PETITIONS

PETITIONS

“Get a job!”

Although he had heard the judgmental charge before, Mark winced as the shiny sports car grumbled around the corner and sped down the street. The muggy afternoon pressed heavily on the hand-written cardboard sign—his strength waned, and he let his arm fall to his side, fingers still clutching the tattered brown square. Passing vehicles caused the flimsy sign to flap against his knee.

“I had a job,” he whispered.

The traffic light above him glowed yellow, then red. A wave of air pushed up by braking cars and trucks ruffled the hairs of Mark’s scruffy chin. Heat rising off the hood of the nearest car drifted over him, threatening to choke every ounce of energy from his body. The driver avoided making eye contact, pretending to look at something in the rear-view mirror.

Mark let his gaze drift across the sea of idling vehicles and found disinterested expressions behind every steering wheel. The familiarity of the sight made no impression on him. Stepping back to get some relief from the hot asphalt at the edge of the curb, he stood on a worn patch of grass bordering the sidewalk, his heels thanking him for softer ground.

When the light turned green and the cars went their various ways, exhaust fumes cleared from his sinuses only to be replaced by the scent of his own body. It had been several days since he had been able to use a truck stop shower. Hopefully tonight, he thought.

Mark’s stomach rumbled. Food first, shower second. He shoved his free hand into a pocket and fingered the two bills. A five and a one, he recalled. Sighing, he lifted his cardboard message higher.

A fresh batch of vehicles had filled the temporary parking lot—models, makes, sizes, and colors all different than before, but the general scene more of the same. Three cars back and next to the sidewalk, a middle-aged man with a bulging belly squeezed out of his seat, stepped onto the concrete, and glared over his shoulder at the woman riding with him. Bent down to peer out the windshield, she impatiently waved him forward. Approaching Mark, he snarled, “Best not buy any booze wit’ it.”

Without even looking at the money, Mark managed to say, “Thank you,” then stuffed the bills into his pocket. It felt like a couple of ones. The man lumbered back to his car and slammed the door just as the light turned.

Job? Booze? It’s because of booze that I don’t have a job! Angry, Mark barely turned his head as the sedan left. He closed his eyes, refusing to remember. But the memories wouldn’t leave. In his mind’s eye he could see his office and the massive cherry-wood desk where he would always sit. He remembered the stacks of folders, the brass lamp, and the expensive fountain pen he had gotten as a gift in celebration of his MBA.

He remembered sobbing at that desk. That is where he had gotten the news: The driver fled from the scene, and the car he was driving—stolen. Alcohol was found on the floorboard. Julie and his precious little Madison—gone. The responding firefighters did all they could.

Holding a picture of his family, Mark cried many times at that desk in following days. Prescribed medication didn’t help. Although he took time off, whenever he returned to the office he sat in a stupor for hours at a time. At first the company was sympathetic, but days dragged into weeks. They finally let him go. Five months later, he lost everything.

Anger burned hot in Mark’s chest as he thought about the alcohol which ruined his life. He had been a casual drinker himself before the accident. Never. Never again, he thought.

Fighting off images of his wife, he returned to his self-imposed task and tried to endure. Honking. Noxious fumes mixing in the humid September air. Uncounted vehicles carrying indifferent people. Although he didn’t have a watch, Mark guessed it must be nearing the end of rush hour. If he wanted to get dinner and make it down to the shelter before dark, he would have to leave soon. Uncharacteristically hot for the time of year, the day had been miserable. But clouds were gathering, and he could feel a front moving in which would cool things off. That would mean cold, wet nights. Sleeping on the ground would not be pleasant.