It wasn’t normal for her to be in one of these internet cafes, sure they were popping up everywhere, a thing from Europe apparently, but they weren’t her style. She was more a library kind of girl, or a from home kind of girl, if she was being completely honest. But the power was out at home, and it being a Monday the library was closed, so here she was, paying for the use of a computer with internet access. And why? That was the kicker, because she was bored.

She’d been in her apartment reading, a favorite pastime, knowing the power would be out at some point that day, and having already opened all the windows to keep the place from getting too hot, when there was suddenly a very loud and very unignorable sound which turned out to be a generator followed by an even worse noise, the cacophony of a jackhammer. At least they’re fixing that pothole, she thought as she put a slip of paper in the book to mark her spot.

Now what?

The options were limitless, really, living in a city as she did, but the power wouldn’t just be going out for her, it would affect much of her neighborhood. She could grab her book and head over the city park, that’d be far enough away from the jackhammer and the power situation would be irrelevant, it was a beautiful day after all, and she could use bit more vitamin D. But something about being interrupted had made her restless. Something about not being able to use her computer or the internet made her suddenly desperate to do so.

First things first, she thought, she had to get away from that noise. She grabbed a bag and shoved her book in, just in case. She also grabbed her water and keys, wallet and sunglasses. Slipping her sandals on at the door, out she went. A walk would help her settle her nerves and she’d be all ready for a good read by the time she got to the park.

It was only as she passed the coffee shop that she realized she was hungry. A coffee and a pastry for lunch would be just what she needed to get herself back on track and enjoying her day off. She debated briefly between a croissant and an eclaire but went with the croissant as she was feeling a bit touristy and thought dunking it in a large cup of coffee with milk would feel inspired. Taking her purchases outside to a bistro table and setting her book off to the side really completed the feeling, and she began dunking, nibbling, sipping. Fabulous.

It was about the time she was finishing her snack that she noticed the book store was gone, replaced by something that appeared to be a travel agency, a giant globe decal on the front window. She wiped a few crumbs from her lap, put her book back in her bag, and walked across the street. How disappointing, another book store gone. It was then she realized it wasn’t a travel agency at all but an internet cafe. She hadn’t seen one of these in ages, not since she went backpacking through Italy and they were all the rage.

On a whim, she went inside, paid her few dollars, and found the work station she’d been assigned. She had ten minutes. Whatever would she do for ten minutes on a computer that she couldn’t do on her smart phone? Unable to think of anything novel she logged in to Facebook. Scrolling through the many memes, pictures of lunches, and complaints about work she stumbled upon a face that looked terribly familiar.

There in the “people you may know” Facebook was trying to get her to befriend her grandmother, which would have been fine, nice really, except that her grandmother had died a few years ago and wouldn’t know the first thing about how to operate Facebook even if she wasn’t sitting on her mothers mantle, dust in a vase. What the hell, she thought to herself.

The picture was a bit grainy, as though it had been blown up too large, and it had, in fact, she recognized the picture as one that her mother had used as a profile pic once, but her mother was no longer in it. My mother has been hacked! she thought, before realizing the name associated with the photo was very much her grandmother’s.

Grabbing her phone from the desk she called her mom, she’d know what to do, mom always knew what to do, even though she probably wouldn’t know what to do here, I mean, what did her mom even know about Facebook aside from how to login and comment on people’s pictures. Even that was sometimes not so cut and dried as her mother would occasionally say things that were meant for a private message, but she clearly didn’t realize the difference or didn’t understand how to create one over the other. At any rate, the phone was ringing and then it wasn’t, only instead of a “hello” she was greeted with the familiar voice and spiel about leaving a message.

“Hey mom, so…just call me back…I think Grandma’s on Facebook.”

She hung up, instantly regretting having left a message at all.

What to do?

Unsure of herself, but knowing she had to do something, she clicked the little box, electronically sending a friend request to her dead grandmother.

Well, she thought, the day has certainly turned around.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

I’d assumed she apologized for using my phone to make an international call or something, like there’d be a charge coming my way, but that thought was quickly dispelled when I realized the phone was still connected to whoever she’d called. I considered disconnecting the call, simple to do, not my business, problem solved. But I let curiosity get the better of me, the cat with only the one life, risking it for no valid reason.

