The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Goldberg: Fix me, Jesus

She forces herself out the door. It’s one hundred and ten degrees and the streets are empty. Even desert people know when to stay inside. But she is not exactly a desert person…yet. Though the idea of a day spent in the dark watching Mulholland Drive and eating Egg-McMuffins sounds really appealing. She stops to reconsider. “No! Go.” She enunciates out loud as an act of resistance. “Mission, mission, must accomplish mission.” Top lock turns right, bottom lock goes left. She has to remind herself every time. She drops her keys. “Shit.” Bending down in a pregnant suit is becoming increasingly difficult. She is starting to sweat. She propels herself onto the hot sidewalk anyway and runs through the text from the motivational article she printed off the internet: “Perseverance and determination alone are omnipotent.” Calvin Coolidge or someone. She tacked the write-up opposite the toilet, knowing it would yield multiple opportunities to impress this new way of thinking.

She has never visited the complex one block south. The apartments have always struck her as a little sketchy. Too many balconies parading lazy boys and other ‘indoor furniture.’ Not to mention the conglomerate of scary ferns. She lives in an upgraded unit with painted cupboards and new appliances. She feels sure she made the right decision. But today, she intends to knock firmly on apartment six of the non-upgraded complex and confront this Goldberg Fields—the man who paid his electricity bill with her credit card. She has rehearsed the conversation nightly for the past week, testing various stances in front of the mirror. She also came up with an accompanying articulation—low, monotone and unfaltering. Unemotional. She played it back to be sure. This is business and she can’t afford to cry. Presently, she can’t remember the significance of Wednesday morning…

She trudges up her driveway and turns left. A gust of hot air engulfs her. She ponders suffocation and does a quick calculation: twenty more steps and then shade. This kind of weather requires mental manipulation and reward. She opens the gate and makes her way toward apartment six. She is now sweating profusely and her heart is pounding. She imagines a muscled black man in a ribbed tank opening the door: “What do you want?” He has a gun tucked into his jeans. She considers calling her mother and uttering some last words. She shakes off the ridiculous make-believe and knocks. Nothing. She knocks again. This time she hears something…a muffled grunting, and what sounds like whirring wheels. The door opens. Words tumble out: “Um…hi…I’m looking for Goldberg Fields.”

Goldberg: Shitballs