FREEDOM

FREEDOM

He had been sitting there far too long. His ass was sore, his right leg asleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Again. For the umpteenth time.

As he stretched out his emaciated leg, the bones obtruded through the surface of his skin, dancing in rhythm as he massaged it with his right hand, which was missing index and middle fingers. His left hand was contorted to an unrecognizable shape, fingers wedged together into a glob. It served no purpose other than as a novelty item others could not help but gawk at.

He stared at people, and those who glanced at him quickly turned away.

He couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, his five-o’clock-shadow long developed into a ‘round-the-clock beard, now covered in hardened spittle, dried-up booze, and decaying food. He was missing most of his teeth; those remaining were blackened and rotten. His clothes stuck to his body, and his hair sprawled out in every direction, like a spider stretching its legs. A cornucopia of Lysol, Jack Daniels, tang, and body odour oozed from his pores and could he reeked from a distance.

He knew he wasn’t anything worth looking at.

“Fuck ‘em,” he thought.

Yawning, the vagrant rose, rubbed his eyes with his decrepit hand, and looked around, as if he were trying to identify his surroundings or locate a familiar face. He broke into a violent cough, scratched his balls, and shuffled down the street mumbling incoherently.

“Shit,” said a woman across the street who sat at a café patio observing the vagrant for an hour. She had slipped inside to grab a latte, and when she returned to her seat, the vagrant was gone. She first noticed him a few weeks earlier while she ate lunch at the bistro, but she had no idea why she was so enticed by him. She waited as long as possible, but since he did not come back, she returned to her office.

Marcia Yeager worked on the 14th floor of the Hageth & Roach Building and was convinced she worked for the world’s most difficult boss.

Quincy Parrott had no time for pleasantries. He demanded productivity, settling for nothing less. Once, Davis Brownlee was caught drinking coffee on the job, and Quincy fired him on the spot. Marcia felt he could snap at her at any moment.

Quincy shuffled his feet as he walked, waddling like an oversized chicken. His gut bulged over pants three sizes too small, and a bundle of hairy flesh protruded through a slit of his shirt where a button once was. Quincy always stretched his mouth from an oversized grin to an exaggerated scowl - a nervous tic he was copiously oblivious to. He constantly muttered as his face demonstrated these theatrics.

Marcia worked at the firm for five years, and although recently promoted, she thought her life was routine. Despite decent pay, she did not get any satisfaction from her work and was always on edge due to Quincy’s unreasonable demands.

Marcia returned daily to the bistro for lunch to watch the vagrant. He sat on the same bench at the same time every day, but was unmindful of her. Monitoring his every move, she was enthralled by his actions. She imagined what he would look like after a shower, shave, and a trip to the dentist. She popped a breath-mint in her mouth.

The bum didn’t do much, and this appealed to her. She wondered how he spent his day, wishing she could follow him.

One morning Quincy shuffled around the office, waving a mountain of papers.

“What the fuck is wrong with everyone in this place?” Quincy shook the stack in his hand.

“This is not what I asked for!” He tossed the papers and falling like overgrown snowflakes, they scattered on the floor.

Marcia slunk into her cubicle, wishing she could hide under her desk. Quincy was on a mission: storming about the office, moving from stall to stall and desk to desk.

He stopped by Marcia’s workstation and out of the corner of her eye she could see his belly moving in union with his deep, heavy breaths. She pretended to work.

What a sure-fire way to lose my lunch, Marcia thought.

“YEAGER!” Quincy’s voice startled her and she jumped in her chair. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I-uh-what is it, sir?”

“You’re wearing the same dress you had on yesterday! This is not some goddamn zoo. I expect nothing but professional attire from all staff.”

Marcia nodded. There was no point in saying anything.

“Fuckin’ cunt.” Quincy sauntered off, ranting-and-raving at no one in particular.

It was true. Marcia had worn the same dress two days in a row. She hadn’t thought about it, but now realized she should’ve known better. Quincy noticed everything.

At lunch, Marcia returned to the bistro. Her eyes moved to the bum’s usual spot. She studied him, guessing he was 40 to 45. She laughed.

Look at him, she thought. I wonder how long he’s worn that.

She stared at him and wondered: What happened to him? Why was he living on the street? How did he survive? What was his story? What did he do all day? How did he spend his time? Did he have any friends or family? Where did he spend the night? Did he have an actual place to call home? So many questions but not any answers.

That evening, when Marcia climbed into the shower, her hand froze on the tap. She went to her room, lay on the bed, and closed her eyes. She envisioned roaming the city together with the vagrant, with no specific destination. As her eyes closed, her hands wandered over her body, lingering in strategic locations. She envied the vagrant: he could do whatever he wanted and didn’t have to follow the whims of a power-hungry superior. These thoughts flooded her mind, increasing pleasure rising from the depths of her being. Finally, she arched her back, holding her breath. She let out a shriek as her body quivered and her toes curled tight enough to break a pencil in half. When she finished, she collapsed, curled into a fetal position, and drifted to sleep, even while spasms in her leg, that she could not control, continued for a few minutes.

The next morning she stood naked, observing herself in the mirror. For years she had been ashamed of her appearance. In fact, whenever she fucked David Blum, she insisted the lights stayed off, and she refused to let him see her nude. It frustrated David to no end, but that’s the way it had to be.

But now, in this moment, she looked at herself and smiled. For the first time in years, she was pleased with her body. She cupped her right breast and whispered, “I’m sexy.”

She refused to shower and slipped on the same underwear and dress she wore the day before. She did not apply any makeup nor touch her hair. After breakfast, she picked up her toothbrush, looked at it briefly, and tossed it in the garbage. She emptied her toothpaste in the sink, washed it down the drain, and tossed the tube in the trash. She went threw away bathroom cupboards, discarding her deodorant and perfume. These I better keep she thought, as she repacked a box of tampons and returned it to it the barren cabinet.

