After my near-death experience back there in the elevator, I want nothing more than to go upstairs-back to my home- and cry myself to sleep. Unfortunately, I had a quote-unquote important group presentation for my Christianology class. The school was merciless about these things. Your group would take a hit on their grades because they wouldn't have learned your part of the presentation, and you would have to give the whole presentation by yourself the next day.
Right now I am headed towards the bus stop 3 blocks from my house. I take bus No. 1277 towards the commercial district where I stop and make a connection with bus No. 864 towards New Cambridge, where Arlington and the other big schools are located.
The view here is as sickening as always. Everything is grey, black, or some shade in between. Bleak colors are occasionally interrupted by the rare misspelled neon sign from a store or sex hotel. The tall apartments complexes are withered and half-crumbling. The ones that have colors like yellow have long been dirtied by the soot and smoke, making them even more depressing than the grey ones. I would bet my soul- if such a thing even existed- that there isn't a single tree in the whole area. As a result, air pollution acts like an insidious, asphyxiating blanket of mist here, killing you slowly from moment to moment. Rats the size of those small dogs you usually see rich, bratty girls have sometimes roam the streets, eating the garbage idiots throw into the street, justifying it by saying 'other people do it as well', and then complaining when they get floods. It is truly sickening. And do you know what the worst part is? This is supposed to be the "nice" part of the slums. The bad parts don't have luxuries like cement and apartments. They make their little favelas- because they can't even be considered houses- out of tin or lead plates they sloppily weld together into cubes. They then build over one another and stack their little primitive structures one on top of the other in perilous arrangements that are liable to fall apart at any second. They don't have electricity nor toilets. When they have to do No. 2, they just go to public holes in the ground.
I want to escape this fate. The truth is I feel like I was born for more in life, and I don't want to waste away in a hopeless place like this the rest of my life. I want to get syred to a rich master and live in an uptown place, hopefully, Billionaire's Row, where, like my friend Danny says, all the beaches and bitches are. But to have a fighting chance at anything like that, I have to graduate from The Arlington School of Servitude. Which takes me to me right now, with my fucking huge backpack that feels like I'm carrying a bag of bloody bricks. It's killing me. My back feels like it will develop a spinal fracture any moment now.
When I finally reach the bus stop, I sigh in relief and place the backpack on the dirty floor of the street. But, then I hear a wet squelching noise, like stepping on mud. Surprise surprise, when I raise my backpack to see what it is, I find a dirty diaper with a fucking enormous -now flattened- dung that is too big to belong to a baby. You know, I'm not even angry. Yes, not even a little bit. Not even a single, tiny, minuscule bit. I just.... really want to murder and cut into little pieces the degenerate animal sonofabitch that would shit on a diaper and throw it in the middle of the street. My backpack now received a new coat of paint on the bottom. A really brown -and green believe it or not- coat of paint.
I breathe deeply and count to 10. Then I grab my backpack and start scrubbing the bottom with the street. The friction takes care of most of it, just leaving a few brown stains and a foul smell. I guess I'll have to get a new one in the commercial district.
When bus No. 1277 arrives, I swipe my transit card on the sensor next to the door and hop on. I always sit on the front, next to the driver, because it tends to stir away trouble and the people that cause it. Don't be mistaken though, the driver will probably do nothing and look away if someone decides to beat you up. It just an instinctual thing. If you are alone, then you are more likely to get targeted by predators.
I sit down and place my backpack down below my feet. I then take out the script for the group presentation for a last-minute review. An hour passes by and I am able to read the script fully twice before my stop is up and I have to get down of the bus.
The commercial district is beautiful. Even at 7 am it is bursting with people buying and selling things. Some people give me looks as I pass by because of my clothes. I can feel their disgust and it stabs me all over as if it were a physical thing. But, I am used to this. I have to do this every single day after all. You'd be surprised at the things we get used to.
Ignoring all the weird stares, I head straight for Cartman Tools & Metalworks. Frank, the owner, gave me permission to change out of my clothes on the back of the store, and leave them there with him for when I come back from school. I still remember the day I met him. I was going around asking the shop owners if I could change in their stores before going to school every day.
When I enter the store a soft bell announces my entrance and a big, burly dark-skinned man with greying black hair, a big nose, and square jaw greets me with a nod and a no-nonsense expression, "How you've been, Son?" he asks warmly. Frank is wearing a simple white long-sleeved shirt that barely fits him, and through his v-neck, I can see his medallion, worn as a necklace, being cushioned by a forest of chest hair. I can't see what he is wearing below that because the huge counter that faces the door hides it. The counter goes from one wall to the other, demarcating the space available for the customer and the rest of the store. Customers don't really have access to the store; they ask for something and Frank goes and gets it. Lots of tools and products hang all over the place.
"I've been better... How's the family?" I ask about his family because I don't want to talk about depressing things I can't change. I only focus on my goals and what is changeable. It's a subject he likes and always brings a happy expression to his stoic face. So, every day I ask about them to solidify my relationship with him.
"Oh, well, you know how these things are. 3 women are too much for any man to handle. I swear, Eris, they are troublemakers. All of them." He says it with joy. He doesn't really think they are trouble. He loves them and is a family man through and through. Also, yes I gave him a fake name. I could get in a lot of trouble with the school if they found out about my background. Can't be too careful.
"Sounds like you have your hands full," I say, smiling at what he says, even though it isn't really funny, and raising a section of the counter that works as a door, heading for the bathroom at the back.
"Yes, exactly! You don' know how right you're. We were at the fair all day yesterday, and Philipa saw this terrible pink unicorn pillow. She fell in love at first sight. She cried and cried for hours asking us to buy her this terribly made pillow with its head thrice the size of its body an-" I tuned Frank out. When he gets going, there is no stopping him. As I change, I answer him with 'hmmm' or 'oh man' when he expects me to answer.
When he sees my backpack he stops and asks, pointing at it, "Son, what the heck happened to your backpack?"
So I tell him, and he cracks a big hearty laugh. So I tell him it's funny when you don't have to buy a new backpack before going to school.
"Buy a new backpack?" He says, "Don't worry about it kiddo, you can have mine. I barely use the darn thing anyways."
"You sure, Frank? I still have time to run down the store and get one. I don't want to trouble you." I say, but I don't really mean it. I don't want to run to the store. Life is about taking shortcuts. Still, I make it sound truthful.
"Nonsense. You're a good kid. You remind me of myself when I was younger. I'm telling you, Prettyboy, you're going places." He says with a big grin, patting my back with his huge arms.
"Hey," I say, grinning like the Cheshire cat, "Maybe when I get syred to some rich master in Billionaire's Row, I'll come back with my McLaren and steal both your daughters to live in my manor." What can I say, I'm weak to compliments.
"You, Casanova! Get the hell out of my store before I chop off your pickle!" He booms out, smiling, and chases me out the store.
Before I go, he hands me the backpack and I transfer my belongings to it, minus my old coat and trousers, which I give to him, which he promises to out below the counter as always.
I exit the store feeling great, in all the splendor of my Arlington uniform, feeling like there are still some good human beings left and everything will be fine in the long run.
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Chapter 3, is ready to go. For those of you who can't wait for the action and horror, it will be coming later. Patience is a virtue.