Compassion (3 page)

Archer

I turn off the hose after my water bottles are filled.

You know what most people don't realize? That they're routine based. Most people do little things every day, all the time, without so much as a second thought. Take a minute and really give some thought to the basic shit you do every day, mindlessly. These little thoughtless moments make it easy for me to slip by and live off of you when I need to.  When you leave for your morning thirty minute jog, I can pick up the peaches from your tree that fell last night. The ones you won't notice until the ants or other rodents come for the taking. Basically that's what you think I am, right? A giant rodent. A pest on society. Useless. Pathetic. Well, let that be the reason I pee on your fucking petunias you can only seem to remember to water after your neighbor sneers their nose at you.

The sound of a car coming pushes my back against the side of the brick house. Staying still, I listen to the over powering male voice yelling at whoever is on the other end of the phone and wait to hear the car door close. The horn honks to let me know the car is locked. After that I count to sixty and come out from the spot I was waiting.

Like clock-work.

I wander away from the house, take a right and continue onto the next street. My head falls forward with pretend determination on my face.

Wanna know a trick to keeping suspicions down? You know, besides the obvious stick to shadows when you can? Avoid eye contact and walk like you know exactly where you're going. People tend not to think twice if you look like you're headed somewhere versus aimless roaming. This goes for whether you're slinking around the burbs or prowling the streets downtown.

Relentlessly the wind picks up and punches me in the face. My body fights against it, determined to keep moving forward, which is when it slaps harsher than before.

Apparently it doesn't like being defied. Well, I don't like the inability to not feel my cheeks. Makes us even.

“You're a cheating bastard!”  The woman across the street from where I'm passing yells to the man on the front lawn. Giving the situation a glance, I see her throw the roses he handed to her in the yard harshly. “I never wanna see you again!”

His pleas sound mumbled as I divert my attention back down.

Most people don't realize how good they have it in relationships until they've already trespassed into an area they have no business being in. Violated, the simplicity of trust. Yeah. I said simplicity. Because it is simple. Say the shit you mean. Do the shit you say you'll do. Be honest. If you say you're going to be faithful then fucking be it.

Veering to the left, I begin towards the Pizza House.

Yeah. I nicknamed it that. Before that I called it the 'Two Day House'. Oddly enough, the food in the trash is never more than a couple days old, bread products aside. It's wasteful, but I won't complain. It's the least rancid food I've found in months.

The sight of it has a smile sliding on my face.

What! Not only was I given a little post-holiday food miracle by the most beautiful woman I've seen in years, she spoke to me.
Spoke
to me. Do you understand, she didn't yell? She didn't scream. She didn't threaten to call the cops. She
talked
to me like she viewed me as a person rather than a pest. Haven't been able to shake that high of humanity since. It's been calling me to go back. See if it was a fluke. It's tempting me to return and test the truth. Am I still human? Do I still deserve kindness? Will it still matter if I exist another day?

Cautiously approaching her house, I head for the trashcan, eyes examining the blind covered bay window. Unsure if our paths will even cross again, I lift the lid slightly disappointed when there's only one bag inside. Just as I reach for it, the sound of a door opening has my body halting all movements.

“How about Chinese food instead?”

With a hard swallow, I carefully lower the lid back down to see the woman with a styrofoam container in her grip. My mouth drops open to respond. Nothing comes out.

The first time we met I swore I didn't say anything because I didn't want to scare her off. Now I'm beginning to think maybe I can't talk around her. Maybe my mind has morphed into believing if I speak it'll ruin everything. I fucking ruin everything. That's what I do. Ruin shit and get others killed.

“I just ordered it a couple hours ago,” she continues. Each step she takes is less careful than the last. “I hate leftover Chinese food probably most of all.” When my head tilts to the side the words rush out of her. “There's something about the way the rice hardens and the bread on the chicken gets too soggy. I mean even if you reheat it in the oven there's no bringing it back to life. I was bringing it outside because it ends up smelling up the whole house and that's not a smell I enjoy waking up to.” At this point she's only an arm’s length away from me. No concern or fear seems to be present. “Hope you like Sesame Chicken.”

