Page 1 of Heavy Is The Crown

Chapter 1

The temp agency sat on the corner of Hollis and 19th, its faded blue awning sagging, struggling to hold onto its last bit of dignity. The front window was fogged over, covered in dust and half-torn job postings from months ago. Inside, the place smelled like cheap coffee, burnt plastic, and desperation.

Kenyatta Hayes had been in plenty of buildings over the course of his life; courtrooms, holding cells, the federal penitentiary where he had just spent the last seven years.

But this was something different. This was a place where men like him came to beg for scraps.

He stepped up to the front desk, his six-three frame casting a shadow over the cluttered counter. The receptionist, a worn out woman in her mid-fifties with short red curls and chipped acrylic nails, barely looked up from her phone screen.

“Help you?” she asked, tone already laced with indifference.

Kenyatta inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Patience. Control.

“I’m here about a job,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “I called yesterday; y’all said to come in.”

She chewed her gum slowly, scrolling her phone with one lazy finger. “What’s your name?”

“Kenyatta Hayes.”

Her fingers clacked against the keyboard, slow, deliberate, unbothered. The system loaded with the kind of lethargy that let him know his fate before she even spoke.

She squinted at the screen, then smacked her lips. Not a good sign.

“Yeah, no,” she said flatly.

Kenyatta’s jaw tensed. “What you mean ‘yeah, no’?”

She finally lifted her eyes to him, chewing extra slow like this was the most exhausting part of her day.

“I mean we don’t hire felons.”

Silence stretched between them.

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling against the counter. This was the fourth time this week.

His voice stayed even, but there was a weight behind it. “I was told y’all help people get back on their feet. That’s why I came.”

She shrugged, not an ounce of sympathy on her face. “Maybe five, six years ago we did. New policies now. Company don’t wanna take the risk.”

Risk.

Like he was some wild animal who might tear the place apart if given a timecard and a uniform.

His jaw flexed. He let his eyes drift past her, taking in the room full of waiting bodies; men and women with tired faces, slumped in the stained plastic chairs, hoping for a chance.

A chance he wasn’t even allowed to hope for.

He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “You should’ve told me that shit over the phone before I came down here.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even apologize. “Sorry.” Except she wasn’t. Not even a little.

Kenyatta pushed off the counter, pulling his hoodie back over his head. “Yeah. I’m sure you are.”

He turned to leave, mumbling more words of discontentment under his breath as his steps heavy on the scratched tile floor.

“Next!”

He clenched his jaw, but he didn’t turn back. Didn’t say a word.

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