Red Equity (3/5)
This is the third installment of an ongoing series! If you're interested in starting at the beginning you can read it here. If you're looking for the second installment look here.
Sophie
The work switched from boring and tedious to titillating and time consuming daily. It forced Sophie to reevaluate her concept of time. She was always either early or late on her deadline depending on the work. On her fourth week into translating text, Sophie was late. The German was more difficult than she had anticipated and the communist philosopher she was translating wrote in abstract terms. Time moved slowly with him. He had made damn sure to write in a voice that was so mundane that it was impossible to argue against. Bringing up every finite detail in the analysis that was the proletariat household. Provider, protector, nurturer every member of the household was vulnerable to the tangling webs of capitalism; or that’s was what he argued.
With a cruller in her hand Sophie could not help but smirk at the notions these “scholars” kept using: monster, perverter, system. She kept a list of the names in her office at the printing house. There she worked from 11- 6 every other day under the guise of being Jack’s secretary. And on that Wednesday she was happy to add “grand frustration” and “instinctive rapist” to the list. She enjoyed “instinctive rapist” the most. It rolled better.
“Sophie!” Jack hollered through the oak door of the office, which she once presumed soundproof. “Where the hell do you get off with this?” Jack had stormed through the door and charged it with the Irish catholic rage he was bred with. It was the fourth time he had done this. The first resulted in tears, now Sophie could handle her red faced editor with a composure that didn’t hurt her mascara. “Five instances of bias in this essay! Five! Now I don’t know where you learned to write, but when you’re trying to convince someone to join a new socioeconomic cause you make sure you don’t do it sarcastically!”
"How do you know I'm the one with a bias? It's just the translation!"
"These writers wouldn't have a reason to be "disappearing" if they wrote like this. Fix it by the end of the day!"
“Along with what I’m working on now?”
“Along with that and the other piece with Trotsky.”
“It’s nearly 3, how am I supposed to do all that?”
“I’ll give you a hint: less crullers! For XXX dollars I could get someone to do three times the work. I’m locking this door, if you can’t finish I’ll have you spend the night.” Sophie had attempted to say something defensive but the door slammed with a force greater than her wit. Alone the silence of the room judge slightly less than Jack. Throwing the rest of her cruller away she continued with her work.
“Instinctive rapist, indeed.” She sighed.
---
Nine P.M was when Sophie had managed to leave. It was after several hours of extra work along with a yelling match with Jack that she accomplished this. The yelling match was especially bad for Sophie since it was in the presence of Alex. Hurrying past the door of the brownstone, she moved down the boulevard with enough speed to gander at the street and reach her car as quickly as possible.
The walk would parallel her to seven different shops of varying size. There was Steven’s Book Nook, The Robin Café, Emilio’s Bakery, an unnamed fruit stand, The Borgan Butcher, the post office, followed by a vacant building that was once a photo developer. Every building had styles and colors that matched their persuasion. All of which added to the confusing rainbow mesh that was the street. And in the middle of it was a single man: Colorado.
The bum sat at the entrance of the alley between the café and bakery. Against the trash cans the pitiful man found change from the empathy of strangers. It wasn’t hard to feel bad for Colorado. With the vibrant happy street around him the scraggly bearded man created a comparison that hurt to watch. Colorado had sun burnt lips and craters of red and blue across his face that surrounded far away eyes. He never said anything, he just say there with a little box collecting his pity tax. When he spent the money no one noticed. They just let him be as he was, he hadn’t earned interest. Why would he?
Passing the little man Sophie plopped a quarter in his box and moved right on to her car. Avoiding the seatbelt she drove off with gusto. Three hours late she knew Bill would have questions that she couldn’t very well answer. When she got home she figured out a lie that worked with every faculty of her life.
“You got lost?” Bill humorously asked.
“Oh, darling don’t joke. I was petrified.”
“Lost for that long? Honey, do I need to buy you a map and compass? My God, how did you manage to get home?”
“I managed to ask for directions. Now can we get to bed?” Bill looked down bashfully. “What’s wrong?”
“Could you whip something up for me? I haven’t eaten today.” It wasn’t worth fighting. It was a hollow request. Inside was actually a demand.
“I thought you were going to eat lunch with Charlie and Andrew.”
“They- I was busy. I couldn’t spare the time. You should have heard them complain.”
“Well I can make some macaroni quickly then.”
“With mashed potatoes?”
Ordinarily she would deny him, but she was tired and knowing. A man was a man and a woman was a woman.
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Alex
Alex Richmond was Jack Hill’s copyeditor. A graduate of Tuskegee, Alex was enabled a silent confidence that many could not notice. With his lanky figure and tall stature Alex made for a remarkably skinny man. But with a classic sense of style and a stride highlighted with long legs he turned heads for mainly positive reasons. As the American Negro he was the pinnacle of malleability. His morning walk to work was an act of transformation. With every new face he encountered, he was himself a new man.
“Good afternoon.” He would say.
“Hello.” They would say.
“It’s a beautiful day!” He would say.
“It sure is!” They would say.
“Ma’am.” He would say.
“…” They would say.
“Hello, sir.” He would say.
“Get a move on, nigga.” They would say.
“…” He would say.
For Alex the world operated on different volumes and he was an adept listener. On the sixth week of translating Alex had appeared as he always had. Moving down the boulevard he found Colorado and, as always, dropped him a few cents.
“Have a nice day, sir.” He would say, and the man would never respond. Past the bum, Alex walked into the printing house where a stack of papers would be waiting for him. Alex’s job was simple: edit Sophie’s work from the following day and move the work to Jack’s personal safe at the end of the day. Alex never had a problem moving the polarizing documents. As a black man he was invisible, none would wonder where he was going and with what. It was a quiet system that worked for Alex as it allowed him work and XXX.xx a month.
Strolling into Sophie’s office Alex made for his ritual retrieval of her work. The moments were always tense for them. In their world their calculated equality moved with an instable fluidity. With the shared secret of what they were doing inside the semi-soundproof room, all they had to go on were the social guidelines they were both egregiously breaking. Add the fact that they were creating a growing familiarity with two months of work and they had conversations that had invisible stakes and confusingly unreal consequences.
“Good morning, Ma’am.” He said.
“Hello, Alex.” She always seem surprised by him. “How are you, Alex?”
“I’m fine. Very fine. Got lots of sleep last night.”
“Any church?”
“No, only on Sundays.” Sophie had wondered why she didn’t assume that. Now he would go out thinking she thought he went to church every day.
“Of course. Well, goodbye.” He nodded and made for the folder containing his work at the end of her desk. Past the little typewriter and cruller he found the folder. Except this time it was different. Before the folder for her work was tan or goldenrod, but today it wasn’t. It was beet red. Picking it up he thought it a joke. He smiled at her and pointed at the folder. She smiled back and pointed back at him. He shook his head and pointed at the folder. She pointed with both hands this time, again at him. They did this two more times with confused smiles on their faces.
“The folder is red.” He clarified.
“Yes, I see. Thank you.” They said nothing for a moment. He confused at her, for not understanding the reference. Her confused at him, for pointing out the color of something obvious.
“Like communism, Sophie.” It slapped her in the face and was all too funny.
“Oh! Aha, aha hahaha!”
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