1. Good Morning Miss Sands

The sun’s insistent rays arced over the low hilltops, through a forest of quaking aspens and burst into the small grey bedroom of one Isabelle Sands. Isabelle rolled onto her belly and pressed her face further into the warm pillow. Outside the people began their morning rituals. A thousand automatons started their respective vehicles and buttered their morning toast. The mid-size city of Grange was beginning to rub the crust from its eyes and come alive. Busy citizens rushed off to jobs they loved, hated, or were (in most cases) tolerantly neutral to. Life was a well-oiled machine; they knew their particular functions.

Isabelle’s eyelids lazily drew apart and consciousness replaced her nonsensical dreams. The fantastic myriad of colors became the grey bedroom and the pockmarked ceiling.

Some cast iron pan was cooking bacon downstairs. Isabelle, drawn by the smell, abandoned her warm bed and soft blankets. The television was on as always, an ever-present member of the household spitting out black prophecies and shampoo commercials. Her mother was hunched over the sink, scrubbing a persistent remnant of last night’s lasagna.

“Morning.”

“You’re late.” Her mother didn’t look up with the accusation, just kept on with the dish.

Isabelle snatched a piece of bacon from the pan, it was still warm and she wiped the grease from it on her pant leg.

“This tastes like heart disease.” Isabelle remarked to the kitchen air.

“Why don’t you get dressed? God knows why those people put up with you; can’t you get to work on time once? You’re going to get fired, and then what you ungrateful little shit?”

The words came hissing out in a tired way. They were overused, the poison gone. Mrs. Sands scrubbed the pot as she spoke them, too lethargic to meet eyes with her target.

Seven minutes later the front door shut.

Isabelle sat in her defrosting Geo metro and shivered.

The sky was bleak, the trees dead and naked. The snow from last Tuesday had evolved into a filthy frozen slush. The left back window didn’t come flush with the frame of the car, so the left side of the backseat smelled of molding fabric. Isabelle put the car in drive and it sputtered down the narrow road. She pulled into her spot in the pot-holed parking lot in front of Grange City Bank.

A man wearing a furry orange cap waved as he strode out of the bank, holding the door open for her. This was an oddity; Isabelle knew most of the regular customers. Not many in Grange would leave the house in something so garish and bright. It was a city of grey, black, brown, and tan. Maybe a few daring housewives would venture out in white or taupe. The man in the painfully brilliant orange hat seized Isabelle’s attention. It was quickly yanked in another direction as her manager, Kevin Dally, cleared his throat in her direction.

“Hello Ms. Sands.”

She swallowed and tried her best to erect a veneer of regret on her face.

“I know you live a little bit out of town, but that’s no excuse for this constant tardiness. We are trying to run a company here. Are you going to put in your one hundred and twenty-five percent Ms. Sands?”

Mr. Dally straightened his nametag and looked down at her business casual attire disapprovingly.

Isabelle looked at the seventies brown carpet and tried to think about what must live in there.

“Your appearance is simply unacceptable. When is the last time you ironed your shirt? This is a professional job. I’d like to just remind you of that.”

She nodded humbly and began a slow shuffle towards her cubicle, eyes fixed on the carpet.

Mr. Dally let out a little noise of exasperation and relented. Sighing in relief, Isabelle turned on her computer and sunk into her chair. The phone would start its never ceasing wail in about fifteen minutes and she inwardly prepared herself for the onslaught of unsatisfied customers. The bank had low ceilings and jail-cell windows. Its walls were painted cream.

A large woman named Fern Simmons had the cubicle closest to Isabelle. She had a French manicure every other Tuesday and her talons were a constant source of great pride. Glamour shots of her twin Pomeranians decorated the cubicle wall. She was in love with the UPS deliveryman. She organized mandatory themed office days with Mr. Dally. The last was a Hawaiian luau, which required all employees to answer the phone with, “Aloha friend.” She leaned over the separator and peered in at Isabelle.

“Late again?”

Isabelle, who was staring blankly at the wall, blinked and looked up.

“Don’t worry honey; I’ll talk to Kevin for you.”

Isabelle drew up the corners of her mouth in what she hoped looked like a grateful smile.

“You sure are quiet, you know that? It’s refreshing to meet a young person who is a good listener. What with all these new cell phones you never seem to run into a person whose lips aren’t flapping.”

Fern licked her thin lips and bared her teeth in a broad smile.

Spittle had landed on the coversheet of Isabelle’s “Employee Feedback Survey.”

Ms. Simmons retreated to her hole and began tapping enthusiastically on her keyboard.

The phone rang.
Once, twice, three times….

“Hello, this is Isabelle; can I make your day better?”

“Can I make your day better” was a Monday catchphrase. Tuesday was “I’m here to serve!”

“Yes, I’d like to transfer three hundred dollars to my checking account. My name is Adrian Shore.”

The name zipped through Isabelle’s synapses. Without hesitation she dropped the phone into its cradle.

Adrian Shore.

***