The Brand Ch. 01

It was the green fire of the homeless woman's eyes; dazzling in the September morning sunlight, that kept Victria's attention. Otherwise, the woman, somewhere in her early to mid twenties, was remarkable only in that she happened to be picking through a curb side trash receptacle; wearing a thread bare Cowboys sweat shirt, dingy gray jeans with a plastic shopping bag tied to the belt loop above her left hip and a fairly new yet quite hideously electric orange pair of tennis shoes. But, as Victria crossed the temporarily empty four lanes of Main Street, the clack of her high heels resonating between the insurance high rises on either side, the young marketing executive, age twenty-seven, was stirred by the woman's despairing yet valiant regard.

Under normal circumstances, Victria wouldn't have bothered to devote such attention; not ever having been the kind of person to give one in such a pitiful state much more than the time of day. The woman had been oblivious to Victria's approach along the cross walk, gathering returnable bottles and cans and stuffing them into her bag, until the click clack of Victria's heels drew her attention. The woman looked up, quickly assessed Victria from shoes to shoulders, and then matched her gaze.

Victria didn't look away, but turned her body toward a different direction than she'd originally intended. In that instant, a new look of shame and defiance burned in the woman's eyes, which only served to provoke Victria further. It was the homeless woman who looked away first. Pauper or princess, Victria was not accustomed to having it any other way. She was an alpha female, evolved through middle management to finally become a junior executive. Now, she had an office in her financial firm's executive suite, and as long as she continued to make hairline fractures in the glass ceiling, she would earn her way to becoming the firm's next chief risk officer.

Dressed in her work life finery; severe in her black blazer, blouse, pencil skirt and gleaming black pumps, Victria made her way in a confident, easy pace. The street's hustle bustle bled back into the world in a rush of bass booming cars, city buses, colorful folk languages and profanities, cell phone chatter and the occasional rippling coo of a pigeon. Slowing her stride, Victria looked over her shoulder to see that the woman had moved on to another trash can.

From a distance of thirty or so feet, Victria stopped, and turned to watch the woman rummage for more returnables. A staunch conservative, she never once wavered from her belief that everyone should pull themselves up by their boot straps and make a life for themselves. Surely, the homeless could find opportunity beyond the rim of a trash can. Yet the woman gave Victria the sudden sense that perhaps not everyone was truly able to surmount certain circumstances. Victria knew she could be wrong, at least once, maybe twice. Ultimately though, it was also her policy to never assume anything about anybody worth taking seriously, and the woman struck her as someone to be taken as such.

It was the mystery behind the woman's intense green eyes that drove Victria's curiosity. What was the more that had yet to meet my eye, Victria asked herself. It was the bottom line gut question that guided her problem product assessment in the office, and certainly had its application in the world outside of work. How do I brand her? What kind of packaging is going to dazzle the buyer? As Victria watched stray strands of the woman's otherwise bun bound brown hair glow in the early morning light, she felt a sudden blush dally its way along her chest, neck and cheeks.

Victria began to casually stroll her way back. She observed the woman, having plucked enough bottles and cans to fill her first bag, tug another from a back pocket and secure it to the belt loop over her right hip. Victria surreptitiously scanned the faces of passersby before letting her eyes fall back on the woman and affecting her lips to rise slightly to form a small, roguish smile. Briefly, she'd entertained the notion that the woman wasn't actually homeless, but fishing through trash as some cover or possibly as some method of diversion; like those that enjoy attending the funerals of strangers or those who pretend to be sick just to get into a hospital.

However, upon further assessment, Victria became certain that the pretty green eyed woman was truly without a home of her own. It was in the way the pigeons crowded around her feet, as if they'd been accustomed to the woman finding them crusts of bread, and how she simply ignored what looked like a small swarm of bees buzzing around her long fingered hands as she sifted through the garbage. Closing the distance, Victria mused over the fact that if she hadn't driven in as early as she had, to take part in a Women in Business Network breakfast meeting, she wouldn't have the opportunity to take the risk she was about to take.

