Short FictionSlice of Life

Mrs Wallace needed to jaywalk to make the transport, which was going to pull away. It was difficult. She was overweight and her left knee, which hadn't been feeling far better of late, felt spongey. Breathing discernibly, she got on and sat down at the back, close to the window. The transport was half-unfilled yet immediately topped off after a couple of additional stops.

She was watching the red-block houses on Brigham Road float by when her telephone rang. She didn't perceive the number.

"Hi? Who's this?"

On the opposite end she heard the sound of weighty traffic, trailed by a man's gravelly voice.

"Yea, it's medical caretaker Wallace," she said. "Talking . . . Who's this? . . . No. How'd you get my number? . . . No, I don't recollect you . . . You ought not be calling me . . . You ought not be calling me . . . No . . . No . . . My pleasure . . . It's my work, my pleasure . . . I'm happy, however I must be good to everyone. Furthermore, ain't everyone call me on my confidential number. D'you realize this is unlawful? Jean-Baptiste? I don't, Please accept my apologies. I will hang . . . There's a many individuals getting through those entryways . . . Celtics? . . . No, Please accept my apologies. You ain't the only one with your head split open getting through those entryways. I will hang up at this point. I'm . . . Try not to do that . . ." She turned down the volume. Individuals were investigating. "Try not to go making statements like that. You imagine that is alright? That's what making statements like? Calling an elderly person who you should call and that's what making statements like? I got to report this. Assuming you're serious, I got to report this . . . Indeed, in the event that you don't believe that I should report it then you must be joking . . . You're not serious? . . . That's what making statements like . . . OK, take a full breath, hold it for four seconds . . . Three. Four. That is all there is to it. Inhale out leisurely. OK. Do that a couple of times, go on. Hold up. Hold up, I got to get off."

Mrs Wallace got a rail and pulled herself up. She was the only one getting out at the stop. Travelers watched and held up as she just barely got her direction through.

"Are you there?" she said down the telephone again once she was out in the city. "Jean-Philippe? Please accept my apologies, Jean-Baptiste, that right? . . . Try not to go making statements like that . . . Where could you be? You got any family? You got some place you can go? . . . I got to go to work and you can't be calling me . . . I can't fail to help you . . ." She gazed toward the sky and tutted. "I can't respond to that. How might I respond to that? How old would you say you are? . . . There. You a developed man, Jean. You a developed man and you ought to know right from wrong. What's more, you can't be calling an elderly person, that's what making statements like. What am I expected to do? That's what you contemplated? Where could you be? . . . That a parkway?"

Mrs Wallace checked the time, then, at that point, sat down on a close by seat.

"You been drinking, Jean-Baptiste? . . . I can hear it on you. Course you going to go inclination like that. You got the alcohol in you. Why you need to drink? Huh? . . . No? . . . Presently you lying? . . . Why you need to drink? . . . You smoke? . . . Why you need to partake in reefer? . . . I don't place that in my mouth. I don't place Satan's grass in my mouth . . . Go to class . . . Go to class . . . Find a new line of work . . ." She chuckled. "No, I ain't your mother, however I could be your mom . . . I ain't your mom yet I could be . . . World couldn't care less about minimal dark young men, particularly ones who been drinking and smoking . . . Yea . . . You got any family? . . . Indeed, on the off chance that you could do without what I'm talking about . . . Let me . . . Jean, let me let you know something. Allow me to let you know something . . ."

The man talked ceaselessly, immediately or a breath between his quick sentences.

Mrs Wallace caused a stir.

"I communicate in English. In this country I communicate in English. What's more, you got to also. God gave me an ethnicity and I'm thankful . . . No . . . No. Ain't no one care a lot about that . . . The manner in which you say that you sound very much like my kid . . . Believe it or not. Very much like him. He went pursuing the alcohol and the weed as well, pursuing the young ladies, and presently he dead. What's more, ain't no one flutter an eyelid when an individual of color cover her child, Jean, you hear me? What's more, I'm not a little kid any longer. I'm not 25, not 35, not 45. So don't go making statements like that. Where could you be? . . . It's alright, it's OK," she consoled him. She stood and hitched up her tote. "Where could you be? . . . I don't care a whole lot . . . God gets it thus will they . . . No . . . Truth be told, I ain't. However, I could be."

She giggled and went across the road, then, at that point, hailed a transport heading down the path she'd come from.