I do love Sesame Chicken. And fried rice. And wontons. I love it all and the fact that like pizza, I haven't had it fresh in years makes her act of kindness mean so much fucking more than I can verbally say.

As soon as the unexpected prize is in my possession, I try harder to verbally express my gratitude, but am stopped by the sudden universal sign of flashing of headlights to warn other drivers there's a cop around the corner. Instinctively my body waivers causing me to nearly lose the box. Shaking my head at the sounds, the screaming, I grip whatever I'm carrying tighter and stumble away, tripping over my own feet in the process.

There's so much smoke! Too much smoke! It's suffocating! How can you breathe? How can anyone breathe?! How the hell am I breathing? Is this when I'm going to die?

My body sways while sounds of gun fire sharply ring in my ears. I maneuver myself, dodging fire until my back is pinned against a tree. Cold air desperately tries to fill my lungs but can't.

Is that Seth screaming in agony? What about Micah? Is he wounded? Why aren't you firing?! Fire!

Panic pushes my body down until my ass collapses to the ground. The container pops open beside me. Seeing the contents forces my hands to cover my ears. I shut my eyes and begin to rock, reciting the only thing that helps the nightmares that are my memories to fade. “That was then....this is now....Seth was then...Seasme Chicken is now....That was then...this is now...Seth was then...”

Eventually the repetition yanks me out of the hole of horrific images and tosses me back into reality. I let out a deep breath, slam my head against the tree trunk, and drag the container over with the tip of my finger.

Being without a steady place to live, a job, or people who give a fuck about you is hard enough. Having a trigger that can spiral you back into time with no way of escaping is like having cancer in remission. You're never sure when it'll wake back up or if it will. You can only suspect. You can pray to whoever it is you pray to that it won't. But in reality it doesn't matter. You still have a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up inside. No one should have to suffer through this. No one.

Jaye

Late! I'm late! Okay, not exactly late. Not yet. But I could be! I slept fifteen minutes past my alarm! This is why I hate falling asleep on the couch. It's a double edged sword of an issue. When I sleep on the couch it's the closest thing to peaceful rest I get. It's one of the only things I bought
after
Chris' death. We had a couch when he was alive. It was white. During one of my sob fests, I managed to get red wine on it, and by on it I mean all over it. Ordered a new one through the tears that night.

In record time, I shower, change, and manage to get on the small amount of make-up I wear. I apply the last of my lip gloss before I give myself one final look.

Does my hair look like it's out of control? Like a bunch of curly fries are having a meeting on my head? See. This is what happens when I sleep in too late and can't spend the extra fifteen minutes taming them.

Once I'm down stairs, I wiggle on my flats, my coat, grab my work bag, and my purse. My first step outside the front door unexpectedly lands on something. I look down at my front porch where I see a brown piece of paper being held down by one of the rocks from my garden alongside a gorgeous red rose.

A bright smile jumps on my face as I grab the note and flower.

Thank you.

Just two words. Two very simple, very common words, yet they feel like he scoured the entire globe searching for them. I bite my bottom lip.

Of course I know it was him who left this. Who else could it have possibly been? Don't be silly. He was clearly trying to express his gratitude. This was thoughtful. That's the only reason why I'm smiling. Because it was sweet. Sweet without an agenda is rare in the world.

With both objects in my possession, I lock my front door and head for my car, the rose right under my nose to keep the grin on my face growing.

I don't have a crush on the guy who eats my garbage! That's...that's such a weird sentence to say.

While the drive to work is filled with the usual morning annoyances of those too indulged in their Starbucks to focus on the green lights, those so late for work cutting you off is a necessity, and those whose horns should be removed due to their inability to control how often them use them. I'm too distracted to care. By the time I arrive, my mind has ventured past the initial excitement of receiving the sentiment to the dangerous, obnoxious why zone.

