Work From Home

Wouldn't it be nice if people who lose everything could have a second chance? Only the second chance might lead to something new. New life sounds almost like a miracle.

The man, rumpled and disoriented, staggered off the bus and into a lamppost. Hugging the post, he saw a weathered flier dangling from it. Through gray morning mist he read the words, “Work from home.” A lone information tab with a phone number clung to the paper, a forsaken invitation to some better life too good to be true.

“Home,” Paul spat and pushed away from the post. Talk about too good to be true. He stumbled backward into the street where the M50 bus had just pulled away. A horn blared, and he turned to see the M55 inches from his face, its angry driver gesticulating at him through the enormous windshield.

A bear paw hand clapped down on his shoulder and hoisted Paul to the sidewalk.

“Hiya, Buddy.” Markus beamed down at him.

“What’re you doing here?” Paul asked, straightening his soiled tie in a reflexive nod to his former dignity.

“You didn’t come back to the SA last night. I got worried. Thought you’d do something stupid.”

“Not yet,” muttered Paul.

Markus nodded toward the M55 as its door hissed shut and it rumbled away. “Thought you couldn’t handle a bus. It ain’t no limo after all.”

Paul snorted. “Those days are over. Bastards threw me out like an old Kleenex.”

“Yeah,” agreed Markus. “Like me and the Bengals.”

“Damn concussions, eh Markus?”

“Damn straight.” Together, they walked to the Salvation Army, Paul’s hands buried in his trench coat pockets. He felt a piece of paper in the left and fished it out. It was the information tab. “Work from home” it insisted. Funny, he didn’t remember pulling it off.

***

They shared a fetid room at the SA where the stank of ancient urine clung to everything. Sitting opposite each other on their cots, knees nearly touching, the men gazed at the scrap of paper. Paul wadded it up, then unfolded it.

“Maybe I’ll call just for fun,” he said. “Thirty-five cents isn’t too much to waste.”

“Work from home is good,” Markus said.

“Have to have a home first.”

Markus spread his massive arms wide. “This is it, Buddy.”

“Well,” Paul countered, “if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Probably. But if you got nothing, can’t nobody steal it from you.”

Paul shrugged. Markus pressed a quarter and a dime into his hand. Paul shrugged again then headed down the dim corridor to the lone pay phone. The metal buttons felt large and clunky compared to his old Blackberry.

One ring. Two. Three, then a voice at the other end, male, gentle, soothing. “You were wandering the streets all night, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“Deciding whether to kill yourself or give it one last chance.”

“How did you...?”

“Experience. Usually, it takes a desperate person to call me.”

“Who are you?”

“Your last chance.”

Markus appeared out of nowhere. He crowded next to Paul so he could listen in. “How’s it going, Buddy?” he asked in a failed whisper.

A pause at the other end. Then, businesslike, “If you want a job, come to the Westend Warehouse. 3:00 pm.”

“Can I come?” begged Markus.

“Bring your friend.”

“Too good to be true,” Paul warned himself, unaware he had spoken out loud.

“That depends on you,” said the voice and hung up.

***

They sat on the worn linoleum floor scooping tiny plastic beads into tall glass jars. After each scoop, Paul dropped in a trinket. A toy airplane, a star, a tiny telephone. Last of all, he placed a plastic tab bearing some message like “This is it,” or “Look within,” or “What do you seek?” Then he glued a lid onto the jar and attached a tag reading, “Magic Treasure Hunt. Find the treasures listed below, then read the message just for you.”

Paul and Markus had found Westend Warehouse empty except for two boxes of empty jars and three boxes of beads and trinkets. A note promised a dollar per jar when they brought them back filled. Markus found an old shopping cart to bring them home.

There was a rhythm to their work. Scoop, drop, scoop, drop. He liked the feel of the beads, like soft sand. It relaxed him. The messages spoke hope to him. He wondered if they did the same for the children who received these treaure jars.

They took eight timeless hours for the first batch. When they wheeled the jars back to the warehouse, it was empty except for an envelope with two one-hundred dollar bills and more boxes of jars.

Every day for the next month, they repeated the pattern. Scoop, drop, scoop, drop. “This is it,” “Yes,” “Here it is.” Wheel to the warehouse. Bring jars home.

With his earnings, Paul bought a suit and a razor. He began visiting the library and searching job listings online. Nothing. Still, he felt hopeful that the right thing would come along.

Then one day he picked up a plastic message tag that read, “Today is your day.” Paul sniffed. Fear and excitement raced down his spine. He turned the tag over in his hands and read a phone number. He stared at it a long time.

“What is it, Buddy?” asked Markus, concerned. Paul handed him the tag. A shadow passed over Markus’ eyes, as if something had died.

“You got to move on,” he said.

Paul furrowed his brow. “What about you?”

Markus gave a rueful smile and held up his own tag that read, “Soon. Not Yet.”

“Go on, call,” he insisted. Paul snatched up some change and marched down the dark hall. Markus did not follow. Paul dropped in the coins and dialed.

“Ready to get going?” asked the voice. They spoke.

Paul straightened his tie as he left the Salvation Army, suitcase rolling behind him. Out on the street he passed the M55, then stopped at the lampost and waited. When his bus arrived, he climbed aboard unsure where he was going but certain it was good -- and true.