Holding back tears, I shiver from the blistering winter winds as I stare through the frosted laundromat window. Fuck my life. I’ve stooped to a new low. Blowing my warm breath into my icy cold hands, trying to warm them, I continue to stand outside, in the cold; waiting for the woman inside to transfer her clothes from the washing machine into the dryer, hoping she will walk away and leave her clothes unattended as she has done within the last two hours she’s been here. I’ve been homeless for going on six months now, and I’ve been turned down from every job I’ve applied for. They all took one look at my threadbare t-shirt, dirty jeans, and holey sneakers, currently held together with duct tape, and turned up their judgmental noses. I’ve been sent packing more times than I can count, all except for one. The shithole diner I applied to a month ago. The waitressing position looked promising until the manager implied the only way I’d be getting the job was if I was willing to get down on my knees for it. I was desperate, but not enough to offer my body or self-respect. No matter how hungry, cold or on the brink of giving up, my body is the one thing I will never give away. Living on the streets, you see unspeakable things women and men do to survive, and I promised myself I wouldn’t become one of them.
The wind whips my long red hair around my face, and my teeth chatter from the cold. Glancing down at the watch I found in a dumpster last month, I notice it’s 9:05 am. My interview is at 10:30. Shit, I’m going to be late.
After walking away from the diner four weeks ago, I went straight to the public library. The same library I have been kicked out of on several occasions for my somewhat, unkempt appearance. I hate the way people look at the homeless—with disgust. Many treat us like trash, spitting insults, or saying shit like, ‘why don’t you get a job and help yourself.‘ Just like the woman who worked at the library did to me last month when I tried to go in there and use one of their computers to search for a job and fill out applications. Did she not understand that I WAS trying to help myself? God, people are so ignorant and cruel. Lucky for me, that nasty woman wasn’t working the next day when I decided to go back and try again. Instead, there was an older man, if I had to guess, was somewhere in his mid-sixties. He was kind and treated me with respect. The older man who introduced himself as Roland had ignored my appearance while guiding me to one of their computer stations. He even sat down with me and helped me search for a job. Together we filled out at least a dozen applications. With only a high school diploma and not much in the way of experience except for waitressing, my options were limited. Over the next couple of weeks, I went to the library and continued my hunt.
I find it crazy that nowadays, everything is done online. Whatever happened to face-to-face interviews? I guess in my case it works out. This way, they can’t judge me based on my appearance. The last day I had gone into the library, Roland, the older man, mentioned his grandson, Lucas, worked for some fancy lawyer downtown. Lucas told Roland his boss was looking for a personal assistant. Lucas had mentioned the job to his sister when they were over at Roland’s house for supper earlier that week. Roland called his grandson right then and there, asking if the position was still available. His grandson confirmed it was, but I politely declined. I was in no place to be working in some classy, upscale office. Not only do I not look the part, but my computer skills are almost nonexistent. The sweet older man took down the address and phone number of the assistant job and slipped it to me anyway. He said to keep if I changed my mind. And I’ll never forget his parting words. ‘You may think you’re not good enough for a lot of things, but trust me child, you are. And don’t let a damn person tell you differently.’
After two days had passed with no word from any job prospects, I bit the bullet and used the prepaid phone I saved for an entire month to purchase minutes and called the number on a piece of paper the man at the library gave me. The nice woman I talked to didn’t even ask for a resume. She sounded almost desperate to find someone, so I’m assuming that is why she hadn’t bothered with asking about my experience. She’ll find out soon enough, though. Now, here I am about to steal someone else’s clothes to go on an interview for a job I am almost certain I won’t get. I don’t know the first thing about being a lawyer’s assistant. I can’t believe they agreed to the interview in the first place, but I am in no position to turn down any opportunity given to me.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention and brings me back to what I came here for. As expected, the woman I have been watching exits the laundromat, walks right past me, and heads to the coffee shop across the street. I shake my head at the lady. Who the hell leaves their shit unattended in a city like New York, especially in a neighborhood like this where there are dozens of people waiting to take what you have?
After watching the woman disappear inside the shop, I slip into the laundromat and over to the piles of clothes neatly folded in the basket next to the dryer. Sifting through the pile, I come across a pair of black slacks, a soft pink blouse, and a navy blouse. I take all three items and shove them under my second hand, worn-out jacket then dart out of the laundromat. I casually look over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t spotted stealing and to see if anyone is following me.
With the coast clear, I duck into a little corner market. The cashier behind the counter eyes me suspiciously before her attention quickly diverts to the customer who has just approached her. Taking advantage of her distraction, I make my way to the back of the store to the ladies’ room. When I step inside, I flip the lock on the door and tug off my backpack, setting it on the counter next to the sink. Quickly, I kick off my taped-up tennis shoes then strip out of my jeans and t-shirt. When I look in the mirror, I take in my semi-clean, red hair that hangs nearly to my waist. Next, I look at the body of a girl I don’t recognize anymore. My pale skin is a stark contrast to my blue eyes that have become dull over the years.
