by Chris Forte

I got a call. I needed to go to a home. A redneck case. Trailer trash in an apartment. Truancy issue with a 6th grader, as if showing up to school was going to change his future. 

I got in my white Altima, the only clean thing in my life. The rest of me was a mess. I had two teenage stepdaughters and my husband’s ex-wife up in my business. My mom was dying in slow motion and my dad was doing his best to slow down her demise. He was losing the war as well as his mind. Getting in my car was an escape. 

I found the apartment complex. Nothing complex about it. It was simple, like a shoebox with doors. I got out of the car - the airtight thump of the closing door gave me separation anxiety. 

I walked up a sidewalk cracked into a million pieces like most of my clients. Not sure what was holding it together except for the old North Carolina soil under it. 

I reached to knock on the door. Apartment 1D. Every time I knocked on one of these doors I hesitated. The image of a shotgun blast splintering the door in my face was always forefront in my brain. I swallowed air for strength. Maybe my last breath. 

The knock was hollow, like no one would want to live there. I heard nothing. Knocked again. There was a distinct rustle like a child immersed in Christmas wrapping paper on the floor. I waited. Waited some more. 

I heard heavy footsteps, the kind that sounded aggravated. That’s all I need - more conflict in my life. I adjusted my oxford shirt collar even though it was fine. I was grateful I wasn’t wearing heels in case I had to run. The doorknob turned. 

The swoosh of the door opening swiftly almost sucked me forward. I leaned back instinctively and smiled at the same time, an odd reflex I thought. 

He sized me up with a confused, suspicious look I’d seen a thousand times before from deadbeat fathers. He was one. I knew it. The loser in him carried a certain stench. 

He looked liked Jim Croce with an extra 40 pounds. A white t-shirt. Blue jeans hastily snapped and the fly open. Bare feet with hair on them. Thick handlebar mustache surrounded by a five o’clock shadow that was three days old. 

His eyes were going up and down on me, checking me out. I read his mind. He was wondering what this bitch wanted but he’d like to do me too. 

“What?” he blurted. 

My throat was dry. I tried to speak but nothing came out. I looked like an idiot. Bad start. No intimidation, as if I intimidated anyone in my khaki pants and flats. I’m a 38 year old social worker, suburban mom, 5 feet tall. The only one I intimidate is the challenged kid that packs my groceries the way I don’t like him to. 

“Hi. I’m Marlene. I’m with Wake County Social Services. Do you have a minute to talk about your son Axle?”

“Do I look like I have a minute?”

How was I suppose to respond to that? A question for a question. I hated that. The lower the life the more they used that tactic. My back stiffened.

“He’s your son, right?”

He looked distracted. His head swiveled back into the apartment. His expression changed to apologetic looking. He said, “Ahh, can you wait a minute or two?”

“I’ll give you five.” He closed the door quickly. He was out of my face. I was relieved. Before I knew it I was opening the door to my car. It was my sanctuary, a little white fortress on wheels. 

I sunk down into the front seat and put the keys in. Radio on. Madonna was singing. She was tough. I wanted to be her. Kick some ass. Get a tattoo. The world could go fuck itself. 

My car was facing the apartment. I stared at the door. 1D. 

As if I willed it the door knob turned and out emerged a woman with badly bleached, disheveled hair. She avoided eye contact. She was pencil thin. Her jeans were so tight I was surprised she got them on that fast. Her blue jean jacket with the collar turned up covered a red blouse. She was a skank if I ever saw one. She hustled down the sidewalk and out of my view.

I waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. I was done. I reached for the key. Just then he stuck his head out the apartment door. He motioned me to come in with a head bob, as if he couldn't be bothered to speak. We made eye contact. I turned the key. Revved the engine. I backed out of the spot as he watched. He stepped out of the doorway. I rolled down my window and gave him the finger. He didn’t care. Either did I. He went back into 1D. I went to get a tattoo.