ONE CRAPPY DAY DURING THE RECESSION:
PART 1
by
Lionel Levy
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Lionel Levy on Smashwords
One Crappy Day during the Recession:
Part 1
Copyright © 2011 by Lionel Levy
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ONE CRAPPY DAY DURING THE RECESSION:
PART 1
Hands clasped under my head, I listened to the soft thunder of an approaching truck while staring at the stucco ceiling. As Granny sometimes declared, being awake and stretched out on a bed doing nothing was cursing life, but I had a snug reason: My girlfriend Julia and ABLE, my workplace until today, were reducing me to an unproductive state. The truck’s shadow broke into the master bedroom like a sinister thought passing through the mind. Fickle and slippery, the form glided across part of the blue wall, darkened book spines lining the rack above the dressing table mirror, and then sank between the wall and computer desk. I patted the paperback on Julia’s side of the bed. After I’d received my final ABLE check at noon, driven home, and eaten spaghetti with the zest of a man afflicted by strep throat, Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” showed me some love. For the second time in four years I’d traveled through the peaks and valleys of her life, her writing style still an engaging force, making me wish she were a big sister for the rough patch I was going through.
The truck warned with constant beeps that increased in volume, and I realized it was backing up to the adjoining townhouse on the right. Must be a grocery delivery for the neighbors, I thought. They’re probably trying to save on gas. In the first place why did they have to buy that goliath SUV?
The engine of the truck cut off, and metal scraped against metal. Thinking there were more constructive things to do than eavesdropping on a truck, I took my cell phone from the top of the nightstand and tossed it between my hands. Girlfriends could bring joy and sorrow. Companies could give bonuses and pink slips.
I tried Julia’s number. Her voicemail frustrated me into disconnecting. I was mindful that the evening news would start in the next hour. Would she be home from work by then?
I considered giving Granny a buzz to let her know I’d see her soon, then thought better of calling. As I visited the Columbia nursing home every Sunday, she’d want to know why I was coming by on a Friday. I didn’t have the telephone confidence to reveal I was seeking an uplifting hug for losing my job. I’d just turn up and surprise her like a newly discovered song of Frank Sinatra, a slow track moaning about the vagaries of life.
I reflected on how Granny was always around, even during the earliest of years. When my parents died in the highway pileup near Baltimore, she flew up from the Caribbean and relieved the babysitter of me, returning to Dominica and serving as my foundation for eleven years. Then we packed up for the US once I completed primary school. I remembered her forlorn look as we boarded the turbo prop in Dominica. We were migrating only because she wanted the best educational opportunity for me and first-class health care for herself.
Stretching my legs to the end of the mattress, I wriggled my toes at a mental image of Granny. Priming myself for the trip to see her would involve a meditative walk. I got up and looked out the sash window, my breath producing dank cumulus clouds on the inside glass. Less than half the length of a white trailer had been backed into the width of the neighbor’s two parking spaces. I noticed a slanting metal ramp that united the trailer with the highest step of the porch. I drew the curtain further, allowing more light of late afternoon into the bedroom. Maroon letters along the door of the truck cab boasted that the rig belonged to a moving company.
I went outside and cut across the parking lot to reach the bordering fence. Strolling along the grassy strip that ringed the townhouse units, I imagined the black spears which formed the wrought iron fence as being poised for battle, ready to launch at the sun if the temperature got one degree hotter. I arrived at the gatehouse with an overheated imagination and a settled plan on how to break the job news to Granny. After greeting her in the usual manner, complimenting her hairstyle was the guaranteed way to go. I’d flatter her with hair talk until I deemed it safe to slip in the bitter pill.
The mechanical gate at the entrance slid open, and a Jeep drove in. I didn’t see anyone wave the driver from the gatehouse, so I went to the hut and peered through the window. The man with the permanently bloodshot eyes wasn’t sleeping at his desk. The drunkard had probably been fired for having one nap too many. Losing a job was contagious. Continuing past the gatehouse, I regretted not wearing something lighter than my polo shirt and jeans. Heat and humidity were fusing the clothes to my body, and a poignant memory shrouded the material I’d worn on my last day as an employed draftsman.
I made the full circle around the complex and returned to my row of townhouses. Legs had sprouted from the back of the white trailer, two stubs capped with violet shoes that lashed out at the ramp beside them. Curiosity walked me to the neighbors’ parking spot. From their open front door, I heard furniture being moved, and inside the trailer, a redheaded girl leaned a shoulder against the padded wall. Beside her, a redheaded Barbie doll with a toy comb lodged in its hair lay facedown on the dusty floor.
“Hello, little one.” My greeting bounced around the vast emptiness of the trailer.
She kicked the edge of the ramp so hard with her buckled shoe that I feared for her toes. But her face showed no pain, only a budding smile which hinted she knew something about me. I dismissed the opinion. Little girls were not as crafty as adults. What could she know?
