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CONCRETE JUNGLE
KAL
New York City
Eight years later.
“Dammit, ouch!” I reach out to grab the yelping, stumbling woman I just plowed head first into, while I grab my throbbing forehead. “Oh my God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I snagged my hose on something and I was looking—”
“Look where you’re going,” she yells, the red of her wool knit cap seemed like the perfect accessory for her ruddy face, which is pinched in pain. She pulls out of my grasp and stalks away, with an angry glare over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her retreating back and then step out of the flow of pedestrian traffic on East Twenty-Eighth Street and duck into the drugstore.
I dig in my coat pocket for the pack of tissues that’s taken up permanent residence there this winter. My nose has been running pretty much nonstop for two months and I haven’t been able to find the time to go see a doctor about it.
“Welcome to Duane Reed,” a young girl behind the counter calls without looking up from her phone.
“Where are your pantyhose?” I ask.
“They’re in the same aisle as the travel-sized stuff.” She points in the general direction of the back of the store.
Without loo
king up from her phone.
I want to tell her that when I was her age, I would have killed to have a job at a nice drugstore in Manhattan.
But today, my own life is such a mess that I can’t scold anyone.
For anything.
My phone rings as I stalk down the aisles looking at the hanging signs above them for a clue about where pantyhose might be. I yank it out of my purse and feel a jolt of panic when I see my lawyer’s name flashing on the screen.
“Hey, Fallon. I’m sorry I haven’t paid your invoice—”
“Yeah, me too. Too bad sorry doesn’t pay my kid’s tuition.”
Mine’s either.
“If you don’t pay me by the end of the month, at least half what you owe me, I’ll have to turn your account over to a debt collector. I can’t have this sitting on my books.”
I knew this was coming. She’s one of the Peters I robbed to pay Paul last month.
“Okay. I understand. I’ll get paid by then, I’ll just shuffle some other stuff—”
“I like you, Kal. I do. But we all have bills.”
“I know, I appreciate you letting me pay monthly in the first place.”
“I want to help you, kid. But that ex of yours is a special kind of asshole. It was time-consuming to answer all of his fucking motions. Next time you get married, get to know him a little better before you sign your life away.”
“Oh, Fallon. I can’t even imagine a next time.” I sigh into the phone.
“That’s what they all say. But most people are a sucker for a good old romantic heartbreak. Not complaining— keeps me in business. Let me know what you want to do.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
I trudge up to the counter and hand the girl, who has still yet to grace me with the gift of a single glance, my box of tights and my credit card.
