Fiction '05 honorable mention

Mira Martin-Parker

I GET UP everyday at six. I drag myself from bed, shower, make coffee, and then dress for work. I am always on the 8:15 train. I've never missed it and I've never been late, ever.

[You probably think I'm fucked up. You probably think it would do me good to wake up late one morning – to just for fun call in sick. But that can't happen. That can never happen.]

By eight forty-five I'm ascending the stairs of the Powell Street Station, making my way to the department store where I work. I love watching the pedestrian traffic downtown, but I don't let myself linger. I move on, weaving quickly through the crowd. As I said, I've never been late, not even once.

[My first boyfriend was a thirty-seven year old Persian. He just moved here from Iran and had a hundred grand in the bank. We'd meet at a café in a strip mall near my high school. I liked to ditch class and hang out there, drinking coffee and reading. Actually, I wasn't really reading, just carrying around books from my father's library. I wanted to read them. I wanted to be the kind of person who understood things. But I could never concentrate on the pages. My mind was always wondering. I couldn't hold it still. I couldn't keep from staring out the window, daydreaming.]

The employee entrance is at the end of a long, filthy alley. People live back there. I see them every morning, sleeping on old blankets. I dash by them, trying not to look, trying not to notice the tattered belongings they keep stuffed in bags. I don't like to see the bottles and cigarette butts that surround them. As soon as I reach the back door, security buzzes me in.

[I was sixteen when I met the Persian. At the time I was living in a house way out on a lonely highway in the Central Valley. My dad left my brother and me there with no money and three large dogs to feed. He said he had business to take care of in Los Angeles – he had to sell an antique tribal weaving, or a Pre-Colombian stone carving, or perhaps it was the Turkish runner that used to line our hallway. Two months went by and he still had not returned.

First they turned the electricity off, which wasn't so bad because there were candles. Then the phone was disconnected, which we could deal with because there was a mini-mart a mile down the road. But there came a point when we actually began to starve. I met the Persian just in time. "You need money, don't you?" he said, noticing that I always paid for my coffee in change. When he picked me up in his Mercedes, I had my clothes packed in grocery bags. I threw them in the trunk and we drove away. My brother stood on the front porch waving.]

Once safely inside the employee entrance, I pick up my keys from security. I then go straight to my office, turn on the computer, powder my nose, and comb my hair.

[When the Persian's ex-wife decided to come to the U.S. for a visit, I was asked to leave. I didn't want to go back to the house on the highway, so he set me up with a studio apartment in the old part of town. He covered the bills for a few months, but soon he started cruising the pretty young actress that lived next door to me. They would go out for coffee together in the morning and sometimes meet for drinks at night. She enjoyed coming over and telling me all about his advances, about the pretty Indian earrings he had given her and the promise he had made to take her to Italy one day. When he stopped paying my rent altogether, I got myself a job selling dresses in a small boutique. I earned just enough to cover my bills and buy cigarettes. But I soon discovered that if I wore make-up and high heels, I could pass for an adult, so I started going out at night. That's when I met the Armenian.]

Usually by ten I'm ready to collect the orders. First I check with furnishings and shoes. Then I make my way to the suit department. The guys up there like to joke around, asking me things like when am I going to get married or go out with them and what the heck is wrong with me anyway that I'm such a loner and a quiet girl and why don't I ever have some fun after work, just once?

[The Armenian picked me up one night in a bar when I was out drinking with a friend. To be honest, it was actually me who picked him up. He was my type – tall, wearing an expensive suit and a heavy pair of wingtips. I said something about liking his shoes and we started talking. Within a week I was living with him. The first night at his apartment he asked me to make him dinner. I was petrified. He ate differently than I. He wanted his meat cooked in richly spiced sauces. He wanted his vegetables prepared the way his mother back home made them – lightly par boiled, a squeeze of lemon and some yogurt on the side. What did I know of making such dishes? The best I could do was a pot of rice and some sautéed zucchini. As soon as he discovered I was useless around the house, he wanted me out. But he was too ashamed to admit it. He felt he had assumed an obligation in taking me in and he bore it. Not like a stoic though. He still fucked me when he was drunk and he drank heavily. But the message was clear – I was a burden.]

