Steady

I closed the apartment door behind me and turned the key to lock it. A letter in a reddish pink envelope attached with a piece of tape above my peephole fluttered and flapped against the door as I closed it.

I sighed and looked around as I pulled the letter off my door to see if I was alone. How long had this been here? I didn’t even hear anyone come up to my door, and these walls are paper-thin. I took a quick peek. Not that I didn’t already know what it said. This was the third one.

“You’ll get your money as soon as I have it,” I muttered to myself and shoved the letter into the front flap of my cooler lunchbox. The plan was simple. I’d finish my second shift, then head straight to my security job after. I had calculated it repeatedly. I was sure I would have enough to cover this month and what I owed.

I took a step back from my door and let the sun hit my face. I closed my eyes, inhaled, filled my lungs, and tried to exhale as slowly as I could—just like I’d seen in the mindfulness videos.

“It was going to be ok. I have a plan. I am going to be ok,” I whispered to myself, then opened my eyes to head for the car.

A whistling noise snapped me from my thoughts. I looked around the oversized pallet of toilet paper in front of me, searching for the source of the sound. It was Marco.

“Yeah, Good to see you, man!” I shouted back with a wave. He looked confused and hesitantly raised his hand to wave back at me. He started to walk towards me.

Man, I really don’t have time for this, I thought and returned my attention to my clipboard. I needed to get this count right, and it was taking forever.

“Yo, my man,” Marco said, with a slight huff, as though he ran a mile to get to me. “The boss is looking for you. And he’s got that look in his eye.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed them. He gave me two quick pats on the back and looked around before he walked off in a scuttle and disappeared behind some oversized pallets.

Last week, the shift supervisor would not let me leave until I had redone the counts. He said he kept finding mistakes in them. I think he was just looking for a way to keep me in this miserable place without having to pay me.

“Your mistake, you fix it on your dime,” he had said to me without even looking up from his computer.

I thought, briefly, about how easy it would be to slam his head over and over on his keyboard. He’d never see it coming because he never looked at me when he spoke.

Meanwhile, I had to work two gigs to keep a crappy roof over my head and my lights on. Even then, I knew I would have to sacrifice something this month. Any errors today would mean staying late. I can’t stay late. I have already used up all my favors at my second job.

Every time I looked up at the giant white clock on the wall behind its grey metal bar casing, it felt like time was running ahead of me. There was still so much to do—I haven’t even started packing and labeling the rolls yet.

My hands ached. I placed the clipboard between my legs and held it there while I massaged one hand with another to keep it from cramping. How was I going to finish this? Why were there only 3 people on this shift? We needed at least double that to get the work done on this side of the warehouse alone.

I looked at the clock again and weighed the consequences of taking a smoke break against my goals. I decided not to risk it. Though every time I moved, I felt the pack of cigarettes rubbing against my thigh.  I took the lighter out of my back pocket and repeatedly flipped its lid open and closed in an aimless effort to keep my hands busy and my mind focused on the work.

“Amari!”

I jumped and felt my heart rate tick up a beat as I heard the thumps of his industrial work boots come up behind me.

 “What’s up, boss?” I responded, trying to keep my voice even-tempered, choosing to keep my eyes fixed on what I was doing while he spoke.

“Marco just came back with the last shipment for tonight. He’s unloading them in the back as we speak. When you’re done here. I need them sorted, labeled, and moved to the correct areas in the warehouse for tomorrow morning’s shift.”

He began to walk away.

“What do you mean?” I dropped the clipboard and began to follow him. “I only have an hour left on my shift. I’m never going to get all of that done in time.” I picked up my pace. He moved quickly for a little guy.

“I’m barely going to finish all the things I have to do now.” At that pace, I couldn’t hide the irritation in my voice. He stopped abruptly, and I shuffled my feet to keep from bumping into him.

“So, stay until it’s done,” he retorted in a tone that suggested that this solution was obvious and implied all along.”

“I can’t. I have to get to my other job.” I paused. Shocked that I have to even explain this. “Plus, are you going to pay me overtime for the work?”

“I shouldn’t have to pay overtime for something that should have been done in time, Mr. Johnson,” he said, tilting his head and gesturing with his hands to put a slight emphasis on the word “in.” Satisfied, he started to turn to walk away again.

I reached to grab his shoulder. “That doesn’t even make sense,” I protested, turning him around. “It takes at least three people to do that job.”

He gave me a look. It could have been one of repulsion or disgust. I’m not sure there was a difference. He stared at my hand on his shoulder, and I quickly jerked it away, regretting touching him instantly. He took a big, slow step towards me, coming up to just under my chin, and made a show of looking up and directly into my eyes.

“Finish the work today,” he hissed in a low, slow tone, “or clock out and don’t bother coming back tomorrow.

I stood frozen. I felt my rage like tingling at the bottom of my feet, working its way up. If I lost that second job, I knew for sure I would have to kiss my apartment goodbye.

The longer I stood there, the worse my thoughts got. Anger seeped into my veins like little jolts of electricity. I opened and closed my fists, trying to control it. The hum of the warehouse filled my ears. The clock ticked on the wall.

I closed my eyes. “I have a plan,” I whispered to myself.  “I’m going to be ok. It’s going to be ok.”

Except it’s not.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and gripped my lighter. With each step, my vision grew clearer and my resolve stronger. If I were going to lose, he would too, and remember this night for the rest of his life.

I walked up the pallets I had been working on earlier and flicked my lighter open. I flicked the trigger until I found a steady flame. It bounced with joy in the air, begging to be fed. I held it up to the pallet of toilet paper and watched as the tiny flame latched onto the plastic and then voraciously gripped everything within sight.

I take a big and slow step back. All they had to do was pay us enough to live.