Page 12 of Time Stops With You

“You thought I’d leave without seeing you? That breaks my heart, Nardi.”

I look over my shoulder at Big T. He’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans. A durag covers his wavy black hair. Obsidian eyes slide over me and get their fill before making their way back up to my eyes.

I’d normally never give someone like him the time of day and, for most of our acquaintance, I ignored his very obvious attempts to flirt with me.

But ever since I started my shop, he’s been helping me out every Saturday, lugging my giant iron pots down from my apartment to my car.

I’d die on the spot if I had to drag those industrial sized containers full of rice and beans and oxtail down all those steps. In light of all he’s done for me, Big T doesn’t seem half as bad as his first impression.

I slam the passenger door shut and hot foot it around my car to open the driver’s side. “You better get moving or you’ll be late for work.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, shawty.” Big T swings his hands back and forth, a sly smile growing as he says. “I’m the manager. I can take off when I want.”

Big T is not the manager, a fact I discovered when I went down to the local mart and asked for him by name. But I’m not going to hurt his feelings by pointing out the dishonesty. Men and their fragile egos can’t handle the truth.

“Thanks again for your help, Big T.” I start up my car, my mind already a million miles away from this conversation.

Big T swipes a thumb over his jangling chin. “You know how to thank me, Nardi.”

Rather than answer that, I stick a hand out the window and wave as I drive off.

Someday, Big T is going to back me into a corner and I’ll have to either go on a date or lose my reliable rice-and-beans-pan-carrier.

Happily, that day is not today.

On the drive downtown, I pop in my ear buds and listen to a business podcast. It’s the kind where the men throw aroundbusiness words like ‘ROI’, ‘CPM’ and ‘Customer Acquisition Metrics’ like flower girls at a wedding.

“You see, Hostin, this is where people go wrong.” The podcaster who makes millions selling courses to desperate people like me laughs slow and steady.“You need to know all your numbers. One time, I asked this new business owner making less than one hundred k a month what his numbers were…”

One hundred grand a month?

I zone out from the rest of the conversation, imagining what I’d do with just one tenth of that money.

First off, I’d buy Josiah a new computer. The one he rents at his fancy school for the gifted costs an eye-watering number of zeroes. I got him a nice laptop for Christmas last year and Josiah told me point blank that it was a waste of money and he wouldn’t use it. Apparently, he needs ‘more CPU power’ to run his Pythons.

Between my brother and these dang podcasters, I don’t know who uses more convoluted language.

Let’s see… what else would I do if I made ten thousand a month?

I’d get a more reliable car, move us into a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood and buy Josiah fancier clothes, the kind everyone else at his fancy school wears.

Ha!

Like that’ll ever happen.

I’d win a lottery ticket to Mars faster than I’d be able to make that money. Still, the thought of someday being able to shower my brother in luxury brands is a nice dream and I’m in a great mood by the time I arrive at my location.

Slowing the car down in the barren parking lot nearby, I get to work lugging my tent out of the car. Thankfully, it’s not a longdistance from the abandoned lot to the corner where I sell my food.

The rotten stench reaches me before the voice that says, “Let me help you with that, Miss Nardi.”

“Thank you, Ebidiah.” I release the heavy tent poles to the small man in a torn windbreaker, raggedy shorts and slippers. Ebidiah’s muscles strain under the tent’s weight, but he manages to set the poles on the ground.

“What’d you make today?” He asks in his raspy, chain-smoker voice.

“Oxtail,” I say, wiping my hands against my jeans.

Ebidiah smiles, revealing a host of yellow teeth and receding gums. The guy needs to see a dentist immediately. Many of his teeth are missing and the rest are holding on for dear life.

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