The gold chain called to Brandy, from her neck. The same simple gold chain her mother had passed to her when she was a little girl.
Momma Ashton-on her deathbed, dying of cancer-had passed the heirloom to her only daughter the way her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother had done generations past, all the way down the family line, to the very first Ashtons that had settled in the northeast (what possessed them to move and settle in Arizona, she would never understand).
When the first Ashtons arrived penniless in America, they kept the gold chain no matter the indigence or hardship, as a symbol of providence, and reminder that fortunes were made through diligence and hard work.
Brandy stormed off, so furious she wanted to cry.
No one looking, she stroked the gold chain and felt better. Stroking the thin gold chain always had a calming, soothing effect. There was nothing she would not do to protect that chain, to keep it in the family, in the hopes of one day passing the heirloom to her own daughter.
On her way through the winding maze, Brandy spied a fat woman with long hair down to her hips, long denim dress down past her knees. The woman was asking one of the employees for help.
He told her he would be along to help her in a minute.
Then he turned his back on her to answer his cell phone.
His name was Mark, according to his nametag-another punk kid: no surprise there. Whether his thin beard growing in patches was the result of a recent choice to grow one, or because he was still too young, she wasn’t sure.
No, she decided, it was because he was still too young.
Frustrated, the poor lady walked away. Brandy followed her out of the maze, into the warehouse. Waiting at one of the bins was the woman’s fat mother.
Why were there so many fat people in America, Brandy wondered?
Together, they tried unsuccessfully removing one of the giant boxes from the bin.
As they did, a man passed by with a cart, said, “Need some help? Here, let me help you with that.”
He was late thirties, Brandy guessed. Not much older than her, and handsome. The ladies thanked him-bless his heart, they said. They cautioned him against straining his back.
“No problem,” he smiled.
Bless his heart, they said.
The kid’s phone call was more important than doing his job.
Thank you for doing Ikea’s job, because that is the level of professionalism you can expect from Ikea.
So go fuck yourself Ikea! Fuck you in the ass!
Brandy stopped the rant playing in her mind.
Stroking her gold chain, she felt better.
Twenty minutes late, the #65 bus still had not arrived. Brandy stroked her gold chain. She hated waiting on the bus almost as much as she hated dealing with punk kids. She wondered what more could go wrong today? When would the day end?
She looked to all the Marks, the Ericas, crowded at the bus stop. Badly, she wanted to whack them with her shopping bag.
They gossiped about Justin Bieber’s love child; the latest Twilight film. How Lady Gaga’s keen fashion sense, latest fashion statements, were all the rave:
I’m team Jacob!
I’m team Edward!
How a meat dress was so nouveau- risqué.
Jesus Christ! When was the fucking bus coming?
Then-salvation! The bus appeared around the corner. It rumbled up the street and, with whining airbrakes and long hiss of air, slowed at the bus stop.
Brandy sighed, grateful the noise had severed the grape vine, put a stop to the buzzing rumor mill. She was amazed how animated, fast-talking, these kids could be in the unbearable heat.
Obnoxiously, one of the Erica’s said, “Hello? Do you mind?”
The bus doors had opened, Brandy realized. She was blocking the way.
All the Marks, the Ericas, shoved past. Brandy quietly boarded onto the bus, with the rest of the adults.
With disgusted but resigned looks, they quietly boarded. Obediently they fed their money to the money feeder while the kids continued their inane gossiping.
They filed onto the bus, one after the other until all were on board.
As they did, two young men horseplaying in the aisle nearly knocked over an old lady trying to make her way to the back. None of the unruly youngsters offered up their seats so the older folk could sit, rest. Nothing was said.
That would be them some day, Brandy relished: forced to ride the bus to their retail jobs-or their jobs waiting tables-because their cars had been repossessed. Or rather because they could not afford a car to begin with.
Jesus, she realized she just described her own pathetic life. How long had she been working at Macy’s, anyway?
It occurred to her the only jobs around anymore were those working behind a counter, or behind a bar, or waiting on tables in a restaurant; the Walmart-type jobs. Or, if you were lucky, cleaning bedpans in a hospital.
“Hey, watch it! You almost knocked her down,” one of the kids spoke up.
“Fuck you!”
“Mind your own business, fucker!”
When the metro light rail doors opened, Angel Rodriguez crammed into the train. Into the thick crowd of passengers.
Squeezing next to Brandy, she sighed loud.
It had taken her forever riding the #65 bus to reach the light rail, putting up with all those rude, obnoxious punk kids the entire time.
Now she would have to spend god knew how long on the light rail next to another punk kid.
He said nothing back.
Maybe he hadn’t heard her sigh, she guessed.
Thank god, she thought to herself when she caught a glimpse of him. Spying on him from the corner of her eye, she tried not to look obvious doing it.
Her first impression was: evil gang-banger. The fact alone that he wore baggy clothes spelled trouble and meant he was likely no good. But then again, she realized, all the boys wore baggy clothes nowadays. The girls: unbelievably tight clothes, the little whores.
Etched in the window glass, she eyed a piece of graffiti. All the money spent on the light rail, to help people get around easier, improve their lives and the environment, some asshole writes graffiti on the train.
Some asshole like him, Brandy figured.
She wished Honda hadn’t recalled their airbags. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess, standing next to this devil. How much longer would it take Honda to fix her car, she wondered? Was that fire in his eyes? Did she actually see flames? And tiny horns?
How much longer must she put up with public transportation?
If it wasn’t her car getting recalled, it was always something.
The train jolted; everyone swayed with the movement, like water vacillated in a bowl.
Angel jostled against Brandy, and she could swear she felt him grope her tits as he did.
Then, quickly he moved away. But the crowd was so thick, he only managed a few feet.
Again, Brandy thought on the exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel. The one she had saved all month.
Suddenly, everything was okay.
She went to stroke her gold chain, looked down at her violated tits, and saw the chain was gone.
Grinning, he looked her over. She could feel his fiery eyes on her.
Among the nest of gold chains about his neck, she saw her chain: the little cocky, arrogant prick!
He had stolen her chain!
Now he was grinning, daring her to do something about it.
Over the intercom, the next stop was announced. The doors opened.
Brandy waited.
The doors closed; Brandy grabbed all the chains from Angel’s neck. She leapt from the train!
The daring leap thrilled her. Snatching the chains from Angel’s neck, taking back what was rightfully hers.
It was exhilarating.
She felt more alive than she’d ever been.
Then Angel was prying the doors open.
She felt cast into some surreal horror flick, her world turned upside down. Wedging one arm through the gap, he pried the doors open. Then his other arm was through.