The sole of my shoe caught the door frame as I was leaving the Hearsts’, tearing it from my boot and causing it to smack loudly each time I took a step. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much except that it had just started to rain and my pinky toe was already starting to peek through the threads of my sock. I shuddered at the thought of my bare feet touching the city sidewalk.
Though I had been working for the Hearsts for two years, I had never actually seen them. Sometimes, when I was engrossed in cleaning a particularly difficult mess, I’d think I caught a glimmer out of the corner of my eye; a feeling like the gravitational pull in the room had recentered itself around something just to my left, slightly out of reach. The estate employed such a large staff that there were some whose entire job was to make sure that the family never came into contact with some of the “less desirable” employees. Though no one ever explicitly told us which of us had been deemed undesirable, it seemed intuitive. Mrs. Hearst was the youngest in a family bolstered by old money. The kind that never runs out. Their heirlooms and photos laid out a wretched story. A household name, everyone knew how they made their fortune.
On good nights, I left before it got dark, around rush hour. Tonight, I stayed later. Having nothing but time on their hands, Mrs. Hearst and her husband were known for their parties. Last night the young couple celebrated the purchase of a new home in the Hamptons with the trashing of this one. This morning they left to spend a week there. Cleaning messes as offensive as this one I would sometimes pocket a few things, small things. This time I took a jade bracelet left near the hot tub on the roof and a compact mirror. The mirror had short lines scratched into its surface. It was practically unusable; I could barely make out my face. But the outside was beautiful, adorned with pearls and jewels, real ones. It reminded me of the things I imagined keeping in my handbag when I was young and pictured adulthood. Tossing it into my bag it landed clumsily alongside crumpled receipts, dive bar freebie matches, and a pack of Camel Turkish Royals.
Walking to the Chambers Street station I could feel sweat pooling on my lower back. Despite the rain, it was still over 80 degrees outside. A small puddle of water had started to collect underneath my toes as the lining of my shoe curled into itself. My body ached from absolving the consequences of indulgence all day. I couldn’t tell if complaining after work made it bearable or worse, either way, I could never help myself.
It wasn’t a long journey home per se. There wasn’t much physical distance between my home and the Hearsts’, and I was no stranger to this line of work and the toll it took on my body. No, the distance wasn’t literal. A descent, a falling, a tripping, a hard landing. The rain let up. Standing outside the station, smoking my last cigarette, I felt an immense pressure in the center of my chest. Not completely unlike that of being a smoker for years, but definitely not the same. I felt the gravity shift to my left.
“Excuse me, may I ask you a question?” The urgency of the speaker startled me and I dropped my cigarette into the dirty puddle seeping into my sock below.
“Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” I said nothing.
“But you really should quit anyway so maybe I’m doing you a favor.” She decided, and then probably smirked.
I tried to look at the woman addressing me. She must have been beautiful, I imagined. For some reason, I could hardly make her out, like the glimmer in the corner of my eye. Her presence implied that I was in her orbit now, and it is quite difficult to get a good look at something standing still while you’re constantly in motion. It only worsened my headache to try.
Deciding to instead focus on her shoes, too expensive to recognize and which no puddle could ever permeate, I answered, “Okay.” She let a sharp exhale of air leave her nose, suggesting a laugh.
“I know this is a bit of a strange request but I’m working on a short story and- Oh well I should probably introduce myself. I’m Eleanor Mars. You may have seen some of my work online or in bookstores around.” I had not.
“I’m most known for my piece in the New Yorker about how during the holidays the train tracks become a hotbed of- well actually it’s quite depressing.”
Was I supposed to respond to this?
She continued, “Anyway, the point is that I write about real people.”
Unlike herself I supposed.
“One of the characters in my story goes home every night from this station. I was wondering if you would spare a few minutes to tell me a little about your daily commute or what the neighborhood you live in is like. I’m from Connecticut and I’ve not spent much time outside of my neighborhood, but I want this story to be as accurate as possible.”
I imagined that she was looking at me with bright eyes and an earnest smile, that she felt like I may even be pleased that she wanted to include me in her work.
“Accurate to what?” I asked.
“Oh, you know.” I did not.
“The lives of people that make this city run, the gritty underbelly of New York.” She made her hands into fists and leaned in, emphasizing her next words.