The street woman, her face glowing with the light of the risen sun, seemed oblivious to the small swarm of bees flying tight holding patterns around her arms. Reaching into the trash can, she pulled out two honey bee spotted plastic bottles at once, gave them a sudden, slight, shake, which sent the bees hovering off beyond the rim of the can so that she could tuck the bottles into her second bag. Reaching back into the festering garbage, four more bees began to crawl across her knuckles as she reached for a can of orange soda, which she slowly turned bottom side up to drain its remaining contents into the trash. The bees followed the drips, leaving her to withdraw the can.

"Hey!"

The street woman turned her gaze down toward the pigeons that had flocked around her feet, and were now parting, some nervously flapping away.

"That's my trash can!" announced the voice.

The woman blew a frustrated sigh, rolled her eyes, and then settled them onto the person behind her: a tall, blonde wigged, stern faced black woman, wearing a black hoody that was much too small and black jeans that were much too big.

"Those be my motha fuckin bottles and cans." She continued, wide eyed and scowling, "Give em here!"

The smaller woman slowly raised her hands, open palms up, as if to make an appeal; her expression a spluttering squall of consternation, defeat and ultimate resignation. It wasn't the first time the big woman bullied her for her returns. She knew her from the self organized black section of the Main Street shelter's dorm room. She'd tried to reason with the big woman before, whom the others called Hennessy, but it never worked. Speechless, the small woman hesitated before finally reaching to loose one of the bags hanging from her waist.

"You don't have to give those to her."

The two simultaneously turned to face Victria; smartly dressed, poised, no nonsense, arms folded across her chest, a musing finger stroking the small valley between her bottom lip and chin, straight and shiney chestnut shoulder length hair topping her not so imposing five foot four frame.

"She took her sweet time getting here," continued Victria; leveling her gaze at the big woman, "And now expects to just take the spoils of your efforts? I don't think so."

"What the fuck you tawkin about lady?" the big woman blustered as she took a step toward Victria, "This ain't none ya biznis."

"I just made it my bizniz. This woman is clearly driven by the entrepreneurial spirit and as an American; she is entitled to keep the fruits of her labor. I saw you three blocks down, strolling over here like you had nowhere to be. And then you just roll up on this girl and expect her to just give up her booty?"

"Yo I ain't be wantin no white girl booty. I just want the mother fuckin cans yo."

"She can have the cans." the other woman said, glancing at Victria.

"No she can't Miss."

The two wayward women exchanged looks; their expressions seeming to ask the same question of one another: Well; aren't you going to take care of this? Presently, the black woman took another step closer to her fellow vagabond.

"Yes I can." She growled, "Come on yo, give em up."

It was Victria who made the next move; taking a step nearer to the big woman.

"Absolutely not." She insisted, "Give me the bags Miss."

Victria quickly unfolded her arms and held out an open palm, her gaze never leaving the large woman. The smaller woman, though perhaps an inch or two taller than Victria, paused, and then glanced between the rich looking trouble maker and her large nemesis. Presently, she untied the bags from her belt loops. The woman paused a second time before finally handing them to Victria.

"That's my money bitch."

"The hell it is bitch. Come on Cowboy."

Victria didn't wait for either street person to follow. Stunned, the original possessor of the bottles and cans remained behind, but only long enough to shrug at the black woman and wave good-bye.

"Was that really necessary?" asked the woman as she scurried up beside Victria.

"You were going to just hand these over to that leech."

"I guess so; yeah."

"Then it was necessary.

"Okay. Uhm, can I get my bags back?"

"Not yet."

The street woman glanced back to see her shelter mate conferring with two other homeless neighbors.

"Okay." She said, returning her attention to Victria, "So, where are we going?"

Victria answered with an impatiently beckoning gesture as she rounded the corner. Melody followed; noting the empty sidewalk, the row of parking meters and parked cars.

"What's your name?" asked Victria.

"I don't think I want to tell you my name." answered the street woman, "I don't want a friend. I just want my bottles and cans back."

Victria stopped and swung her body to face the woman.

"You look like an intelligent woman to me Cowboy. Exactly how long is it that you want to stay at rock bottom?"

The woman furrowed her brow, and then cast her eyes to the sidewalk. Victria appraised her; admiring the lush gravity in her eyes, the neatness of her hair's bun, the smell of at least three day old sweat coming off her body.

