By Thomas Ott
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Quarter after dime after nickel after quarter fell onto her scarf basket. Two hours passed, her throat was raw, but she’d made twenty-six dollars. ” Mel asked. ” Mel noticed an odd, but familiar look on Cecily’s face, as though Cecily was hiding something. “I can keep singing,” Mel offered. ” Mel asked. Cecily didn’t answer right away, and so Mel inquired further. ” Cecily said as she got up. “Look, I’m bagged. ” — The next day, as they approached the soup kitchen, Mel looked up at the library window again.
The only possibility was that it was towed, or – a shiver shot straight up Mel’s spine – maybe Craig had found their campsite. Maybe he’d come looking for his car; he was the only other person who had a key. The more she thought about it, the more she feared Craig must have found the Pinto. Mel quietly began to sing, hoping it would dissipate the fear, but she stopped when she realized that there might be others also taking shelter under the overpass. She began making lists in her head. As each list came to an end, she began another.
She wanted to savor the creamy texture, but Cecily was in a rush, and as soon as Mel finished they were back on the move. The afternoon was no different than the morning. Only now Mel was really tired. Cecily began asking about work anywhere: fancy shops, shoe stores, grocery stores, and offices. It was as though, Mel thought, Cecily was proving to herself there was no work, no hope of fixing the car, no hope of finding a place, no hope of anything. Finally Cecily stopped and lit a cigarette. “Your turn,” she said to Mel as she slumped down on the sidewalk.
Dead End by Thomas Ott
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