Late!

CW: This piece contains some profanity as well as descriptions of physical violence and gore. Viewer discretion is advised.

FUCK!

I pound my fist into the dashboard of the old hunk of shit I call my car, an action that proves futile, unsurprisingly enough, to snap it back into gear. I then slam my foot down on the gas with just enough force to not knock it out of place. Though a quiver of energy runs through the piece of junk from the blow, the engine doesn’t cough or sputter back to life. It continues to sit stock still in the crumbling driveway, every button taunting me with the times it had pulled through before.

I shove up my sleeve and bring my watch to my face: 11:52–eight minutes to get to an interview fifteen minutes away that starts at noon. Just my luck. I yank the key out of the ignition and run through my options—the bus won’t be around until noon (I would have to go scouring for change anyway). The subway poses the same issue and so does a taxi, which will take a year and a day to flag down. 

A solution finally strikes me as the car fails for a third time: run.

Seven minutes on the clock, I click off my seatbelt, throw it into the wall with a bang, shove open the rusting red door, and scramble out. I slam the door behind me, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the otherwise quiet street as I take off down the cracking sidewalks.

The tips of my shoes catch the gaps created by old tree roots breaking through the concrete and I almost eat shit several times. The trips leave scuff marks that’ll only wear the material down faster, a problem I don’t have the means to deal with. The clouds are threateningly gray and I vaguely recall seeing something on the forecast about thunderstorms. Wonderful! I’ll be late and look like a wet cat! 

As I leap around a corner at the end of the street, the universe decides it’s not finished with me just yet and my sleeve snags on a low-hanging branch. My feet kick out to continue running, but slide back to fix my balance seconds before I hit the ground. Not looking back, I tweak my arm free of the wood claws. Regret punches me square in the face as the fabric tears. I survey the damage as I pick up my pace again—a significant hole leading from the cuff of my shirt and up to a bit of the main sleeve scowls at me and I hiss curses at the fraying threads all the way onto the crowded city streets. 

I steal a glance at my watch—11:55–and further increase my speed, my balance quickly steadying out with the smoother sidewalks. I jump through every break in the crowds while my eyes flit through buildings in hopes of stumbling upon the correct one. Despite the incessant honking of cars beside me and the drone of chatter surrounding me, my mind latches onto one thought: I need this job. In three minutes, I’ve damaged the only pair of dress shoes I can afford and torn a shirt I can’t fix. The pile of metal in my driveway is overdue for a trip to the junkyard, but scrapping it leaves me with no other method of transportation. I barely make rent, let alone afford a bus ride or a MetroCard. However, I’ll run for miles if it means another cent for my girls.

***

“Where are you going today, daddy?” My oldest asks each early morning in our dark kitchen, sipping from her small bottle of orange juice. 

“Wherever fate takes me, baby,” I consistently reply. I sip a mug of black coffee with her and my heart pangs with guilt knowing her first words to me each sunrise are where I’ll be leaving to. 

“I hope it’s somewhere with a lot of money!” She enthusiastically replies.

“Me too.” I pull a smile, slide off the counter, and start towards the front door. Hailey follows me as I pull on the worn, patch-covered overcoat hanging on the coat rack. She watches me smooth the collar and run my fingers through my hair in the mirror by the window. I pick up my briefcase and she picks up my empty coffee cup and places it in the little sink with her careful hands, a routine she started one morning of her own accord that persists to this day. She follows me to the door when I unlatch the lock and stops at the threshold.

“Daddy,” Hailey calls when I’m halfway up the walkway, “we’re gonna be okay, right?”

I halt mid-step and turn around to face the eleven-year-old girl with a bottle of juice in one hand and a head full of worries beyond her years. Her large, cognac eyes shine like stars against the darkness we live in. 

“We’ll be okay, baby,” I answer with a painful smile. “Take care of Keila today, okay?” Keila is my youngest. She was diagnosed with ASD at age four. 

“I will,” Hailey confirms with a nod. “I love you, daddy!” She exclaims, waving as I push myself up the walkway.

“I love you more, baby,” I call back. My eyes sting with tears. 

***

12:02pm.

Rain pours from the dark sky, pounding on rooftops and windows and sending sheets of water down the streets. Windshield wipers squeak and squelch as the shouts of horns grow increasingly aggressive. Umbrellas bloom from within crowds, creating a barrier from the cold, fat droplets plummeting down. Amidst the sea of multicolored umbrellas contrasting their monochrome holders, I dive through a gap to finally stop under the awning of a tall, beautiful building. I quickly grasp the silver handle and fling open the windowed door to enter a spacious lobby complete with sleek wood floors and light gray walls covered in paintings and bulletin boards.

