Gold: Chapter 1

Auralie knew she was in trouble when she saw the shit-eating grin on her manager’s face. Striding over in patent black stilettos, black pencil skirt, and Barbie-level pink ruffled top, Dawn Peters stalked toward Auralie, who remained stock still. Years of being in the military had ingrained in her the ability to remain calm and focused, even in –especially in—the face of a threat.

Even if that threat had square hipster glasses that framed a long, oval face. Auralie didn’t dislike Dawn, the manager of the bank. She just didn’t like her. Or anyone, really. People were cold, ruthless, and didn’t give a damn most days.

Auralie stood in front of a computer where she did menial, barely-above-minimum wage work as a teller. Most days, it was fine, until Auralie remembered the job she had lined up before everything went to shit. She moved her cursor to click out of her personal email account, when a message popped up.

Follow the yellow brick road, read the subject line.

The hell?

She opened the email, but nothing was written. She quickly closed out of the tab as Dawn approached, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Auralie, we need to talk,” said Dawn in a cheerful but firm manner.

Are you breaking up with me?

Auralie nodded once, then followed her to a semi-private conference room. Floor to ceiling windows still revealed what would happen inside, but at least no one could hear whatever hell Dawn was about to deliver.

“Please sit,” said Dawn, as though Auralie had any other choice. She sank into one of the plushest office chairs imaginable—easily worth a month’s rent—but she didn’t relax. She kept a ramrod straight back. That wasn’t from the military so much as bracing herself for what was to come.

“Now, I know that you’ve worked here for five months, and you’ve done fairly well, but, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Dawn.

Auralie didn’t move an eyelash. She kept her gaze laser focused on the space just above Dawn’s forehead. The light in the office was too bright, the chair too comfortable, her clothes too big since she always had to paw through the clearance bin at the thrift mart.

“OK.”

Reveal as little as possible. That was always her strategy. Don’t show emotion, don’t give away anything for the enemy to use.

“Well,” Dawn simpered. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this—”

Sure sound sorry.

“But I’m afraid that we’ll have to let you go. You were late again today, and that makes the third time this month.”

Despite herself, despite her training, Auralie’s jaw dropped. “You know my car broke down, right?”

“Yes—”

“And I had to take the bus, right?”

“Well, you see—”

“And I can’t afford to pay to fix my car because I’m not paid enough here, right?”

Auralie could spit. How dare this woman waltz in her and fire her for having a shitty car that broke down all the time. How dare she fire someone over being late because of that shitty car when she wasn’t paid enough to fix the car in the first place. To not be able to buy groceries or pay the electric bill or pay the damn phone bill—all because she was late.

“What you do with your money is under your purview,” snipped Dawn.

Who the hell uses ‘purview?’

“Now, we’re willing to part ways with you and still give you positive references,” continued Dawn.

At the word “references,” something in Auralie snapped. She had worked so hard to get here, and worked so hard to stay here. Every single goddamn day was a struggle. Not knowing if or when her car would be fixed, if she’d be able to afford her grandmother’s medication for that month, if she’d be able to make rent with the hundred or so things that always came up—an unexpected bill, a dental cleaning, a piece of hardware that she needed to get to fix the apartment, because God knew her landlord wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Every single day she struggled, working two jobs, working one shift, then barely scarfing down lunch or dinner, then commuting all the way across the city and working for another five or six hours, then waking up at five am to do it all again. Over and over and over.

Auralie looked Dawn dead in her eyes, and Dawn shifted in her seat. Her manicured hands probably cost as much as Auralie’s phone bill.

“References?” Auralie said. “Can I eat references? Can I use those to pay the electric bill?” She shot to her feet. Anger zipped up her skull. She stalked toward the door, yanked it open, then stomped out.

People had burned her bridges in the past. What was one more? What did it matter if she could never go back? Someone had burned all her bridges in the military. She survived. She would always survive.

She strode into the lobby, where a handful of customers waited in line, and where several bankers stood at the ready. They were so ready and eager to take people’s money, all under the lacquer-thin veneer of customer service. It was nauseating.

“Fuck all of you,” she said, pointing at the personal bankers, the VP, and president. “Fuck you for not paying your tellers more, like our time isn’t worth the same as yours. Fuck you for treating us like shit, like we are just front-line pawns. Like we’re just something to be used and thrown away.”

A few people gasped. The bank president frowned and opened his mouth to retort, when Dawn came skittering around the corner.

“I am so sorry for all of this,” she stammered to the customers. Some looked bemused, and a few already had their cameras out. At the sight of people pulling out their phones, Dawn quickly added, “No photography in the lobby. Privacy policy,” she said.

Which Auralie knew was bullshit. She was just trying to do PR control.

Auralie’s eyes stung, but she made her way to the teller line, where she kept her purse and backpack. She grabbed both and headed to the office kitchen in the back. Glenda was eating her lunch, a salmon salad with honey vinaigrette dressing. When was the last time Auralie had salmon? Months, maybe. Her protein intake consisted of eggs, chicken livers, and discount meat.

Auralie threw open the cabinet doors and grabbed the granola bars up there. They wanted to kick her out for something as petty as being late? In for a penny, in for a pound.

Glenda glanced up. “Something happen?”

“Fired.”

“Ah.” She continued eating. “Sorry about that.”

Dawn burst through the kitchen door, raked her eyes over what Auralie was doing, and said, “Auralie, you can’t take those. If you do, it’s theft.”

“Interest is theft,” snapped Auralie. She zipped up her backpack. “And besides, I can’t file for unemployment. I can’t file for food stamps. So as of this very moment, I don’t know where my next meal is going to come from, so thanks for that Dawn.” She threw her backpack over her shoulder and left the building.

Sunlight hit her in the face. It was almost a good thing that she didn’t have her car; she was too angry to drive, and walking would help calm her. She had less than two weeks until the end of the month, and the math was laid bare: unless she found something immediately, she wouldn’t be able to pay rent. So she went to the place she always went whenever she needed guidance, whenever she needed help or an escape or she was up shit’s creek.

Pssst…hey y’all, it’s Ariel. If you like what you’re reading, consider chipping in to my GoFundMe or sharing this page. Every little bit helps!