"What's your name?" Victria asked a second time, softening her tone.

The woman met her gaze again. As the street sounds blared, sputtered and waned, she studied the alertness and shrewd depth in Victria's brown eyes.

"Melody." she said, glancing over her shoulder to see the tall black woman in the distance, kicking pigeons from around the base of another trash can.

"Melody." repeated Victria, "That's pretty, refreshingly old fashioned. My name's Victria. Not Victoria, Vickie or Vic. I am opportunity and my door's wide open. I can turn your rock bottom into rock solid success. Are you interested?"

"Lady, I don't know you."

"If we were in my office, and you walked in looking for a job, you still wouldn't know me. Who really knows anybody anyway? I'll tell you the first truth about me you need to know. I'm worth the risk."

"Really? Worth what? How much?"

"How does sixty grand a year sound?"

Melody's reaction seemed muted to Victria, making her think that the woman might have been used to more than that in her old life. She decided to wait the woman out before sweetening or upping the ante.

"I'm listening." Melody said finally.

"You'll be my live in help for a while, until you start training to be my executive secretary. I'll give you three hundred dollars a week to start. You'll get an allowance of that, and the balance will remain in an account I'll set up for you. You meet my expectations and your pay will increase incrementally. Sounds good?"

"Too good. What's the catch?"

"Oh there's just one little thing before we start. Roll up your sleeves and let me take a look at your arms."

Melody glowered, leveling her eyes at Victria.

"Ooh," sang Victria, smiling at Melody's darkened expression, "If looks could kill. Come on now. If you have nothing to hide, then you have everything to gain."

"I'm not a crack head."

"So you say. Prove it."

"I don't need to prove anything to you."

"You're absolutely right. You owe it to yourself. Look, I just want to give you a job so that you can rebuild. Maybe your old life was worse than rock bottom, and your current state is a step up. All I know is that if you're drug free and honest, I will do right by you."

"You some kind of lesbian Unitarian or something?"

"Oh I'm something alright."

Melody made her own appraisal then, trying to read, put a value, some definition to the truth she saw in Victria's eyes.

"Come on now," the business woman continued, "Show me your arms, and your ankles too. I need to know I'm not wasting my time and money.

Melody lowered her gaze to the sidewalk, seemed to consider for a moment, and then raised her gaze again to idly scan the faces of passers by.

"As my secretary," Victria explained, trying to allay Melody's trepidation, "You could stand to make up to seventy grand a year. Once you've proved you can manage the job, you can stay or you can find work somewhere else."

Victria paused to check her watch; letting her last term hang there for Melody's consideration. She allowed herself three seconds more before urging the woman for what she'd decided would be the last time.

"You want me to show you the money," she said, "Show me you're clean. Come on Melody, let's go!"

Melody cast her eyes back down to the sidewalk, and focused on a very sun baked and weather beaten piece of pink bubble gum; its cratered moon face reminding her of love struck lunacy, pie in the sky men, children under foot, getting walked all over and over again and all the rest of the steps that led her to that very moment. Never raising her gaze, Melody slowly pushed her right sleeve and then the left to expose the hollows of her elbows. Proving there were no track marks, she then slipped out of her sneakers, raised one foot and pulled up her pant leg for Victria's scrutiny. The young executive nodded and Melody bounced to exposed her other ankle; revealing that it too was free of needle marks.

Satisfied, Victria consulted her watch again as Melody slipped back into her shoes. Then, raising her eyes back to her new charge, she observed that the found wayward woman had lost her struggle to keep from crying. She was wearing the same stoic defiance Victria had seen upon their first visual contact. Though now Melody, her back straight, her head high, her bottom lip trembling as a single tear dripped from her left eye, would not meet her gaze.

Victria wasn't certain whether the tears were because she'd challenged Melody about sobriety or something else. Moving on, watching to see that Melody was still following, Victria mused over the possibilities. Was the woman perhaps too beat down to be happy about the prospect of help? Had she maybe been reminded of the pain that brought her to such lowly circumstances in the first place? Or was she still hiding some other addiction, vice or compulsive preoccupation that would break the deal? It's all about the marketing, Victria thought as she switched both bags to one hand and withdrew her keys; once lost, now found, was blind, now I see.

