All Fired Up

It wasn’t morning or evening or just about supper time. Fate's hour struck. Be-ding! Now that got my attention, rehearsing what I would say to Mr. Peabody. Who wasn’t much to think about, all fussy and Jiminy Cricket-like, standing in my office doorway?

I’m your regular guy, so into himself that there wasn’t much else to consider except how Peabody eyed me. What big eyes you have, I might have said. Or what running gag must we pursue now? I’ll be trim and docile, a mope for you, sir! You hold the cheques to my soul. It's all a matter of checks and balances; I heard it in Poli Sci class: the division of powers between the executive, the legislative, and the judiciary. That's the natural order. All branches of government compete so that power doesn’t collect its due in blood. Mine, in particular. Too bad Mussolini didn’t get the memo!

“You’re fired!”

All fired up, you mean? Between the twist of his mouth and my clammy hands gripping the desk, I could time travel. I could see those words now, flying past with that terminal velocity that creams everything in its path. Consider the phrase "cream something." A veritable solid left standing, a statue upright and virtuous, suddenly squished into a liquid? Such a liquid also flowing from my eyes? Me stuck in my apartment, now a refugee sanctuary. I hardly remember how I got there. Immigration visa? Green card?

No really. Did I take the subway, or was it the number 12 bus? I remember Mildred looking at me strangely. There are so many of them. Each had spectacles that magnified their eyes, trying not to stare but doing it anyway. I should win a lottery and give each of them a bit actor’s wage. Except the director takes leave at the wrong time, and I’m stuck acting up a storm in a play whose name escapes me, the script a mystery?

The Story of My Life. Brought to me by absentee landowners who generously send a stuffed turkey at Christmas. I turn the cooked bird upside down to knock the stuffing out, which seems so apropos, all stuck to avian ribs and bones and to gristle. I stare at it absently. It’s a feed for us peasants, groveling at the master’s table. Who isn’t there anyway and never will be?

#

I rub the sleep from my eyes. And remember. Should I roll over or get up? Such choices when the yawning void of my life is calling. I never knew how much time work took up!

Of course, I got this curio item at the pawn shop. He, of course, didn’t know what he had. The owner, that is, or the proprietor of the premises. Both of them, ideally. Otherwise, I could never have acquired this claw with a shining blue crystal in the middle of a bulbous globe. Why did they put a heavy glass sheath around it?

Oh, to keep the magic in. Or me out. So, when I had it in the apartment, I immediately unscrewed the interesting bits from the base. I held the silver claw, sinuous with congealed, flowing veins of mystery metal that gripped that twinkling blue crystal.

Must have it! An urge to yank the crystal from the claw nearly overcame me. But I restrained myself. Maybe this thing was worth something? I hurriedly screwed everything back together. How did it go? Here, I thought I was doing it right, claw to base, base to sheath, but the claw no longer stood straight, and the bulbous, heavy glass was cross-threaded onto the wooden stand.

I must have panicked. Wouldn’t it be simpler to take it back then to try to fix it? I looked for my receipt. RETURNS NOT ACCEPTED. So that settled that. Stuck with it. I looked over to my balcony, which I had never set foot on ever since the concrete gave up on the rusting rebar, and I noticed that against the sun, birds were congregating on the decrepit black balustrade. More than a few, to be exact. Well, maybe five birds facing me, black eyes darting about, relatively unconcerned as I approached them, with the curio item in one hand.

I held it out to them, whereupon they took flight, wheeled through the air, and swooped down to another balcony nearby. I laughed. What was I expecting, a part as a bird in a Hitchcock film?

Which reminded me. Must look for a new job. So I looked at Monster Jobs—the website, of course. Absentmindedly, I applied to half a dozen, with my old CV. Useless. Must update the resume. But then I was hungry. So I packed the item in a black shopping bag and wondered what chance I would have of landing a job while going back to the pawn shop to try to return an unreturnable item. Probably no chance.

What a dufus idea I had buying something useless when I lost my job! Boris has something to say about those types of things. Talking in my head, he always has my back, a paragon of practicality.

“What you did there? You had problem with life? Want something magical to solve life! Ha! Go solve problem, then deal with life!”

And I’m thinking while headed downtown, what more could go wrong on the number 12 bus? Mildred’s not staring. But I imagine the bus driver was up to something: when people would stand to get off, he’d grin and jam on the brakes. They would trip over their own feet, hanging onto the nearest shiny bar that had peeling red tape from so many desperate sweaty hands.

