The Canary Cage

Your boss's mouth moves but all you hear is a dull ringing in your ears. You watch his high hairline glisten with sweat under the warm lighting of a dying light bulb above.

"... Not the right fit..." His voice drones in and out like a radio struggling to catch a signal. "... Nothing personal... Were a good..."

He's firing you. Your entire nervous system is set on edge. You've been working at the Fireflower for years. It was your first and only job and even getting it in the first place was a hard task. Your mind runs from you, bombarding you with everything that comes with being fired.

You'll have to look for another job. Which means you'll have to go down to the library, update your resume and print it, then walk around town handing it off. You recall the last time you did that. The humiliation of uncertainly wandering into an establishment and waiting to be noticed. Asking if they're hiring. Most of them say no but a few took your resume. Only to never call you back. It took months just to get this job.

Your boss waves a hand in front of you. And now he's taking it from you.

"Hey." He says, having the audacity to sound concerned. The ringing ceases and your mind snaps back to the present.

"What?" You snap. Hot anger pulses in your heart. Your body seems to be unable to tell the difference between being fired and being attacked.

"... Did you hear what I said?" He asks cautiously. Picking up on your sour mood. Seeing the rigidness of your body.

"You're firing me." You grit out. You want to lash out. Strike him. Claw at his face.

He sighs and sets his hands down on the desk. He leans back in his chair, the creaking of it loud and irritating.

"It's not that I want to, you understand." He tells you.

"Then don't." You say harshly. "Do you know how hard it is to get a job? You're seriously fucking me over. Why are you firing me?" You wonder if Harlow has something to do with it. She's had it out for you since you started working here. Taking your girlfriend wasn't enough for her, she wants to take your job from you too.

"I have to." He replies with discomfort. He doesn't want a fight. Wants you to roll over and take it.

"Why?" You snap, stepping closer. Unintentionally being threatening. Someone behind you shifts their weight and disturbs a loose floorboard. You look behind you. Bones, the only bouncer at the Fireflower is there. When did he get here?

You'd be able to hear someone so large moving around, but you suppose you didn't because of how thrown off being fired is making you feel. You turn back to your boss, indignant. It's cowardly, you think. To have Bones here as his little reinforcement. He opens his mouth to speak but seems to change his mind about what he wants to say. Instead he shakes his head. The action draws your attention to a new chain glinting around thick neck.

"Because I've decided that I don't want you here anymore." He says. Reaching below his desk and pulling up a small wicker basket crowded with generic self-care items and cheap chocolate. "I had the girls whip this up for you." He says softly.

You stare at the basket. At the cheap woven design that's beginning to fray at the ends. The girls whipped this up for you. They knew he was firing you and not one of them thought to warn you. Hurt cuts deeply in your chest. The unfairness of it all threatens to overwhelm you. Not that it takes very much. You fight back the urge to throw a fit. Every atom that makes up your body wants a fight but that wouldn't be appropriate. Your entire body is tensed, and you have to dig your nails into your palm to keep yourself grounded. Adding insult to injury, your boss slowly pushes the basket towards you. Like a shitty generic gift basket will make up for the loss of income.

You snatch it from the desk and storm out of the room. Shouldering Bones out of the way. He takes it upon himself to follow you out, making sure you're really leaving. As if you'd actually want to stay here after this egregious insult. A few of the girls stand by and watch. Some curious, some amused. You glower at them. You wish you could lash out at them, too.

Bones practically chases you from The Fireflower. Closing the door behind you. You feel betrayed by everyone. Nobody here was your friend, but you spent so much time around them that you felt a sense of loyalty to everyone (Not Harlow.), and you mistakenly assumed the feeling was mutual. Bones would watch over you at the bus stop sometimes if you felt particularly uncomfortable standing around at night. It only serves to reinforce the notion that you can't rely on or trust anyone else.

The walk home feels hellish. You decided that you didn't have the patience or desire to linger outside the Fireflower and wait for the bus. You periodically tear up on your walk. Letting the tears flow for a few minutes before you stop and repeat. You try to regulate your breathing before walking inside your building. You slam the glass door behind you and wince at the noise it makes. You hurry up the stairs, just wanting to go to bed and end this day.

Your stomach turns and your heart beats painfully hard. Killing your appetite completely. You stumble into your bedroom and angrily tear off your clothes. Throwing them about with hatred. You fling your jewelry at the walls and throw yourself into bed. Hoping to calm down but you can't calm down and you can't relax. You continue to lash out. Sporadically grabbing things near you and throwing them. You swipe everything off your nightstand. The objects clattering to the floor. You limply lay in bed, your room now a disorganized mess. You're not angry anymore. Just tired. You pull the comforter over your shoulders and hide yourself under your blankets and pillows like a protective shield.

