Up With The Crows

by Zoe Parker

  I really wish she’d let me help her, this isn’t healthy.

  Changing the directions of my thoughts, because if I don’t then guilt will lodge itself in my brain and keep me in a shitty mood the rest of the night. I open the fridge, dig out the bread and cheese and then put them back exactly where I got them from. She notices when things are moved—I have no idea how. Tucking my treasures into a sandwich bag—also in the fridge—I turn and weave my way through the room full of cats to the back door. Turning, I slowly pull the door open and then ease it shut behind me, while carefully keeping an eye out for any runners.

  The last time one of Mom’s cats got out it was hit by a car. She cried for three days straight, no way am I watching my Mom cry again. Nu uh. The tears I’ve caused her to shed were more than enough.

  Once outside, I breathe in the fresh air and hustle to the shed. Stopping at the door I strip off my protective wear and shove it back into the plastic tub for next time. Furtively, I look around then strip my shirt and pants off as well, ducking into the shed to avoid anyone seeing the goods. Not that it’s too big of a concern, because I went through an obnoxious drunken phase a few years ago and mooned the entire block party. People still won’t let their kids near me.

  I smile at the memory, it was a great night.

  I head straight for the shower to quickly wash off; afterwards, I feed the boys, clean their cases and then finally make it back into bed. My tablet is my television, my computer, and my window into the outside world. So eagerly I flip through the free movie app and settle on something romancy. Watching a movie about a gal who has as many bad things happen to her as I do and keeps a diary—I’m way too lazy—helps mellow me out and puts me in a much better frame of mind.

  Yawning, I dig around on the small table beside the bed for my phone and find nothing. I always put it here when I get home, the keys are there, my purse is there. Where the hell is my phone?

  With the exception of going into my Mom’s house, I retrace every step I’ve taken since I got home. I find it in the last place I expected, Willis’s cage. I honestly don’t remember it being on me when I cleaned his cage, but I’ve put my keys in the freezer before too. He predictably bites my hand when I reach in to get it, hard enough to hurt, but not enough to bleed and then promptly shits on the phone.

  There are days I sorely regret getting this bird, this is one of them.

  As I’m cleaning the phone the best I can, I swear he’s cackling at me from his cage—I latch the door shut in retaliation for his behavior. After spraying some Lysol on my phone, I set my alarm and then crawl back into bed to watch some more romance movies, about things that I’ll never experience.

  Chapter Three

  Birds are indicators of the environment. If they are in trouble, we know we’ll soon be in trouble.

  Roger Tory Peterson

  By the time the annoying beeping of the alarm saturates itself into my brain, enough for me to realize it means get my ass up, I’m already a half-hour behind schedule. Brushing my teeth, while running around wearing only slacks, won’t win me any beauty contests, but I have to make sure my boys are taken care of before I go anywhere. In this life, there’s no guarantee I’ll return. This way they have enough food and fresh water until my Mom would come to check on them. I’d like to think its because I believe in being prepared in life, but that’s not why—it’s because I’m paranoid about life, and the many things that can go wrong in it.

  Death being the ultimate thing. Quite frankly, I’m terrified of it, even knowing it will happen no matter what I do. It’s the one guarantee in life, you die. Shivering at my rather morbid thoughts, I rinse my mouth and then attempt to style the unruly hair I inherited from my mysterious father. Mom’s hair is so thin you can see her scalp through it. She told me that my lovely, straight as a board, but thick ass blonde hair was a gift from my dad.

  Wish he’d left me a million dollars too or maybe a picture of his unknown face.

  That part of my existence is a big old mystery that Mom refuses to talk about. Only explanation I ever got is that he died in the war and there was no body. I suspect she’s lying, more than suspect really, but I have yet to look online to see if it’s true. A part of me is afraid that I’m some drunken night’s result, and that like most of the world he doesn’t want me either. As far as my Mom goes, I would never think to judge her for it, but being the result of it… is an entirely different matter.