But it’s not my concern. Because that old geezer, so close to retirement, no longer cares if he gets written up. He’s enjoying the disciplinary process. Like I should be, with him stopping especially hard at a traffic light as a senior with a walker trundled out of nowhere onto the crosswalk. So, letting go of the overhead bar, I tumbled up close to him, plunked heavily in the seat across, and opened my mouth.

“Gotta hand it to ya!”

He gets this look on his face, like he’s time-traveling back to when passengers talked to the bus drivers. Then he wipes his mouth and doubles down on paying attention to his driving. So I tried again.

“Them’s the breaks in life! One minute you’re driving along, and the next thing you know, life happens!”

He smirked.

That was all I could get. Except I got off at the next stop and traipsed to a park near the pawn shop, my whatzit imprisoned in the black bag. It made this squeaky sound with every step I took, izzit, izzit like the silver claw was rubbing up against the glass. Sort of like how my stomach felt with no breakfast. Which felt so not appropriate. But I’ll screw up my courage to speak to the proprietor, while thinking of what I want to eat, the food trucks scattered about.

But then pigeons strutted by my park bench, their beady paramour eyes looking for a handout, the words “bird brain” coming to mind. So I turned out my pockets, doing them the favor of imagining that they have a greater intelligence than they're given credit for. Which made them eye my black bag with its hidden treasure. The claw emerged, sunlight glinting off its jewel-like surface. To be honest, I had never seen it before in this light. A chasm of twinkling brilliance it was. Then, all birds departed. I laughed. What an amusing item this is! I imagined what might have been. These humble birds needed an idol like this to bend their beak, topple over, and worship…

My cell rang, or I should say it warbled an old tune my parents liked. Which embarrassed me every time I heard it. When I visit, the tune on my cell pleases them. I just never change it back. Mom was on the line, all crackling and insistent. I put her on speakerphone.

“So what happened? Did he accept your explanation?”

“Say that again. You’re breaking up?”

“HOW DID IT GO, JOSH?”

“Fine. Great,” I answered.

She seemed unconvinced. There was a long silence while I twiddled at my curio, trying to open it. At first, the cross-threaded base resisted my attempts to reach the claw, so I redoubled my efforts. Then, when the threads were oriented correctly, the bulbous glass shot out from the immense pressure I placed on it and smashed into the concrete.

Now I’ve done it.

“What was that?” Ma shrieked.

I looked around. A few passersby stopped. A Mildred or two, not approving. I smiled at them. A stupid grin that didn’t seem to go well. It wasn’t as if people would cheer like when a waitress tossed sunny side-up eggs at my favorite restaurant. After she was tripped, that is. My lazy foot was in the aisle. Mom asked me again about what happened, in her best imperious voice.

“I broke something I bought,” I answered.

She didn’t seem to care. “What about your job, honey? That’s why I called. What about that?”

I held the claw in my hands now. It was free at last. Free to soak up the sun. I twirled it around, marvelling at the workmanship, the fluid lines of the metal, the exaggerated talons that held the crystal so tightly. Why would I give this up?

“Mom, I’ve got to go,” I answered after I hung up. Then I stashed my curio in my pocket, which weighed down one part of my jacket. No matter. I will walk more to one side.

Food, I’m thinking. Must have some.

I follow my nose, which leads me to the Chinese food truck. A bored white guy is stirring the pot. I’m thinking, how can the food smell so delicious when a white guy is the cook? But he smiles at me, so I step closer.

“What can I do you for?” he asks, near his tip jar. I’m looking at some lonely-looking quarters, thinking what tip could I give when I’m not buying anything?

He waits patiently while I study the menu. There were no other customers around. He could wait, couldn’t he? He lost that smile, which looked more pasted on his face than at first, then disappeared altogether.

“Do Chinese people eat breakfast?” I ask. “I don’t see any breakfast items here.”

He makes a face. “How should I know that?” Then, he called for the cook to come forward from behind the serving area. She arrived, wiping her face with a cloth. She looked hot and steamy, and she barked something in Chinese at another worker, a man, who immediately came to take an empty tray from the steam table back into the kitchen.

“This guy wants to know if we serve breakfast!” the white guy said, smirking and raising his voice.

The cook at first did not understand. “Dim Sum?” she finally said, so demure, while straightening her apron. “No, but we have wonton…”

I fished the claw out of my pocket. “Ever see something like this before?” I ask.

The cook seemed again not to understand. Then she looked at my curio closely. “Jewelry. A claw is for strength and victory in battle. The jewel is the prize.” Then she smiled. “Thank you for showing me this.”

And she even smiled when I didn’t order anything. I turned to go, skipping the pawn shop to the employment office, where I got leads on a new job.

Mom hardly knew the difference. That number 12 bus driver retired. And everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Especially me.