Fiction Friday

This has been a plan now for months. On Fridays, not every Friday, but more less around the end of some weeks, I want to post a quick fiction. Not stories, necessarily, but maybe parts of bigger stories. Or something. I don't know. Whatever.

The bag had seen better days. Time had worn worried furrows and the sun had licked off most of the drab color. Dust had reclaimed the bag, run its fingers into the folds and flaps and pores, and marked its ownership with shades of neutral brown and gray. The bag let a small cloud of dust escape into the air of the Office. The thick pile neutral maroon of the carpet with vacuum cleaner tracks visible told a tale of care and cleanliness that had escaped the bag, and its owner.

The owner of the bag had fought a war with decades and was still in the process of losing it. Around thirty hard years had come and sat their trains upon his paths. The years had not been kind in the sense of being undamaging, but had been bountiful in experience and in fullness. Sparseness possessed him throughout, his clothing, his grey eyes, his dust hair, and his wiry frame. Farmer lean muscle deferred to the cheap pocket T-shirt tucked into the worn and faithful jeans clinging to his frame. He and his faithful bag had lived a thousand miles of rough road and a thousand nights out on the outskirts of humanity. They did not belong in the Office. They were an insult to all that offices stand for.

Shuffling papers cut into the dry heat and uneasy silence. A pair of soft and milky hands with reasonable and painted nails riffled through the paper. After the official looking text had been sorted, parted, laid flat and stacked, the voice of the woman with the hands spoke through the silence and swirling dust.

“Last name?”

Pine

“First name?”

John

“Middle?”

None.

The one line questions came out with the familiarity of repetition and were answered with the sparseness of the man. City of birth? Permanent residence? Felon? Veteran? Service? Discharge? Date? Last mailing address? Mental health issues? Can you read? Are you willing to find employment? Do you want housing?

Monument, Idaho. None. No. Yes. Marines. Honorable, Zero Five June Zero Five. 386 Oak, Lodi California. No. Yes. Yes. Yes.

The rapid-fire questions and tapping of plastic keys stopped for a moment. The woman’s hands found each other and folded together. She leaned back in her sensible chair. Her eyes searched the man until she found humanity. The eyes of her face, aged by two boys with no father around, wrinkled a little and a kindness crept into her official face. She hated being official with her skirt suit, official haircut, official nametag, and faux-wood desk and faux-wood life of moving people and paper. She had to find reasons not to be official. Her eyes locked out the official story of John Pine, veteran, non-felon, homeless John Pine, and look at him through her human eyes. A pastor tells her and her sons every Sunday about how Jesus saw others. Maybe John Pine was Jesus, not likely, or remotely possible, but the thought helped her love her neighbor.

“So, Mr. Pine…”

John, ma’am.

“John. What skills do you have?”

I spent a few years before I was in doing some carpentry and construction, a little mechanicing here and there. Not to brag, but I can do anything, really. I mean to say I ain’t picky. Ma'am.

“Okay. We have some more paper work to do. I’ll be giving you a voucher for one month at Coyote Canyon, alright?”

Sure.

The bag hefts up out of the jungle of piled maroon. The dust of a dry summer breezes around the swirling figure of the bag as it makes its twisting journey from the floor to the spare and hard shoulder of the man. The weight settles onto his right shoulder with familiarity. Papers shuffle on the desk in a poker hand of bland bureaucracy. Twisted into a sheaf and stapled together, more added with paper clips, the paper takes the form of a packet that is slid into a manila envelope.

“Alright, Mr. Pine. Let’s go next door to the Job Center and I’ll get you started on your new life.”

Appreciate that, ma’am.

*************

If you see anything glaringly stupid I did, let me know. Thanks