-------------------------------------------------------------------
Written by: “Irene Naridza”
IA PICS MADE BY HOTPOT: https://hotpot.ai/art-generator
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I look out the bus window as we move through neighborhoods with large houses and lush trees lining the sidewalks. It’s another Saturday colder than usual. I’m using these days to run a small business; selling hot chocolate with bread.
I’m close
to my stop. I stand up and move toward the exit at the back. I press the red
button to signal the driver that I’m getting off. The bus brakes sharply, so I
have to grip the bar tightly where the button is. "Thank
you." I say as I step down
onto the sidewalk. I enter the park while the bus continues its route.
It’s
complicated. On one hand, pretending to be Nadia is embarrassing or at least it
used to be. You could say I got used to the routine, and now it’s not so bad.
The clothes aren’t my style at all, but they’re comfortable.
I reach a
spot beside the park path. This is where I set up my small table and chair. I
place the thermos, disposable cups, and bread on the table and hang up the
sign: Hot Chocolate & Bread for 30 Maygels (75 cents). I bring 15 corn breads
to match the thermos cups capacity, which usually holds up to 15 cups of hot
chocolate. Last week, I made 450 Maygels from everything.
I need to
earn some money to buy the latest issues of the Super Bolivar comic. They had
it at the school library, but only a few issues. I’m dying to know how it all
ends. I can’t wait to see how Bolivar gets his happy ending after liberating
Ecuador from Spanish rule.
I’ve been
doing this for three Saturdays in a row now. Mom gave me the idea, but she
wanted me to sell in front of the house. Is she crazy? I know how people are,
and I don’t want anyone—except her and her friends—to know about this. Mom
always tells me I have to be smart, protect her and myself. This is one way to
do it.
I see a
couple of people pass by, but none even glance at me. At this time of the
morning, I don’t always make sales, it’s 8:00 AM. But the temperature is pretty
low. Not as much as up north, where it snows, but still really cold.
I’m wearing
a gray padded jacket with a little bear embroidered on the front, a winter hat,
a denim skirt, black tights, and gray sneakers with pink stripes. Mom insisted
I try wearing tights and a skirt instead of black sweatpants.
When I did,
she was happy. We even took a picture together. Ever since the first time she
dressed me as a girl, she always takes a couple of pictures and puts them in a
memory album. That’s another reason I don’t resist being ‘Nadia’ so much
anymore; it’s nice to see her happy. It’s not so bad, as long as I stay away
from idiots, of course.
"Give me a hot chocolate, girl." says a man in a
white jacket, focused on a newspaper. I fill a white disposable cup with
chocolate from the thermos and grab a cornbread with a napkin. I place them on
the other side of the table, right in front of him.
"Here you go." He digs into
his pocket and puts 30 Maygels in coins into my hand. He takes a big sip of the
hot chocolate and sighs. "Delicious." He tucks the
newspaper under his arm and walks away, taking a bite of the bread.
I can’t
stop thinking about the front-page headline: OIL WORKERS’ SITUATION WORSENS. A
week ago, four national oil tankers had an accident, spilling crude oil onto
the beaches of the United States. I remember it well; I was leaving ballet
class. I was chatting with Olga and Jane when a news bulletin interrupted
Madame Melody’s soft music radio program. She covered her mouth with her hands
in shock.
The cause
was a mix of negligence, including the ships being too old or missing their
scheduled unloading dates. Luckily, it didn’t turn into a disaster. Turns out,
the Americans have good protocols for cleaning up oil spills. Everything is
under control now.
The trouble
started again when they tried to hold those responsible accountable, and Maglavir
government was blamed. The state handles oil exports, and they were the ones
who ignored certain details to save money.
The U.S.
wanted Maglavir to pay for the oil cleanup and to improve the ships so business
could continue. The president—some guy whose name I don’t remember—was supposed
to give an answer to the American president over the phone. Judging by the
newspaper, I guess he said no. I see why Mom calls him a lucky idiot.
I slide the
strap off my shoulder to pull my purse closer and store the money. It’s
rectangular, a bit small, and its black color is already fading. There’s a
section perfect for coins. Mom said she used it when she was my age and that
she couldn’t wait to pass it down to her ‘daughter.’ And indeed, she gave it to
me. However, it’s practical: I can carry my phone, wallet, earnings, and
there’s still room for a couple of small things.
Even though
there aren’t many people yet, customers are guaranteed. The nearest café is
several blocks away, and it’s an expensive place. My hot chocolate is pretty
simple; whole milk, cocoa, and sugar. The bread is corn-based, similar to a bun
but not as puffy, with a bit of cheese inside. It’s what I usually have for
breakfast.
“Good morning, miss. May I see your permit to sell?” A deep voice pulls me from my
thoughts. I turn to my right. Standing there, staring at me, is a police
officer. “H-Hello, officer.” The way he stands so still is unsettling. “Y-Yes, sir.” I
say as I search my purse and find the permit. I hand it to the officer, who
moves stiffly to take it. “Are you Rebeca
Phillips?” I could swear there was sarcasm in his dry voice. It’s a
ridiculous question. Obviously, I’m not the adult in the photo.
“She’s my mother. I am… I’m Nadia Phillips.” It’s the second time I introduce myself to a
stranger with that name, and I still feel a knot in my throat. “The law states that… there’s no issue in sharing a
permit between direct family members.” I
keep my voice low. The officer eyes me suspiciously for several seconds, the
silence only broken by my breathing. “It’ll be
fine this time,” he says, handing
the permit back. “But next time, use your own. A
youth permit. They’re not hard to get.” His
tone remains unchanged.
