One Day (Part 3)

Jane always tried to have a smile on her face, not a sappy, happy smile like those fakers, but a gentle, realistic smile.  She would be the first to admit that life wasn't perfect, especially for someone like her who had little luck with either love or a career, but things could always be worse.  At least she had friends, even if none of them was a boyfriend, and at least she had a job, even if working a checkout counter wasn't her idea of a compelling career.  She might not have a lot of outright joy in her life, but she had a subtle peace and an acceptance of who she was and where she was headed.  As much as she wanted someone extra special to share her life with her, a boyfriend might just distract her from her studies when she went back to school in the fall.  And this time she was going to major in something more practical, like business or finance.  She did have a decent head for numbers, even if they weren't her first passion, and she was much more likely to make a good living with a more sensible degree.  Still, she had no regrets about her first run through college.  It might not have been potentially lucrative in terms of money, but she had learned a lot about herself and what she can do and can't do and won't do.  One thing Jane will never do is give up.  It might seem like she's giving up, but she's just following a different path.  And who knows?  Maybe this different path will one day lead her back to where she wanted to go in the first place.  Life is sometimes circular like that.

Jane blinked herself back into the present to avoid getting lost in her thoughts and smiled at the next customer.  He was not the sort of man that most people would have an easy time smiling at.  He looked aged beyond his actual years with gray hair, a scraggly beard, and dirt on his face.  Some people Jane knew would cross the street just to avoid walking near a man like this.  When he saw her smiling at him, he seemed embarassed and looked down at his purchase.  Jane looked down to pick it up and felt strangely nervous herself.  What did a seemingly homeless man need with a cheap hunting knife?  Jane was afraid she could think of some possibilities, but she didn't want to think the worst of people.  Maybe he just wanted to murder some pigeons.  If that was the case, he'd be doing the city a real favor.

Jane scanned the knife and looked up with her characteristic soft smile.  He seemed like a kind man, a gentle soul.  She was sure her first instinct had been completely off base.  "Will that be all for you today?" she asked.

He nodded without looking up.

"38.95" she said.  He dug into his musty brown jacket and pulled out a plastic bag from which he extracted four five-dollar bills, 13 one-dollar bills, 22 quarters, and 5 dimes.

Jane felt like she couldn't quite smile as she took the money.  Somehow the way he had pulled it out, like it was all he had in the world, made her sad.  She counted it up, put it in the register, then took one nickle from the register and one five-dollar bill and said "Five oh five is your change".

He looked up at her in surprise as she held out the money.  "I was sure..." he started to say, his voice wavering a bit.

Jane found it easy now to smile again.  "Five oh five is your change," she said again.  "Would you like your receipt?"

The man nodded as he took the receipt and the money.  He looked up at her like he wanted to say something else but wasn't sure what to say, so Jane said something instead:  "Things are never as bad as they seem."  She wasn't sure if would mean anything, but it seemed like the right thing to say.  She wished she could take the time to say more, but the next person in line seemed to be getting suspicious.  The man must have felt it too, because he simply nodded, took the knife and his money, and stumbled away.  Jane watched him go out of the corner of her eye as she turned to the next customer with a smile.  Once she worked through the line that had built up, she bent down to get her purse and dug out the replacement for the $5 she had given the man and slipped it into the cash register.  She rather wished she had given him more, but $5 had seemed like enough at the time.  She just hoped that her second instinct about him was right and that he wasn't about to go off and do something stupid.

One Day (Part 2)

Jason watched the woman in the neat business attire rush on down the street and his countenance fell.  It seemed like no matter what he did, he made people uncomfortable.  Go up and talk to them, they rush a little faster.  Don't say anything, they ignore you completely.  Happen to make eye contact with one, she fumbles about and hurries away down the street.

With a sigh, he pulled out from his pocket the plastic baggie that served as his wallet.  Forty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.  He stuffed it back in his pocket.  He could get food to last him a week with that money, but food wasn't his concern.  The homeless shelter was always happy to offer him a warm meal in the evenings.  What they had a shortage of was beds.

He turned around his sign and examined it.  Maybe cardboard was too cliche.  Maybe he should use some of his money to invest in a nice piece of poster-board.  He had thought the cardboard would demonstrate the need he felt, but then again, how many times had he paid any mind to a man with a cardboard sign before he had lost his job and his apartment and everything else?

Maybe the words needed work.  "Homeless shelter full.  Please help."  He shook his head.  They were direct and succinct and explained his exact problem.  He wasn't even directly asking for money.  He just wanted help:  advice on another place to stay, a blanket or pillow, even just a little bit of encouragement.  Money is always nice, though.  If he could just get enough money, he could make his own way.  He would have a hot shower and good night's sleep before his next job interview and maybe he wouldn't just get turned away before he even made it in the front door.