“The stuff that people actually want to read about. I don’t want my work to come off as out of touch. I would sincerely appreciate your perspective. Unfair as it is, It’s not every day your story gets told.” She nudged my arm a little to imply my importance. I imagined then that she was sneering at me, looking down from some undisclosed location, writing me into existence as fodder for her worldliness. So I lied.
“I don’t take the train,” I said, unwrapping a new carton of cigarettes.
“I have a driver and the smell of death never washes out of my fur coats after a ride on the train.”
I never did make out her face. Maybe she knew I was being facetious, maybe she would be proud of her empathetic capacity for disgust, or maybe she secretly agreed. Either way, I turned away too quickly for her to respond and hurried down the stairs. I imagined that my indifference to her made her feel small, and though I’m sure it didn't mean much, that made me smile. I hoped that she could feel my disapproval every time she sat down to write the character who goes home from Chambers Street. I thought of her standing there, waiting for an epiphany that would never come.
The J train was delayed. Thirty-five minutes till the next train. I knew I could walk that distance faster but there was nearly nothing I wanted to do less. I pushed my back against a wall, letting gravity slowly pull me down to a squat. Maybe the light really does bend around them, the super-rich, the ultra-desirables. Maybe if I could get the light to bend around me I could- My train of thought was interrupted by a distraction begging to be seen. Two beautiful young people in elaborate, though maybe ugly, outfits walked confidently down the platform while a crew of lights and cameras followed closely. This was not a particularly unusual sight. Hearing myself think made me realize how bitter I had become.
The crew was sweating hard, carefully tracing their movements as they walked up and down the platform. I didn’t attempt to look directly at the young models. This time the light really did bend around them. The lighting crew made sure of it with all kinds of reflectors and gadgets. I wondered how much money they were making for this. I wondered if it mattered. If I could just make them out clearly, maybe I could replicate what they’re doing. If I could get people to follow me around with light bending tools maybe I could also-
As I reached the end of this train of thought again I realized I didn’t know what was at the end of it. Maybe I could what? Have been born rich? Never have to work again? Feel as though I wasn’t wasting my life away on tasks designed to keep the light bending around someone else? I supposed it was all of those things.
I took the compact mirror from my bag and held it low to let one of the ceiling lights reflect off of it and onto my face in a direct stream. I could pretend that I arrived at answers that satisfied me but I never would really. The ritual of complaining on my way home had somehow morphed into a ritual of existential dread. I was constantly in orbit. The train pulled in and I got on. I could always see everyone clearly on the train.
I didn’t think much of anything the rest of the way home. I listened to my shoes keep an irregular beat against the sidewalk and tried to think of melodies to hum along with it. The lock on my front door had been broken for months and always took a great deal of effort to open. Going straight to my room, I placed the jade bracelet and compact mirror atop my dresser with my other “borrowed” trinkets. Mrs. Hearst wouldn’t mind. Anything she had of real value she kept in safes, far out of reach from hands as sticky as mine.
I imagined that the street would look beautiful after the rain this time of night. My room faced into an air shaft and there were five floors above me. Light never reached my window. Last winter I became so desperate for sunlight that I considered setting up a complex network of mirrors to direct some into my room. I quickly realized that would require much more than I had access to. I thought about how Mrs. Hearst could probably move the sun if she wanted to.
Laying in bed I couldn’t sleep or didn’t want to. Every night I had the same question on my mind. What was I waking up for? My life had become a series of events that felt utterly meaningless to me. What was I waking up for? Another toilet to scrub, another entitled brat to service. What was I waking up for? To watch myself age. What was I waking up for? To watch myself die. What was I waking up for? I stayed up until I found my answer. And this answer did satisfy me.
The next day I went back to work at the Hearsts’. Work felt easier than usual. I smirked at the colonial heirlooms and offensive displays of wealth which had always felt so dominating. Finally, I had power over them. After midnight the house was always ordered empty to deter employees from sleeping there. It wasn’t hard to get past this if you were good at hiding. Emerging into the empty home, I felt giddy. Everything was mine. I had thought of a way to get the light, their light, to bend around me.
I had stashed a few items in a supplies closet on the main floor for easy access that morning. Using paint thinner, I made intricate designs all over the walls. I wanted to savor my moment. I knew it would likely be my only one.
Striking a match, I let it fall and watched the lines of fire swirl around me like vines. It was beautiful, and I was the center of its orbit.