“Since I’m here… I’ll take one.” From the way he says it, it sounds more like an
order than a request. Out of nowhere, I find myself immediately serving him hot
chocolate and bread. “Have a good day, young
lady.” he says, leaving some
bills before walking away. Once I see him get into the patrol car and drive
off, I let out a deep sigh. “That was terrifying.” I say, not caring if someone hears me.
Years ago,
a permit became required due to the saturation of street vendors. If you’re
caught selling something not listed on the permit, there’s a fine. If you’re
outside permitted hours, there’s a fine. If you’re in a ‘no vendor’ zone,
there’s a fine. If you don’t have a permit, there’s jail time. Fortunately, I’m
in the right place, at the right time, with the correct merchandise.
Mom renewed
the permit she used in college so I could use it now. She also sold hot
chocolate and bread back then. She advised me to set up here because wealthy
people pass through and live there. Turning my head, I can see the three-story
houses with large cars parked in their spacious garages.
Mom said
that in her time, this area was full of empty lots, grasslands, and weeds. The
few houses were only one story. Middle-class people lived here; brilliant
people without brilliant jobs or salaries. With the crisis of the 90s, many
emigrated to the United States.
Many never
even made it to the coast. Many ended up homeless in Los Angeles, others with
simple or low-paying jobs. Only a select few managed to find well-paid jobs
earning juicy dollars.
They sent
remittances to their families who had stayed behind in Maglavir. What they
could save in a month over there was equivalent to a basic salary here. That’s
how they managed to improve their lives; they renovated houses, built new ones,
bought land, and indulged in other luxuries.
When the
crisis passed, the wealthy began buying up the properties and improving them
even more. Now, it’s this quiet and picturesque suburb.
"Hello. Give me three, please." says a man who appeared out of nowhere. He’s American. I can tell by his accent, his height, and the fact that he's wearing a shirt and shorts on such a cold morning. It’s not unusual to see them in this area; some are the ones who helped the migrants obtain the all-powerful American nationality.
I serve him
what he asked for, and he pulls out a single bill from a large wallet. Wait a
moment… this one is strange. It has only one digit, it’s beige with green, and…
OH MY GOD. “Is this a dollar?” I
CAN’T BELIEVE IT. “Yes, is that okay?” he asks, sounding
surprised by my reaction.
“Sorry, it’s just impressive, but…” The last time I saw anything about currency
exchange rates was in society class years ago. Back then, one dollar was worth
15 maygels. It’s not worth that anymore. Our currency has devalued but…
“I can go ask my cousin for maygels. He
lives nearby.” says the American, still smiling, but now looking a bit embarrassed. “No, everything’s fine. Thank you for your purchase.” I quickly tuck the dollar into my bag. He nods
and walks away, carefully balancing the bread on top of the cups.
If the
maygel has devalued, that’s bad, very bad… if you only save in that currency.
But if you have dollars, you can take advantage of that depreciation. The
society teacher explained that many Americans vacation at the beaches here
because their dollars go further.
A smile
spreads across my lips as I look at the bill again. It has a man with a wig on
one side, and from the ribbon underneath, I can guess his name is Washington. I
could swear we were taught in class that that’s a place. On the other side,
there’s a pyramid and an eagle. The word ‘one’ is everywhere.
Our bills
have the texture of thin, smooth cardstock, and they also smell slightly like
plastic. The dollar bill is stiffer, with a fibrous texture where the drawings
and engravings are. I can’t quite place the smell, but it smells better.
TWO
HOURS LATER — PAWN SHOP
“What do you mean only 30 maygels?!” I exclaim loudly, almost a scream, though
luckily, it sounded very feminine. “The central bank releases different rates within the same week.
The dollar can fluctuate between 30 and 50 maygels.” explains the
pawnshop clerk calmly. He already made me feel bad for yelling.
He starts
typing quickly on the computer at the counter, the keys clicking like heavy
raindrops on the roof of an old car. He nods—he must have found something—then
turns the bulky screen toward me.
“At this moment, one dollar is worth 40
maygels, but we charge a commission for each exchange.” The screen's brightness is too
high, so I have to squint slightly. “If you have more of these bills, I can lower the commission.” he adds,
turning the monitor back to himself.
The fu… “Fine.” I turn to check my earnings in my bag.
The American came back a little while later, and I kept charging him a dollar
for three orders of chocolate and bread. Again and again, until I sold out. I
drank the last cup on my way here because of the cold and because I felt like I
had made a great deal. But now, my rough and imprecise mental math is telling
me this isn’t going to end well.
I take out two
more-dollar bills and place them on the counter. I’ll keep just one. “For these, I can
charge a commission of 5 maygels each.” he says while
holding them under a bluish light for a moment before turning it off. “Patricia, take
these to the safe.” he instructs a woman wearing a lot of makeup.
He types
into the cash register, generating a receipt. He hands it to me along with 105
maygels. “Thank you, sir.” I say as I put the money away and step out of the
shop.
Outside,
the cold wind blows gently along the sidewalk and through the trees. For a
moment, it almost sounds like laughter. As I walk toward the bus stop, I start
counting how much money I actually made. My hopes sink when I realize how few
bills I have; it’s only 185.
“DAN IT” I kick a can on the ground. My terrible soccer skills send it flying far away until it lands on a car windshield. The blue and white colors are unmistakable. OH NO. "IT'S THAT SAME TERRIFYING COP!" I don’t know why I said that out loud, but I do know that I need to start running and ignore his commands telling me to stop.
To Be Continued…
---------------------------------------------
----------- If you find any
misspellings or a dead link, please let me know ------------
------------------------------ THANK
YOU SO MUCH for WATCHING ------------------------------
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario