Page 38 of Flock
“I don’t save money.”
Case in point.
“Why is that?” I pull away.
He does little more than lift a brow in reply.
“Ahh, let me guess, there’s no other time than the present. You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”
“I’m pressing that in more ways than one,” he murmurs into my neck.
I draw my brows, and before I can question him, he speaks again. “I’d much rather give it away than save it.”
“Why? Is money imaginary too?”
He pulls back, grinning at me. “Now you’re getting it.”
I cup the back of his neck, running my fingers through spiky swirls of blond. “Is there any law you abide by?”
“My own.”
“A lawless man with no future. And you say I’m dangerous.”
“You have no idea how much,” he says, hauling me off the machine. “Come on. I want a cigarette.”
We sit in his car, facing the shopping center, our view flitting between between watching the traffic of the laundromat and the Mexican restaurant next to it. Inside the restaurant, a woman stands in a corner on the other side of the glass, rolling out fresh tortillas. Smiling, she kneads the dough before flattening it out and tossing it on a burner next to her worktop. I get a little lost just watching her as Sean flicks his Zippo, his one cigarette turning into two and then three before he excuses himself from the car to tend to the laundry. I offer to go with him, but he tells me to sit tight. I do, lost in the monotony of watching the old woman make tortillas. Her job is just as repetitive as mine is at the plant. But where I steadily watch the clock until the proverbial whistle blows, her serene smile hasn’t budged, even when she’s not talking to her coworkers or the patrons who constantly greet her. She’s content, happy, and seems completely at ease with her task. I envy her, wishing I felt the same peace with my job. Sean rejoins me and—without a word—lights another cigarette, the sharp slap of his Zippo the only sound in the car.
“This woman has been making tortillas the whole time.”
“She does it all day and all night.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It’s what she does. There are a ton of people out there with jobs just like it.”
“I know, I work one.”
“Yeah,” he exhales a cloud of smoke, “but she doesn’t begrudge her work.”
“Got me there. She hasn’t stopped smiling.”
We sit for endless minutes, just watching her. “I can’t imagine why she’s so happy.”
“It’s a decision,” he says easily.
“A decision.” I consider his statement and see he’s watching her just as intently. “Do you know her?”
“Her name is Selma. She brings her van into the shop sometimes.”
“Does she pay with imaginary money?” I joke.
“You could say that. We don’t charge her. The clothes are ready.”
“I’ll help.”
He opens his car door and jerks his head. “Sit tight.”
“Sean, I’ve been watching this woman make tortillas for, like, two hours.”