Jason turned his sign back around and looked up at the people hurrying to get home.  Home.  How he used to take that for granted.  Even when he was barely scrapping by, he never thought he would actually be unable to afford a place to stay.  Now that Motel 8 a few blocks down the street just stood there, taunting him.  He could go sit somewhere else, but this seemed to be a spot that got the most foot traffic, even if his earnings didn't seem reflective of that at all.

Forty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.  The sign out front said nightly rates were $59.99 for a weeknight stay.  With taxes and fees, round that up to $70 for the night, and he still needed another twenty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents.  His $42.75 had been earned since Sunday, so he probably wouldn't have another $27.25 until Monday.  He could tough it out until then, but then what?  One night's stay at a hotel for every 6 days on the street?  Was that what the rest of his life was going to be?

He glanced up at the sky.  It was actually a rather nice day right now:  fairly cool for a summer evening.  But he saw the clouds starting to gather.  It was likely going to rain tonight.  He never hated the rain nearly so much when he was employed.

Maybe he could use his money to buy an umbrella.  That would at least help keep him dry for the night.  But his eyes were drawn back to the hotel.  A soft, comforting bed; employees who would be forced to smile at him instead of frowning and rushing away; a warm shower.  A warm shower would really hit the spot, and not the hot sweaty drenching he got on Tuesday when it was almost 100 degrees outside.

He couldn't possibly get enough to pay for tonight though, and even then, his current business model was unsustainable.  He needed another plan.

$42.75.  Surely that was enough to buy something of use, something that could help him get the rest of the money he needed.  And then it dawned on him.  The thought made him extremely uneasy, but he wasn't sure what choice he really had at this point.  Not if he wanted to get off the streets.  He would rob a convenience store.  People did it all the time, he was quite sure, and only the stupid ones got caught.  He would be smart about it - buy a mask and something that can threaten as a weapon without really hurting anyone.  If there's too much resistance, then run, try somewhere else.  How would anyone be able to prove its him?  He's only going to do this one time, this one day.  Get enough money for a few nights at the hotel, go interview at a few places, and get a job.  If he were feeling gutsy, he could even interview at whatever place he ends up robbing, but that's the kind of stupid behavior that ends up getting people caught.  He wouldn't do that.

Jason set down his sign and stood up with a new resolve.  His pulse had quickened and he felt very nervous, but this seemed like the best plan he had in a while.  It was certainly worth a try.  If he felt too uneasy to carry it through when the money came, what would he be out?  $42.75.  Probably not even that.  He would keep the receipt for the mask and the knife and return them.  Receipts, he should say.  He would be sure not to buy them in the same place, just in case someone got suspicious.  Jason smile as he hurried to the bus stop. A $2 round trip fare still left him with $40.75.  There was a thrift store near the shopping center were he could probably find an old ski mask or something else to cover his face for about $3, and that still left him with $37.75 for a knife or something else that looked threatening.  He was nervous, but if he could beat the nerves and act menacing, he could walk out of this with several nights in a hotel and a new job!

One Day (Part 1)

It had been a long day at work.  The big annual report was coming up next week, so Sarah's bosses had no shortage of documents for her to evaluate and powerpoint slides for her to prepare.  Everyone wanted something and no one had any time to wait.  Just one more day and she would be done for the week.  She was so looking forward to the weekend.

Sarah let out a deep, refreshing sigh as she walked down the street stocking-footed.  Her feet hurt from walking in her heels so she had taken them off.  She really needed to start bringing walking shoes to work as she had seen others doing.

As she was thinking about this, she must have leaned to the side or something because the weight in her over-sized purse shifted, catching her off balance, and causing her to drop a shoe.  "That was dumb," she thought as she stopped walking and bent down to pick up her shoe.  "I should just put these in my bag.  I think there's room."

She swung her purse around, plopping it on the sidewalk, and happened to glance up as she was unzipping it and notice a gray-haired man with a scraggly beard, hints of dirt on his face, longing green eyes, and a cardboard sign sitting up against the wall of a building.  He looked at her expectantly.

"Oh no," Sarah quickly said, "I'm sorry, I was just..." She stuffed one of her shoes into the bag.  "I'm sorry," she said again, turning a little red and putting her other shoe in the bag.  It fit, but just barely.  She stared down at the bag as she forced the zipper close and then glanced up once more as she stood back up.  "Sorry," she said a third time, and hurried on awkwardly down the street.

As her pulse calmed from the shock of seeing homeless man sitting right there, she realized that he hadn't seemed like many of the others she saw downtown.  He hadn't said anything to her, had just stared at her.  It had made her uncomfortable, but maybe that was the point.  Maybe she should have at least stopped to talk to him, to say more than "Sorry".  What had his sign said?  Something about the homeless shelter.  Maybe he wasn't even homeless and was just trying to make a point.  If he was homeless, he sure wan't being very obtrusive about it.  She wondered what his story was, and, for a split second, considered going back to ask.