  Hell, a few of the kids in school used to tease me and call me a witch. There is a rumor that my Dad, whoever the fuck he is, was a wiccan or some shit. I believe that more than the war hero story Mom concocted. Some of the books he left behind are about the occult and witchcraft; they fed into plenty of childhood fantasies, that’s for sure. As a kid they were the only comfort I had on days that were for “Dads” in school, in life. I grew up in the eighties and nineties, people were stupidly judgmental about kids born out of wedlock. Not just to the parents either.

  Not anymore, thankfully.

  Meeting my reflection’s green eyes in the mirror, I lightly smack my cheek. What is wrong with me? Why am I thinking this depressing shit right before I go to a job interview? I can dwell on it after they refuse to give me the job, and I come home to no food, with only my birds for company. I can really wallow in it then, get all down in it and give it a good snuggle. Of course, after that I’ll cry myself to sleep then wake up and do it again another day. Rinse. Repeat.

  Giving up on my hair, I twist it up in a relatively neat bun and slide my shirt on. There’s an oil stain of some kind on the left side of the front, which is a prime demonstration of how luck tends to run for me. If it can go wrong, it does. Digging around in my clothes I find a light jacket and put it on. It hides the stain, but makes me sweat. Fall is almost here, so the days are summer hot, and the nights are cold. This morning is supposed to be in the high eighties and I’m wearing a wool jacket. With a grimace I grab my deodorant; I manage to contort myself enough to get extra on without getting it on the shirt.

  Looking once again in the mirror, I grab the small bits of makeup I own and try to turn my face into something presentable. I have a rather round face, and when my cheeks aren’t hollowed out from weight loss it’s a bit pudgy. My cheekbones are high, and it makes my eyes slant a little upwards on the outside. I don’t have the nice thick eyebrows that everyone and their mother sport nowadays. They’re a bit patchy, and if I wasn’t pressed for time, I’d try to draw some on my face to look a bit better than the mangey ones I have now.

  Unfortunately, the eyebrows take way too much time, most of which I spend wiping the shit off and starting all over again.

  My gaze moves on, my nose is wide and relatively flat, and even though my upper lip has that little bow to it, I still think they’re too disproportionate in size. The top lip is a bit thin while the lower one is overly full. My jaw is too pronounced for that delicate look that is popular. Mom has it, but I feel like I look a bit square jawed with mine. The slightly round chin doesn’t help either. The only feature I feel like I have that’s worth a crap is my eyes.

  I mean, I’m not the ugliest thing ever created, I’ve even been called pretty a time or so in my life. I just don’t see myself that way. I can’t see anything, except my flaws. The curse of being a woman, we’re always harder on ourselves than anyone else.

  With a few swipes I put on the last of the concealer, then add a touch of mascara and lip gloss. Satisfied that this is the best I can do, I grab my purse and portfolio and head out the door, right into a rainstorm.

  “Oh, this is just freaking great!” I gripe at the cloud filled sky. Thankfully, I have enough sense to keep an umbrella hanging next to the front door. Grabbing it, I open it up and make a mad dash to my car down the street. The bag held on the driver’s side, but the passenger side is a loss because I forgot to put another bag on it. There’s a puddle of water in the seat and on the floor. Nope, not going to get mad, I have interviews today, which mean potential jobs. Ca
n’t get mad and ruin the mood for the entire day.

  Turning on my car, I let it sit and warm up, ignoring the squealing fan belt. Pulling out my cheese sandwich with crunchy crusts, I wolf it down while putting the address of the first interview in the GPS of my phone. Fortunately, it’s not that far away and I won’t be late to it, if nothing else gets in my way. Wiping the crumbs off myself I toss the bag in an old store bag and lock on my seatbelt. Deep breath, I put the car in drive only to stop immediately. The windshield wipers aren’t working.

