Underpass

Cara

It had been one of those days...you know, the days where you contemplate lying down in the middle of the street, announcing your official surrender from society, succumbing to an overwhelming feeling of defeat. The day had begun at Cara’s least favorite place, the dentist’s office, where she was poked and prodded under glaring white lighting; Adele droning on about “Rolling in the Deep” over the buzzing of toothbrushes and the scraping of metal on teeth.

The dentist’s office, however, had ended up being the least of Cara’s worries. Upon arriving at work, her manager had pulled her into his dingy, sterile office, presenting her with the news that she’d been “let go.” Yes, “let go,” a softer way of saying “you’re fired,” “screw you,” and “go to hell.” Her mind immediately went to her daughter, Lucy; the utter disappointment that would be painted across her shamelessly expressive teenage face once she found out that her mother had, yet again, been “let go.” Cara had been a single mother for fifteen years…bouncing from job to job, boyfriend to boyfriend. Despite the challenges of being a single mother, Cara had always managed to scrape by. Lately, though, it seemed the growing weight of the pile of bills on her shoulders made her feel physically slumped; she wondered if it was indeed the cause of her back pain. “I’m like the Hunchback of Notre Shame,” she thought, yet could not force a smile.

Cara left her former place of work, ‘Randolph’s Grocery Plus!,’ and boarded the city bus, the scent of body odor and musty ham sandwiches wafting into her nostrils. As she made her way down the aisle, an older man’s piercing eyes were glued to her backside like a dog watching a squirrel. She wished she could disappear; fade into the bus seats for eternity...at this point, being sat on by strangers seemed a worthy alternative to beginning the hunt for another exhausting, unrewarding minimum wage job. Cara audibly sighed as she took a seat, envisioning the luxury of personal transportation.

As Cara gazed out the window, she noticed something small and black stuck between the grimy bus seat and the wall. A book? Perhaps a wallet? Curiosity drove her to grab it, only to find out that it was a black notebook held shut with a small elastic band; the type with a smooth, leathery cover that seemed to signify the importance of its contents. She didn’t think twice about opening it, hoping she’d be delving into a stranger’s juicy diary entries to take her mind off of her own dismal existence.

Instead, Cara realized she’d found what appeared to be a handwritten novel; tiny black handwriting filling page after page. A title and table of contents presented themselves upon the first couple of pages, and yet, there was no mention of an author. This struck Cara as odd, and she wondered who the mysterious writer could be. She also wondered why they wouldn’t use a computer; it was 2021 for God’s sake, not 1810! For lack of a better way to spend the remainder of her commute, Cara began to read. For the next six hours, she barely put the book down.

Samuel

Samuel shivered, stricken by the icy breeze as it whooshed fiercely through the underpass. The underpass was not just any underpass; it had been his place of residence for the past several years. Samuel was careful not to use the word ‘home.’ Home suggests warmth, permanence, comfort; a ‘place of residence’ is just that; a temporary place to lie one’s head at night; a present yet often ineffective barrier to the brisk cold.

Upon this random Tuesday, Samuel had made a decision: it was time to start writing again. It had been over two years since Samuel had last written, for over two years ago he had lost his prized notebook; a glossy black Moleskine gifted to him by friends - the kind with thick off-white pages that practically beg for ink. The notebook contained his first-ever novel; his most precious cargo. He kept the notebook with him at all times, for it was much safer with him than it was left behind at the homeless camp. Or so he thought. One day he had reached into his pocket, and it was gone.

Samuel boarded the bus and began his journey to the bookstore, smiling as the warmth of the bus thawed his chilled bones. Samuel couldn’t imagine a life without the bus; its safety, its warmth, its ability to get one off their feet. He was planning to travel to purchase a new notebook; the same kind as before; this time adding his sister’s contact information to the inside cover. Before, he hadn’t seen the need. Why add your phone number when you don’t have a phone?

As Samuel entered the bookstore, he felt the disapproving glances of patrons and clerks wash over him like a blanket of condemnation, likely due to his wild beard and ratty attire. He ignored it and trekked on; glancing at the New Releases before heading to find a new notebook.

As his eyes scanned the “New York Times Best Sellers,” he felt his stomach drop. A book with the same unique title as his novel was gracing the shelf. “It couldn’t be,” he thought, “certainly someone else thought of the same title.” Yet, at his core, he somehow knew. He tore open the cover rampantly; hands beginning to shake as he immediately realized the book was his.

“But who would believe me?”

Cara

Cara pulled her brand-new SUV out of the garage, exhausted from a day of yoga, shopping, and baking vegan cookies for Lucy’s soccer team. She glanced at her phone: “One New Voicemail.” She sighed as she pressed play, once again bombarded with her publisher’s harsh, nasally tone. For months, her publisher Glenda had been trying to convince her to reveal her identity; claiming she could acquire a large amount of additional revenue from book signings and media events. “Oh, Glenda,” she thought. “That is simply not a possibility.” Though Cara wished she could continue to profit off of “her” book, for now, the $20,000 book deal would have to do. Cara whipped her car around the corner, scowling disdainfully at the dirty men and women at the homeless camp beneath the underpass.