There has to be a reason I do these things. My eyes sort of slur into waking. I’m upright, a backpack hunched over my shoulders and my hand lifted, forefinger up and eager—not what you’d expect for someone who’s been asleep. I didn’t just ring the doorbell next to this pale green, rust-mottled door, did I? I have a feeling that maybe I did. So it might be good if I could remember what I’m doing here before somebody opens it?
Something’s clutched in my left hand. Phone. I swing it reflexively in front of my face, and there’s a text message bubbled blue on the screen. It’s from someone named Tom Monroe, and I don’t think I recall anyone with that name, unless maybe I do? Angus hey buddy heard you’re in Chicago! My mom’s friend Carmen has jobs in her warehouse. 2021 West Street. Just show up.
Below that there’s a reply, which I presumably typed myself: Thanks buddy. On it.
A job! What a valid, incontestable, normal-person reason to be standing here. I love it.
This is definitely a warehouse in front of me. Those skanky mylar parallelograms are clearly marked with 2021. And Chicago? That seems like useful information too. The clouds hang low above, sallow and heavy with September heat.
The door jerks open. A woman looking fifty-some is standing there, all square jaw and boxy shoulders and giant puff of hair as thick and sticky-looking as freshly poured tar, but with more gray. Brilliant blue eyes screwed into a censorious scowl. “Carmen?” I say, but it’s obvious she can’t be anyone else. “Tom Monroe sent me. He said you need workers? I’m Angus Farrow.”
There. I’m pleased with myself for getting it together so quickly, for acting so much like people are supposed to do.
But Carmen throws back her head and laughs. “You’re Gus?” It’s a hilarious piece of information. She laughs again and looks me over, shaking her head in what seems like disbelief.
I laugh, too, just to cover the awkwardness of it all. “I really prefer Angus. I guess Tom told you about me?”
Another head shake. “Angus. Well, in that case you’re hired, little boy. Come on in and we’ll get you settled.”
“Just like that?” I say. And then, “Settled?”
“Just like that,” Carmen agrees, already walking away into a mush of vague shadows. I hurry to follow her. “And settled, because the job comes with an apartment. Nothing too nice, but it’ll keep you in the running. That plus minimum wage. I don’t expect an argument.”
“Are you sure you don’t have me mixed up with someone else?”
Carmen laughs again. “You’re Gus Farrow. It’s a small, stale, indigestible fact. Not something I’m likely to find confusing.”
Angus, I think. But it seems like I’ve already lost that argument. She’s walking away, and I scamper after her.
“It’s not that complicated of a job,” she says without looking around. “You follow instructions, you don’t screw it up on any kind of major scale, and you don’t bitch where I can hear you. Why would I waste time interviewing you over that?”