Semifinal Entry, Fiction Marathon 2021

Fair Trade

Why surrender the power to read minds?

I like my job. It’s strange to say that three hours into a double shift, while I’m picking up trash, but it’s true. I enjoy customer service. I’ll be exhausted by the time we close up, but I’ll still be smiling.

Not everything we pick up when we clean is trash. How do you stare at your phone while drinking coffee, then leave without your phone? I don’t know, but people manage it. We find phones, laptops, wallets; all sorts. Everything goes in the lost property box, and most get claimed the same day.

What I’ve found today will probably be returned to its owner tomorrow, at 9:30 precisely. It’s a polished black stone on a cheap, broken chain. The stone is beautiful: tiny swirls of white in its depths look like galaxies, as though someone froze a piece of the universe. It belongs on Mr Jennings’ wrist.

I like Mr Jennings. When I work the early shift I make a point of being on the till at 9:30 so I can serve him. I know the names of our regular customers, but only as ‘Vincent Chai Latte’, or ‘Megan Americano’, or whatever. Mr Jennings, though, has always been Mr Jennings, and that’s what I write on his cup. He comes in after the morning rush and has a small English breakfast tea. He seems lonely — many old people are, I guess — but if we have other customers he’ll sit as far away from them as he can. He stares into space, drinks his tea, then leaves with a nod and a quiet, “Thank you, miss.”

I ought to put his bracelet in lost property, but I’m working again tomorrow morning, and if I hang on to it I can return it when I serve him, along with a cup of tea and a smile. Sometimes I think mine might be the only smile he sees all day.

I wrote the name of my next customer on her cup without asking what it was.

She said, “Wow! I’ve only been in once but you not only remembered me, you spelled my name right. Thank you.”

She dropped a tip in the jar. I smiled, and thanked her, but I didn’t remember her at all. I just knew her name was Chevonne.

I knew the name — and the order — of the man behind her as well, but I was sharp enough to ask him anyway. When he paid I knew he was worried about a performance review that afternoon. The woman behind him wanted cheesecake with her flat white but she was worried her husband would leave her if she didn’t lose weight. I hoped she’d say fuck it and order a slice anyway. She did, and it was all I could do not to congratulate her.

Somehow, I heard these people’s thoughts, inside my head.

Vincent Chai Latte — Vincent Romano, my mind told me — came in during the lunch rush, as usual. He always has the air of a sad, haunted man, but he’s sweet and he smiles at me. Today I learnt why, and it nearly broke me: I look like Teresa, the daughter he lost twenty years ago.

But when he paid, his fingers brushed mine and in that instant I saw what he did to his daughter, every day for four years. He’d like to do that to me. I saw him doing it to me.

That did break me. I abandoned my crew and fled to the bathroom.

When I’d finished throwing up, I googled his daughter’s name. I got a news story from 2001: Teresa Romano, 17, fell from the top level of Dawson Street car park.

It wasn’t like I could go to the police and tell them what he did to her. Even if they believed me, what could they do twenty years later? Nothing. So all I could do was pull myself together, freshen up, and get back to work. A smile and a cup of coffee isn’t much, but right then it was the only happiness I could put into anyone’s world.

The rest of my day was accompanied by a stream of intrusive thoughts, all the worries and complaints of my customers and co-workers. I got an hour’s blessed peace when we closed: I sent everyone else home and finished up by myself, with only my own thoughts for company.

Until Mr Jennings knocked on the door.

He asked if I’d found a black stone on a thin chain, and I said, “Yes, I can,” because what he’d been thinking was, “Can you read my mind?”

I said I’d meant to give it back in the morning, when he came in for his tea.

He asked if I’d still give it back, now I knew what it could do.

I took his hand, put the stone in it, and said, quite sincerely, “Mr Jennings, you are welcome to the fucking thing. Sorry! Excuse my language.”

I felt bad about swearing, and he looked frail and lonely standing in the doorway, so I invited him in for a cup of tea. I figured he might not have spoken to anyone since this morning, and maybe he’d welcome some conversation before I left.

He would. He only wanted tap water though, so I filled a glass for him and we sat in silence for a moment.

Then he took the stone out of his pocket and held it up. “You could have kept this. I would never have known. Why surrender the power to read minds?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Power? Yeah, right. It’s a curse.”

“It is. I know what you saw today; that memory is, unsurprisingly, at the front of your mind. The talisman is stronger the closer its keeper is to someone, so when you touched that man’s… that monster’s hand it created a deep connection. But its curse is powerful, and that power works both ways. I can’t control minds, not exactly, but I can nudge someone’s thoughts in a direction they’re inclined to go. For example, you’re a compassionate young lady so it was simple enough to encourage you to invite me in for a chat. I’m dreadfully sorry for doing that to you, but we did need to talk.”

I ought to have been offended, but I wasn’t. I’m not sure why; maybe he ‘encouraged’ me not to be. “I would probably have asked you in anyway, Mr Jennings. I care about you. You always look so lonely. And I like you: you’re polite to me, to all of us. Whatever, I’m just grateful you took the stone back.”

He spoke hesitantly, staring at his hands. “About that… I’m an old man. My time’s drawing to a close, thank the Lord. The talisman will need a new keeper soon. It ought to be someone who won’t exploit it, someone who understands that all power is a curse. I thought… perhaps… I might leave it to you in my will.”

I scooted back, holding my hands up. “Me?! No! Why the fu — heck would you give something like that to me? I’m just a barista who smiles when I hand you tea. You don’t even know my — Oh! You do, don’t you?”

“Yes, Alison, I do. I know a great deal about you. But the only thing I need to know is that you’re the right person.”

“I don’t want it!”

“That’s why you’re the right person. When I do pass, you will of course be free to decline my bequest. The stone will go to a charity shop with the rest of my meagre estate. No doubt someone will be drawn to it, and buy it. It will find a home.”

After that night Mr Jennings started coming in later, at lunchtime. He’d sit at a table near the counter, sipping his tea, and his face would be drawn, like he was anxious, like he was bombarded by negative thoughts.

Then one day he didn’t come in at all. He became a small item on the local news pages instead.

Tragic Car Park Deaths

CCTV (above) shows local residents Roy Jennings (87) and Vincent Romano (63) walking side-by-side to the top level of Dawson Street multi-storey. Once there they stood briefly in silence, then joined hands, climbed onto the parapet, and stepped off together. A police spokesperson said no one else is being sought in connection with the incident.

I can see it: Vincent, his mind weakened by guilt, could easily be encouraged to visit the site that haunted him. He was probably scared of jumping though, afraid of what was waiting for him below, and the talisman wasn’t powerful enough to overcome that fear. Not until Roy took his hand.

A few days later I returned home to a letter I’d been expecting, from Roy’s solicitor. She wanted me to call in and collect an item he’d left to me.

I know what you’re thinking: did I accept the talisman?

The story above helped Marsha reach the final of the Fiction Marathon writing competition last year. She eventually won with this story:

If you are interested in stretching your writing muscles, you can find out more about the Fiction Marathon from Marie A. Rebelle here:

And here is the website that hosts the Fiction Marathon.