~ Not Enough ~

by

Sarah Mitchelson

Monday, eight a.m. with mocha in hand, accessorized with huge puffy eyes, I set off to work. As much as I hated Mondays, I was thankful to actually have something to occupy my mind.

On the car ride home, one hour later, I was making deals with God to strike me dead with lightning. Turns out, Monday was the day Dwight and Howard evoked massive layoffs. Senior management gathered two hundred of its employees in the cafeteria for a layoff cattle call. There would be severance packages based on seniority. I got three weeks pay for my one year of work.

I spoke to no one on my way out. Packed a box, deleted things I knew management would want, and made a point of slamming my office door. Management generously offered us thirty minutes to get packed up, hand in our keys and leave the premises, I took only five. I drove home with my hands clutching the steering wheel so intensely that my knuckles turned white and began to ache. I wove through traffic using my horn freely. I was headed home to a completely empty apartment, I had no job and no money, then I suddenly remembered rent was due in two days: rent I couldn’t pay on my own. I would even have to pay a phone bill for a socket in the wall that didn’t have a phone plugged into it.

I felt my foot sink into the gas pedal forcing it into the floor only to be countered by slamming the brakes abruptly when necessary. There was not a single rational thought in my head. Maybe that is why what happened, happened next.

I tore off the freeway ramp to my place at about eighty-miles per hour. I applied the brakes rapidly as I approached the intersection. I felt a force slam into me from behind.

My whole body shot forward. My forehead slammed into the steering wheel. My body ricocheted back into the seat. I grabbed my neck as the car came to a rolling stop. I peered up into the rearview mirror to see a Black Escalade embedded in the trunk of my car. I couldn’t see anyone inside the other vehicle because the windows were tinted.

I pulled off to the side of the ramp, as did the driver of the monstrous SUV Cadillac after dislodging his car from mine.

With aches and pains beginning to spread through my body, I crawled out of the car. I walked to the back of my gray, battered, ten-year-old Honda Civic. The trunk area was crinkled like a thin pop can. Splinters of paint and red taillight littered the ground. I looked down at it expressionlessly. I just didn’t care. My car was a piece of shit, which was equal to my life at that moment.

My neck was throbbing; I pinched my eyes shut to try to block out the pain. The sound of the rushing freeway voided out all other sounds. I felt completely defeated.

When you’re in a mood like that, when all your ducks have been shot down, when there is seemingly nothing left, you too might be surprised at what kind of a proposition you would agree to, to save your own ass.

I was about to get a proposition, one you could spend a lifetime debating the ramifications of if you wanted to do so. But I wasn’t in the mood to think it through, and I would face all the ramifications it would bring later.

Four

I leaned into the side of my car with my hip, and folded my arms across my chest. My head was throbbing. Wisps of my brown hair fell around my face. My ponytail was completely displaced. I rolled my neck and looked up into the blinding sun, which cut right through my green eyes then back at the SUV. I stared into the dark shady car. It had only a slightly dented chrome grill from the accident. I couldn’t see any movement inside.

I thought about my driver’s license, my insurance card, calling the police, but didn’t bother moving.

Both doors of the Cadillac popped open at the same time, as though the secret meeting inside had come to an end. Easing from the driver’s side stepped a wide black man. His black skin blended with the fine fabrics of his suit. His eyes were well hidden behind dark glasses. He closed his door, crossed his arms in front of his puffed chest, and took an at-ease military stance beside it. He made no acknowledgment of me.

From the passenger side came a tall, lean male with short, spiked dark-brown hair. His suit was of the same caliber as his sidekick’s. He softly closed his door, slipped off his shaded glasses, and tucked them in his inside pocket. The gravel crunched lightly under his polished shoes as he rounded the front of the car and headed toward me.

“Hey,” he said, as though he had known me for years. “How’s it going?” he squinted. His blue eyes against the sun and leaned up against the car, his body mirroring mine.

“Less than good,” I said, not bothering to back away, even though he was standing too close to me. He looked to be in his early thirties. His skin had the appearance of a man who actually uses facial moisturizers. I caught a slight scent of his cologne: it was one of those nice clean scents.

He ran his hand across the top of the car as though it was an old friend that had been wounded.

“You had this car long?” he said.

“Long enough to be considered legally married to it here in New York,” I said.

He laughed and turned to look me directly in the eye taking a moment to assess me. I relaxed a little under his soft stare. It was hard to believe we had just gotten in an accident. It felt a little more like the start of happy hour at the bar.

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Oh, around ten grand,” I lied. I wasn’t sure where he was going with his questioning; but something about him made me want to paint a better picture of myself than the truth.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you fifteen grand cash right now for the car and we both hurry the hell up and get out of here, no questions asked,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” My thoughts were running wild; how was he going to pay me? Was this legal? Rent.

“My friend here doesn’t have insurance,” he said, with no further explanation.

“Oh,” I said trying to think it through as quickly as possible. Who did this guy think he was?

He rocked his hip off the car and began to walk back to his car. I didn’t move, this was weird enough already; maybe he was going to drive away. The way my luck was going, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

He walked to the Cadillac, approaching his large companion. He matched his stance, facing him, with his back to me. I could hear mumbling. The other man nodded, then headed around to the back of the SUV. With the electronic remote, he popped the back hatch and pulled something from the vehicle. He returned with a small case in his hand.

He passed it to blue-eyes who spun back around to me. He briskly walked toward me, then passed me, to the front of my car. He placed the case on the hood and gave me a quick glance and a tip of the head as though to encourage me to come over and take a look at his little treasure chest.

He flipped the hooks on the case and opened it. The case was only about the size of a child’s lunch box, but it had more than just lunch money in it.

“Just happened to have fifteen grand in the trunk,” he said, closing it. “It is clean money. It’s all here. What do you say, deal?”

I was stilling staring at the tiny case even though it was closed. I couldn’t think. God, I needed the money so bad. It really could be such a quick fix to my problems. This was the only good thing that had happened to me in months, hell, maybe a year. This was like winning the lottery.

I made a quick scan of the intersection. He did not take his eyes off mine. I turned to look at him.

“Deal,” I said.

A gentle smile crawled over his face.

“Great, few simple words of advice before we part ways. Don’t put it in the bank, spend it slowly in small amounts on everyday things and no one will know the better. Have a great day.” He paused and extended his hand out to me.

“Caitlin,” I said taking the case but not shaking his hand.

“Clover,” he said.

I opened my car door, threw the case on the passenger seat, climbed in and fired up my car. Clover? What kind of a name was that?