Job Search

By Kira Rodriguez, Creative Corner Editor

A stranger sat a row behind me, across the aisle. That was normal for someone getting on the bus. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie on a hot July morning. That was normal in Buffalo. Then he moved across the aisle from me.

"Do you mind if I sit, beautiful?"

"Not at all." 

Why would I mind? It was a public bus. There weren't signs dictating where a man dressed for winter on a July morning could sit. There was no sign telling him to ask the girl sitting across from him if he could sit there. Perhaps he was just being polite.

"What is your name?"

His accent was thick, but nothing I hadn't heard before. He repeated his question, and I answered. I don't remember the name he gave. It was something unique, something I should have remembered. I was too busy trying to navigate the strangeness of the encounter.

"This a good place to make friends?" he asked. "I just moved here."

"It can be. There are a lot of local small businesses, like cafes and bookstores." I heard the writer in me.

We passed a few bus stops, a few blocks. He hadn't asked any more questions. I didn't give any more answers. I went back to looking out the window, running scenarios in my head to pass the time and making note of things I could use in my writing.

"Is there anywhere to get a job?"

I told him to look at local restaurants and bars, maybe some dollar stores or grocery stores. It was summer. Those places were always looking for new staff.

"Could I have your number? You can tell me if you hear about a job."

"Oh, I wouldn't know. I don't work for anyone like that." I tried to get him to leave me alone.

"But you could hear something."

"I don't give my phone number out, sorry."

Reasonable answer. I didn't know him. He asked again, offering his phone number instead. There was a smile on his face and a look in his eye, a desperate one. I told him why I said no. He sighed and smiled. 

"Here," he said, looking through his wallet. "My IDs."

He gave me two. One was a standard US driver's license. The other was one from his home country. I don't remember where the ID said he was from. My eyes locked onto his birthday. 1979. Old enough to be my father. 

"Now you know me." 

I handed him his IDs as I repeated my answer.

"I don't know you. We just met. You can look on Indeed or ZipRecruiter online or on the business's website."

“Alright,” he said quietly, looking down at the wallet he held.

His persistence stopped a few blocks away from work. Maybe he wanted something else, something more. Perhaps he really did need a job. I couldn't help, not in the way he was fishing for.

"Have a nice day," he said. I smiled back as I waited for the bus to stop. 

"Have a nice day," he repeated, this time touching my arm. I answered back and got off the bus.