SEVENS

POCKET PRAYER

I was going to miss the bus. It sunk into my throat like an intentful fist. I'd have to walk to the apartment. Thirteen miles wasn't a dreadful distance and I could have definitely done it but, fall was fast approaching and my jacket was two sizes too small. It was late and I couldn't quite remember if there was another bus scheduled to come through or if the one I was missing was the last one for the night— at least the last one for this part of town. The rich don't have need for public transport. If I was going to be honest with myself this was probably the last place on earth I should have been. I wasn't sure if I could even afford to breathe the air.

I felt like an oasis in a desert— except maybe not as wanted or needed as one. The point was that I stuck out. It was making the woman across the room nervous. That or she just had a hard on for adjusting her son's hair and uniform every ten seconds.

I watched as she tugged at the hem of his herringbone patterned vest. The kid squirmed and the mother tapped his cheek in reprimand. I fidgeted almost feeling it. The kid didn't cry but did frown and begin to pout, the mother flicked me a quick glance, which she quickly tried to cover by looking up and over the ceiling and then intently at the sign-in desk like it was the holy bible. I couldn't blame her really. I was sure I was one hole in my shirt and smudge on my face away from looking like a crazed homeless man, but then again maybe I was already there. There was a slim possibility that this red lipped white pant suited woman had ever seen anyone who made less than $30,000 annually.
Such was the foundation of Bearningham — money — and lots of it. The town was known for its excessively wealthy inhabitants, and like a jewel hung on its adam's apple was St. Joseph's Academy. An old abbey refurbished to house and educate rowdy teens. As the school grew in age it grew in prestige and size, drawing in students from across the country and even from overseas. Students whose families couldn't move into the Bearningham mansions were sent to live in the specially built boarding house on campus, or so it said in the brochure.

It was tucked in my back pocket like one of those small versions of the New Testament I saw being handed out at the soup kitchens I went to. It held the same holier than thou weight to it, that and a little hope too. I was by no means wealthy enough to even consider paying for a day of education at St. Joseph's, but that's where the brochure came in.

I must have read and reread the paragraph fifty times over and only stopped myself when the creases if it began to melt. Like a dollar losing its worth after being torn in two. So I stopped reading it, but I couldn't stop thinking of it and as impossible of answer it was I had hope.

I made eye contact with the mother again this time she seemed a little slower to look away and quicker to glare. I worked as a lawns keeper at a country club, it paid a buck over minimum wage and barely kept the key to the apartment in my back pocket— barely. With some left over money I was able to buy enough food to keep me upright and a monthly bus pass. It left my wardrobe in disrepair. If only I could tell the woman that.

'Hey I'm trying you know? It's not that easy."

But soon she and her son were called into one of the small offices tucked behind the receptionist's desk and I was left alone with my words stuck in my mouth.

The waiting room was nicer than the country club I worked for. Its hardwood floors were polished and the trim of the wall was that old carved type I imagined in castles. They had a fish tank and seats with leather. A wall of windows let in natural light keep everything open and clear. They also had a stocked mini fridge with a sign asking for guests to "please take one". I was tempted, but not entirely certain the invitation extended to me. My stomach grumbled in retort. I'd already eaten my lunch and wouldn't be home til late.
I was still eyeing the fridge when another of the office doors opened. A tall bald headed man slipped around the desk, with a smile and quiet greeting to the receptionist and came to face the sitting area. For a moment he looked around at the chairs even looking behind the fish tank — which divided the room some — looking for his next appointment. When he found nobody other than me he smiled a little awkwardly and then turned back to the receptionist.