Why'd he flip out last night? Is he that afraid of the police? Was it something else?

“Morning Miss Jenkins!” A little girl says appearing next to my car just as I'm getting out.

“Morning Sandy,” I greet her in return. “Oh. Let me fix your hair bow.”

She leans her curly three year old blonde head forward while her mother continues her conversation on her Bluetooth in the background. As soon as I'm done, I lift her chin up, and give her a wink.

“Thanks Miss Jenkins!” She giggles seconds before her mother yanks her by the hand to lead her towards the building, still on the phone call, mind not worried whatsoever about her child.

It's common. You get used to it.

Opening my passenger side door exposes me to the flower, which bubbles thoughts of the green eyed waif back up.

Why hasn't he spoken to me? Why leave me a thank you when he could've just said it? Writing me a note is more effort than saying those two words. Think about it. He had to find a pen- Okay. Fine. Maybe he already had a pen. He had to find paper or maybe he had that too. But what about the flower? The chances he had that just sitting around in his backpack are slim. That means at some point past his flip out, he had to go and find it, pick it or pick it up, walk all the back to my house and leave it for me. During that entire process he could've stopped. Threw the idea of wanting to do something nice for me out the window and hightailed it to somewhere warm. It was so cold last night. Hell, the couple minutes I was out there with him, I thought my toes were going to freeze and I was wearing a jacket this time. Can you believe that? Instead of getting some place to shelter himself from the dropping temperatures, he marched through the cold, got this flower, marched back to my home and left it. Why? I can't possibly be the first person to be kind to him, can I? Feel free to chime in at any point. I'm all ears.

“That's a huge smile,” Presley Morrison, my boss, the owner of the school, and by far one of the most gorgeous women in the building, casually comments.

Startled by her voice, I lose my footing, and land on the floor with a hard thud.

Please don't laugh.

Immediately, she travels around the desk straight for me. Presley reaches for my day planner that managed to land in my path. “You okay?”

I watch as parents on their way out back to the cars and on their way to the children's classroom don't even acknowledge the fact there's a human being on the floor.  They simply swing wide or step over my scattered items.

Is this what he feels like? Does the world ever to stop to lend him a hand? Maybe I was the first one. Maybe that's why he went out of his way to say thank you. No. No way. People have to have tried to help him before. Maybe? At least once?

Rising to my feet once I've finished collecting the lost objects, I put on my best work smile. “I'm fine. Just missed a step. I'm so clumsy. Thanks for the help.”

“Sure.” She folds her brown arms across her black button up shirt and grins. “I like that even falling didn't break the smile on your face.”

I touch my warm cheeks.

The flushing could be from the embarrassment of falling...It doesn't have to be from the fact I wouldn't mind seeing his face every day.

“What's got you all full of cheer?”

“You know,” I start and look down at the rose in my hand. “Sometimes it's just nice to know someone thought about you.”

Curiosity lifts her eyebrows. “Secret admirer?”

His face fills my mind again and I whisper, “Something like that...”

Let's just call him that rather than the homeless man who likes to eat out of my garbage. No reason he can't have a little benevolence shown even when he's not around.

“Oooo,” she playfully giggles as she moves back behind the front desk. “Well, I hope he keeps giving you reasons to smile.”

Hold your judgments.

I continue my way towards the library when Presley stops me. “Hey, Jaye?”

Turning gracefully around, I answer, “Yeah?”

“I can't make book club tonight.”

Slightly disappointed, I question, “Is everything okay?”

“It's fine.” She pauses, debate scrunching her mocha face. “Just have a prior engagement.”

“Gotcha.”

“I'll swap books with you on my lunch break.” Before I have a chance to reply the phone ringing nabs her attention. “Good morning. This is Presley Morrison speaking, how many I help you?”