Marcia knew her newfound liberty would be met with hostile opposition at work, and she was not sure how she would deal with that. But at the moment, she simply did not give a shit.

She walked to the office. It took a bit longer to get there, but at least she wasn’t stuck in traffic, looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting her makeup and hair to be “just so.” She laughed when she thought about her former self.

When she arrived at the office, she entered her cubicle unnoticed. She heard Quincy yelling a few feet away and knew her turn was inevitable. Anticipating this, she tried to plan a response.

Marcia leaned forward, hearing Quincy berate a colleague and felt anger stirring within her. She left the office and went to the bistro. She needed to think.

Marcia sipped on a latte, watching the world pass by. Fascinated by people around her, she imagined their stories. A handsome man in a polished suit passed, yelling into a cell phone while he moved one arm back and forth in exaggerated gestures.

Marcia laughed.

They can’t see you, dumb-ass, she thought.

A mother of three walked the other way. She was carrying a bag of groceries in one arm and a screaming, pugnacious child in the other, while two vociferous boys pulled at her skirt, demanding attention. Although Marcia sometimes wished she had children, moments such as this made her glad she didn’t have any.

Slurred speech interrupted her thoughts.

“Schpare a quarter?”

She turned to see the vagrant standing near her table.

Marcia froze.

“Um, I- yes, yes, I think so,” she said.

Marcia dug through her purse, pulling out an assortment of items – lipstick, daybook, condoms, Tylenol, tampons, a pen – and shoved them back in, frantically moving them from one spot to another.

“Schpare a quarter, ma’am?”

Marcia came back to the moment. She found a toonie under a soiled Kleenex, wiped it off on the interior of her purse, and offered it to the vagrant.

“Here you go.” Marcia forced out the words.

The vagrant let out a toothless grin as his tongue flopped out of his mouth. Three inches of yellow drool hung from his bottom lip, swaying back and forth from his chin, as if it were a metronome keeping time to music.

“Schank you ma’am,” the vagrant said. “Mind if I schitt down?”

“Uh- well, uh, ok.” Marcia glanced around at other customers who seemed unaware of what was happening. The vagrant slithered under the fence, slumping into a chair beside her.

“What’s shur name?” He wiped the ever-lengthening spittle from his chin.

“Marcia.”

“Marshia.” He paused, and then violently coughed up a chunk of something unrecognizable onto the table. He wiped it off with his arm. “Thank you. Marshia. Thank you.”

“Um - do you have a name?” Marcia asked.

Marcia studied him. He was so beautiful, so free, and so independent. Drawn to him, she longed to touch him, to talk to him, to be with him. She was growing wet between her legs, so she made conscious efforts not to move her hips. She did not want to arouse the suspicion of others.

“Name? I uushed to. Don’t know if I have one now.”

The vagrant pointed to Marcia’s plate. “Gonna’ finishhh dat?”

Marcia stared at the vagrant and then
looked down at her plate. Nodding, she pushed it across the table to him. The food vanished in seconds.

“I have to go now,” the vagrant said, as a piece of moistened chicken hung precariously from his bottom lip, finally plunging to the table and dropping on the floor. A dog on a leash slipped its head under the fence, snapped up the morsel, and continued on its way, tale wagging.

“Where are you going?” Marcia said.

“I don’t know…” The vagrant picked at his lone tooth.

“Um- you can have my coke?” She passed it to him.

“Shank you.” As he slurped through the straw, Marcia was sure everyone in the restaurant heard his gulps.

She didn’t care.

The vagrant stood up and started shuffling away. Marcia reached out, touching the frayed sleeve of his jacket.

“Wait, I…”

He topped, turned, and stared directly at her with eyes defying description. Marcia withdrew her arm, looked down at her plate, and played with a spoon.

The vagrant turned and walked away.

Marcia stood up, her eyes following him as he disappeared around the corner. She slunk back into her chair and sighed.

After paying the bill, Marcia walked out onto the street, gazing in the direction the vagrant had gone. She longed to follow him,

Move, you bitch, Marcia thought, but she was unable to move.

Finally, she went back to the office.

Marcia tried to do some work, but could not concentrate. Picking up a pencil, she played with it in her slender fingers. She fumbled with the pencil and her thoughts. She wondered where the vagrant went and started day-dreaming about him again.

I have to get out of this fucking place, she thought. Look what it’s doing to me.

She knew what she had to do.

Later that day, Quincy made the rounds, berating each staff in his typical manner. Marcia waited her turn. His face twisted into a shape that made everyone in the office run for cover. He turned dark red when he saw Marcia.
He criticized her appearance, her work, and everything about her. The tirade went on and on. Marcia sat silent, staring straight ahead. When the verbal assault finally came to an end, Quincy sauntered down the hall shouting obscenities.

Marcia peeked beside her cubicle, watching Quincy’s fat ass bounce back and forth as he staggered down the hall. He stopped at a large, open window and lit a cigarette. Marcia stood, smiled, and raced down the hall as fast as her stubby legs could run.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”

Marcia shoved the pencil into the side of his neck and twisted in a circular motion. She could hear the gargling sound of his throat. Quincy tried to push her away, but he lost strength quickly. Blood spurted out onto Marcia’s neck, hands, and blouse. When Quincy slumped on the window sill, Marcia shoved him out the window. Quincy Parrott fell fourteen stories, splattering all over the sidewalk.
Marcia closed the window and returned to her desk; she put the pencil down, turned off the light, and left the offices of Hageth & Roach forever.

She used the stairs to go down to the bistro, where she ordered a latte and stared across the street at an empty bench, waiting for a vagrant who would never return.