  Glancing at the time on my phone in the cup holder, I grit my teeth and grab the towel out of the backseat. Wipe. Wipe. Look to make sure I’m still on the road. Wipe. Wipe. Double check for traffic. After an exhausting fifteen minutes I arrive at my destination. Parking across the street, so they don’t see the car, people are weird about shitty cars too, I pull out the umbrella and run across the street.

  The crowd of people inside, most of which look way better than I do, all turn as one to look at me. I’m not late, but I’m close. As I walk to the only vacant chair in the room my shoes squeak and slosh on the linoleum floor. I step lighter, but the noise increases, giving up I roll with it and head to the chair. At least I have a few minutes to gather my composure.

  Right as my butt is getting ready to hit the seat, the door across from us opens and a stern looking woman says, “Miss Riddle, we’re ready for you now.”

  You’ve got to be shitting me.

  Knowing that this is doomed, I stand and attempt to smile at her, as I walk in my loud shoes towards her. Her eyebrow raises, but she doesn’t say anything, although she does flick a gaze at my feet.

  Well, at least my face doesn’t look like stretched rubber. Forcing myself to not stare at the trampoline tight skin of her face is harder than I expected. Someone has had some work done, often. I look past her as we walk into the small conference room. The gentleman sitting at the table give me almost identical dismissive looks as I sit at the chair set up alone to face them. The minute they laid eyes on me I was put on their “do not hire” list. I’m familiar with that look, I get it often enough. This is a job I’d probably be miserable at anyhow, yeah?

  That’s what I’ll stick with, it hurts my pride a little less.

  The one to the left, with a bit of brown hair tufting up on top of his head, glances down at the paper in his hand and says, “You’ve had a multitude of jobs in the last year. Can you explain why you change jobs so often?”

  There’s that big question, the one I always dread a little. There have been twelve jobs in the last year, no joke. I was fired from every single one of them. Taking a deep breath to say the truth, or at least as much as I can tell someone I’m doing a job interview for.

  “I seem to find myself in temporary positions quite often,” I say, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. No matter what I tell myself, I actually want this job. This job would’ve required me to think, and potentially use part of my expensive and useless education. Albeit a tiny part, mostly typing, but still something. I peek down at the paper I’m gripping in my hand, and see the next interview is in half an hour. I guess it’s time to move this one along then.

  “It says here you were terminated, from all of them,’ he says. That’s what I get for being honest.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Behavioral issues?”

  “No, sir.” I start listing off the various reasons for the more recent terminations, truthful about them even though I try to make them sound a fuzz less bad. I skip over the ones that make no sense whatsoever. There’s no point in sharing those ones.

  There is a resounding silence for several seconds before he clears his throat and continues.

  “Do you have any business attire?”

  Swallowing the words that want to lash out at him for his petty insult, I’m wearing business clothes. I attempt a smile and answer, “Yes.” I have nicer clothes, they’re in my Mom’s house, and probably completely covered in cat hair at this point. Well, maybe I don’t have any nicer clothes.

  “We’ll put together a few scenarios and you answer them to the best of your ability.” Oh, look roleplay, how fantastic. “If John, your immediate boss, borrows your creative idea for an emergency client meeting, what do you do?”

  Seriously?

  The first answer that pops into my head is not a nice one, but it’s how I’d probably respond in that kind of bullshit situation. The “scenario” does give me immediate insight into the kind of company this is. I’m not even sure why they’re continuing this farce; we all know they’re not hiring me. For the moment I’ll play along, it’s raining outside, and I still have fifteen minutes.

  I give them the answer they want to hear, “I would make the decision that’s best for the company overall.” Fuzzy Head’s eye brows shoot up, I surprised him. I love doing that to people. Each of them makes a mark on their papers and Fuzzy continues.

  “John has an emergency lunch with a client and he’s misplaced his wallet, since it’s a client that keeps the company running John borrows your wallet from your desk without your permission. Keeping this client is top priority, what would you do?”

