—Grace
I’m tired, tired, but early for the shift after the shift I missed. In the ladies’ room I soap stains—when was I supposed to have made it to a washhouse?—and splash my face alive. I step out of the restroom a tiny bit staggered and see Pam leaning against the wall with a clipboard tucked. She cuts her eyes at me and inspects nails this week she’s painted in triple fluorescents.
Missed you, she says. That’s how you do? No call, no nothin?
Oh, I say. Was I on the schedule?
Nice try, but don’t try it, she says.
Try what? I say.
Enough! she says. I told you from day one, I need workers I can trust.
It won’t happen again, I say. You have my word. Next time I’ll double-check.
If there’s a next time, it’s your last time, she says.
Got it, got it, I say.
Great, glad you do, cause I meant it, she says. Now tell me what’s wrong. Why you don’t seem yourself.
Just tired is all, I say, though as soon as I say it, I hate her for the fact she won’t seek the truth. Hate myself for needing to be pushed to it.
Pam shakes her braids—thick ropes plaited wide and pulling at the edges of her scalp—off her shoulders. Come, she says, and drags me into the office. She lays her clipboard down, collects time cards spread across her desk. I snatch off my visor and smooth my hair; what I wouldn’t give for another visit to the stylist. She searches her drawer for a stack of checks and hands me mines.
I know you say you’re tired, but I might need you for OT, she says.
That’s fine, I say, and stuff the check in my pants and walk out to the front counter.
There’s a baseball team—snap-back hats and raglans—in the lobby, boys about the same age as KJ, and it brings me low to see them laugh and joke. I open a till and wave over a scrawny boy with braces. Welcome to Taco World. How may I help you? I say, and wonder if he too can see this blight.