Melody had wiped her tears away with the hem of her sweat shirt as they'd arrived at Victria's sparkle Barbi doll purple Lexus SUV. The woman wagged her head and rolled her eyes as if unable to believe Victria's vanity and arrogance. Melody shrugged as she looked over the odd spectacle of such a large big girl toy and its pink purple glitter paint job. Her attitude all too familiar, Victria could only smile smugly as she unlocked the passenger door. Once they'd hopped in, the young executive immediately locked them inside.

The mechanized sounds of each door's locking shut seemed to unsettle Melody. She stared about the cabin, the look on her face like someone who'd just been strapped into the seat of a roller coaster and wasn't exactly sure they could stomach the ride. As Victria dropped the bottles and cans behind the passenger seat, she glanced at Melody to see that she was glowering anew. She dismissed the look, and then, almost in one fluid motion, Victria put her keys into the ignition, started the vehicle and then pressed one of the buttons near the radio before regarding Melody again, but with a raised shushing finger. A young male voice came in through the speakers, and Victria explained to it that she'd spilled tomato juice all over herself at the breakfast meeting, and that she had to shoot back home to change.

Melody stared out her window for most of the ride. It seemed to Victria that she wasn't familiar with the area as her gaze bounced and curiously flitted across the changing scenery from feature to feature and site to site. Victria was prepared to hear anything the woman had to say and answer most if not all of her questions. But, Melody never uttered a word during their journey. She simply studied the landscape change from bustling city, residential outskirt, industrial parkway, highway, townships and finally to a quaint hamlet, surrounded by acres of horse farms, drying stalks of corn, ripening pumpkins or other winter squash.

Victria eventually turned onto a graveled road, and followed it through thick stands of oaks, maple, evergreen and pine until a very large farm house came into view. She cut the engine, unlocked the vehicle and stepped out. Victria had gotten as far as the veranda when she turned around to see Melody, still in the Lexus, staring up at the house as if it was some oddly compelling yet very bad piece of art. .

"Let's hustle Cowboy!" called Victria; poised on the top step, "I ain't got all day.

Melody uneasily regarded her new employer as she slowly pushed the passenger door open. Leaving her cache of returns in the Lexus, she casually crossed the door yard, observing the flagstone walkway and the thick green grass on either side. Mounting the three steps, Melody fell in behind Victria as she crossed the wide veranda to the front door. Presently, she was allowed inside.

Closing the door behind her, Melody stopped to admire the spaciousness of the foyer, living and dining rooms; realizing in the same instant that Victria obviously seldom to never used the rooms. While her hostess advanced into the house, Melody took in the sun dappled layer of dust over each piece of furniture and other beautifully crafted features of the place. Stepping into the kitchen, its square footage and appliances rivaling those in major hotels or catering facilities, Melody saw that it was the most lived in and filthiest of the rooms so far. Scowling, she took in the double sink, both basins overflowing with soiled, crusted pans, pots, utensils and plates, their odor more rank and fêted than her own.

She heard the click clack of Victria's heels on the parquet floor behind her, and turned to see the woman approaching her with a few stapled sheets of paper and a pen. Melody raised a quizzical brow and tilted her head slightly toward the sinks. Victria took her meaning, smiled innocently and shrugged before handing Melody the papers and pen.

"When I first laid eyes on this kitchen," said Victria, "I really wanted to make the most of it. And then, well; my time just got more and more expensive."

Melody stepped deeper into the kitchen as she read the document's title and sub headings. It was a job application and a contract replete with lists of responsibilities and clauses of legal jargon. Glancing up, Melody found herself in front of two enormous stainless steel refridgerator doors. She opened the right door, and saw that it was full of Chinese take out containers, a pizza box, bottles of orange and apple juice, vitamin B shots, a bag of moldering carrots, two white paper bags full of fresh red deliscious and honey crisp apples and a lunch meat drawer containing recently dated packages of sliced cheese and turkey breast.

"I can only imagine what your master bath and bedroom look like." She said, stepping back from the refrigerator and closing the door.