Percival, Chapter One Part Two

The neighborhood stood in disarray, garbage cans rolled aimlessly around vacant lots and houses were packed together with every window locked with steel bars. Two little girls swung an orange jump rope with a tiny girl with worn out clothes waiting to jump in. They sang while their beads in their hair swung wildly about.

A group of teenagers smoked cigarettes and lounging against a maroon Cadillac with four flat tires. They eyed him as he sped by. The largest of the boys leaned over and said something inaudible and it got the others chuckling.

Percival weaved in and out of piles of broken glass until road ended, where he took a left and the hospital came into view. An ambulance zoomed by with its siren blaring, pulled to a stop in the emergency room entrance and two men dressed in white jumped out of the back, rolling out the gurney. On top of the gurney, an enormous woman on it. She clutched her stomach, a huge mound, and wailed. As they passed each other, she looked right into his eyes. She looked so pale to Percival, like her skin was bleached. He tore his eyes away, hopped off his bike and rounded the corner.

He pushed his bicycle through the electric doors of the hospital and maneuvered around a swarm of people blocking his path. The smell of Pine-Sol disinfected his nostrils as he took a deep breath. He liked the tingling sensation. He imagined the disinfectant combating his disease.

A hundred voices intermingled in a loud crescendo, as he approached the cafeteria. Tired patients and their families sat bunched together as they ate, while a long line waited to be served food.

Percival went to the employee’s door and opened into an alcove attached to a kitchen. Men yelling in Spanish bustled around the kitchen, their aprons painted with scraps of food.

Franco spotted him and gave a shout in rusty English, ”Hey, Percival. Glad you could make it.”

He placed his bike in the corner of the alcove, resting it against a mop bucket and joined the fray. Franco tossed him a tattered rag and moved away from the enormous pile of dirty trays.

Snatching the rag, Percival fished out his time card on the wall next to the manager’s office. He peered in, and saw Mr. Silverman at his desk, talking on the phone. The manager looked up and motioned for Percival to come in. He opened the door and stood, waiting for him to finish the phone call.

“You can toss that rag back to Franco, because we need you at the register,” said Mr. Silverman, as soon as he hung up the phone, plucking out Percival’s paycheck from a pile of papers on top of the desk. “You might want this too.”

Taking that as a sign to go, he left. Franco leaned against the door leading out to the dumpster, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked at Percival and gave him a nod toward the dishes. He tossed the rag at Franco and it bounced off the top of his landing on the floor.

“I have to use the register today. I’ll help you after I get done there.”

Franco looked disappointed and slipped out the door while Percival entered the food court. A red velvet rope corralled people in zigzags until they reached a counter of stacked trays. Randolph wheeled a fresh batch and started refilling them. Percival ducked under the rope and headed toward the end of the line to where Mrs. Zandrosi, in a white church dress, rang out customers. Her hair light brown was held in place by a shower of hairspray. Percival had seen her hair repel a rainstorm.