Time creeps by you quickly. After losing your job the only thing you can bring yourself to do, is lay in bed and stare at the wall. Any setback, no matter how big, feels crushing and irreversible. That cruel voice is back whispering sweetly in your ear. It sounds like your mother, and father, and you. What's the point? If this is the kind of life you're going to live. Paycheque to paycheque, stressing yourself to death over money until you die because Lord knows you'll never save enough to retire. Your mother never got to retire and neither did your father. They did nothing with themselves and you're following suit in going nowhere fast.

The days tick by. When you're not sleeping, you're laying frozen, thinking of everything you should be doing. There's another, quieter voice trying to usher you out of bed but it's not as encouraging or as loud as the other one. It's like no matter how badly you want to, you just can't get out of bed. Like you've lost control of your limbs and now they have no way of operating on their own. You need to clean yourself up, head down to the library, update and print your resume, then walk around handing it out to businesses. First, you need to get yourself to the bathroom. Your bladder throbs uncomfortably.

it takes an hour and twenty-three minutes to finally shift yourself into a sitting position. Moving yourself along like a baby still learning how to control it's body. You get to your feet and drag yourself to the bathroom. Narrowly avoiding pissing yourself. It's easier to do things now that you're up. The idea of showering still feels daunting, but you force yourself into the tub anyway. Only half-heartedly washing yourself and scrubbing off days old makeup, grime, and sweat. You're exhausted and bone-weary when you get out. You've done enough and skip moisturizing. Choosing to go back to bed. Tomorrow you'll start being productive. Tomorrow.

Going back to bed proved to be a poor decision. Tomorrow arrives and you're struck with the impossible task of getting out of bed yet again. You really don't want to have to leave your apartment. You'd really benefit from talking to a therapist about the lingering agoraphobia you never managed to fully shake from your adolescent years. unfortunately, you can't afford a therapist. You can't afford to be agoraphobic either. So, you move your ass along. Pulling on clean clothes and slathering makeup on. One day you'll feel secure enough to walk out with a bare face but today is not that day.

You trudge your way to the library. Cursing yourself for never investing in a computer and printer. At the time you justified it by telling yourself that you wouldn't use either thing often enough to justify the purchase, but now you're heavily regretting it. It's hot out. The heat oppressively curls around you like an oversized jacket. Making the hair on the back of your neck dampen with sweat. Your underarms too. Even after swathing on deodorant and a few sprits of cheap body spray, you still feel self-conscious of how you may smell. The library is nice and cool. The AC clearing up your mind a bit. It's relatively empty. A few children loitering in the graphic novel section and the elderly woman who runs the library at the counter with a book.

You take a seat in front of one of the public computers and begin editing your resume. Changing it up a bit and adding the Fireflower to your experience. You stare at the screen, not feeling very hopeful. The Fireflower is the only place you've ever worked. It almost feels worse having only one job down for experience then none. You look over the whole thing critically. Sure that you did it the wrong way because no one ever taught you how to make a proper resume. Maybe the reason no one wants to hire you is because of how unprofessional it must look.

Though, without much reference, there's nothing else you can do. You print yourself fifteen copies and wait ten minutes for the ancient printer to print them. You watch and think. Conjuring up places you should go to first. You've already applied to most of the places in town but that was years ago. You imagine they must have gone down an employee at some point. Then you remember Valeria's offer. To work for her. You don't have a very high opinion on Valeria but if you worked for her, you could pretty much go back to your old routine. And that desire for familiarity overrides your desires to stick to your morals.

You never learned the name of her lounge though, you realize. It dampens your mood a bit. There are a few lounges and bars across Las Almas, but you don't feel like traipsing all over the city looking for a specific one. Distress threatens yet again to overwhelm you and beat you into submission, but you swiftly catch yourself. You ponder for a moment if you could wait for collection day to inquire after the position, but you're not sure if you have the funds for that. You remind yourself grimly that you may not have a choice if no one hires you anyway.

The last resume prints, and you grab it. Shoving them into your bag and walking back out into the unforgiving heat. Immediately you begin to sweat again. You forgot what day life looked like in Las Almas. Having turned semi-nocturnal due to your job. It feels almost disconcerting how many people are out and about. How normal and healthy they all look. You've grown used to weathered and sunken faces. You feel self-conscious. Perhaps you look that way to them. Ragged and ill.

