Nine to Five

Nine to Five

YOUTH

When she was young, she taught herself a trick. If she placed her dainty fingers on top of her eyelids and pressed, she could see kaleidoscopes. They weren’t the kind of colorful, hypnotizing kaleidoscopes she received in her stocking on Christmas morning; these kaleidoscopes did not have small plastic pieces that created intricate patterns. These self-made kaleidoscopes were simply black and white, like the movies her father would sometimes watch.
If she added enough pressure, white blotches and swirls would slowly materialize against a black background, which she guessed were the insides of her eyelids. It never hurt. She first discovered this method of distraction on a night where her mother and father were having another one of their arguments. They didn’t know she was observing from the top of the stairs; at the exact moment she saw her father’s fist tighten, the little girl slapped her hands over her eyes and pressed hard. She tried to press the scene away from the instant play-back in her mind, but it had already stuck. However, instead of watching her father’s knuckles turn pale, she saw white flourishes and geometric shapes.
The little girl didn’t know much about marriage, and what she did know was what her parents showed her. They were constantly tense—her father had permanent forehead wrinkles. She could faintly remember times when her mother’s face wasn’t twisted into the unpleasant frown that she now wore frequently.
Most of their fights were about money. When the little girl listened from the top of the stairs, she heard things like:
“Well, if YOU didn’t piss away all of your paychecks,” and:
“I’m not the one who spends all of our money on pointless things,” and sometimes, when it was really bad:
“Maybe you can find another husband who will be able to buy you all the things you need.”
She never understood why money was the source of her parent's aggression. When she watched game shows on TV, people cried with happiness because of money they had won. Why did it make her parents yell? She remembered a time not too long ago, the last time she could clearly remember the three of them being happy together. Her father charged through the front door in the evening time, announcing it was pay day. She and her mother cheered, although she had little to no idea how pay days worked. They all went out to ice cream, “my treat”, her father said, smiling.
The little girl sat on the floor of her dark bedroom, listening to the dull hum of her parent’s raised voices. She let out a deep exhale and closed her eyes. Her hands moved to her eyes and applied pressure until she saw fuzzy white circles. She breathed. Her mind searched for ways to make them stop shouting. She thought of riding her bike to the grocery store and talking to one of the people wearing a black apron. She imagined scrubbing the floors and taking out the garbage, she considered an inevitable achy back and raw fingers. But she swelled at the vision of a crisp, green bill at the end of the day. She would fold it up small and stick it in her sock, and then ride home faster than she had ever pedaled before. She would burst through the front door like her father had done on the night he had been happy, she would say: “Pay day!” She’d give her parents her earnings and they would kiss her on the head. More importantly, they would kiss each other. Thanks to her, they would be able to pay the bills and maybe even see a movie. They wouldn’t fight any more. They would smile.
There, in her dim room, eyelids twitching under the intentional force, ears ringing louder than the fire alarm at school, she said to herself:
“I need a job.”

RHYTHM

Sweat formed little beaded piles on her bare skin as she made her way out of the stage lights and down the stairs that led to the dressing rooms. She swung open the rusted door and entered a lively room with low lighting. She heard the chitter chatter of the other dancers—her coworkers—and scanned the room as some of them put up their hair, wiped off their makeup, and lit cigarettes. She plopped down in her chair and fiddled with her belly button ring.
“How much you make tonight?” Jenny asked. She was one of the new ones, fresh-faced and too friendly.
“Uh, one-eighty,” answered Nicole, her eyes not leaving her silver belly button hoop. Jenny took the hint and didn't answer any further questions. She began to hum and she removed her fake eyelashes in the mirror next to Nicole's. Nicole watched her curiously; she wondered how this girl could possibly be upbeat after their show. Each one left Nicole feeling exhausted and filthy. She could feel the sweat of the men's hands on her bare thighs, she could faintly pick up the scent of damp money at her waist and on her fingertips. Every night at this time (save for Sundays and Mondays, which she had off), all she wanted to do was to get home and shower, to rinse the human dirt off of her. She couldn't tolerate feeling so soiled. And so she slipped on her dark, heavy clothes and escaped out the back door, into the night.
Rhythm was a requirement for the job. She remembered this very clearly—it was the only thing they asked her when she went into the club hesitantly, yet desperate. Do you have rhythm?
“Of course I have rhythm,” She said. And the next night, she was on the floor learning the ropes.
Realistically, she had no clue if she possessed any form of “rhythm”, but rent checks were piling up on her counter and looming over her head. There was no other choice. However, since she started her job at the club, she had noticed different rhythms everywhere... the rhythm of the subway train, the rhythm of the sun rising and setting, the rhythm of the sleazy music that echoed after her as she walked down the sidewalk. But her favorite rhythm was one she could only hear at the exact moment that was this one—a Friday night, right outside of the classy bar at the bottom of the Hilton hotel. It was the rhythm of women's high heels.
All different sounds. Light, airy clicking coming from the heels of women in expensive dresses rushing to meet a date. Heavy, hollow clicking coming from pumps on a woman that may have had one-too-many Cosmopolitans. And her favorite, the assertive, fierce clicking coming from women in snazzy boots and business suits. These were the kind of women she watched filter in and out of the hotel, arm-in-arm with a well-groomed man, or on the phone with an important client. Nicole sat on a bench facing the front of the bar with her hot coffee and observed them as they went about their night. She took notes on the rhetoric they practiced, on the jokes they cracked, and the gestures they used. Her eyes were wide and hungry with the vision of her in their place. She thought of her thin hair suddenly voluptuous, her small body filling one of those business suits, and her toes poking out from the end of those power pumps. What did these women do? Were they lawyers? Professors? Real estate agents?
She created their lives for them. She imagined the blonde one having a rich, foreign husband and a luxurious home. She pictured the brunette woman having three kids she raised on her own, a true example of the powerful female. A deep ache developed in her stomach as she watched them smile and laugh, their manicured hands delicately cradling wine glasses as suited men gave them undivided attention. Those men didn't look at those women like they were pieces of meat. None of those men dared to touch any of those women without asking, at the very least. Those men believed in respect. Those women demanded it.
The night grew more still; steam no longer flowed from the top of Nicole's cup. She sighed, stood up, and began to meander home. Her eyes remained fixed on the glass doors leading to the bar. Some of the women caught her eyes, but looked away out of disinterest. From behind her, she could hear their clicks, but they were soon muffled by the shuffle of her own feet that were cramped into white sneakers. She wondered how much a pair of those power pumps cost.
“I want a real job,” she thought to herself, her eyes slightly stinging with tears. But she was not one of those women.




