My Life and 2 Cents

[A dream about a girl]

My life is not worth 2 cents, I know that. I’ve always known it. It’s not something I get emotional about. It’s just a fact. When I was a kid, I used to live with a hunchbacked lady who lived in a big house. The house was not hers. She lived with another family. She spent all her time hunched over in a blue short sleeved shirt and white pants, sitting bent over a sewing machine, her long black hair with grey streaks always pinned in the same messy bun at the back of her head. I don’t remember her doing anything else but that. Thinking about it, maybe she didn’t really have a hunched back, but sitting there like that, she sure looked like she did and that’s how I remember her.

I remember I got my food sitting at the kitchen table with another couple and some of their kids. I guess they were the ones who owned the house but I’m not sure. I know they provided the food, while the other woman with the bun sat hunched over in her room, because sometimes she wouldn’t even come out for food. Other than that, I don’t really remember much about those times. I remember there was lots of fabric around and needles to poke your hand on if you weren’t careful. It wasn’t much fun.

I remember I would run around too much. That’s what they told me. I needed to be more quiet and stop running. Running in the house was bad. Therefore, I was bad. I didn’t know how to contain myself. I kept forgetting, and then I would run.

One time I tripped on the carpet coming down the stairs and ran into someone coming up with a tray of food and drink. Red liquid spilled all over the expensive hall carpet. I knew that was bad, but no one said anything that time. They didn’t bother to tell me I was bad. They didn't even yell. Maybe they thought I already knew it by then.

It was not long afterwards that I was standing outside in the driveway surrounded by three boxes and some small pieces of furniture. A car was coming for me. All my stuff was in those boxes on the pavement, waiting for some guy to come and pick it up. It wasn’t much stuff. After a while, the adults began to get nervous and upset. He was late and they weren’t sure if he was coming, but finally he came. He seemed nice enough. He picked up the stuff and put it in his car and we drove a long way to a big white house.

The columns on this house were huge. When we drove up, that’s all I could think about. Gigantic carved white columns perfectly supported the eaves all the way around the outside of the house. The columns were so white that it looked like they were just painted that morning, not a speck of dirt on them, they were almost shining.

I was afraid of those columns. They were too big for me, too perfect, just like the house. The idea of being there scared me, but I was relieved to find out I would instead live in a tiny house way in the back, far behind some trees. My house had only a small living room, two small bedrooms and one tiny bath. I liked our house much better. I felt comfortable there. It felt natural.

I spent most of my time either in the small house with the man who picked me up or running around outside in the dirt and dust. There's some trees and a small creek way in the back. I liked that, more space to run and nothing important to damage, so I was happier and felt more free than I had ever felt before.

The man was always quiet and calm, didn’t talk much, just enough to say what was necessary. I liked him. He made me feel relaxed. He didn’t talk much, but he never got angry either. Still, he seemed sad most of the time. He always looked bewildered, as if he was lost and couldn’t find himself inside that big cavern inside his head, so instead he would stare out in quiet confusion at the world.

When I turned 12, I finally got this assembly plant job. My job is to pack these projector machines into these boxes. Sometimes, as a break, I also get to sweep the dust off the floor with a broom. I was really lucky to get this important job at such a young age. That’s what everyone keeps telling me and I believe them. If I were to damage this projector right here in this box, I would probably be fired on the spot. Projectors cost money and my life is not worth more than a projector. I have to be really careful and think about what I am doing at all times. I can’t run around all the time without thinking like I used to.

The other day, me and the man were in our living room. He was sitting in the chair reading a newspaper when a lady came in with a message. I think she was one of the other women who work around here. I am sure I saw her before a few times. She poked her head in the door and told the man that some woman had gotten on the train and left for someplace far away and probably would not be coming back. The man seemed more confused than ever by this news. I am not sure, but I think the woman on the train was my mother. At least that’s the impression I got.

After receiving the news, the man got up from his paper and began to do the dishes. In the process, he accidentally tipped over a can of cayenne pepper from off the window sill and it spilled all over the kitchen counter. He kept trying to scoop up the powder with his big hands and pour it back into the container, but the opening to the container was small and his hands were big. And they were quaking. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the pepper back into the can. Maybe his life is not worth 2 cents either.