Three
If the world seems cold to you, kindle fires to warm it.
—Lucy Larcom
Chaz shook to at eleven on Monday morning and reached for a Xanax, downing three glasses of water with it. The pills weren’t prescribed but he always knew where to get them, and he needed them to get through the day. He’d learned years earlier from a drinking buddy that his body would need a pill to help it get up and moving after a night of partying. The guy was right; a pill or two a day pulled Chaz together and allowed him to keep up with any coworker.
Mallory, an apartment tenant, was in the parking lot as he left his building, and she waved. Chaz had met her on several occasions in the parking lot and he dreaded seeing her. His parents said the Mallorys of the world were mannequin people. His father used to say, Mannequin people try to look human but that’s as close as they get. Their goal is just to get through life. They aren’t concerned about you; it’s all about them. They plod off to work and then back home, and along the way they buy a house and a car and everything they need. They never back an organization or get involved with a cause because it’s too much trouble. They just exist and that’s it. Chaz knew his parents would have been saddened to see how easy it was for him to wander about without ever really knowing or caring about anyone else. He kept walking as Mallory blathered on about her recent dental work, her job, and high cholesterol. He walked faster and waved good-bye, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end.
On his way to work he saw the same crowd of people he had run into on his first day in town flowing out of the church basement on the town square. He bumped into a man and stumbled, nearly falling. The other guy did fall, landing on his can, and somebody pulled him up. “You okay, Frank?”
“Sorry, there!” The fallen man was yelling after Chaz, but he blew him off. He needed to get to the mailroom. Keeping this job was his ticket to somewhere else and he intended to keep it till he had enough money. He hurried down the main aisle for the stairs.
“Chaz?” He jumped at Mr. Wilson’s voice.
“Could you go out front and see to a homeless man? He’s harmless, but customers never want to come inside the store when…” He waved his hand in the air. “You know what I mean.” Chaz wanted to say that he wasn’t officially on the clock yet, but nodded and ran to the front of the store. The sooner he took care of the problem, the quicker he could talk to Judy about the fingerprints.
The man was standing with his hands in his pockets and a gray wool cap pulled down over his ears. He was wearing a Carhartt coat that was too big for him, brown khakis, and work boots. His face was thin and a short beard covered it. Chaz was surprised, because he was either his age or younger. “Hi,” Chaz said, approaching him.
“What’s up?” the man said, keeping his hands in his pockets.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Chaz asked.
“Nope.”
Chaz needed to get inside and was annoyed with this guy. “Do you need anything?”
“Nope.”
Pulling teeth would be easier than a conversation with him. Chaz put his hands under his arms to keep them warm and looked out over the square. Someone was busy decorating three large fir trees by the gazebo. “I’m Chaz.”
“Mike.” Chaz searched his mind for something else to say. “Why don’t you just tell me that the brass inside is uncomfortable with me standing here?” Mike said.
“It’s the customers. You know.”
“They’re afraid I’ll attack them and make off with their Gucci bags,” Mike said. Chaz shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave. Trying to find my way around town. I just got off the bus a few days ago.”
Chaz smiled and pulled out some dollar bills from his pocket. It was worth it to get the guy off the sidewalk. “For coffee and a meal. I’m new here, too, but they say Grimshaw’s up the street has the best food in town.”
Mike took the money and shoved it in his pocket. “The old ladies can breathe a sigh of relief now,” he said, walking away.
Chaz ran inside the store and reeled past customers, pushing his way through two swinging doors that entered a room whose cinder-block walls were painted a pale yellow. Large mail bins lined one wall with each department the mail was intended for typewritten below each bin. White countertops made their way around two of the walls and they were covered with boxes and small packages. Huge industrial lights hung from the ceiling and he heard the bulbs buzzing above him. Two women, one around his age and the other in her midthirties, turned to look at him. “Hi, I’m Chaz,” he said. The young one looked at him and smiled and he knew he had her where he needed her. He stepped toward her and smiled, manipulating and maneuvering, his MO for any situation. “I work in security.”