Cornered

She scrapes hardened gum from her shoe, then pushes the pink gunk, dust blobs, hair strands, spent pens, empty baggies, and wadded paper with an industrial broom. It’s all cornered, like she is, working as a janitor at her former high school instead of, well, anything else.

Because Mom’s too depressed to get off the couch, much less hold down a job. And because Dad left nothing when he moved out besides beer stains on the broken recliner, a grimy gas grill on the back stoop, and some small change in the pocket of his old Sherpa-lined flannel jacket. There’s no money for college courses or unpaid internships. Retail and restaurants lack basic benefits and predictable hours, so she’s stuck, scrubbing toilets, mopping floors, and dumping trash.

Job perks: Repetitive, almost-meditative tasks. The resulting shiny floors, sparkling white-boards, and empty garbage cans give her a sense of order and, truthfully, accomplishment.

Job irks: Her supervisor.

Whose scrawny scarecrow body is sauntering down the hall toward her. “It’ll be a lot easier,” he says, rubbing his stubbly chin. “If you put your whole body into it.”

“Into what?” She stares at her black work sneakers, avoiding eye contact, praying he’ll leave.
“Sweeping! Use your hips.” She feels him against her, pressing into her, rocking his body against hers, soaking her in his salami-and-cigarettes scent.
“I know how to sweep!” She jumps back, heart racing, hands sweating, stomach twisting.
He adjusts his khakis, tucks in his work shirt, smirking. That smirk releases her rage; she slams her fists against his chest; he stumbles backward, almost falling, his right arm flying up like he’s trying to stop traffic.
“I don’t need your damn help!” She grips her broom handle like a field hockey stick, ready to strike. “Don’t touch me!”
“Calm down! Or I’ll report you for insubordination.” He wags a forefinger while turning back to his lair.
She wants to spit at his fucking face. Kick his saggy ass. Throw mop water into his leering eyes.
Instead, she presses her cheek against the cool tiled wall until his footsteps disappear. Her mind is exploding with profanities, frustration, and what-ifs. She doesn’t want trouble, just wants him to leave her alone, to disappear. She wishes she were a magician, like Harry Houdini or David Copperfield and could just wave a wand.
There’s no magic wand, but she does have a crude curse doll that she made herself, following online instructions, including stuffing the six-inch felt figure with discarded mail and papers she dug out of her supervisor’s trash can.

Her hands cease shaking as she chokes the creeper’s effigy, pinching its neck with her thumb and forefinger. When she hears him gagging in his office down the hall, she tells herself to let go, let go, let go. Then retrieves a tiny dropper bottle from her crossbody phone bag and squeezes the pipette’s rubber ball, releasing a repellent: a mixture of garlic powder and oils of peppermint, lemon grass, and lavender on the figurine’s torso.

While the potion soaks in, she sweeps up the cornered crud, dumps it into the trash bin, returns the mop, broom, and bucket to the storage closet. Flicks off the lights. Presses the door shut. Wheels the bin to the outdoor dumpster, tossing in the curse doll before slamming the container top shut, hoping it’ll all soon be gone, and she can finally work in peace.

BIO: Liz deBeer, author of the chapbook Farewell to Emptiness ­(Thirty West), has published flash in BULL, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres, and others. She has written essays for various journals including Brevity Blog. A volunteer reader for Flash Fiction Magazine, Liz is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now. Liz writes about resilience via her eekly Substack newsletter. Follow Liz at http://www.ldebeerwriter.com/

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