you could just keep your voice down-"
"I'm not keeping anything down, Mr. Morgan! That's my house, and you're throwing me out of it! Is that the way you treat your customers?"
Throughout the bank, people eased their way toward the doors, even as the security guard approached. April turned on the blue-clad rent-a-cop and levelled her forefinger at him. "You touch me, asshole, and I'll sue you all the way into the next decade. I haven't done anything against the law here, and I'm going to have my say."
Morgan stood. "You're disrupting business, Miss Fitzgerald. If you don't stop, then I'm going to have to call the police."
"Call 'em," April dared. "Shit, at least I'll have a place to sleep. Your way, I won't even have that."
Morgan nodded to an assistant, who picked up the phone and dialled.
"I don't believe this is the way you make your living, Mr. Morgan. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm not the one making a fool of myself, Miss Fitzgerald."
Oh, God, how she hated that man. If she'd had her little .25 with her that day, he'd have been dead for sure. But she didn't, and in the end, she left without changing anyone's mind. On her way out, she tossed off the challenge, "You know where I live, Morgan; at least for the time being. Feel free to send the cops on over."
It took sixty days for those cops to arrive, and when they did, it wasn't to arrest her. It was merely to throw her out onto the street. There were a lot of them, too, apparently alerted by her good buddy Mr. Morgan that she was a hothead. The efficiency of it all was stunning. They arrived at eight in the morning, and they descended like locusts, moving everything out of the house, and finally sealing the door with a huge padlock. The whole thing took less than an hour.
It wasn't till they were leaving that April thought to ask for a suggestion where to stay, but none of them seemed to have the time to answer. They just kept their heads down and did what they had to do.
Thus began the never-ending thrill ride down the shitter, spiralling ever faster toward the ultimate darkness that was her future. She marvelled that the memories were still so clear after nine years; how the pain they brought hadn't dulled a bit. She missed her father unspeakably, and she missed the comforts of her life growing up, but more than anything, she missed the hope that had once dominated her childhood. Sometimes, when she had a few quiet moments to rub together, she'd close her eyes and try to remember what that felt like.
She knew now, with the benefit of hindsight, that youth dies when you stop believing that you can affect the hand you're dealt at birth. The reality is, sometimes you just draw shitty cards, and no matter how much you plan, and no matter how hard you work to be good and to go to church and to think the right thoughts, there's nothing in the world you can do to get a reshuffle.
The sudden appearance of her Geo just outside the glass snapped April back to the present. She watched as the used-car manager pried his girth from behind her steering wheel, ignoring the anger in her gut that he'd readjusted everything to take his spin around the neighborhood.
An obnoxious little bell slapped against the glass door as Mr. Simenson waddled back inside the sales office. Despite the forty-degree weather, he'd managed to work up a sweat, and April found herself hanging back a bit to avoid whatever odor he might exude.
"I don't suppose you have maintenance records, do you, ma'am?" he asked, wedging himself into his squeaky metal chair.
April shook her head. "What land of records are you looking for?"
Mr. Simenson made a big deal of opening a file folder and leafing through the pages as he talked. "Well, I'll look at whatever you've got, but I'm specifically looking for any brake adjustments, oil changes, tune-ups, that sort of thing."
"I've kept pretty much current on all of those things."
"But can you prove it?"
The anger flared a little hotter. What would
"I'm not keeping anything down, Mr. Morgan! That's my house, and you're throwing me out of it! Is that the way you treat your customers?"
Throughout the bank, people eased their way toward the doors, even as the security guard approached. April turned on the blue-clad rent-a-cop and levelled her forefinger at him. "You touch me, asshole, and I'll sue you all the way into the next decade. I haven't done anything against the law here, and I'm going to have my say."
Morgan stood. "You're disrupting business, Miss Fitzgerald. If you don't stop, then I'm going to have to call the police."
"Call 'em," April dared. "Shit, at least I'll have a place to sleep. Your way, I won't even have that."
Morgan nodded to an assistant, who picked up the phone and dialled.
"I don't believe this is the way you make your living, Mr. Morgan. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm not the one making a fool of myself, Miss Fitzgerald."
Oh, God, how she hated that man. If she'd had her little .25 with her that day, he'd have been dead for sure. But she didn't, and in the end, she left without changing anyone's mind. On her way out, she tossed off the challenge, "You know where I live, Morgan; at least for the time being. Feel free to send the cops on over."
It took sixty days for those cops to arrive, and when they did, it wasn't to arrest her. It was merely to throw her out onto the street. There were a lot of them, too, apparently alerted by her good buddy Mr. Morgan that she was a hothead. The efficiency of it all was stunning. They arrived at eight in the morning, and they descended like locusts, moving everything out of the house, and finally sealing the door with a huge padlock. The whole thing took less than an hour.
It wasn't till they were leaving that April thought to ask for a suggestion where to stay, but none of them seemed to have the time to answer. They just kept their heads down and did what they had to do.
Thus began the never-ending thrill ride down the shitter, spiralling ever faster toward the ultimate darkness that was her future. She marvelled that the memories were still so clear after nine years; how the pain they brought hadn't dulled a bit. She missed her father unspeakably, and she missed the comforts of her life growing up, but more than anything, she missed the hope that had once dominated her childhood. Sometimes, when she had a few quiet moments to rub together, she'd close her eyes and try to remember what that felt like.
She knew now, with the benefit of hindsight, that youth dies when you stop believing that you can affect the hand you're dealt at birth. The reality is, sometimes you just draw shitty cards, and no matter how much you plan, and no matter how hard you work to be good and to go to church and to think the right thoughts, there's nothing in the world you can do to get a reshuffle.
The sudden appearance of her Geo just outside the glass snapped April back to the present. She watched as the used-car manager pried his girth from behind her steering wheel, ignoring the anger in her gut that he'd readjusted everything to take his spin around the neighborhood.
An obnoxious little bell slapped against the glass door as Mr. Simenson waddled back inside the sales office. Despite the forty-degree weather, he'd managed to work up a sweat, and April found herself hanging back a bit to avoid whatever odor he might exude.
"I don't suppose you have maintenance records, do you, ma'am?" he asked, wedging himself into his squeaky metal chair.
April shook her head. "What land of records are you looking for?"
Mr. Simenson made a big deal of opening a file folder and leafing through the pages as he talked. "Well, I'll look at whatever you've got, but I'm specifically looking for any brake adjustments, oil changes, tune-ups, that sort of thing."
"I've kept pretty much current on all of those things."
"But can you prove it?"
The anger flared a little hotter. What would
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