Joseph was checking out a woman. She was tall and stylish in a beige mini with matching heels. Her brown hair was done up in a bob that exposed small, round ears. Her pale skin was clean of makeup. This helped intensify the effect of her green eyes. She flashed them at Joseph as he arranged a box of soft tofu into a grocery bag.
“Can you put that in plastic?” she asked. “I know paper is better for the environment, but it will soak right through.”
Joseph did as asked. When finished packing her bags, he scanned the other cashiers to see if they had customers that needed his service. No one was busy and so he stayed put for the moment.
“Will you carry these to a cab for me?”
Joseph scooped up the bags and followed the women toward the door. Once at the curb, she looked left at the ongoing traffic and raised her arm.
“I’ve met you before,” the woman said, still focused on getting a cab. “Do you remember me?”
Joseph was not sure she was speaking to him. In the City it was common to see people talking to themselves, either because of some mental oddity or into a concealed mobile phone.
“We grew up in the same town,” she continued. “Went to the same high school.”
He still could not place her.
“Melony Harper,” she added, turning toward him and lowering her arm. “You were in class with my younger sister, Lauren.”
Joseph finally made the connection. He remembered Lauren to be attractive, smart and funny, exactly the type of girl that intimidated him. He hardly ever spoke to her growing up.
“She’s still home,” Melony continued. “Getting married, if you can believe.”
Joseph nodded. He did not like being too long away from the register, did not want to upset the manager and risk a bad review at the end of the month, something that would be sent to his current caretakers – his parole officer, the manager of the halfway house, his court-appointed mental health counselor. It was not admonishment that concerned him, but attention. Basically, all he wanted from the job was the paycheck, all he wanted from the halfway house was the bed, and all he wanted from the supervisors in his life were signatures on the documents that keep him out of prison
“What about you?”
“Excuse me?”
“How long have you been here?”
Joseph knew to the minute how long, as his move to the City coincided with his release from jail. It had been exactly 45 days since he was processed out and placed in the home. Still, he shrugged his shoulders as if unsure.
“I’ve been here about two years,” Melony said. “But it seems like forever.”
Joseph couldn’t wait any longer. He stepped forward, and hugging the groceries to his chest, managed to raise his right arm and flag down a taxi.
Melony opened the cab door and slipped inside. She took the groceries from Joseph and smiled again.
“We should have coffee sometime,” she said, “talk some more about home.”
With that she closed the door and the cab moved back into traffic.
+ + +
The manager didn’t reprimand him, but still it was an unpleasant evening for Joseph. There was a stirring inside him that altered the way he had felt since leaving prison. He had been living in a state of ambivalence, a cocoon of uncaring that kept him moored to the program set out for ex-convicts, allowed him not to question the path of mediocrity he was expected to travel, not to complain about the decrepit environs, the sinful wages, the crushing isolation of the societal miscast. That night, however, he longed for more: a nicer room, new clothes, money in his pocket…a woman in his bed.
Work was hectic the next day. A sale on vegetable oil drew in a slew of food cart vendors. Bagging the oil wore him out, and with relief he took his first break and went outside for a smoke. There, to his surprise, he saw Melony.
“You too,” she said in greeting, exhaling gray fumes through her nostrils. “I thought I was the only one left who smoked.”
Joseph blushed, suddenly aware he was holding a dingy plastic lighter and a cheap pack of cigarettes. Before prison he smoked Dunhill International Lights. What he liked most was the packaging, the square, sophisticated shape of the box, the slick red and egg-shell white coloring, the neat script across the top and the gold inlay, like holiday gift paper. But a carton of Dunhill’s would devour his pay, and so now he smoked Winstons, which came in a dank-looking pack encased in flimsy plastic.
Joseph extracted a stick and stuffed the pack back into his pocket. He lit it fast and secreted away the lighter.
“It’s nice out today,” Melony said. “But I heard it might rain later.”
Joseph dragged hard on his cigarette.
“I don’t mind rain,” she continued. “It doesn’t make me feel guilty to stay in bed all morning.”
She worked on her own cigarette a moment, and then added: “I like to sleep late.”
Joseph inhaled deeper, willing the lit end to draw closer to his lips.
“I was going to see if you have time for a coffee,” Melony said, dropping her cigarette to the pavement and grinding it out with the heel of her shoe. “I mean, after your shift.”
Joseph cringed. He hated the word – shift. Only poor people worked “shifts.”
“It’s okay if you’re too busy. I’ll understand.”
He was not busy. And the idea of having coffee with Melony, any beautiful woman, thrilled him. Not because of sexual interest, but more for the attention it brought him, the refracted glory, the envy he perceived in the eyes of other men when he used to stroll into a restaurant or club with a comely companion, or at least the envy he craved – or once craved, before prison humbled him, made him see himself as he really was, his two years incarcerated serving as a giant mirror pressed to his face, forcing him to examine up close his imperfections, but instead of blackheads and scars, wrinkle lines and ingrown hairs, he saw fear and weakness, indecision and insecurity, a man without purpose or identity, a man stripped of his mask, a façade erected out of bluster and bravado, ruthless largesse, abject greed…and stolen credit cards.