By eleven I'm back downstairs in my office. Before processing the orders, I check over the employee timecards from the previous day. The manager likes me to report to Human Resources anyone who punches in over five minutes late. My co-workers despise me for this. When I enter the lunchroom, the place immediately gets quiet and one by one people leave. Once everyone's left, I shut off the TV and read.

[During the day I attempted to fix up the Armenian's place. I went to the Salvation Army and picked up some furniture. I found a chartreuse vinyl chair and some cool ceramic lamps. I even started experimenting in the kitchen. I bought cookbooks and learned a few recipes. I made baked chicken with rice pilaf. I could do it, I told myself. I could be a good wife. But at the end of the day, he'd just laugh at the things I bought. "Where I come from, we throw that old shit out." My cooking was never right either. "You poor girl," he'd say. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?"]

Once I've processed the orders, I pick up the completed ones from the receiving room. The receiving workers are a rough, alcoholic bunch. I handle them carefully. If they say to come back later, I turn and leave. If they say they need coffee before they can help me, I go and get them coffee. I do what I have to to get my orders filled. After signing for the packages, I return to my office and match the merchandise with the forms.

[I was finally able to escape from the Armenian and move to San Francisco. Actually, he paid me to leave. One Saturday morning he loaded me up in his car and drove me to the city. He found me a furnished room in an apartment building downtown. It had a nice view overlooking the street and a charming little walk-in closet. He then helped me arrange my things. We hung all my dresses and coats in the closet and folded my sweaters and put them in the drawers. Later we went to the store and he bought me a pound of freshly ground coffee, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker black label. Afterwards he handed me an envelope with three thousand dollars in it and left.]

I leave work promptly at five. Once I find a seat on the train, I sit and read. I have a stack of books at home that I'm slowing making headway on. Mostly philosophy. I'm half way through the Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant. I like to imagine myself as embodying the categorical imperative. I don't even allow myself to think things that can't be universalized [Obviously I do, but these thoughts have not been consented to, they just come – I do not choose them].

Once home, I slip into my house clothes and pour myself a beer. I only have one, except on weekends, when I have exactly two a night.

[The first night in my room it was so cold I used one of my vintage coats as a blanket. I lay in bed shivering. I could hear men and women passing by my door laughing and the scratchy sound of mice scampering inside the walls.

I did OK for a few months. I got a job in a dress shop on Fillmore. I worked during the day, drank myself out of existence at night, and somehow managed to get by. But I was starting to wear down a little. I'd wake up late, my head throbbing and my clothing strewn about the room. The first thing I'd look for was my wallet – the money was always gone; spent or lost somewhere the night before.]

At eight I make dinner, usually steamed vegetables with brown rice. Sometimes, as a treat, I indulge in an avocado salad. I eat in silence, reading Kant, occasionally glancing out the window into my neighbor's apartment. I am in bed by nine.

[One day I forgot to show up for work and my boss fired me. I was seriously in debt at the time and on the verge of being evicted from my room.

That night I cried myself to sleep. I cried myself into a state of hysteria. I cried until there was nothing left to cry. I wept so violently the gods couldn't tolerate it any longer. "Look," Father Zeus said, placing a hand on my shoulder, "from now on I will take care of you. Only, you must do exactly as I say, and never, not even once, deviate from my orders."]

. . .

One morning when I boarded the train there were two homeless people sleeping on the seats, a teenage boy and a young woman. The boy had an Afro. Not the kind of cool Afro kids get to annoy their parents, but the kind of Afro people have when they can't afford to take care of their hair properly. There were no other seats, so I sat next to them. The boy's arms were tucked inside his T-shirt and he was shivering. I looked over at the girl. A blanket partially covered her face. At her feet were several shopping bags filled with clothes. I quickly turned away and the young boy saw me – he was staring straight at me. I tried to avoid his gaze, but he kept looking. Soon tears formed in his eyes.

I tried to concentrate on my book, but I couldn't. The letters and paragraphs were swirling together, melting into a gray blur on the page. My mind drifted and soon I was staring out the window. Cherry trees filled with white blossoms lined the street outside and their petals were blowing in the wind like snow. Underneath them, a little blond boy was running and laughing. I waved to him as we passed, but he didn't see me. He just kept running and laughing, reaching into the air, trying to catch the petals.