  Good interviewee has left the building. “Are you shitting me right now?” blurts out of my mouth. Yeah, she’s definitely gone. “First, you’re making it okay for people’s ideas to be stolen, now their money can be stolen too? What kind of crooked ass company is this?”

  “Miss Riddle!” Stretch Armstrong exclaims without any part of her face moving in response.

  “People like you are the reason that so many good people end up at the bottom holding you up. Lazy fuckers,” I grumble, climbing to my feet. Without another word I walk out of the room, through the waiting room full of hopeful looking applicants and I feel a bit of pity for them. It doesn’t stop me from going outside in the rain and straight to my car.

  My wet car—the bag fell off the driver’s side window. Sitting in the puddle that is now the seat, I ignore the cold-water seeping into my pants and making its way merrily down my legs and up my back. I hit the steering wheel a few times with my hands, until I feel a bit better.

  Why did I let my mouth run off? Why? I don’t think I’d have gotten the specific job I interviewed for, but maybe the janitor one or something. No one cares about the people who clean up after them, it was one of my favorite jobs. Until someone accused me of stealing their car… yes, their car. Turns out they forgot where they parked it, but the place still wouldn’t hire me back, said I was untrustworthy. To this day I can’t figure out how I was the one accused when I didn’t leave the floor the entire afternoon. I even skipped lunch that day to finish up my set of rooms.

  I have a job jinx.

  A gurgle from the area of my empty gut reminds me why I need a job so much. Food, the whole gotta eat to live thing. With a sigh, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, whether I want to admit it or not I’m fully aware that I’ll give in and ask my mom before allowing myself to starve to death. There’s pride and there’s stupidity. I fall into both categories, but in the case of starvation I’ll give up pride in a heartbeat.

  Just not yet.

  Briefly, I sit there feeling utterly miserable until I get it together enough to wipe my face with a tissue and get out of the car. The rain has stopped, leaving the world wet and a bit foggy. Looking around me, I take a few seconds to admire the leaves that are turning the orange of open flame. To be a bit awed by the way the water is slowly dripping off their pointed tips. As I’m watching this little thing that to me is a miracle, nature is always a miracle, I see something that I thought I’d never see—a shiny black feather floating towards me. The green tint to it indicates that it belongs to a crow and the instant the feather-grabber inside of me wakes up, I need to have it. Ignoring the puddles that I step in, on my way towards the rarity, I hustle to try and be under it when it gets close enough for me to grab.

  Smiling, because finally something good is happening to me, I hurry a bit faster. The caco
phony of screeching tires and tearing metal bring me around to face my car. By the time my brain registers what my eyes are seeing, the delivery truck has slammed into my Herbette. In shock I stand there and stare with my mouth gaping open. With a metallic crunch the truck backs up and my car, that’s up on 2 wheels, hits the ground.

  What in the ever-living fuck?!

  The driver of the truck staggers out of the door with blood dripping down his face. The reaction I have is not the one I expected. Immediately filled with concern I run to him and snag a tissue out of my bag to wipe the blood that’s dripping into his eyes from the cut on his forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I ask softly, dabbing at the small cut above his right eye.

  He’s young probably no more than 25 and he looks scared to death. His deep brown eyes are wide with fear and probably shock. When he opens his mouth to speak, he makes a bunch of garbled noises instead then frowns.

  “It’s okay, that’s my car—she was due to retire anyhow,” I say way more calmly than I feel. “I do think you need to get this cut looked at, head wounds are weird things,” I say while waving at the blonde woman standing on the sidewalk with her camera on us. “Call 9-1-1.” I mouth at her and keep muttering calming words to the man in front of me.

  After a while, his shaking stops and he leans back against the side of his truck. Thankfully, the ambulance and police come before all the anger building inside of me decides to come out. Now that I know he’s okay the other emotions are building. Giving Herbette a look of mourning, I feel myself begin to cry. Poor Herbette is completely smashed in on one side, and I know there’s no fixing her.