the car park next to the McDonald’s. I fancy no one I know will see my car parked outside a fast food place. Even sitting in this car park, next to a steakhouse restaurant that doesn’t open until midday, is less risky for my wholesome eating status.

  I haul my car into a parking spot, m
aking sure I don’t park under a tree like last time, when I ended up with cockatoo shit all over the car roof. Out of sight, I unwrap my burger. Before I take a bite out of it, I turn down the podcast that I am listening to about climate change and take out my phone to access Carlana’s emails. I can see that she hasn’t opened her messages as yet, so even though I am curious to read through them, as I do every morning, I don’t read any more than the subject lines. With satisfaction, I notice numerous people are registering for her healthy eating workshop. It makes my heart beat faster when I see Carlana’s wellness business doing so well. I have to make sure that she stays on track with that level of success. It is not like I need the monetary rewards her job offers. I have my own prosperous position and salary, but there is something about the way Carlana works that gives me a pleasurable feeling. There is nothing fast-paced or thrilling in the work she does, but the order and discipline that those wellness folks strive to achieve is admirable. It is riveting to explore, watch and follow. The principles that Carlana works within remind me of myself; organized, in control and neat. Of course, I admit that I have my moments of weaknesses.

  I scowl at the burger I am holding and squash it forcibly into the palm of my hand. The bread, which blatantly is not gluten-free, the egg and the sauce squeeze through my fingers. I open up my fist and look at the mess the burger has made on my palm. I tilt my head, to get a better perspective on the mix of gaudy colours on my skin; it’s like a woman in a yoga pose. The peculiar abstract even looks a little like my precious Carlana. What a mess I have made. My breath increases because there isn’t anywhere to clean my hand.