Maybe handing out flyers?
That actually sounds decent. Looks can somewhat help there, experience is usually not required, and you can make money for a few hours. It sounds perfect. The only problem is how I would even find a job like that.
For the next few hours, I wander around the city. Every now and then, I step into shops where I see stacks of promotional flyers on the counter and ask the owners if they need someone to distribute them. Everyone turns me down, saying they already outsource those services.
Eventually, frustration starts to settle in. I feel sweaty and dirty. It is my second day without a shower, or really the third, if I count the fact that my last day at the fortress was spent locked in a damn cage by a furious Anzo who was fed up with my blog, where I tore into the Ferros however and whenever I felt like it.
Annoyed, I head to the beach.
I undress in a spot where no one is around, since I hate when people stare at my scarred back, and walk into the water to rinse off at least a little. Unfortunately, it is saltwater. When I come back out and pull my not-so-fresh clothes back on, I feel somewhat cleaner, but my skin itches from the salt.
The next thing I do is head to a car wash by a nearby gas station. This time, I take a more drastic approach. The last dollar in my pocket buys me exactly one minute of water spray. I kick off my sneakers, stand against the wall, and soak myself from head to toe, clothes and all. I rub some liquid soap, stolen from the gas station restroom, under my arms and at my groin, then work it into the fabric to wash my T-shirt at the same time. I rinse everything off, fitting it all into that single minute.
Water dripping off me, I walk over to a nearby patch of grass and spread out my pants and T-shirt to dry under the harsh sun.
Luckily, it is September, and the sun is still strong, though the weather forecast on one of the TV screens inside the gas station shows a change coming the next day.
After an hour of lying in the sun, my clothes are completely dry. There is a faint scent of cheap dispenser soap around me, but I look almost decent.
I decide to resume the job search, but Saturday evening isn’t the best time for it. After a while, I give up and head back to my sleeping spot, the wooden crate near that big company.
I spend the night feeling much less optimistic. The sky is no longer full of stars, and my thoughts turn dark too.
Hunger makes everything worse. Sleeping on an empty stomach is something I’ve never experienced before, and it’s not something I’d recommend.
Sunday morning wakes me with a biting cold. When I climb out of the crate, a strong, chilly wind hits me. A cold front must be moving in from the north.
My hunger shows no signs of letting up, and a job isn’t about to materialize right in front of me. Things are starting to feel desperate.
Earlier, I naively believed my life would magically fall into place the moment I left the fortress, even though I didn’t have any kind of backup plan. I never really thought I’d need one, that Anzo, for all his supposed brilliance, would make such a mistake.
Reluctantly, I leave the company grounds. No one is working here today, and I could technically stay longer, but I am not going to lie in a crate starving.
Walking slowly along the edge of a busy road, with my head slightly lowered, one foot after the other, my thoughts drift hazily around.
As often happens with starving people, my mind fills with vivid visions of the food I could eat in the fortress kitchen. The chef made incrediblearanciniandcaponata, and in the evenings he often served aromaticsarde a beccafico. My mouth waters just thinking about it!
Swimming in imaginary aromas, almost opening my mouth to snatch anInvoltini di pesce spadafrom my fantasy table, unexpectedly… I notice a flyer blown toward me by the cold wind.
Since yesterday, I had been planning to look for flyer distribution work, so I pick it up, hoping that if a leaflet is lying in the street, maybe the company needs someone to hand them out.
I read it.
"You can find the Fate’s Choice for you here! Marital contract fair-and-auction! 14-15th September."
Below that are several promotional slogans encouraging people to attend.
My mouth falls open when I notice the agency’s name.
Fate’s Choice.
Wait a minute… Is this not the same agency where Anzo organized the attack?
I let out a short laugh.
What a coincidence! I pull over to the side of the road and sit down on a concrete ramp, staring at the flyer in a daze.
Is Fate trying to tell me something?