In the silence, my breathing is harsh and loud. An odd metallic taste coats the inside of my mouth. My throat burns as if someone took a blow torch to it. I’m still fighting to catch my breath when an uncertain voice calls from behind the receptionist’s desk. 

“Can I help you, sir?” The young woman asks, her fingers frozen on her computer.

“Francis Jettison,” I manage. “I had an interview at noon. I’m running a little late due to some unforeseen circumstances,” I explain through gasps.

“May I see an ID?” 

“Certainly.” My eyes search for a flat surface and finally decide on a chair to rest my briefcase on. I flip the latch, pop it open—some of the papers are damp by fault of a whole in the corner letting in rain—and pull my ID from a small, separate pocket. I straighten up to show it to the receptionist, but pause before I turn around. Frowning, I gently slide the little picture back to its place. I suspect the rain wore out the glue. 

The receptionist studies me and my ID for a moment, then nods and says, “I’ll let him know. Take a moment to sort yourself out. Oh, and feel free to hang up your coat.” She adds before disappearing around the corner. 

I slip the ID back into my briefcase and pull off the overcoat to hang on a coat rack beside the door. I run my fingers through my damp hair and shake off as much excess water from my clothes as I can, going as far as to dump any water out of my shoes that is lingering. I smooth my shirt collar and tighten my red tie just as the receptionist calls for me. Picking up my briefcase, I release a breath I must not have realized I was holding.

I need this job. 

—

“Quite the impressive résumé, Mr. Jettison.” In the interview room, Mr. Robert Riberio scans through the various jobs I’ve picked up over the years. 

“Thank you, sir,” I reply gratefully. “It’s been years of hard work, but it’s been worth it.”

“Well, good to hear.” Mr. Riberio smiles and sets the papers aside. 

“Tell me, Mr. Jettison,” he begins, “have you traveled outside of the States?”

“Oh, a handful of times, yes,” I answer with a smile. “I’ve seen a few places, but I love Brazil.” 

Mr. Riberio’s eyes light up. 

“Brazil is a beautiful country, isn’t it? My family happens to be from there, actually!” He says. 

“Really?” I continue the game a bit further. “What city?”

“São Paulo,” he answers. 

“That’s a lovely city, isn’t it?” I sigh. “Morumbi?”

“Yes,” he cautiously confirms, the brightness of his eyes tainting with suspicion. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess, I guess,” I chuckle. There’s no need to worry about his concern. 

Rising slowly from my seat, I add, “What was it, number 43 on one of the main roads? It’s a nice little place, isn’t it, Mr. Riberio?” 

Mr. Riberio’s eyes shift from light suspicion to fear. His fingers flit to the phone, but I’m faster. In a flash, I pin his hand to the desk with a pen. I rip the glasses away from his terrified eyes, bang them on the edge of the desk, and slit his throat with the largest shard of glass, his cries muffling to gurgles. I stand quietly in front of my chair as blood stains the pristine white desk. I don’t blink until he slumps forward and his eyes glaze over like a doll’s. For good measure, I glide around the desk and shove the shard into his jugular, ripping it free off the side. Blood coats my hands and the carpet beneath. No further movement comes. He makes no further noise.

I unbutton my shirt and pull it off, using it to wipe the majority of the blood off my hands before I pop open my briefcase. I quietly slip the false résumé back into its neat little pocket. I pull a plastic bag from another and dump the bloodied shirt and every piece of the broken glasses inside. From a third pocket, I unfold a clean white button-down to replace my bloody one. The old one was being thrown out anyway. With everything in order, I straighten my collar, tighten my red tie, and stroll out of the interview room. In the lobby, the receptionist smiles at me.

“I hope everything went well,” she says. “That was quite fast. He just have really liked you!”

Pulling on my patch-covered overcoat, I return her smile and reply, “I’d say it went very well, but we’ll see.”

“I suppose we will. Have a nice day!” She calls.

“You too,” I smile and wave as I step back into the cooling rain. Some ways from the building, I duck under the awning of an empty shop. I slide my fingers into my pocket, flick out a small, black phone and type in a number.

“It’s done,” I whisper the moment the other line picks up. 

“Well done,” the boss replies. “Refer to the address I gave you last week and come collect your pay. I admit I had my doubts, but you’re looking to be a good match for this business.”

“I appreciate it,” I whisper, pulling the sticky note from my pocket. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or less.”

The other line hangs up and I shove the burner back into my pocket to dispose of later. 

What can I say? I need this job.