Murphy's Law

Nayeli usually loved the bustle of Downtown LA in the morning. It was frantic, panicked; packed with pedestrians and cars, fighting for the privilege of moving first. The air was filled with the smell of coffee, eggs, hot dogs from the night before, and yes, piss and shit. She loved hearing the hodgepodge of languages as people passed: English, Spanish, Tagalog, Italian, Arabic. She adored her city and its moments of occasional chaos. But not today. Today, of all days, she had slept through her alarm, which she never did and was racing against time to make the interview that could change her life. Trying to get out of the apartment had proved nearly impossible, because of course, her dog Nacho had chosen that this particular morning was ideal for chewing Nayeli’s favorite pair of heels to a leather pulp, forcing her to find another pair that matched her outfit. And obviously, since she was in a hurry, Nacho chose to follow her around, getting under her feet and causing her to trip and spill hot coffee all over herself which made her have to choose an entirely different set of clothes, when she had spent weeks putting together the perfect outfit. And now, here she was, pounding the pavement of the streets of LA, powerwalking in a pencil skirt that was almost too tight and heels that were a bit too high. She cursed herself for not having more skirts, more shoes to choose from. In her head, she went over possible questions they could ask her. Why are you applying for this position? What makes you qualified? What can you contribute? She practiced her answers, replacing words with better words, more articulated, refined, exquisite. Exquisite? Exquisite. Because of her mental focus, because even though she was in a hurry and walking as fast as humanly possible, she was mentally a million miles away and didn’t notice the blockade until it was right in front of her. She halted, once again spilling coffee from her to-go mug onto her blouse, but she couldn’t even get mad because she didn’t have time. She looked at the blockade, this impossibly wide, large and long blockade that seemed to stretch for blocks. This blockade that hadn't been there a week ago, but of course, today was in front of her, forcing her to figure out a different route. She stared at the men working, drilling holes into the street, and cursed them. One man looked up and locked eyes with her and winked. Knowing she didn’t have time to stand there and yell like she wanted to, she turned around and backtracked. “If I walk back two blocks and make a right, I should get there,” she thought. “On time,” she prayed. “Please let me be on time.” She was borderline atheist, but not today. Today she hoped that a higher power was listening. Because it wasn’t just any job. It was the dream job. A boss job. A job where she could be the one to make the decisions, to call the shots, to be able to finally put all her years of experience and knowledge to practice. She had spent so damn long working for people who didn’t know what they were doing, who didn’t listen, who chose to focus on the wrong things. And while she knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew her field and she was tired of seeing unqualified people get ahead because they were someone’s friend or relative. She could make her own schedule, and yes goddamit, she could finally get paid what she deserved. And she actually had a chance because Patricia Rodriguez, the CEO, the big boss, the badass Chingona she was going to meet today, was known to hire women who hustled and collaborated and made smart, efficient, decisions; and Nayeli was that. She was all of that. Having not learned her lesson the first time, she was too lost in thought to notice that the clouds had darkened, that the air had suddenly chilled. It was Spring in all its bipolar glory. The sky thundered and Nayeli screamed in surprise.

“Oh no, please God, no,” she said, and the old woman walking next to her laughed,

“Spring in Los Angeles! Am I right?”

Nayeli looked at the woman but said nothing. Merely gaped. She was frozen in anxiety. The old woman’s smile turned to a frown, and she hurried away, probably assuming that Nayeli was crazy or angry or an idiot. Maybe all three. Nayeli stood in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to decide her best course of action, when the rain began to pour. It was sudden, loud, and all consuming. It was not a light drizzle but a full-on storm. She darted under a nearby liquor store awning, fighting tears and the urge to scream. She could keep going, she could run until she got there, showing up soaking wet and tattered and tired and sweaty and cold. She could call and tell them that she was sick, but glancing at her phone, she knew that if she was going to do that, she should have done it at least an hour ago. She had five minutes, and she knew that the building was ten minutes away and that was only if she ran like she was an Olympic athlete. Which she wasn’t. It was too late to call and cancel. It was too late to call and explain. It was too late to even call an uber and with traffic the way it was, she was more likely to get there sooner if she ran. She cursed the sky and the God she didn’t really believe in; she cursed Nacho (ok not really. She could never curse Nacho); she cursed herself for sleeping through her alarm in the first place. She looked at the rain, at the people running by, trying to stay dry by using their tiny newspapers or briefcases or business jackets that weren’t made for rain. No one had an umbrella because even though they knew that Spring was wild and unpredictable, they were still Angelenos who believed in their constant sun. She fought back tears and committed to the only option that was left. She took off her heels and ran out from underneath the awning. She tried not to think about all the different diseases her thinly stockinged feet were coming into contact with. She jumped over potholes and cracks in the pavement. She ran through crosswalks even when the giant red hand told her to stop, and the speeding cars missed her by mere inches. She could feel her blouse sticking to her skin and ignored the catcalls from passing cars. She could see her destination a block away. Surprising even herself, she picked up speed, and at long long last stopped in front of the building that contained her destiny. She stood, looking up at the glorious tower of steel. She was here. Soaking wet, out of breath, but she was here. She looked at her phone. Twenty minutes late. Ok. Not great. Not a great start and yes, they would probably be taken aback by her appearance, but she could explain, couldn’t she? She could explain and they would see. They would understand. She walked in and ignored the open mouthed, security guard and walked into the elevator and pressed the 18^th floor. The top floor. The boss floor. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, to clear it, to be open and ready and calm and forthcoming. She ignored the puddle she left on the elevator floor as she stepped out. She kept her gaze focused on the front desk and smiled at the clearly shocked young man sitting behind it.

“H-h-hi,” he stammered trying not to stare too hard and failing miserably, “how can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Patricia Rodriguez. I’m Nayeli Cruz. I’m a little late unfortunately,” Nayeli responded in what she hoped was a confident, reasonable, no-I-am-not-an-insane-person tone.

“Oh,” he said, “Patricia isn’t here. She’s out sick. We emailed all of her appointments this morning to reschedule.”