On the Way to Blimpie's WC 300

On the Way to Blimpie’s
WC 300

My co-worker, Sonia, and I were taking our lunch break. We crossed Columbus Avenue and continued down Water Street, where she said the restaurant was. It seemed to be taking forever. We only had an hour.

“Where is this place?”

“Blimpie’s is just past the alley. A greasy spoon, but they have great burgers.”

I don’t eat meat. “What else do they have? Salads?”

“I think so,” she said. “Joan, how long have you worked at Henderson’s?”

“Almost five years.”

“Do you think they’ll fire me?”

“Why would they do that?”

Sonia was a good worker and seems highly qualified, according to her resume.

“Well, I lied on my resume. I’ve been out of the workforce for a few years, so I fudged on the dates.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I said, not entirely meaning it.

“You won’t tell, right?”

I knew I should, but she seemed so desperate to keep this job.

“No.”

As we approached the alley, she made a sharp right.

“Do you mind? I know someone who lives here.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

As we maneuvered the uneven cobblestones, I could see a community of homeless people. My heart rate increased. Who could she possibly know?

“I also lied on my resume about my former address. I used to live here.”

“Here?”

“Before I got the job and could afford my apartment. How would I explain this?”

She had a point.

She stopped at a refrigerator carton and knocked on the flap.

“Aggie’s not home,” a croaky voice yelled from across the alley. “Sonia? That you?”

“Hi, Billy,” she said. “We’re on our way to Blimpies. I’ll bring you back a burger.”

“You’re a peach.”

Sonia turned around; I followed her out of her old neighborhood and toward Blimpie’s, and hopefully a salad.