"The Constitution sucks, totally anachronistic. Now the Bill of Rights, that's a document." Kinta was sitting behind a stack of files. A ragged, half-eaten sandwich was in front of her. Mayonnaise and crumbs left grease spots on one of the manila folders. She took a bite. "So how much money do you want?" she mumbled.
Myron had been confused from the moment he'd met Kinta, a petite black woman with an unruly head of hair. This question was equally obscure. "Aren't I supposed to pay you?"
She laughed. "You're a character, Myron. No offense. We're goin' in. How about a million?"
"A million dollars?"
"Of course dollars. Granted Euros would be better. Man, that European market is solid, but when in Rome. My commission will come out of the million. Say twenty-five percent when we settle. And we WILL settle."
Myron liked it when she said ‘we', made him feel part of something.
"So. What do you say?"
"I just want my job back."
"Excuse me?"
"I need to work."
"Myron, Myron." She leaned back in the chair. "In life, on rare occasions, a golden opportunity comes a'knockin'. Your employer, Mr. Barnes, has indeed granted you a new chapter. Unfortunately for him, it's on his nickel. He has violated not only your right to free speech, but has shown bias, failed to show cause and denied you due process. These infringements on the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments as well as his clear, flagrant revilement of the ADA means you got a blank check coming your way. Heck. Let's double it and go in for two million."
"But I like my job."
"What about terrorism, and the mail, and your ride into work? You won't have to worry about it anymore. Well, at least not that kind of terrorism."
"There's another kind of terrorism?"
"Myron, compare the odds, being blown up by some lunatic with a beer belly of plastic explosives or getting walloped by the Big C."
"Big C?"
"Cancer. Now that's terrorism. It's random and scares the crap out of people. And once diagnosed is it ever out of your mind? Does a day go by that you aren't trolling Google for some breakthrough, some new extract from the rain forest that will zap it out of you?"
"Good point."
"Hmm . . . But I digress. Even though we won't be going to court, it still may take awhile, a year or two. You'll probably have to find another job in the interim, unless you've got some money put aside."
Myron shook his head. "I got nothing."
Abruptly, Kinta stood and held out her hand. "You're a good person, Myron. And before long you'll be a rich good person. A rarity indeed. I'll be in touch."
Myron's meeting with Kinta made him feel worse. He was over his head, no job, no money, with growing concern about his health. He spent the rest of the day at the library. By the time he finished a number of Google searches, he had a splitting headache, felt some left-sided weakness and couldn't see too well.
On his last day of work, Myron found a second note from Barnes. Rico and Lenny told him to throw it in the trash. But before he made the mail deliveries, Myron stopped upstairs.
"Myron," Barnes said, "so you went to see a lawyer."
Myron shrugged.
"Kunta Kinte somebody."
"Her name's Kinta."
He nodded. "Whatever. Anyway, I've talked to the Board about you and we decided to give you another chance."
"Chance?"
"To keep your job."
"I don't understand what you mean by ‘chance'. Sounds kind of temporary. Will I be on probation or something?"
"No, of course not. It was a poor choice of words. You can keep your job."
"What about my workstation? Do I have to make any changes?"
"No problem as long as it doesn't affect your job performance."
Myron wasn't quite certain, but he seemed to have the upper hand. He needed to test the waters. "Will I be getting a raise?"
"Raise? How much of a raise?"
Myron thought fast. "Double."
Barnes reared back. "Double? Now just hold on . . .
Myron stopped paying attention. He looked out the window to the river. The current sparkled. He had never noticed.
"Myron, are you listening? How about a fifty percent increase?"
"Sounds good."
It was settled. Myron agreed to keep his job and went on a payment plan with Kinta. She only asked for two thousand. He remained concerned about terrorism, but diversified. Every Friday, when he delivered the mail, he included handouts on the warning signs of various diseases. By Christmas, Barnes was diagnosed with prostate cancer. They caught it early, thanks to Myron. And the next time Myron saw Dr. Rice on television, he decided to pass along some information on lymphoma. With a clean sheet of paper he began, Dear Dr. Rice . . .
Linda A. Lavid lives in Buffalo, New York. She believes the world is unsafe and worries a lot. Watching hours of C-Span doesn't help. She has published two books of short fiction: Rented Rooms, Thirst, and a novel, Paloma. Visitors are welcomed at www.lindalavid.com.