“Hello?”

I don’t know what I expected…someone shouting perhaps, their anger at the crying apologetic woman so intense she’d fled. Maybe something in another language and I’d have to beg my apologies for being so American that I only speak the one hoping they’d understand me, begging forgiveness as I hung up. What other hackneyed response had cinema set me up to expect, and that’s why I was so very shocked to be met by silence.

I double checked the screen which verified that I was still connected to whoever I was in fact connected to and listened again, repeating, “hello?” rather hollowly this time. The line was connected, my phone wasn’t lying, I could hear the tunnel sound of a connected line.

It was only as I began to consider that cinema had also assured me I could be tracked by my phone that I became anxious. Were they tracking my phone right now? If I disconnected now would they be able to find me? Was it too late? My finger hovered over the red dot as the sound of crunching tires and an engine approached behind me. My heart racing, I disconnected the call, thumbed my phone into lock, and slid it in my back pocket. Keeping my head down, my hands now in my front pockets, I began to walk.

“Hey!” came the shout behind me.

Just keep walking, I thought, pretend you can’t hear them, what I wouldn’t give for some ear pods right now. My heart and mind raced as I concentrated on walking, not running, walk, walk, walk pounded through my brain.

A weight landed on my shoulder seconds before I was spun round to face a half-naked, heavily sweating man with chains around his neck and a cigar in his other hand. “Oy, didn’ ya hear me?” I shook my head almost imperceptibly, sure my eyes were impossibly wide, confident he’d never believe me, unable to bring a single word of defense to my lips. “You know where’s there a laundry place here?”

“Wha-what?” I stammered, reflexively looking up and down the street, trying to make this question make sense, trying to make the situation make sense.

“You know, a place to whash clothes? It’s apposed to be heyah,” he too was perusing the street up and down, his hands gesticulating wildly, his arms and hands now bouncing up and down by his waist.

“Um, right, no. I, uh, don’t normally come this way,” I managed to say, all the while my brain thrumming with warnings, this is a trick! Don’t fall for it! all while simultaneously entreating me not to be rude.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

No one expected her to get the job, as a cook she was the worst and as a boss not much better. Her niche in business, if there was such a thing, was to sit alone and compile data and solve problems and never interact with another living soul until quitting time at which point she’d rush home to her dog and a bottle of beer. Dogs would actually have been her ideal job. But there are no jobs with dogs that don’t also involve people and so.

But really, a baker and a manager? No, these were not the things she was good at thus it was with true and breathless surprise that she answered, “really?” when the owner told her the news. She would start the next day. At 4am.

It was then she questioned whether or not she ought to have applied for the job to begin with.

At any rate, 2am arrived and after hitting snooze more times than she cared to admit, she was forced to get up, splash cold water on her face, step into the outfit she’d laid out the night before, black trousers and a white button-down shirt, and head out the door, a cup of coffee in one hand and her keys in the other.

Upon arriving at the bakery with less than two minutes to spare, she thought this may work out after all, there was no traffic, no honking horns, no pedestrians. It was a thoroughly enjoyable way to spend ones morning, peaceful, and if she’d tried that same trick at 4pm she’d never have arrived even two minutes early. So.

The first tasks were simple enough, turning on lights and ovens, making sure doors were locked, and starting coffee. She followed the owner around taking notes in her phone between asking questions or noticing the lock stuck if you didn’t pull the door or that the coffee maker would sometimes stop after the first two minutes and had to be restarted. Little things. She was a good noticer, however, and she thought to add that to her resume somehow. “Noticer” not being a word.

She’d expected to knead dough and wear an apron and all sorts of romantic notions, but it turned out there were machines for everything. She didn’t even measure, everything was prepackaged. Dump one bag of this in and one box of this water mixture and hit the button, when the machine stops take the contents and dump them into this machine that will piece it all out into perfect little rounds, enormous and anemic o’s to then be placed on sheets and thrown unceremoniously into the ovens. Hit the timer and you’re off to the next task.

And there were many tasks.