HORMONES

Her name is April. She is five feet tall, maybe seven or eight inches. She has unruly black hair and piercing green eyes. Her lips are a rosy shade of pink, and her fingers are womanly. They move fluidly when she pours coffee. Her laugh is more of an obnoxious guffaw, and her movements are quick and scattered. She spills things a lot. She smokes Camels on her ten minute break. She works at the coffee shop at the corner of his street, and he is pretty sure he is in love with her.
He stops in every day, usually toting a book or some homework so he will appear occupied. But while he is hunched over his notebooks, he steals glances at April as she fiddles with cups and syrups behind the bar. Sometimes, she will catch his eye. But more often than not, he is completely invisible. It takes him some time to work up the nerve to walk up to her and order a drink, but she is always polite and unthreatening. He chooses his words carefully, using polite phrases like “yes, please” and “no, thank you”.
He isn't a bad guy. He is a third year, majoring in biology. He dresses nice, he isn't very messy. And he works hard. This is his downfall. He is taking twenty units this semester; “You graduate in four years, and we'll pay every dime”, that's what his father said. That was the deal. So, he buries himself in homework and reading. He realizes that it's nice to not have to worry about money like some of his friends do. But this binding deal takes a toll on his social life. He regrets the times when he has to turn down a night of drinking with the boys and the nice days he had to pass by because of homework that required him to stay inside. Most of all, he hates the fact that his poor availability exempts him from ever being able to hold a job.
To him, there are many perks to having a job. He could get out, experience the town. His job could make him cross paths with new people, potential friends. A job would give him something to put on a resume. But most of all, a job would bring him money. Sure, his parents are rich. They pay for everything he needs at school, but he could never ask them for extra money.
“Why do you need money, Son? We've already paid the expenses this month,” he could hear his father saying. There is no way he'd divulge that it was meant to be spent on a dinner date with April. He resisted this because he already knew what his father would say.
“A date? With a girl? Son, you have no time for that. Not with your studies,” accompanied by a disapproving head shake.
He sighs and sits back in his chair, fiddling with the handle of his mug. His eyes scan the homework on the table, then up to the bar. April is making a latte, humming. He picks up his pencil and sits his chin on his hand. The other hand is poised at the top of his lined paper. He doesn't feel like answering question one yet. Instead, he slowly scrawls:
I wish I had a job.

RETIREMENT

The golden dawn light pried through the blinds, and Mr. Andrews rises from his slumber. His bones cracked as he stood from his bed. His knees were sore—it would probably rain today. He hobbled to the blinds and pulled them open. His early-morning eyes didn't stand a chance against the fierce light of the sun, but he yawned and looked out the window anyways. He pulled his robe tight, pulled on his slippers, and walked out to the driveway to begin his day. He picked up the paper.
And this is the beginning of his daily schedule. The morning cup of coffee is for the front page—all the important, juicy stuff is on the front page. He savors his cup and the words on the page, sometimes reading an article twice. At around 10 o'clock, he sits in his garden, where he reads the gardening section. He stops at times to watch the car go by, or to say hello to a neighbor. When noon strikes, he is usually done with the gardening section and is ready to move onto the dining section, just in time for lunch. He fixes his meal and sits down at the table. He eats while he reads. Sometimes after this period, Mr. Andrews will take a nap. Other times, he stays up and reads in his chair. On these kinds of days, he'll read the Classifieds or look through the advertisements. When dinner time rolls around, he sits down with another meal and reads the editorial section. Sometimes when he reads these, he laughs. Other times he gets mad.
The day rolls around to darkness again, and he sits on his porch, entertainment section in hand. He remembers Mrs. Andrews fondly, remembers his agile 20-year-old body fondly, remembers the workforce fondly. He feels like a salt-and-pepper-haired cast off from society—hidden away from the rest of the world under the title: “Old”. To himself, he says:
“I miss my job”. Out loud he says it, but no one is around to hear him. He opens the entertainment section and crosses his legs; his knees ache as a lazy rain begins to fall. He reads until it gets too dark to do so.