Limbus, Inc.
Are you laid off, downsized, undersized?
Call us. We employ. 1-800-555-0606
How lucky do you feel?
Dallas made a rude noise. That was about the lamest employment come-on he’d seen yet…and he’d seen plenty in the months he’d been out of school and out of work. He started to chuck it in the trashcan but stopped in mid-toss. The slogan had changed.
Live your life on the edge.
What the fuck? He looked again. It said nothing about feeling lucky. Where had he gotten that? Maybe banged his head a little too hard. He did feel kind of dicey, probably mildly concussed. He held the card up to the light. No address, just the phone number, which was a bitch because he didn’t have a phone. At least it was a 1-800 number. He rubbed his finger over the globe logo and instantly the little image began to rotate, with tiny pinpricks of light exploding and disappearing over all the continents. Dallas stared. Was there a chip embedded in the card? An animation app? He blinked. An address had appeared just below the company name. Dallas stifled the urge to flush the card and get the hell out. But hallucination or not, his curiosity was hooked.
The address was an office tower near Bayfront Park, off the Macarthur Causeway and a couple of blocks down Biscayne — about a six-mile walk from where he was. The park, a thirty-two acre urban extravaganza of fountains, outdoor amphitheatre, rows of boxwoods, and tightly grouped ornamental trees, had been his nighttime refuge more than once. Dallas went outside and started walking toward the causeway. His circumstances were dire, but he was resourceful, even for a college dropout. If only his parents had given him a little cushion money before they’d disowned him for flunking out it would’ve made things a lot easier.
A cop car cruised by and slowed. He put his head down and kept walking. Stay unobtrusive, unremarkable. It glided on past. Once it was out of sight, he thumbed a ride as far as Watson Island, and headed up onto the high causeway bridge, walking fast, trying not to think about the dark, deep water underneath him. He hated bridges. The weather was warm and he didn’t mind the hike, just as long as nobody fucked with him. He’d only been in one serious fight since leaving college and ending up on the street. He’d come out of it robbed and bloodied, but mostly intact — no broken bones or cuts that needed stitches. Since that encounter, he’d been more careful and much less trusting. Except for that stupidity back in the bathroom. He must have been losing his grip. If he could somehow find a job, even something as degrading as scooping dog poop from the sidewalks, he’d be willing to take it. He wondered if that Limbus agency had jobs like that. Maybe they were so high-level he’d need to be a laid-off AIG exec to even get an interview. That was unlikely, given where he’d found the card. He felt around in his back pocket and pulled it out by the corner, as if it might bite. To his relief, it hadn’t changed since he’d last checked it in the South Beach restroom. He rubbed his thumb over the logo — nothing happened, which confirmed his suspicion that all the weirdness he thought he’d seen under the flickering bathroom lights had been a concussion headcase illusion.
He got to the office tower around noon of the next day. Standing on the sidewalk looking at himself in its mirrored windows, he knew there was no way in hell he could waltz into this glass and steel monolith and ask for a job. He was lucky its security guards didn’t swarm out of their air-conditioned safety zone and lock him up for impersonating a human. He hauled his jeans up over his hipbones — had he lost that much weight? — and thumbed a ride to Miami Shores where his parents lived.
Dallas stood on the doorstep of the modestly comfortable house he’d grown up in, feeling like a complete stranger. The last time he’d been here, his father had slammed the door in his face and left him standing on this exact spot with no belongings and no money. Sink or swim, the man had said, or something to that effect.
Dallas pushed the doorbell. He knew his mother was home because her Camry was in the driveway. If she was on the phone or lunching by the pool it might take her a minute to answer. He waited, and then rang again. After a few seconds the door opened and his mother, a petit hair-salon blonde, looked up at him. “I’m sorry, this neighborhood doesn’t allow panhandlers—” She stopped in mid-breath, took a closer look at Dallas, screamed, and slammed the door.
He sat down on the front steps. Pretty much the reception he’d expected, but what to do now? He needed to get cleaned up before he could go to the Limbus office. He heard the door open behind him.
“Good lord, it really is you, isn’t it?”
Dallas got up and faced her. “I…I have a job interview and I just need to get some clean clothes.”
His mother looked him up and down, frowning. “What kind of job?”
“Um, whatever they need. It’s a new agency, so… they need a lot of recruits.”
His mother’s shoulders softened a smidge, by which he knew he’d won. “Stay right there, you smell like a landfill.” She shut the door, more gently this time.
Dallas let his breath out. For once he’d made the right choice. He waited some more as she took her sweet time. Probably calling his father, which would be majorly awkward what with the potential for a parental meltdown but he hoped to be long gone before that unpleasant scenario could play out. His mother opened the door and handed out a stack of folded jeans, polo shirt, socks, and briefs. A towel and bath and shaving stuff rested on top.
“I can’t let you in smelling like that. Go around to the back and use the cabana shower. And for God’s sake shave your face.” Her expression was grim.
He took the clothes. “Right. And could you… I’m really starving.” No joke there — he felt and looked it. He could feel her disapproval like a force field that kept her from coming any closer. “Just go clean up.” She pulled the door shut.
Dallas sighed and went around the side of the house where mango and grapefruit trees and a tall hibiscus hid the pool fence from the street. He went to the patio shower and stripped off all his clothes in front of God and everybody just for spite, giving any curious neighbors an eyeful. Soaping and rinsing in the cool water, he began to feel better, and after he’d toweled dry and pulled on the clean clothes, he thought he might live. He stepped into the cabana and shaved his ratty beard away. His face in the mirror looked like the old Dallas Hamilton, only not so naïve. Wary, less trusting. Nothing he could do about the hair for now. It wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail, but clean and pushed back behind his ears it wasn’t too bad.
He retrieved the Limbus card before tossing his torn T-shirt and beyond-redemption jeans in the City of Miami waste disposal canister near the fence and was about to slide it into the breast pocket of his clean polo shirt when he saw it. Not possible — the slogan had changed again.
Gate expires May 31. Hurry up please, it’s time!
Dallas’ fingers shook as he held the card — something was definitely hinky and it wasn’t the bump on his head. So, the mysterious card was quoting Eliot now? It was almost enough to make him laugh if he weren’t so spooked.
His mother came out of the back door carrying his old high school book bag. She set it down on the patio table. “I put some extra clothes and a few supplies in it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Mom, I’m really sorry—”
She put up her hand. “Don’t. Just don’t. Sixty thousand dollars of your father’s hard-earned money to finance your education and you manage to flunk out your last year with no degree.” She crossed her arms over her narrow chest.
“I know how it looks, but—”
“I’m not going to tell your father you were here. His blood pressure and all.”