You stop at the first business you see. A quaint little bakery. At the counter is a young girl. While she serves another customer you look over the selection of baked treats. Churros, Flan, Tres Leches Pastel, Conchas. Your stomach twists but not in hunger. You're still too upset to even think about eating. Though you really should soon. You're feeling faint and groggy. When the girl at the counter becomes free you walk up to her and smile. Pretending you don't see a mouse run by in the back.

"Hi, are you guys hiring?" You ask politely. Heart pounding violently at the simple social interaction. The girl hesitates. Some kind of expression crosses her face but it's too fast for you to decipher.

"... Um, no. Sorry." She says. Blinking a few times, looking very uncomfortable.

"You have a help wanted sign in the front window." You reply. Discouragement quickly makes itself known but you beat it back. The girl scratches her chin.

"Yeah, that's old." She says finally. "We've been a little lazy about taking it down."

"Elaine!" Someone shouts from the back. She grimaces then looks relieved by the interruption. She bids you goodbye without asking if you were ordering anything. Wholly tempted to give up and go home, you exit the bakery. Cursing it and Elaine. You walk into a restaurant, seeing it alive with activity. Tables full of families being waited on by waitresses. You slip by and walk right to the counter. You open your mouth to ask if they're hiring, but the man behind the counter sees your resumes peeking out from your bag and shakes his head.

"Not hiring." He says, quickly moving away to attend to a different, clearly more important manner.

'We're not hiring, sorry.' 'No, sorry.' 'Not at this moment.' 'We can't hire you, I'm sorry.' Every. Single. Place you've gone to has told you they aren't hiring. You smile and nod. Walking out of the little clothing store. Veering into the alley, you drop down next to the dumpster and lower your head into your hands. Gripping your hair tightly and tugging. Pain blossoms on your scalp but you don't stop. Chest heaving with silent laughs. Or sobs. Perhaps both. Fifteen resumes are what you left the library with and an hour later, fifteen resumes you still have. You clench your jaw. Anger coating a sourness in your stomach. Constricting the sensitive muscles.

It feels like you're on a no hire list. That, or it just truly is impossible to get a job in Las Almas these days. You're not sure which one is worse. Valeria might be your only hope and the thought of crawling back to her with your tail between your legs only makes you angrier. You go home. Sweaty, tired, upset, and with nothing to show for it. You throw your bag to the ground, the papers spilling out. Throwing yourself into bed, you decide to wait for collection day to see if Valeria's offer still stands. You sure hope it does. If it doesn't, well, you'll just kill yourself.

The first of the month rolls around again. Your apartment has been somewhat tidied since your fit after being fired, though you haven't gotten back the motivation or energy to truly fix it. Getting tired after picking up only a few things and retreating back to the easy embrace of your bed. You had the foresight to create an emergency savings when you still worked. Saving up just enough to support you for two months.

Displeasure twists your features as you retrieve the needed amount to pay the protection fee. Protection from what, no one seems to know. The Cartel is the only dangerous thing here. Them and the local tweakers that sometimes break into the building. Not that the Cartel actually protects anyone from them. You count down the seconds, waiting for that knock on your door. You pace around, lay down, bounce your leg. Finally, that knock comes and you open the door right away.

Darkening your doorstep is not Valeria, but some tattooed man.

"Money." He says gruffly, holding out a hand. He's missing a pinky finger.

"Where's Valeria?" You ask, handing him the money. He fans it out and counts the bills carefully. Taking his job as collector very seriously.

"She has better things to do then collect money." He replies disinterestedly. Of course. Just your luck. You want to laugh. You also want to scream. One bubbles up in your throat and threatens to release itself, but you swallow it.

"She owns a lounge, right?" You ask.

The man looks up at you, a mean expression on his face. That or maybe he just looks like that.

"Who's asking?" He grunts.

"Uh, me?" You reply impatiently. His lips quirk down, and you continue. "She offered me a job last month."

The man considers your words carefully. Uncertain of your trustworthiness. He gives you a once over and deems you harmless.

"St. Anya Avenue. The Canary Cage." He tells you. "She's not there very often though." You relax a little. See? Not so hard, not so bad. One step at a time, think about now not later.

"Could you take back a resume for me? For when she is in, please?" You ask hopefully.

He chortles.

