Briefcase (a short story)

A short story following a young worker on the streets, follows his thoughts as he experiences a dilemma while working.

My head was warm, my skin was soaked . Misty eyed I gazed up into the sky. Chalky grey masses of clouds rolled across like a thin layer of paint enveloping the . The grey was constant, churning across like a great artist had been successively eliminating every trace of blue from his canvas. I looked back at the dirty mess of a kitchen behind me, a mess of pots and pans awaited me in the sink. The street and the kitchen empty and humid, with a deep and uninterested sigh I looked back out into the grey. With my surroundings empty and my apron hanging over my neck I decided to forego the duties of a fry cook for a while longer. The winter air was cool and the landscape outside far superior to the cramped confines of the kitchen.

“…..The boy looked across the dark writhing expanse of the harbor, restless and rigid as the waters below, he shivered and moved on…. The moon glistened off the harbour its pearly white gleam enveloping the bridge in pale light.”….

Often as I searched the sky. I was captivated by accompanying droplets of gentle moisture, or the faint contrail of an airplane as it passed by. It was a common occurrence for me to look at the sky as the lack of business meant a lot of my time in the restaurant could be spent indulging in this simple pleasure. To my surprise however I caught sight of a flock of geese swooping spiritedly in formation through the sky. Lazily leaning out of the kitchen window I wondered how my life might look from their lofty position. I imagined that should they ever look down the high rises might look like pines, with my work site being a small sapling among the urban undergrowth.

Would they even notice the small black spec gazing up at them?

As a child I had always indulged in the habit of studying the sky. Living in the outer suburbs I breathed the country landscape, savouring every blade of grass, the sky a bright canvas of blue and clean white. My father a professor in ecology encouraged this habit, every caught frog and every torn muddy shirt were met with a gentle nod and an understanding smile. The green was my whimsical playground, the sky my guardian.

“….Shivering the boy laid his body tenderly on the hard planks, his head resting on his briefcase in his new home, the winter wind like a great wave enveloping the boy with distain and distrust… An unwilling carer…”

The windows in the city are large. In my younger years I would often gaze out of them expecting patronage and wonder like from my time in the country. In school I was never sociable and all the time I could have spent studying, I instead opted to use to explore my new home. My father now disinterested and too busy, dismissed his new surroundings, leaving me to discover it on my own. The open sunny plains of the country side I replaced with the sweeping expanse of the Sydney harbour and the glare of my father I replaced with the understanding smiles of the local derelict population or the “riff-raff as my parents put it. The city has its own charm marked with history and activity, its borders far outstretch the narrow confines of a classroom. I may have begun to treat the city as a home, but the city is a fickle friend. Living entirely in its shadowy confines is not easy.

Barely finishing school without an award or a good word to my name I had gone from the supposed class genius to the class clown. My parents were none too pleased with this, frequent arguments and hot faced conclusions had me pack up my bags and give myself a one way ticket out of my father’s house. And so I found myself working as a fry cook spending a great deal of my time again looking at the sky.

…..”stubborn and prideful the boy approached the lone line of people, their defeated gazes terrified him but his hunger was unrelenting”

A warm burst of air swept across my face as the fryer behind me gurgled into life, filling the air with wafting smells of salt and grease. Perspiration had gathered on my forehead and the sound startled me. I shook my head startled out of my reverie and blinked looking around at the now almost empty street in front of me.

I noticed a girl about 16 left hand clasped tightly to a boy about ten in worn, dirty clothes approaching the window carrying overfilled suitcases only marginally smaller than the people carrying them.

The pair struggling against the weight of their enormous briefcases trudged their way up to my window. My eyes narrowed as I took in the familiar scene, these kids were runaways, their bulky briefcases and scared disquieted eyes a dead giveaway. The sun was gradually setting, the darkness approaching like a blanket, defied only by the soft buzz of the neon sign nestled above my head. NO HANDOUTS.

In this area dispossessed people and runaways were common, many charity shelters were nearby and as a result I had been charged with a strict policy to give only to those that could pay for it. Regardless of that and the sign the pair continued in my direction. The hunger burning in their eyes. It had not been the first time I would have to turn away some people. Many hungry faces had passed my window palms open. I met them with nothing but a sympathetic smile and a casual nod to the buzzing lights above my window.

…“The boy distrustful and defeated looked up, the woman looked kind. Her smile was crooked but warm.  Having just returned from the line steam wafted up from the plate resting in her hand. Her clothes were dark and damp every bit as dirty as his own.”…

I scanned the desperate and weary faces of the pair approaching me ,my throat becoming dry I pictured the endless lines of broken faces lining the concrete near the homeless shelters; it was obvious they would have been scared to approach the masses. I had seen this scene before and I knew they wouldn’t have any money….

The wedge of geese had returned flying in from across the grey, their dark wings beating furiously and their calls echoing in the distance.

 I felt a tang of sympathy for the two approaching me. They were no different from me in a sense and yet I would have to turn them away. My troubles to the watchful eyes of the pale witnesses above were mundane, unnoticeable. All we were down here were black splurges all the same in their size and significance. We were and are the same how could I possibly turn them away?

…. “The boy was tired of life on the street he knew he could be better, away from the people that called the concrete their home.”....

No! I resolved I had been wasting time for too long. To hell with Malone and his damn sign. With the children approaching ‘I quickly fashioned 2 of those monotonous burgers, the same movement’s mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, cheese and finally the meat. All the years working at this restaurant I had at least some efficiency to show for it. Wrapped and prepared I left the two parcels on the counter outside with whatever money I found I could spare. Placing the apron around the fryer burgers in hand I slipped quietly out the window leaving the restaurant.

 “The man walked outwards, the parcels lay steaming in his hand. He looked up a crooked smile plastered across his face.”