“I can.”
The two words, or the suddenness of his answer, seemed to startle Melony. She made a move for another cigarette, fumbling with the pack as she pulled it out from the handbag over her shoulder.
“That’s great,” she said. “What time?”
Joseph was surprised he had accepted her invitation. It felt almost as if someone other than him had said it. But now he had to think quickly. He got off at eight but had to be inside the halfway house by 10 each night. Off all the rules at the house, and there were many, this was impressed upon him from the start as the most essential to maintain. If broken once, it meant a reprimand, a call to the Parole Officer, and a note in the file. If it was broken twice, it meant expulsion from the house and, possibly, a return to prison. Joseph had already broken curfew once, in a strange act of rebellion even he didn’t quite understand, when one night during that first week at the house he purposely stayed outside the house, alone and around the corner smoking his cheap cigarettes, waiting until exactly one minute past 10 to knock on the locked door and take his punishment. He was determined to not let any more urges, conscious or subconscious, jeopardize his freedom. He did not want to go back to jail.
“How about we meet right after eight,” he finally said, trying to project a casual unconcern about time.
“That works for me.”
Melony finally got a firm hold on another cigarette and lit it.
“Do you have a favorite coffee place,” she said, pushing smoke out of the side of her mouth.
Joseph didn’t. He took his first cup at the halfway house, and the rest inside the market while he worked.
“If not, I can suggest something.”
Joseph glanced around. To his left, less than a block away, he saw chairs set out front on the sidewalk and people sitting in them sipping from cups.
“That’s where I usually go,” he lied, indicating the spot with a nudge of his chin.
“Cool,” Melony said, blowing more smoke into the heavy air. “So I’ll meet you there at 8.”
Joseph affirmed the plan with a nod, and after Melony left he returned to the store, where he waited at the end of Lane Five for the mid-day crush.
+ + +
The café was dainty looking: the interior was painted bright yellow, with streams of purple paisley stripping the top and bottom walls. The chairs and tables were tiny, more suited for children than adults. By contrast, the earthenware cups they provided for the coffee were huge, like soup bowls. Joseph picked up his with two hands and took a hard sip while Melony spoke.
“I don’t like coffee too hot,” she said, her breath causing the coffee in her cup to ripple. “I’m the same with food…or even showers.”
Melony tried a sip, but pulled back.
“Anyway,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I feel so complicated lately. It’s like I crave simplicity, but I have no idea what that even means anymore. It used to be that I could wake up in the morning and plot out my whole day in one thought – pick my meals, where I was going to go, who I was going to meet, even what I was going to feel like. I’m sort of into visualization: if you can see it you can be it, that kind of thing. So if I woke up and saw myself smiling, I would smile. But lately, when I wake up, I have no idea what I want to feel, and so I spend the day going from one feeling to another, which wouldn’t be bad if most of them were positive. Does that make sense to you?”
Joseph nodded.
“Good,” she breathed with relief. “I thought I was going crazy. I actually thought about going to a psychologist, but they cost a lot of money and I don’t have insurance. Besides, from what I hear, the only thing they do is medicate people, and I hate medication. I won’t even take a vitamin.”
Joseph took a sip of his coffee. It tasted oddly sweet, but it packed a caffeine punch. In prison, the coffee was watered down and weak, probably because they didn’t want to give the inmates any more reason to feel edgy or over-stimulated.
“I think it comes from my father,” Melony continued. “He’s very rigid when it comes to what goes into his body. It drives my mother crazy, because she likes to cook with fat. I’m not lying. She makes bacon every morning, and saves the grease and uses it the rest of the day. She even smears bacon fat on peanut butter sandwiches.”
Melony wrinkled her nose and smiled.
“Do you ever miss it…being home?”
Joseph eyed a clock facing him on the back wall. It was now just past 8:30. He figured another half hour and he’d leave, putting him back at the house in time to have a last smoke before curfew.
“I guess…sometimes.”
“I’m the same,” Melony said. “Like when I’m mad, or down, nothing in this City looks good. But when I’m happy, everything is gorgeous. I can see the worst thing, the saddest thing, like a homeless person in the rain, and if I’m happy, I’ll find something nice about the scene. Like maybe the homeless person is making a conscious choice to be on the streets; that they want to be free and not tied down by any big money needs, like paying for rent.”
Melony paused, shot a sad look into her coffee cup.
“I don’t think I told you, but I came here in the first place to work for a friend who opened up a vintage dress shop. No one bought the dresses and the store’s closing.”
Melony looked up.
“Are they hiring at your market?”
Joseph blushed, embarrassed to be reminded of his menial job.
