Laid Off

 

Stumbling Around

The most terrifying thing is waking up and realizing that you forgot that you have someplace to go, or worse, realizing that you forgot you have no place to go.

It was the first morning since it happened that I went out by myself. The first of November, and the temperature had turned an unnatural 77 degrees, with the sun glaring so that it seemed to have sucked up all the oxygen until the world fell breathlessly around me.

Noises sped past my ears like ammunition and I started and jumped at the most innocent of sounds: an unseen neighbor yelling to someone else, a horn sounding at the intersection. Rather like an alcoholic with a hangover except that my disorientation was not due to liquor but more like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

 

I started up the treeless hill toward the Suburban Trolley and waited on the right side of the tracks on a surprisingly clean brown-metal bench. The other side of the tracks had a sign on its bench: "Use the tracks on the other side. This station is closed.” This message confused me in my somewhat already confused state, until the trolley showed up on my side and the driver told me to wait for the next trolley.

 

About five minutes to ten I began to worry only because my appointment was for ten o'clock. Someone at the stop just past me showed up and I leaned over to look at her, reassured that some trolley must be scheduled soon. But then I remembered the uncertain state of the stations and realized that she might be going in quite the opposite direction after all.

An old lady appeared across the tracks and sort of meandered toward me in a suspicious manner, I thought, or was it just the condition I was in? She walked a full block past me in the opposite direction to the station, headed toward the Catholic church and then seemed to suddenly appear next to me in what might be called a badly edited segue.

The trolley came late according to the posted schedule, and the trip was uneventful until I panicked at one of the stops unsure of where I was.  A smiling old lady wrapped up in shoulder-length hair quietly reassured me of our location as we travelled on, the trolley rocking in a comforting motherly manner.  I looked about and realized that I had accidentally strayed into The Twilight Zone of smiling old ladies.  I was the youngest person on board.

I asked at Woodley Avenue if a token was all that was needed for the fare and the driver said, “yes,” and opened the wrong door, which let me off on the tracks. It didn't matter as we both knew full well that no other trolley would be coming anywhere near those tracks this soon. Not that I cared at that moment anyway.

I crossed the street to the shop which was cattycorner to the station, just vaguely aware of the lights, I think they were green. My hair stylist was sitting on a stool waiting for me but she did not rebuke me for being late, and I complimented her on her new hairdo as was common practice for me since being in the business she continually indulged herself in a new color or cut.

She took my comment as her do, as she always does, feeling as she does totally superior to me and everyone else.  She asked me if I had taken the day off, which I said I had not and explained.

During the rinse-out I talked to her about not looking for anything else right away and she, as usual, was alternately quiet or talked over my conversation, calling out comments to other patrons and her staff: "Goodbye, Rita," or "You can take one of those bagels on the counter." Such generosity I thought she had meant for me until she added the name, "Connie."

While my stylist was cutting away, a sweet-faced girl asked me if I would like a complimentary Swedish hand message. I don't usually like that sort of thing but it seemed to mean so much to her, and I thought that my stylist would surely slip her the unemployment axe if too many patrons said no, so I removed my wedding ring and Seiko.

My stylist’s talent surpasses her location in an unremarkable shop in an unremarkable village in a semi-remarkable state, so I have come to terms with both her ego and eccentricities.  If you think of her in the context of a character study in conceit, she can be fascinating to observe.  However, that day I was not in the mood for anything as tiresome as a character study, and was grateful for the unending gibbering of the masseuse who was very solicitous of me.

The haircut and the massage ended together.  Another triumph for my stylist. One of those upscale haircuts where if you just get out of bed, and don't do a thing, your hair looks perfect.  I had just wanted a change, any change.  I didn't care if she had shaved my head and applied a tattoo. (Although that style has become a definite possibility nowadays.)  I paid and tipped, even the masseuse after all she had shown genuine concern for the welfare of my hands clear up to my midarms, and her pattering of words had taken my mind off... just off.

My stylist, who had not been listening to me as usual, commented that this was a great interview haircut.  I murmured once again that I was not interested in any interview just yet.

I left and "cattycornered" the street, but forgot my wedding ring and had to go back. Then recrossing the streets and ensconcing myself comfortably in the bosom of the station bench, I waited contentedly for the trolley, settling down with an interesting book I'd been meaning to read for 23 years. The sun was warm; I felt a little better.  I had the luxury of time, all the time in my world.  The trolley arrived in 10 seconds.

Off we went around the many bends of the seven-minute ride; but not far into it, we stopped and the driver leaned out to talk to someone who was standing on the tracks, the light for the trolley was green.  Ordinarily this would have made me, a naturally nervous person, very nervous.  I had to get home.  I didn't have time to waste sitting there, increasingly annoyed by the conversing driver and his unseen cohort.

But that Friday, I didn't care and I wasn't annoyed, and as I looked around, I saw that the other people on the trolley weren't annoyed either. We sat and watched the dried leaves swirl up inside a stone gully in the otherwise quiet back yard of some anonymous suburbanite, mesmerized as if we'd never before seen such wonderment. Some riders talked among themselves.  I sat in my seat with them... and away from them.

We started up again, and eventually I lurched from my seat having successfully recognized the Lutheran church that I used as a landmark for my stop. The driver let me out on the wrong side of the tracks from the wrong door.  I looked at my watch and thought: 11:30 in the morning and my day has already ended.

Available in : A Quick Read: Short-Short Stories