Tuesday

1.

Hustlers and streets.

Mary rolled by, lit cigarette hanging off the corner of her mouth. Yo,

what's up? To no one in particular as she stepped out of a taxi.

The street was bustling. Vendors selling all kinds of bullshit no one needed, made I-don't-know-where, people pushing through on the sidewalk. Her keys were always caught in something. Home

again. Shit. Empty apartment, empty fridge, clothes she hated. But good enough. The City was in shambles, business was bad and life had never been realer, as if multitudes were crawling out

from under rocks, looking like life had done them. There, was something, or was it here –

no matter. Time to hit the street again.

She needed money.

Time to give business men and women selling unfair nonsense a breather.

Mary

was a prostitute.

She belonged to Marco.

But that was a horse of a different color.

Marco was dark-skinned,

but his ownership of her person and her work

were unrelated.

2.

Money was simple enough:

people had it and most held on to it, ready to let go in exchange for something they needed or wanted,

and they always did (need, want, let go). But things had to change, because she could not grow old in this mess, and there was no point

in giving Marco money. He said he would take care of her when she

would be too old

but he would not

(he could not). Marco belonged, as well. And he,

probabilities

were, was not going to break free, either. As such, he owed half

to people, mostly men, connected to

men who owed others, or so they said, believed or needed to believe, which mattered even less because she needed to eat. Ten down

the road and Marco would be hungry, unemployed and older, probabilities were. Money would take care of itself. But how

does one care for work and

the future?

3.

Marco lived with his mother. A long time ago one of his ancestors had for a reason purchased buildings, strategically, and no one he loved had had to earn a living, ever since, up until some of the money ran out, and all of it lost value and uncle Domingo became nervous so he made mistakes,

and all his mother had left was the apartment.

And

the neighborhood changed.

4.

And

the Asian guy

drove a taxi.

He never took days off because he didn't need them: he

wouldn't know

what to do with them. His father had been new to the land, so he'd worked all the time, and he (the Asian guy) had worked, forever,

and no one knew the City

like him.

5.

Where do you see yourself

in ten years?

Mary had never interviewed.

6.

In the City there are days when something is happening all the time, from the moment you wake, to when you fall asleep without even knowing you did. You had such a good time Time became irrelevant. Wise people speak of youth. Well Marco felt anything but young. Time was bad news.

When it was later than he thought he felt as if Time were a bus departed, on other occasions the clock stopped and he saw himself too much. Tomorrow would be better.

Sometimes it was, he thought. And God,

because Marco thought God knew,

relieved the situation: Ten years,

how should I know,

why would anyone ask?

I thought you'd know,

mumbled Mary.

7.

Time, for the Asian guy, was different.

He didn't own a watch and

on good days Time was a distant relative he thought of only if someone he ran into had exactly the same name as the person in his family he never knew, or understood. On bad days

the guy would watch a movie that made him feel as if he were seeing the movie happen and that made him forget. His mother said sometimes you are in a

spiral, and you need to stop the spiral, but the last thing you want is for the spiral to accelerate, so

you have to stop, and for that you have to be

present of mind.

Sometimes, though,

there is nothing to do,

and you have to believe in Tomorrow, she said. It was Tuesday, his favorite day of the week (nice and early).

The hooker from west-mid-uptown

was dressed too seriously.

If Marco had one more glass of whisky his mind would reach the valve in his mind that would trade the pain in him for pain he could attack the very first moment he became conscious the next day

which if he followed up with another attack (etc.)

until night came

there would be an opening.

8.

We meet again, said the person interviewing Mary, energetically. This gave Mary energy.

Have you given our question thought? An answer was needed.

And the street had taught Mary.

I don't know.

9.

Marco paid for digital goods, on principle.

10.

The taxi driver viewed a fair amount of adult entertainment. On principle he paid for nothing – cyberspace was where dreams were allowed. One time he had fractured a finger, as a child, and it had mended wrong; he had been playing outside, not something he at the time could admit to his; and now typing was tricky.

On the 22 his favorite number of every month he gave rides for free.

Smoking was disgusting, thought Marco's mother. She'd been impressed by her uninspiring son. She smoked French cigarettes. Marco had burst into the kitchen, clearly drunk but he'd slept, and he'd proceeded to tearing off a chunk of rye bread while opening the fridge, for butter, applying butter and salt on his food, eating while using his other hand to lean on the counter; and he said Good morning.

Lo the taxi driver had been waiting downstairs for forty-five minutes. This was not the 22nd of anything. Did the revolving doors make things faster? Couldn't people just get their act together when passing through normal doors, as a group? They all wore the same color too. Dark blue. It was a nice building: not nice in a meekly retractive manner, but a whole that worked well People he thought as he identified the beginnings of a spiral perhaps a porthole leading to Gods and understanding outside of him She used the revolving door Sneaking a peak at the oversized clock in the lobby he had a view of Lo noticed the time