"No." The man turns and leaves. Shambling down the hall to harass your neighbors for their hard-earned money as well. Scowling at his departing form you duck back inside and slam the door a little too hard. Fine. You'll go yourself. You learn from your mistakes and don't lay down in bed, or even sit down. You grab a resume and set out for The Canary Cage. Your last hope. It's dusk out. A chilly evening breeze blowing through the colorful streets of Las Almas. St. Anya Avenue is on the other side of town. A fact that dissuades you a little. If you do get the job you'll have a longer bus ride. This wouldn't be an issue if you had a car, but you gave up on getting your license after failing the road test for the fourteenth time. Honestly, you're amazed you even tried fourteen times. No, driving just isn't for everyone.

You get on a bus that will take you there. Graffiti gets less and less common and so does the armored loitering trucks of Cartel soldiers. The sidewalks get smoother, the buildings cleaner. St. Anya Avenue is one of the prettier parts of Las Almas. With coloured brick buildings, string lights, and cheerful bunting strung up between buildings. You get off the bus, and search around for the lounge. You find it after not long. Spotting the building with 'The Canary Cage' written on the front in flowery script. You pull open the door and walk past a large man acting as the bouncer. You take it in. There are different stages around the large lounge. Women curl their bodies to the songs of another on a larger, main stage off to the side. There's a headache inducing floral smell to the air. The patrons inside are more varied and just... more in general. Perturbed at the sight of one of the waitresses cozied up on the lap of some guy, you hurry over to the bar. Wanting to get this done as fast as possible so you can leave this overstimulating environment.

There's a young guy, one who looks barely legal. You frown at the sight of his pimply face while he cleans a shot glass. He looks up, noticing you.

"Hey, what can I get you, miss?" He calls over the music. You reach into your bag and slap down a resume.

"Valeria offered me a job here." You tell him.

"Who?" He furrows his brows.

"... Valeria?" You reply uncertainly. The collector didn't give you the wrong address, did he?

"I'm not sure who that is, I can ask my manager though." He offers. To which you nod gratefully.

"Please."

The boy sets down the glass and disappears behind a swinging door.

You're feeling a little more hopeful. You weren't outright rejected this time and that's a positive sign. This place is nicer, Valeria wasn't lying about that. Harlow can go suck it, you think venomously. The boy returns after a few minutes and takes your resume.

"She's the owner." He tells you. "She's not here though so I'll hold onto this for you. Thanks for applying." He nods.

"Thanks." You reply, feeling yourself slack with an almost painful relief. That rotten little pit in your stomach finally leaves you and the feeling is blissful.

You go home. Feeling energized and new. You keep your hopes lowered though. Knowing that whenever you get excited about anything before it happens, it finds a way of not happening. This one simple thing going your way is enough to boost your mood. You fully clean your apartment. Meticulously putting things away. You decide the floors could use some cleaning too. You notice how filthy the walls look and since you're already in a cleaning mood, decide to wipe them down. Time slips past you and suddenly the sun is rising. You watch it through your front window.

The morning sunlight flows over the buildings like golden water. You step aside to admire the strong beams of light on your walls. On the paintings. Despite it being a new morning, you still don't feel tired. There's a nervous energy buzzing through you. The sun feels like a good omen. A new day, a new beginning. Maybe it will be better. You picture yourself singing on the main stage in The Canary Cage. Not choking on cigarette smoke.

You cook yourself a full breakfast with whatever food you have left. Not really tasting it but devouring it all the same. You put your plate in the sink after scraping off all the scraps. Your phone that's lying on the counter beside you begins buzzing with an incoming phone call. You don't recognize the number but answer it. Because it's rare that people call you and you're socially deprived.

"Hello?" You say. Leaning over the counter, picking at a chip in the stone absentmindedly.

A woman says your name, asking if it's you she's speaking to.

"Yes." You reply. Straightening.

"It's Valeria." She says.

You feel surprised at how quickly she got back to you. But at least it means you're getting the job. Or an interview at the very least.

"Oh." You say.

"Changed your mind, I see." Valeria hums. Her voice a little distorted by the phone. You frown. Of course she can't help herself by being smug and irritating.

"Yeah. You're calling, so I'm assuming I got the job?" You say, steering the conversation back on course.

"Mighty presumptuous of you." Valeria replies. "Maybe I'm calling because I want to break the news to you myself that the position is filled." For a second you're silent, worried that it's true. Until common sense and reason kicks the thought away.

"You're not." You say.

Valeria takes a breath.

"I'm not." She agrees. "Come in Monday at eight and I'll fill you in." Valeria tells you. Hanging up before you can reply. You have a new job. Working for someone associated with the Cartel, but it's a job. Sighing, you set down your phone and get to washing your plate. Though something tickles the back of your mind uncomfortably. Valeria sounded awfully pleased with herself.