“I’m just joking,” Melony spoke into his silence. “I’m sure it a great place to work, but I think the best thing for me is to go home and lick my wounds. Or at least swallow my pride. That’s my biggest problem: I have too much integrity. I can’t stand dishonesty or anyone who is a phony. It’s not a good trait for retail sales.”
Melony finished her coffee and rose with the cup in her hand.
“Can I get you a refill?”
Joseph could have gone for another, but did not want her to buy it for him.
“I’ve had enough.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
But there was a line at the counter, and by the time Melony returned it was nine o’clock.
“Sorry it took so long.”
Joseph thought how to best make his exit without being rude or looking like he had to be somewhere. He was about to tell her that he had promised to meet another friend at another place when she added: “But I’m happy to see places making money. It was really sad about the store I worked. Do you mind if I tell you about it? I really haven’t had a chance to talk to anyone about what happened.”
Joseph gave another look at the clock. He guessed he could wait another five minutes and still make the door. But the cigarette was out. He’d have to risk smoking it in the room, another violation and call to his probation officer if caught.
“Sure,” he said.
With that, Melony began talking. First, she told him about the store; how excited she was to get the job, how she thought the vintage clothes and accessories – ‘hippie, bell-bottom jeans and lots of funky beads’ – would sell well, and how this excitement, this hope, was tamped down little by little each day, as fewer and fewer customers came through the door, and even fewer, once entering, actually purchased something. Soon it became apparent the place would have to close, and with it the end of her job, but she could not find the energy to start over, to search for a new position, to go through the whole process again of finding an ‘employment partner,’ as she called it, telling him that she never wanted to just ‘work somewhere just to work,’ but to actually care about the business, the products, the people involved.
By the time she finished talking about the store, the five minutes Joseph had allocated to the endeavor had become nearly ten. Now, if he was to make the door, he would have to excuse himself immediately, rush from the table, sprint to the subway, hope a train was coming, hope it would make all the connections without pause, and then, if he ran hard from the station to the house, he might, barely, make it.
But he stayed. Listening and eyeing the ticking clock as Melony switched topics at random, often with no natural break or segue to warrant a change in subject, speaking for one moment about her love of lemon ices to watching a documentary on the wildlife channel about Greenland sharks. She also told him about her favorite flower – “Lilies, because their stems curl forward like a giraffe drinking water” – and her most hated, black-eyed Susans, only because her last boyfriend cheated on her with a woman named Susan and she was not yet ready “to forgive him or her.”
By now it was nearly 10:30, and a worker at the café was mopping up the floor. Melony had gotten a third cup, and Joseph, resigned now to his fate, had allowed her to get him a refill as well.
“I guess we’re closing the place,” she said, laughing.
Joseph’s mind was stuck on the closed door of the half-way house, his empty bed, the whispers among the other residents about his absence, the head of the place angrily filling out the report, making a note to call Joseph’s parole office in the morning.
“You know…” Melony’s expression changed, the set of her mouth and eyes sticking somewhere between concern and compassion, “I know you were in jail. I hope it’s okay for me to tell you, but I don’t want you to think you need to hide it from me. And you don’t have to tell me anything about it. I talk a lot, but I also know that it’s good sometimes to keep things in. Sometimes it’s better to let a hurt keep hurting until it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Joseph was not embarrassed by what Melony said. Before jail, if anyone, especially a woman, hinted at anything about his character or past that was not positive, he would react with a manic flurry of words to prove them wrong. But now, sitting in the closing café with a last cup of coffee, he really, truly, absolutely, did not care what she felt or thought about him. The feeling was liberating, and buoyed by it he stood.
“I got to go,” he said.
Melony’s face fell.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I upset you,”
“Far from it. I just got to get back to the half-way house,” he said, slipping into the pseudo-tough tone of voice he had adopted in prison. “I’m late as it is.”
“Oh.”
Joseph pulled out his wallet and opened it. He had inside a ten-dollar bill and three ones – the rest of his money until payday. He pushed onto the table the ten.
“For the tip,” he said.
Melony seemed confused.
“You really got to go right now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m here another few days,” she said, fast. “Maybe we can do this again.”
Joseph was already moving past the table. His idea was to walk the streets a bit, maybe hit a few bars – not to drink, but to check out the customers, the drunk ones, the ones who absently left billfolds on the counter, credit cards and slips. He would stay out until dawn, and then head back to the halfway house. He had heard rumors that the manager of the house could be bribed to look the other way now and again. He would try to find out. With luck he would avoid be written up, could take a quick nap, and then a shower and shave, and back to the market. Lots of credit card slips there, he thought.
“So maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon,” Melony continued, “to see if you want to meet up.”
Joseph turned and shot her a smile, one he hadn’t used since before prison.
“Sure,” he said. But this time we’ll go out for real: nice restaurant, drinks, music and dancing…” He patted the wallet in his hand. “My treat.”
“Are you sure? It sounds expensive.”
Joseph winked again. He felt alive, happy for the first time in years, really.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s only money.”
