The Recession

The Application form rested on a sticky round table, which wobbled on four ice cream legs, the crisp white paper slowly becoming one with the table, part of its light brown surface. The form was almost filled out. The address, social security number, contact information, and related skills came quickly. Blank were the three former employers and references. After a while he picked up the form, folded it, tucked it into his brown messenger bag between an oversized anthology of Medieval dramas and a King James Bible.

He exited the shop, holding a half-full and cold paper cup. He slipped a band of recycled cardboard from the cup's midsection and dropped this onto an overflowing trashcan. It rolled down onto the sidewalk, which was speckled with blackened quarter-sized splotches of whatever substance graces so many mouths. He walked down this surface a few meters to where his bicycle sat locked to a thick black fence.

Holding the cup off to the side in his left hand he swerved through the four lanes of traffic stopped in gridlock. The light brown contents dripped from his loose fingers. He came slowly to the intersection where the cross traffic remained parked beneath the lights, which cycled through their colors, and set his foot down on the broad white line. Through the thin flip flops he felt the thickness of the dirty paint. Engines pumped heat into the low summer afternoon. He drank from the cup, shook it next to his ear, dropped it on the line, and uprighted it with his foot. Then he stood hard on the pedals and the bike frame twisted as it moved forward on its narrow, soft tires.