My Mister - A Short Story

 I saw him sitting on a low concrete block outside the mall. His head buried between the crooks of his arms and his hands dangling loosely. Slender long fingers like an artist’s or a pianist’s. I had never seen beautiful hands belonging to a man. They were usually either big with knotted fingers or too fleshy. His hands were beautiful, different, and the way he rested his head on his arms stirred an inexplicable feeling within me.

I sat across him, dressed in my regular interview attire and I had just come out of my tenth interview I had been to in the past two weeks. So far, I had faced nothing but rejection. In my twenty-two years of age, I had already faced so much rejection that my hopes of finding a decent job were dwindling. I couldn't study further because I needed to ease the load off my mother’s shoulders back home who ran a small kiosk of homemade snacks. I had to make sure that my younger siblings were well fed.  It had already been five years since my father passed away from a poor heart on a cold December morning. He had only gone out to relieve himself when he had tripped and fallen and that was it. His heart has just given up right there. These five years have been tough for my mother and I've been compelled to find a job to pay the bills. 

I took a sip from my water bottle and continued watching him. A few minutes later, he raised his head and looked around. Perhaps a bit older than I am, the man wore deep frown lines in the middle of his forehead. He wore a serious expression on his face that made him look stern but otherwise he had an amicable face with slender features, pointed chin and wavy dark hair that curled under his earlobes. He caught my gaze and I looked away at once, too embarrassed at being caught. I rummaged my bag instead; looking for something I had no intention of finding. Then I saw him stand up and walk away and I noticed that he had left behind his notebook. I jumped, grabbed the notebook and ran calling after him.

“Excuse me!” No response.

“Hello! Hello!” No response.

“ Excuse me, Mister, you dropped your...” By then I was right behind him and I touched his back with the tip of the notebook and he swung around. His eyes wide with surprise. I saw that he was tall and lean.

“I’m sorry,” I began but he took the notebook from my hand and smiled. Then bowing his head slightly he walked off without a word.

Another day, another interview, another hollow promise of “we’ll be in touch.”

I sit at the same spot filling my belly with water so that I don’t go too hungry. I only have money for dinner. I’m weary from running around and I’m desperate for a job. Anything will do. I remember my mother’s face weathered by sun and wind, standing out in that little kiosk day after day, season after season, her struggles ceaseless. My eyes sting from the pain I feel in my heart and I desperately wish I could do something for her. I was sent to the city to study further on scholarship and I had chosen the subject that I was the best in. English Literature. The scholarship ended when I passed out and at the time I didn’t know that to be able to find a job with such a subject as a background, one must study further and at least have a doctorate degree in hand. So, instead, I geared up to find jobs at office front desks or anywhere that hired people based on good English speaking skills. The only job I couldn't handle was in places that required heavy labour. I’m small and I can’t carry heavy load. My mother toiled day and night and made sure that I never did physical labour at home. She always saw me as working in an office and not sweating my life away doing menial labour.

As I sit here thinking and wondering what I step I should take next, a tiny voice inside says, “perhaps it’s best to go back home and help your mother instead. You’ll find something small to make ends meet.”

As I weigh my options, I look around casually, and suddenly I spot a sign by the lamppost. Help Wanted. There is an arrow pointing towards a cluster of shops. I follow the sign and find myself standing in front of a big bookshop with the same sign at the glass door. Help Wanted. The name outside reads Mary Shelley Book Store. It didn’t take long for me to pick up that, Mary Shelley of Frankenstein fame is perhaps the owner’s favourite author.

I walk in and a few minutes later, I walk out and sit on the bench outside. They’ve asked me to wait for a while. The lady who interviewed me looked like a dignified professor with short-cropped silver hair. Perhaps she is a professor who also runs a bookshop. I had used the name of the bookshop as a trump card and I noticed how it impressed her.

Minutes later I’m ushered back in by one of the two boys working there.  I find the lady sitting where I’d left her. She smiles at me and announces that I got the job. My heart is a bed of soft spring flowers and I can smell happiness. She explains my job details which to my surprise entails not just selling books but also learning sign language. I’m a bit perplexed at that, and I ask her feeling confused.

“What has sign language got to do with this job?”

She shifts her position in her chair and takes a sip from her cup. “The person who is in charge here is not me, darling, it’s my son and you will have to work with him on a daily basis and the sign language is for that very purpose.” She pauses and studies me.

“You’re not against working with people with a certain handicap are you?”

I’ve never really thought about that. People like us, who have everything functioning as it should, never really think about all that stuff. So her question throws me off guard and the answer that comes out of my mouth is different than I had thought.

“No! No, I have nothing against it. In fact, I would like to extend as much help as I can.”

It's perhaps my desperation for a job that my mouth runs ahead of my head.

“Good then!” She presses the buzzer and a young helper appears in sight.

“Could you ask Nishin to come in?” The boy disappears as hastily as he had come in. She then continues. “So, what do you make of Mary Shelley?”

“I’ve read Frankenstein. We had it in the second year and I really enjoyed studying it.

"Life although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I must defend it."

I quote from a passage that is dear to me. She claps her hands gleefully and I can see that she likes me. 

“Did you know that Mary Shelley wrote more works beside Frankenstein?”

“Yes indeed, she was a biographer and a travel writer too,” I added and the lady raises her eyebrows. I have impressed her.

“You are unassuming to look at but you really are quite the treasure aren't you?.” She adds genuinely and my heart flutters a little because this is the first time anyone has complimented me so lavishly.

Just then the door opens and a man probably in his late twenties steps in and as my gaze falls on him, I recognise him immediately.

With the same long fingers he signs at his mother deftly and the way his fingers move captivates me. Like fish swimming in the water, effortlessly, fins unfurling and curling like magic. I now understand how he'd come to have such beautiful fingers. I suddenly realize that I’m staring at him with my mouth hanging open and I quickly shut it.

“For now, you can use a pad and pen to communicate with Nishin. He owns the bookshop. I only help him a bit.” His mother rises from the chair to leave.

“Oh I’m Kiden by the way, Nishin’s mother.” She extends her hand to take mine and taking her proffered hand nervously I thank her for taking me for the job. She merely smiles and says,

“Thank Nishin, not me.”

She leaves the room with the man and me facing each other awkwardly. I scribble on the pad hastily, thank you for considering me for the job.

He writes back, and his cursive is much better than mine.

You’re welcome, I saw you sitting there the other day and I noticed that you had been to countless interviews. So I thought I could help you a bit.  He smiled.

How did you know that I had been to many interviews? I scribble back.

From your shoes. They were worn out more than your clothes and you are too young to have your shoes worn out like that.

I drew my legs away hastily embarrassed at being found out.

Studying me quietly for a while, he writes again.

“Something told me you would come back there and I pasted the notice on the lamp post just so that you could see.”  

He had a playful expression on his face as he wrote this.

I couldn’t believe that he did that for me. I couldn’t believe that a complete stranger saw me for who I really was and had understood all the battles I’d been fighting inside. I couldn’t believe that in today’s day and age there are people watching out for you finding you at the most desperate hour. For me, he, my mister, came to me as a saviour in my most dire hour.

For the first time in months, I felt like I was in a safe place in this wide big city that had so far been nothing but hostile to me.

For the first time, I understood the meaning of compassion from someone who had lived his life like a stone at the bottom of the sea, in a world bereft of sound.

For the first time I understood the meaning of an open heart and suddenly, life to me seemed beautiful and kind.

* Illustration by Yoshay