“I see somebody is leaving Cherry Hill Townhouses.” I wanted to determine whether her entire family was moving out. “That’s a whole lot of trailer.” I’d just answered myself. A trailer that size couldn’t be there to move a single person’s belongings. Even for single family use, the size was overkill.
She gave the ramp another hard blow.
“Have a nice evening,” I said, turning around to walk away.
“My mommy says you guys are stupid.”
I wheeled to face her. “What!”
She picked up the doll and cradled it. “Stupid. You and your girlfriend.”
“Why?”
“Mommy and Daddy heard you guys fighting early in the morning.”
“Sometimes big people have arguments. It’s always going to be that way.” I glanced over my shoulder and felt stupid for doing that. If her parents came outside, why should I slink away with embarrassment? They were total strangers to Julia and me. Granny once said all the townhouses in the complex looked like emotional cocoons.
The girl ran the comb through the doll’s hair, creating such a crackle I expected to see frolicking sparks of static electricity.
“Don’t your parents argue sometimes?” I asked.
She held up the doll. “Betty has to look nice for the trip. We’re moving to Mississippi.”
“That’s a long drive.” I hadn’t given up on getting her to admit the parents argued. I’d steer her toward my goal. “You might disagree with me on the spelling of Mississippi. Bet you can’t spell it.”
“Of course I can, stupid. I’m six years old.”
Her smile was broad this time. I couldn’t fathom how the girl’s parents could have let her lose so many teeth from both gums. Tooth alternated with space like the cutter bar of a combine harvester.
“We’re going to live with Daddy’s sister because Daddy says we can’t pay for this home in College Park.”
“Lots of fun things to do in Mississippi,” I said, feeling sorry for her and finding it weird that I’d miss a family of neighbors I never got to know.
“No there’s not. Mommy says it’s a boring state.” She kicked the ramp tamely. “We’re moving because Mommy got laid off. Daddy wasn’t laid off, but his manager started to give him less money. It’s the recession.”
The last sentence kicked me in the head. I was speechless. Six-year-olds had no business knowing about a recession and definitely didn’t have to experience the wrenching effects of one.
“Daddy had to sell his truck. Mommy’s car is being fixed now. It has to be working properly for the long drive.”
I heard the engine of an approaching Mustang. Julia’s windshield sparkled with sunshine flares as she pulled into the space between the trailer-truck and my Camaro. Without acknowledging my staring presence, she left the Mustang and waltzed through the door of our townhouse. I was about to follow her slim figure inside, but the girl’s parents came out their front door, an attractive couple wearing Washington Redskins vests. They set two stacks of green plastic chairs on the porch and introduced themselves, as though they’d been waiting for the right moment to get chummy with me all along, as though the child’s mother hadn’t called me stupid. Then they unleashed their financial woes on my mind. When I caught up with Julia, she was subtracting from clothes on the floor of the master bedroom and adding to a volume inside her purple suitcase.
I sat down beside the small suitcase on the bed, my anxious palm circling about the lining of the flipped cover. “Why are you doing this?”
She pointed to the bottom of the computer desk. “Put my laptop in its case.” Her fleshy lips pouted.
I forced a smile. “Can we talk about this morning’s argument? Sorry I lost my temper and shouted at you. I know you’re also sorry that you lost yours.”
Julia went to the desk. “You don’t have to help me with the laptop.” She squatted on her haunches, taking out the laptop and case from the storage cupboard. “I’m an independent woman. By the way, you won’t see me tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow?” Her confirmation worsened my disturbed state. I got to my feet. “Sweetie, I’d help you before helping myself.”
She encased the laptop and stood. “For God’s sake, stop with that ‘sweetie’ nonsense. It’s sickening.” She nodded at the suitcase. “Take it to my car and stay there.”
“Which motel will you be at?”
“I’ll call you if I need to see you.”
I went to her and ran my hand through her golden-brown hair. My fingers migrated to the sharp bridge of her nose, touching it lightly, sliding without haste, attempting to tease out a sultry invitation from her emerald eyes. She slapped my hand away.
I carried the suitcase outside and rested it against the rear bumper of the Mustang. From that suitcase, Julia could squeeze out two weeks of living. Should I disable her car? I wondered, as I put the suitcase into the trunk. She’d never figure out there was one less fuse in the fuse box. Then while she waited on a tow truck or taxi or friend’s ride, I’d have enough time to talk her into spending the night with me, after which, she and I would live happily ever after.
“Stupid, stupid.” The child emerged from the back of the trailer, hopping toward me on one leg.
“Why don’t you go inside and help your parents move stuff?” I shut the trunk, reasoning that the time apart this weekend would do Julia and me well. Our relationship would rebound and our connection would be stronger than ever, like the bond between her sweet tooth and candy.
“Very stupid.” The child poked me in the ribs.
Laptop slung over her shoulder, Julia came outside and drove off without a word.
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About the author:
Lionel Levy is a Caribbean writer based in South Florida. Writing has always been his prime outlet for the stresses of life
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