She always hoped she would find money on the ground while she was walking, even though it had only happened twice. Once was a ten in the parking lot outside Dollar Tree, once a rolled up dollar bill stuck next to the rail when she was walking across the tracks by Harlem Avenue.
Help comes to those who deserve it, that’s what her mom always said. Maybe there’s only so much to go around she thought. Maybe other people need it more than we do. Still, it can’t hurt to look. You have to be ready and watch out for your opportunities. Her dad said that.
She looked down at a flattened Corona can, an empty Newport pack, empty Swisher Sweets Grape pouch, Doritos snack-sized bag, lots of leaves. There was snow on the leaves, it was an early snow, only on the leaves in the gutter. The sidewalk and street were wet.
She stepped into the recessed doorway of Wirtz Family Dental, pulled the partially smoked cigarette she had carefully tamped out earlier from the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply, not wasting any of the first pull.
The funeral home across the street looked nice with its white Christmas lights. It would be sad to die at Christmas she thought. Mom had died in the summer. She didn’t have to wear a coat over her dress. She saw a TV movie about a woman who’s fiancé died in an accident when he left a Christmas party to get more ice. They didn’t show the funeral so she didn’t know what it was like.
Her dad tried to make Christmas nice. They would go for a drive and look at the decorations people had put up. Dad’s car smelled like mom’s cigarettes. They didn’t put up decorations. They put up a tree, the same one every year. It was fake, stored in the front closet on top of Dad’s old Army stuff locker that didn’t lock.
They never had a real tree like in the commercials where they give each other cars, and then cut down a real Christmas tree from a post card forest, and then drive home on heated seats. She had often thought back, trying to figure out what she had done, what any of them had done, to end up in the apartment with no dishwasher, three locks on the door, and a fake Christmas tree. She used to hope that she could figure it out, where they had gone wrong, and fix it. It was probably too late for that now anyway.
Twizzlers wrapper, a pile of cigarette butts outside of the bar. Parking lot receipt. More leaves. She liked those TV Christmas movies. They had happy endings. Even the commercials had happy endings. They gave each other cars and watches and diamond necklaces and vacations.
Maybe those are the good people she thought. You have to be good to deserve that, to get that. It was like heaven. Maybe it was heaven, a place where single dad firefighter carpenters sweep you off your feet and give you a car and a diamond necklace for Christmas, and then you flew off to Maui together. Not everyone gets into heaven, her mom told her that.
There was a manicure place, with big tinted windows. She looked in the window next to the “Experienced Nail Stylist Wanted,” sign, it looked nice inside, big comfortable looking chairs at the stations. How do you become an experienced nail stylist? Was there a school? Could you learn online? No one ever explained these things to her. “Finish school so you can have a career,” was not good career advice, at least not specific career advice, at least not for her. She had applied to colleges, but then mom got sick. She had thought about applying again, but it was probably too late for that now.
She crossed the side street, going north, past the new Century Station Building. Retail below, condos above. There was a mortgage company and a contractor’s office in there. Outside was impeccably clean – tasteful potted shrubs next to the door with tiny little white and green Christmas lights. No point looking on the ground here, they probably vacuum it every morning, she thought, smirking at the mental image of a janitor vacuuming the sidewalk.
Dad worked as a janitor for a while, after it was just them, at an office building. Maybe it was like this one. She had never considered what kind of offices he had cleaned. I could do something like that, she thought, just put in some earbuds and vacuum. How do you get a job doing that? There was no sign in this window. Dad had lost that job, or maybe it had only been temporary, it was hard to keep track of his different jobs, and then he hurt his back and then it wasn’t hard to keep track.
The coffee shop on the corner had fake shrubs in pots with white lights and speakers outside playing Christmas music. They had a “Barista Wanted, Apply Inside,” sign. She had poured coffee before, what else did you need to know? Maybe I should go inside, she thought. She wasn’t exactly dressed to impress, with the knit cap, sunglasses, and baggy jeans. Maybe come back some other day. But not too soon. Probably wouldn’t be back though.
Something fluttered in the gutter and caught her eye. An envelope, one of those rectangular cash envelopes that opens on the side. Maybe. Her heart beat harder. Maybe this is the day. She bent down and picked it up, flipping it over and looking in, dropping it back in the gutter. Not today. Luck is opportunity combined with preparation, her dad told her. Again, in general it made sense but lacked specifics to be useful advice. She learned she had to apply her own specifics.
As she came around the corner to the bank, which had a big glass-windowed lobby that faced the other street, she pulled her scarf up over her nose. In her left coat pocket she felt for the note she was going to hand to the teller, in the right pocket she gripped the handle of Dad’s army gun.
I’m sorry life isn’t always fair. Her dad said that. So did the note.