But that was silly.  She had to get home and make dinner for Paul.  Tomorrow was his big night and she had wanted to make him his favorite dishes tonight and she was already running behind.  Besides, the homeless man would surely be there again tomorrow.  Where else was he going to go?

Quiet

She cared about him, but she never let him know.  She cared about all of them, really.  Even the ones she was always yelling at.  Especially the ones she was always yelling at.  A commander had to be harsh, mean.  If she wasn't, they all would have died.  Well, they all would have died much sooner.

It wasn't fair, not even remotely, that she was the only one still alive.  She would have died for all of them, for any of them.  But a commander's job wasn't to lay her life down for her men.  The job of her men was to lay their lives down for her.

A tear, a single drop, that's all she was allowed, all she would allow herself.  The red rose she let slip from her hand.  A torn pricked her on its way down.  Her body noticed, but she didn't.  A single drop of blood, that was all it allowed her in way of physical suffering.  The mental anguish was overwhelming.

A commander must be strong and brave.  And a commander must always be ready to train new troops.  Hers were coming tomorrow.  A week to mourn, that was more than enough.

The wind blew her auburn hair across her face.  It had been so long since she had felt the wind.  In another life time, she had enjoyed it.  As she closed her eyes and tried to savor it once more, she let another tear slip.  That was two, double her quota.  If she allowed herself any more, she knew she would be lost.

She opened her eyes again, bright blue eyes sparkling with sadness, and looked down.  The dirt was fresh, but she could already see tiny sprouts starting to poke up out of it.  Her rose had blown up against the tombstone in the wind.  There was no name on the tombstone, just a single star to signify that this man had died a brave death.  Or at least to signify that the man represented by this little plot of dirt had died a brave death.  There was no man anymore.  The manner of his death had robbed her not only of his soul, but of his body as well.  All that was buried here was what little he had left behind:  his clothes, his books, and the remainder of his rations from the day he had died.  The contents of a dead man's locker were bad luck to keep aboard a ship, or even to return to his loved ones who might like to have them.

She blinked a third tear away and pretended it hadn't happened, that none of it had happened.  She looked away from the rose and glanced around to the other graves.  Thirteen in all.  A lucky number.  That's the reason there were 13 in a crew, and one commander, to unite them.  Luck had done nothing for them that day, and their commander had done even less.

She turned away, folded her hands respectfully in front of her, and walked away.  She was glad no one had been there to see.  She felt awkward in the dress, but somehow liberated, too.  For a day, for just one day, sad a day as it was, she didn't have to be a commander.  She knew she needed that.

As she walked down the hillside, she refused to look back.  She knew they deserved another look, one final and absolute good-bye, but she couldn't give it to them, not yet.  If she tried, she was sure she would see their faces and hear their shouts all over again, shouts not of fear or of despair, but shouts of determination, devoted to seeing the mission threw until the end, the very end.  That's what had earned them those stars.  Those simple graven stars that meant so much to you when you were alive and nothing to anyone when you were dead.

Inhale, exhale.  It was quite out here.  Most people feared the dead, even the thought of them, even others in the military, but Ella wasn't afraid, not anymore.  She loved the dead, and the thought of joining them had some mystical appeal to her now.  Death was only scary, she thought, if no one you loved had died.

The wind blew her hair again, this time out of her face, and she continued to stare on ahead as she walked down the path.  It was the dust it blew into her eyes that caused the next few tears to come.  It wasn't the sadness.  She couldn't let herself believe it was the sadness.  The time for mourning was nearly past.  Tomorrow her new crew would be looking to her.  She was respected and brave and true.  She hadn't backed down from the mission despite impending doom, and she had inspired her crew to do the same.  

That was what had earned her her star, the one she got to wear in life, just like the one her men got to wear in death.  She hadn't realized she had been reaching up to touch it until she felt its shape beneath her fingers.  It was cold and shallow and empty, but it was what all commanders dreamed of earning, at least until they stood where Ella stood and realized the surest way to get one was to sacrifice your entire crew to achieve the impossible and come out on the other side still standing.

The wind had died down now so there was no more reason to cry.  It was quiet, still now.  As she got to her car, she opened the back door, sat down, and closed her eyes.  When the computer asked her where she wanted to go, she just said, "Home" and when it asked what music to play, she said "None."

The time for mourning was done, but at least she could enjoy a few more hours of quiet, for her, for her men, for, well, just for them really.  There was no one else that mattered.  Not yet.

Tomorrow would be different.  A brand new day.  But for this day, for what of it was left to her, all she felt the right to have was the quiet.