Spring2010

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At Work

Fiction

Rosa’s Grandmother

By Joeseph McCahill

He did this every weekday-morning, but this morning was different. For starters, he was unshaven and wearing the same clothes he wore the day before. She lived off a different line, in a part of the city Nick was not too familiar with—so this morning he was coming from a different direction, on a line named after a different color—from South to Downtown instead of from North to Downtown. Morning pre-coffee zombies, drunks still awake from the night before, and Nick shared the platform. He took his sweater off and stuffed it in his Patagonia messenger bag; he hoped no one in the office would notice the familiar black, button-down shirt. Nick eyed a stain—it being the reason he threw the sweater on over it the previous morning. He wasn’t deterred. He knew he could hide it under the shoulder strap of his bag as he walked in, and then put the sweater he left under his desk on before anyone noticed.

Nick was kidding himself to think that anyone really cared. His office was a Mortgage Brokerage Firm in a 100-year-old building on LaSalle St. He worked in the mail room. They were encouraged by a policy to dress as the other employees did. For men that meant a button down shirt, dress pants and shoes. The other two guys in the mailroom practically wore smocks. Nick, however compelled he felt to technically follow the code, mostly just tried to not look dirty.

Spring had finally come, and it was already over 60 degrees, and though a late winter’s heavy snow had not quite melted, Chicago had brightened up to the point where venturing outside was actually fun again. On this morning the brightness from the grey melting snow’s reflection and the sun peaking through a building across from the L tracks combined to blind the eyes. Nick was certainly tired and confused. His head ached, and he had run out of the strange apartment so fast that he forgot his belt. He checked his back right pant pocket, and realized he had more money now than he last remembered having. Since Nick didn’t often find money after 2 a.m., there was probably an ATM mistake in there. He had gone out the night before, a Thursday, with a guy who used to work at the same firm. His name was Craig, a crazy 40-year-old who never once thought of himself older than 19. They started with drinks downtown near the office, but went out later for some dinner at a pizza place and bar, and then ended up going to a blues bar. He knew he had been talking to a girl named Julie, Craig left, and he remembered taking a cab with Julie that seemed to take forever. That was when he mentally noted forty dollars in his wallet. He now had $120.00. It was all in twenties except a five he found in his bag. When he woke up, he recognized Julie, and dashed out while only saying goodbye loud enough for himself to hear. He had walked out in the sunlight towards the closest corner with a street light and got an idea of where he was from the street having a number instead of a name.

The job to Nick was taxing. He started there when he was twenty, part-time, and now—seven years later—had more seniority than half of the brokers who were selling million dollar condos. To say it was taxing, though, was far from true. He was paid well for easy work, enjoyed company benefits when he broke his hand playing basketball two years earlier, and had a good, although subservient rapport with the staff. He doubled as a receptionist during lunch hours and holidays for Holly the regular assistant, and got a lot of leeway on taking breaks and time off as long as he worked out someone to cover for him. He had moved to Chicago for college, stayed for the freedom and ostensibly the job, and didn’t see family much.

This ride would be a little longer than normal. As it approached he noticed that the train was not as packed as he was used to. He got a nice window seat. At least to start, he would not have to stand, or be rude for sitting. As he was about to put on his headphones, Nick heard the conversation of a lady and presumably her husband behind him. He paused, and put the music back in the bag. They were arguing. It was in Spanish, and he mostly didn’t understand. The lady, Rosa, he learned through the husband’s muttering, had a fire in her voice. It concerned and intrigued Nick. Whatever it was that she was upset about was important enough that she really meant it. They weren’t out of control, and the arguing soon stopped, but one of the last things he heard was from Rosa, “mi abuela est‡ enferma.” She said it with hope. As the train went past a darker building, he used the glass reflections to get a glimpse of Rosa and her husband. From their dress, she looked like she worked at a hotel or restaurant and he looked like he worked with his hands. She began rubbing the man’s leg, and through the reflection—Nick wasn’t sure—might have been holding back tears.

More people got on at the next stop, and Nick realized that he was now rude not to stand. He was feeling a little flush, and stood up to give a young mother and her daughter his combined seats. They sat down without a word or thank you. Nick stood holding the pole. A man who had just gotten on the train was clearly homeless, and he left no doubt when he opened his mouth. “I slept in a garbage can last night! Please help. Man can’t anyone give me a quarter? Garbage can.” Nick would have given the man something, but realized that he had nothing smaller than the five, and that was still in his bag. The point was moot as the man walked past. His claim was true. Nick choked back the last drink he had had the night before as a strong smell that you can only get from sleeping in a garbage can invaded his nose and mouth. He pivoted to turn his body away, and dug his face into the sleeve of the stained shirt to stop his breathing in. It took a couple of seconds to be sure he wouldn’t be sick. Luckily, the man kept going through the train car to the next one. As the end-door shut, there was some muttering about the smell.

As someone got off, Nick sat on one of the seats by the door that faces sideways. He glanced at the mother and daughter. The girl was about seven and wearing a school uniform with a black sweater over a white collared shirt. She stared at her mom like they were in a job interview. Nick imagined they rode the train together everyday, and that these were standing instructions. The mother was probably three years younger than Nick, and looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in some time. She probably worked downtown and took her daughter to a nicer school than her neighborhood offered. She was talking to her daughter in a whisper. Nick’s eyes closed a bit, and he had to fight sleeping because he was getting too close to his stop to risk missing it. He focused on the mother without staring. It was long standing, unspoken, un-thought train etiquette. He couldn’t help but feel something was wrong when the mother and daughter got up before the next stop. By the way they were standing, and their demeanor, it was obvious they were saying goodbye. As the train pulled up to Roosevelt, the little girl got off alone. Nick quickly shuffled in his seat to see where she was going. There was another, older lady waiting up on the platform for her. The girl ran and took the grandmother’s hand as the automated voice said, “the doors are about to close.” As they were, the mother waved to both of them, and grabbed the pole that hangs next to the interior glass windows. By now the train was pretty full, with all of the seats taken and a dozen people standing. Through this all, Nick saw the whole scene.

He took out and put on his headphones and MP3 player and turned to the radio. He tuned to XRT and heard the end of a Talking Heads song. A few stops later at Clark and Lake, Nick got off with the crowd and the mother, and took the escalator down to the street. He walked across, under the tracks, and towards LaSalle. There he looked back and saw the worker the mother had now become, walking nearly a block away in the crowded morning rush.

As he walked south towards the office, he turned the music up loud and looked up at the Board of Trade in the distance. The buildings and the street looked narrower today. LaSalle appeared to get thinner. Without fanfare Nick took a right onto Randolph. He was headed for Union Station and the train he last rode on Christmas Eve. As he crossed over the bridge, over the now green Chicago River that flows the wrong way, a song stopped and the DJ cut in. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Friday morning and it’s great to be alive.” He touched his back pocket content with the knowledge that a picture lied buried somewhere in his shameful wad of cash. He wasn’t going to the office.

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