Read Online Somewhat Saved by Pat G'Orge-Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker
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conditions couldnât be a consideration for her first day on the job. It wasnât something sheâd wanted but the homeless shelter mandated that each occupant had to search for work. So when the director handed her a list for possible employment openings, she had to take it. Especially since the musical job hadnât panned out.
She had her application folded neatly in her pocket as she made her way to the employee administration area in the rear of the Jaeger Center.
A nondescript woman wearing light blue eye shadow sat at a small desk outside an expensive oaken door. The door had a gold-edged plaque reading HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR .
âJust have a seat. Iâll let you know when you can go in.â For the next few minutes the woman kept her head down, which allowed her blue-tinged silver locks to thankfully hide the ugly blue eye shadow.
âThank you.â Zipporah waited for the woman to indicate where she should sit. âIs there any particular place?â Zipporah finally asked.
The woman still didnât respond, so Zipporah found an expensive red leather chair and allowed her weary body to succumb to its comfort. Until that moment, she hadnât realized how tired she was. But of course she was. How could she not be tired? Her tiny room certainly didnât offer a tenth of the luxury contained in the small space in which she now sat. Without thinking, she allowed her head to lie back. She fought the urge to close her eyes but sheâd already lost the battle as soon as she sat down. The luxury where she now sat, compared with where sheâd laid her head for the past few months, rushed past her fatigue and took over.
The rooms inside Zipporahâs West Strip Homeless Shelter were small. Each room resembled a cramped prison cell, containing only a narrow cot with a thin mattress and a dresser. Comfort was not a consideration for short-term accommodations. A clock radioâs alarm sat among the clutter on a small dresser. Every morning it screamed as if in pain to wake Zipporah from restless sleep.
That morning Zipporah was robotic as she prepared to leave the confines of the shelter for another day of searching for work. There were small scratches on her arms that confirmed sheâd clawed and scratched at invisible demons during the night. Self-mutilation had almost become the norm for her. She dabbed a little cocoa butter on her skin to quicken the healing. Singing was the dab of healing she used for her inside wounds.
Zipporah had no sooner signed the residency clipboard meant to track the comings and goings when she heard the voice sheâd assiduously tried to avoid.
âMiss Moses, can you please step inside my office?â Miss Thompsonâs words were soft and sympathetic but official. Taking a file off a cabinet, she walked toward her office, not bothering to see if Zipporah followed.
To visitors, the fortyish Miss Thompson appeared as an overweight yet genteel woman. She had cinnamon-colored skin and snow-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders. To the residents of the shelter, she was a nosey woman who always seemed determined that they would never overstay their allotted time unless it was at her whim.
âClose the door, Zipporah.â Miss Thompson still hadnât turned around, choosing instead to flip switches on her standing fan. She seemed pleased as the fan blades hummed louder.
Zipporah closed the door. She shuddered slightly despite her effort to remain calm. Almost thirty days ago, sheâd asked Miss Thompson for an extension on the measly but necessary living arrangements. She was almost three days past the time she was supposed to leave.
âI think I know what youâre about to sayââ
âI doubt it.â Miss Thompson hadnât bothered to sit, choosing to lean over her desk as if it gave her more authority.
âYouâre past your discharge time and I donât have to remind you that there are
She had her application folded neatly in her pocket as she made her way to the employee administration area in the rear of the Jaeger Center.
A nondescript woman wearing light blue eye shadow sat at a small desk outside an expensive oaken door. The door had a gold-edged plaque reading HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR .
âJust have a seat. Iâll let you know when you can go in.â For the next few minutes the woman kept her head down, which allowed her blue-tinged silver locks to thankfully hide the ugly blue eye shadow.
âThank you.â Zipporah waited for the woman to indicate where she should sit. âIs there any particular place?â Zipporah finally asked.
The woman still didnât respond, so Zipporah found an expensive red leather chair and allowed her weary body to succumb to its comfort. Until that moment, she hadnât realized how tired she was. But of course she was. How could she not be tired? Her tiny room certainly didnât offer a tenth of the luxury contained in the small space in which she now sat. Without thinking, she allowed her head to lie back. She fought the urge to close her eyes but sheâd already lost the battle as soon as she sat down. The luxury where she now sat, compared with where sheâd laid her head for the past few months, rushed past her fatigue and took over.
The rooms inside Zipporahâs West Strip Homeless Shelter were small. Each room resembled a cramped prison cell, containing only a narrow cot with a thin mattress and a dresser. Comfort was not a consideration for short-term accommodations. A clock radioâs alarm sat among the clutter on a small dresser. Every morning it screamed as if in pain to wake Zipporah from restless sleep.
That morning Zipporah was robotic as she prepared to leave the confines of the shelter for another day of searching for work. There were small scratches on her arms that confirmed sheâd clawed and scratched at invisible demons during the night. Self-mutilation had almost become the norm for her. She dabbed a little cocoa butter on her skin to quicken the healing. Singing was the dab of healing she used for her inside wounds.
Zipporah had no sooner signed the residency clipboard meant to track the comings and goings when she heard the voice sheâd assiduously tried to avoid.
âMiss Moses, can you please step inside my office?â Miss Thompsonâs words were soft and sympathetic but official. Taking a file off a cabinet, she walked toward her office, not bothering to see if Zipporah followed.
To visitors, the fortyish Miss Thompson appeared as an overweight yet genteel woman. She had cinnamon-colored skin and snow-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders. To the residents of the shelter, she was a nosey woman who always seemed determined that they would never overstay their allotted time unless it was at her whim.
âClose the door, Zipporah.â Miss Thompson still hadnât turned around, choosing instead to flip switches on her standing fan. She seemed pleased as the fan blades hummed louder.
Zipporah closed the door. She shuddered slightly despite her effort to remain calm. Almost thirty days ago, sheâd asked Miss Thompson for an extension on the measly but necessary living arrangements. She was almost three days past the time she was supposed to leave.
âI think I know what youâre about to sayââ
âI doubt it.â Miss Thompson hadnât bothered to sit, choosing to lean over her desk as if it gave her more authority.
âYouâre past your discharge time and I donât have to remind you that there are
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