Putrid, sticky, icky puddle water stained Bridget’s best pumps. The stench easily carried from her feet up to her nostrils. There’s just no way she could go to her big-time job interview like this. Still, time ticked, ticked, ticked quickly away, as if the seconds sped up somehow. Now, she had to get back to her apartment, wash her feet and pick out another professional outfit. After all, it wasn’t worth risking if the bottom of her dress also stunk to high heaven.
With as much haste as Bridget could muster, she ran back block after block, knowing any wasted time could be costly. She had to be fast, but not too hasty. After all, too much exertion would trigger a stinky sweat under the rising temperature and humidity as the last week of spring slipped away. Of course, this was one of those rare days traffic was flowing along — as if the unusual absence of the normal big city congestion was deliberately mocking her unlucky situation.
Finally inside and fumbling about, nothing cooperated. The closet door stuck, concealing the mess inside, which inconveniently hid the clean pair of shoes she sought out desperately. The water in the tub was cold, even though she turned on the hot knob, a problem that confounded her and practically everyone in the same building time and again.
But, these annoyances couldn’t get her off track. She managed to rinse her filthy pumps in the tub, clean off her dirty, stinky feet, and get a new outfit on, complete with her least favorite dress wedges, in record time. Back out onto the street and down the same blocks again to the train station.
Of course, now traffic stacked up on the street as far as the eye could see and the same overcrowding would be waiting in the subway. Bridget looked up at the clock on the wall, worried about arriving on time. She checked her phone, just in case the old analog clock was off. But no, right on the minute.
Then, off the platform and stuck in a standing-room-only train, right next to an old, unkempt little man. She feared his body odor would somehow rub off onto her, so she struggled to move away. By the time the train arrived at her stop, she had inadvertently put herself as far away from the door as possible. Those precious seconds battling slow-moving disembarking bodies would add more unneeded stress to her chaotic morning.
Worse still, the lights on the platform flickered out, leaving all the passengers in the dark. The emergency lights barely illuminated the crowded space. Then suddenly, a violent tug on her shoulder. Some petty thief was using the confusion to his advantage, stealing her purse.
The pursuit lasted what seemed like an hour, running until short of breath, but managing to corner the very slight-statured robber, dressed in ragged, soiled clothes, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. The kid actually apologized so profusely, with tears streaming and a strikingly famished expression, she couldn’t help but feel sorry and gave him the only cash in her wallet. Not much at all, but certainly enough to buy a couple of cheap meals.
Suddenly, Bridget realized how very fortunate she was and gained an entirely new perspective from that day forward. The once bigger-than-life job interview was really just one of three. (Two were already second interviews, near guarantees of the next giant step in her blooming career.) It was highly unlikely, nearly improbable, that she would ever experience the same set of desperate circumstances.