Growing up in the foster system, you never knew if the family they placed you with would feed you regularly, but never had my weight dropped this much. Never have I been this thin. I remember when I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and age out of the system. All I ever wanted was to feel free. Free from being bounced around from one home to the next. Free from the men and women who hated children but housed them to cash a check, a check that instead of being used to buy me clothes and food was used to feed a drug habit or spent on their biological children. And finally, I wanted to be free of the last home. The Marks home had been by far the best place I had lived in years. Until six months after I turned seventeen, when Mr. Marks had started acting and looking at me in a way that caused my skin to crawl. Three months shy of my eighteenth birthday, with only a backpack full of what little belongings I owned, I walked out of what would be my final home and never looked back. I stayed at a shelter, and started a job working at a fast-food place where I met my co-worker, Tiffany. Tiffany had an apartment and was looking for a roommate since hers had flaked on her a few weeks before. I eagerly accepted the invitation to live with her.
We got along okay for five years. Until she met her boyfriend, Jeremy. I knew Jeremy was into some heavy stuff, meaning drugs. It didn’t take long for Tiffany to follow his destructive path of drug abuse. Once she had quit her job, things started to spiral.
My job was barely covering my half of the rent and utilities, let alone Tiffany’s half. Then one day after work, I came home to find the locks changed and all my stuff sitting outside the apartment. There was an eviction notice taped to the door. Apparently, Tiffany and her coked-out boyfriend had not been using the money I was giving them to pay the rent. And to top it off, Tiffany was stealing from the diner where we worked. The owner knowing we lived together, figured I was in on it too and let me go. Five years of employment meant nothing to my boss. Not once in five years did I miss work or call in sick. All it took was for a wayward employee/roommate to sway his thoughts of me. Six months later, this is what my life has become. But no matter how bleak the future looks, I refuse to give up. I want so desperately to believe the words the older man at the library told me.
Sighing, I shake those thoughts away and peer down at my watch. I need to hurry. Unzipping my bag, I pull out the bar of soap I’ve been using sparingly for weeks. Turning the water on, I don’t wait for it to heat before I begin washing my face, hands, and arms. Thankfully I was able to shower at the shelter yesterday. I’m not always so lucky. Sometimes the beds fill up fast and I’m forced to sleep on the streets. Once I’ve finished washing, I pull on the black slacks and the light pink blouse. Both articles of clothing are way too big on my small 5-foot 2-inch frame, making me look like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. Shrugging, I do the best with what I have. Tucking the blouse into my pants, I use a safety pin to taper in the sides. Next, I dig in my bag for the pair of black two-inch heels I was fortunate to snag from the donation bin at the shelter. Any kind of footwear is usually snatched up within minutes.
Bracing my palm against the tiled wall of the bathroom, I slip the shoes on my feet. They are a size too small and have a few white scuff marks on them, but I make them work. Having sore feet is a minor price to pay if, by some miracle, I get the job. With my clothes and shoes on, I move onto my hair, and search through my bag for the one hair tie I have; only I can’t find it. ‘Shit. Where is it?’
I look at the time again. ‘Damnit,’ I mutter just as I find the tie. Quickly, pulling my long strands back, still wet from the rain, I style my hair into a loose braid, draping it over my shoulder. Not wanting to put my dingy jacket back on, afraid to mess up my clean clothes, I shove it, along with my other belongings back into my backpack, then dash out of the bathroom.
By the time I jog the six blocks to the building, my interview is at, my feet are screaming, and I’m freezing. I swallow the lump in my throat when I look up at the towering building before me. I take a deep breath. ‘You have nothing to lose, Denver. So, get your butt in there and get this over with.’
Walking into the building, a blast of warm air washes over my face, and it feels incredible. I quickly spot the security station located in the middle of the lobby. ‘Can I help you, Miss?’ one of the guards asks.
‘I’m here for an interview with Mr. Hawk.’
The guard looks at his computer screen, tapping on the keyboard. ‘I see you here, Miss Hollis.’ He passes me a visitor’s badge, and I clip it to my shirt. ‘Mr. Hawk’s office is on the sixteenth floor. The elevators are over there to the right,’ he points.
‘Thank you,’ I nod. And just as I go to step away, the guard stops me.
‘I’m going to need to check your bag before you go up.’
I freeze and turn back toward the man who is holding his hand out expectantly, then hand my backpack over. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as he unzips it and begins searching through my things. The guy eyes me but doesn’t say a word at my old tattered clothes. Zipping the bag closed, the guard hands it back. Without another word, I make my way over to the elevator and ride it up to the sixteenth floor.
