The door swung open, and two security guards grabbed my arms. I bristled against their hold. “Is this really necessary?” I demanded.
Mr. Whelms looked at me with humor dancing in his eyes. “Goodbye, Ms. Holloway.”
I clenched my jaw as he straightened his tie and waved while I made an undignified exit. The guards dragged me through the building and pushed me out of the entrance. A box of desk knick-knacks and a few dozen stress balls followed shortly after I regained my balance.
Cars whizzed past me, ignoring the sad scene that was officially the worst day of my life.
With a huff, I snatched my purse off the sidewalk before anyone could swoop in and steal it. Fine. I didn’t even like the job anyway. I had to drag myself to work every morning, waking up before the sun, and put up with coworkers that took three-hour lunch breaks, all for the hope of a promotion that never came.
As I stalked down the sidewalk, I counted my losses while I began mentally listing companies that could be hiring. I expected to see my car parked in front of the nearest Starbucks, where I had left it.
But wait… My heartbeat matched the pace of my footsteps as I ran to the empty space where I’d parked.
“It’s gone, lady.”
I swiveled on my heel to see an old man in an over-sized coat sitting in the alley nearby. “What do you mean it’s gone?” I pressed, all the blood leaving my face. This day just kept getting better and better.
He continued peeling his orange with a shrug. “They towed it.”
Just my luck. “For what?” I exclaimed.
“How should I know?” His wrinkled face turned toward the sky as if he was searching for something. “You’re the one that’s shitty at parking.”
I threw my head back and groaned, “This can’t be happening.”
The old man nodded sagely. “That’s what I said when a bird pecked out a cat’s eyes, all for my leftover sandwich crust.”
A dozen different swear words swirled around my skull and marinated my brain in frustration. I gave the building one final glance before starting the long walk home.
It only took a month of job hunting after getting fired before I hit my breaking point. After fifteen interviews and no job offers, I spent my time pretending to be dead on my soon-to-be-auctioned-off couch, taking breaks to scarf down stale Cheetos every once and awhile.
I knew my days as a renter at the Melody Condominiums were numbered and rapidly diminishing. Out of fifteen corporations, no one could see the value in me as an employee. I nearly began to wonder if Mr. Whelms could be right about being replaceable.
I rolled over, crushing the nearby bag of Cheetos under my weight, and screamed into a beige sofa pillow beside me, not paying any attention to the orange dust stain it would leave behind. It was the first piece of furniture I had ever bought on my own, and it seemed poetic that it would be the first to be contaminated by my failure.
I contemplated life and my lack of a bachelor’s degree to hang over the fridge.
In essence, I had earned stained furniture, greasy hair, and no income.
"I’ve become my mother,” I moaned, rubbing my eyes until they were watering from irritation—or emotional distress.
She never wanted me to move out of the state, away from her. But her grand plans for me began and ended with me on a man’s arm. Independence was a foreign word to her, proven by the way she flocked to single, barely tolerable bachelors to pay the bills.
And I refused to let myself crash and burn without a fight or at least a small protest. I had to be better.
With newfound resolve, I peeled myself off the couch and searched through the house for a newspaper.Usually, I trashed the junk mail, but coupons had been a hot commodity for the last month. I opened the drawers to my coffee table, scooping out a lone mint and tossing it on the top for later.
Of course, I had a savings account, but it drained quicker than I planned. Bailing my car out of car jail could wait, but feeding my younger siblings couldn’t.
I thought I’d have a job in a matter of days, not weeks. If I couldn’t find something in my field, I would have to widen my parameters. I dug around the papers on the counter, mostly spreadsheets and fast-food coupons, until I remembered where I left it. Buried in the trash bin under a cup of soggy coffee grounds was a copy of the local newspaper.
I shook off whatever I could before spreading it out on the counter and flipping to the classifieds. I scoured the ‘help wanted’ list with my fingertips and highlighted the jobs I could convince myself to do. There were multiple ads for construction and babysitting, none of which held my interest, but times were tough.
Just as I was about to cave and call a mother of four for an estimated nannying salary, I spotted an open position at a nearby department store.Bingo.
Strawberry yogurt coated a portion of the ad and obstructed the last sentence, but I didn’t need it. The hours weren’t half bad, and they were offering a little over minimum wage. I’d have to cut costs, like electricity and food, but I could make it work.
Sold to the desperate lady in sweatpants.
