The Billion Dollar Contract: Proposals by Cynthia Dane Page A

fatass,” Jasmine mumbled on her toothbrush. She fed her Norwegian Forest Monster anyway, listening to his whining as if it were her alarm clock. It is. Every morning for the past three years, she got up to the sounds of Blackbeard’s life ending again. Most cats were supposed to have nine lives. Blackbeard had lived about a thousand now.
    Jasmine didn’t have time to fight with the cat food – or the ants coming out of the cat food. Nor did she have time to scrub some suspicious looking spores off a bowl so she could eat some cereal for breakfast. She barely had time to pop back into her rickety bathroom to put on some deodorant and brush her hair. This is it. Today’s the day. Jasmine took in a deep breath and fished for the one nice dress she had. The one not eaten by moths or destroyed by mold.
    She lived in a dump but had no choice. Although she hated making Blackbeard live in this cesspit of an apartment complex, it was better than living on the street. Jasmine had been unemployed for the past few months. No way am I moving up in the world anytime soon. Most days she could ignore the funky smell, the creaking floors, the noisy neighbors, the terrible internet, and the gunshots outside. She could even ignore the drugged out losers mistakenly coming to her door every other night because their dealer lived a floor above her. What she couldn’t stand was not having a job, or at least a job that wasn’t a temp position lasting three or fewer weeks.
    But today she had an interview, and not just any interview. Jackson-Cole called and wants me to come say hello. One of the largest employers in the city, and Jasmine was about to join their legions.
    Until Blackbeard clawed the stockings on her legs, anyway.
    Jasmine unlatched three locks before stepping out into the crisp winter air. Her feet squished what may have either been dog crap or slush, but she had no idea nor did she care. She had shown up to job interviews with worse on her feet.
    Without a car, Jasmine had no choice but to walk all the way to the Jackson-Cole building three miles away. While she walked, she rehearsed possible interview questions in her head. “How long have you dreamed of becoming a secretary?” “Oh, ever since I was a little girl. I couldn’t wait to turn twenty-five and become a nameless slave in the business world!” She probably shouldn’t say that.
    “Hey Pancho!” She waved at a St. Bernard standing guard at the corner of her street. He belonged to a blind man who sat at that corner all day waiting for someone to talk to him. Today he had his hat already pulled over his head to block the sun while he dozed. When Pancho barked, the man jerked awake and asked Jasmine where she was off to.
    “Job interview. Watch the place for me?”
    “Would if I could, sugar girl.” He laughed before pulling his hat down again. Pancho barked one more time.
    Jasmine shuffled down the sidewalk in her nicest shoes that were probably covered in Pancho’s dog crap. Beater cars blaring dance music rolled by, one of them stopping long enough to ask Jasmine what she was doing dressed like that in the roughest part of town. “Girl, you’re wearing what might as well be Swarovski crystals all over your pretty dress. Hop in and let me give you a ride. Or at least let me give you three bucks for a bus.”
    It was Juan, one of Jasmine’s friends in the neighborhood. They met shortly after she moved into her stain on humanity of an apartment and some dumbass tried to break in and make off with her analog TV. Juan was central in smacking his cousin upside the head and returning her TV. He had signed himself up as her street protector ever since.
    “I’ll take the offer if you could guarantee me bus fare every day after I get this job.”
    “Job where?”
    “Jackson-Cole.”
    “Damn! Moving right on up in the world, huh? Tell you what, you speak real nice about me to those suits and I’ll get you a bus pass for a month. Sound good?”
    Jasmine