Presley's the best boss. Intimidating model looks aside, she seems like a beautiful person. Sometimes I wonder if we would even be great friends. We have similar tastes in books and T.V. shows, at least that's what I've gathered from the small talk we've made. Neither of us seem to be too interested in conversation that are too personal or too long. It's almost like we've built the same wall to keep other people out. I did it because there are only so many times a person wants to hear the fake sympathetic 'death care slogans'. It became easier to just keep everyone at a hello, goodbye distance. With my parents as the exception. No, it's not the warmest way to live, but it beats the hell out of people tip toeing around you like any word out of their mouth could be the trigger that sends you into a blubbering mess. I passed blubbering mess a couple years ago, thanks for asking.

After a work day of filling book orders for the library, orders for the classrooms, reading to the Preschool classrooms, and researching themes for the coming book fair, I find myself rushing to set up for book club.

Usually I'm ready without having to hurry. I got a little carried away with researching. Even though Christmas just passed, I found the most adorable Elf on a Book Shelf theme for this coming year! Don't look at me like that. Kid books excite me.

I arrange the chairs in a semi-circle, lay out refreshments, and place what will be this month's read out on the counter for them to take as they leave. At almost 6:45 on the dot all chairs are occupied and the conversation about our latest read is bouncing around.

Here's what I love about this, other than the obvious joy of sharing books with other people, for some of us that are too busy or awkward to go out and make new friends yet are being pressured by others to be social, this shuts them up as well as gives us a comfortable setting. The thing I hate? Marshall Donald is going to ask me out for dinner afterwards. He has every month since I started this. Did I mention this was my idea?

The session wraps up slightly sooner than expected and Marshall wastes no time sliding beside me. “Miss Jenkins...”

“You know to call me Jaye,” I remind him, tossing the empty veggie platter in the trash bag.

Is it weird I'm a little disappointed they finished everything tonight? I mean if they hadn't I could've taken left overs to....yeah, that's weird. He's not a puppy. I shouldn't be trying to bag him leftovers like that. Wow. I gotta get it together.

“You know I think it's sexy to call you Miss Jenkins.” His sleazy smile expands before he drops his voice lower. “Like the naughty teacher thing.”

“I'm a librarian.”

“Even better.”

Go ahead. Gag. I do. And not just because he smells like cheap cigars or because he looks like Gerard Butler's less attractive cousin, but because he never gives up. He's always like this and not just with me. Actually, he typically makes more passes at the younger teachers, but makes an actual effort to go out with me. Not exactly sure why. And no I don't consider myself special. He's recently divorced, so let me give you ten guesses to the reason why his wife left him. Any and all variations of an unfaithful horn dog will be accepted.

Trashing the cups, I shake my head. “Next month's book is waiting on the counter. Feel free to grab yours. It's a romance novel.”

He winks. “One of the good kinds?”

I toss more garbage in the bag. “There are bad kinds?”

Marshall trails alongside me while I continue to clean. “Of course.”

No. He's never offered to help. He's also never done anything else kind for someone that I can recall. Not hold a door open. Not pull out a chair for a woman. He's not really the gentleman type. I'm sure you could already see that.

“The ones without sex.”

Annoyed I grit my teeth. “Your opinion has been noted Mr. Donald-”

“Marshall.”

I tightly tie the trash bag. “Is there anything else you needed?”

“Dinner,” he states. “With you.”

After giving him a polite smile, I reach for one of the wipes to clean the fold out table. “Flattered as always...”

Never. I am never flattered. I am always creeped out and contemplating a restraining order.

“But I have to decline. I have dinner plans.”

“With your boyfriend?”

Immediately my mind flashes to the green eyed man in the beanie who has been making more than occasional guest appearances in my mind.

He's basically been the star since I saw him again last night. Even though he looked depleted and in serious need of a hot shower, there was something in those eyes. A simple glint that turned me into a babbling mess. I'm afraid of what'll happen if he ever smiles at me or heaven forbids, talks to me. I know, I know, it's wrong to be infatuated with a stranger who's homeless with most likely a list of issues a mile long, but...the truth is, I can't help myself. After just two conversations with him...er...at him and I'm a non-stop smiling mess. That means something doesn't it? Right. That I'm crazy. Certifiably.