That first day was about “baking,” a term she would forever put in quotes as there was nothing to it really, she wasn’t baking, she was moving ingredients from one location to another, it was the magic of technology making it all poof into edibles. Edibles, now there was another thing she was good with. How to add that to the resume without sounding like a druggie?

“Baking” was the crown jewel. Everything was “baked from scratch” and “made by hand” exclaimed the signs. She was told in no uncertain terms that should a customer ask for the manager or the baker, she was to don the starched and extremely clean apron behind the door before entering the front of the building, that she was to always come out with just-washed hands, and that under no circumstances were employees to serve anything more than four hours old.

It was all very simple really. The tasks were nothing an automaton couldn’t handle, a high school kid, someone into edibles. The checklist was simple and much of her day would begin alone which was lovely, all the more reason to follow the checklist ensuring doors were locked. If she could just get through this first week of training with the owner and all his blah-blah-blah, she’d be all set and get her mornings all to herself and get paid for nothing more than smashing buttons.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

She could have stayed. It may have been better to stay. How hard could it have been to stop, take a deep breath, count to ten? Too hard, apparently. She left. It was a split decision, even as she was doing it, she floated above, watching herself doing it. The walking to the hook, the grabbing of the key, the thoughtful stopping to pick out sunglasses and wallet from her purse…clearly she was able to think, and so the leaving must be seen as coherent, a decision.

Even as she drove away she was hovering above. Truly she was driving, sitting in the seat, the heated seat which had seemed an extravagance in California now a necessity in Montana, still she was physically in the seat and driving, her hands upon the non-heated steering wheel, an extravagance she’d gone without and now wished she’d splurged for…like remote start functionality. At any rate, there was her body, in the seat, hands on the wheel, feet on the pedals, and she was physically determining her future. But emotionally, psychically, she was floating above. Looking down at herself. Slightly in awe of her power and also completely overwhelmed by the happenings.

Would she be able to go back? Would she want to? Would she be allowed back? Would they want her?

Did it matter?

…

She’d always done things by the book:

1. got good grades in high school
2. got into a prestigious college
3. graduated from said prestigious college
4. obtained a successful career
5. obtained a desirable partner
6. got married
7. bought a house
8. had kids

She’d done all that was every expected of her, overtly or subtly. And as she was doing it, she knew it wasn’t right.

She realized near the end of high school that she’d been played.

Everyone else goofed off and had fun in high school. Everyone else partied. She studied. She got the perfect grades. She got the extra-curriculars that looked good and the extra tassels to wear at graduation and the pomp and circumstance and ridiculousness and she realized she’d been cheated. Never even had a beer.

But too late, because now she had to continue to tow the line because college was also required, expected, demanded. So now through the gauntlet again. Only now she was bitter about it, only barely making it through, changing her prestigious major for one that allowed her out in four years, anything, underwater basketweaving as they say. But she did it, and was done and out and on to the next thing on the list.

Her life was lived by everyone else’s rules but how could one point and complain or cry or rail against the injustice of it when one was ultimately accepting and following and not pulling up the reins and saying “NO!” It was too late. On to the next thing on the list.

The career came next, something with customer service that caused her to drink more coffee than even a night before finals required. Lots of smiling and cheek biting and swallowing of words, not to mention matching nail polish and jewelry to uniforms. Truly awful.

But she was good at it and up the ladder she rose. As expected, and therefore too late to back out and try something else.

Next came the husband. Good good, nothing to see here, move along.

A house. Kids.

Check. Check.

And then one day, it may have been the lack of sleep, insomnia being a result of those non-stop caffeine injections, or it may have been that the kids were just especially tired from the heat and the extracurriculars and school having started up again and the stress of all the things that used to stress her out about the unspoken and spoken expectations and the not-so-minor-aggressions inherent in them, and her inability to inflict upon another what was done to her and it was almost an audible snap.

Almost, because no one else seemed to hear it.

One minute she was arguing with herself in the form of a toddler and the next she knew this was all wrong. This was not her life. Or rather it was, but it oughtn’t be. None of this was her life and even though it was always too late to start over, every step telling her too late, too late, too late, she found herself out the door, in the car, down the road.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here