Perry Braxton was five-feet two-inches tall and most likely done growing. People have been known to sprout a couple of inches in their twenties, but when considering his genes, he figured he was finished. For moments he forgot about it, but a lot of the time it was on his mind. Like a person with a chronic disease, it tinted everything in his life. That and the fact that he hated his coloring, his pale, almost albino blondness and pink, freckled skin.
         He drove his red Focus past the store where, when he was in high school, the kids loitered, a dangerous ground in which one could end up bloody and bruised or dizzy with lust. To adults, Perry supposed the place looked like any corner store catering to the young, a place of junky merchandise and waxy candy where the worst thing to happen was the occasional smoking of cigarettes. Little did they understand the dockyard mentality of the corner denizens. How if you did not happen to be current cool, those who were would chase you off with embarrassing threats and the occasional physical attack.
         Now that he was twenty-three, the place looked shabby, the sidewalk littered with butts, wrappers and disgusting wet places. Teenagers still stood about before school started in scattered groups of three or four.
         “They’re still the same,” Perry muttered to himself, surprised. Somehow he’d expected things to have changed, the kids to be faster, meaner and more technical, although what he thought of as “more technical” was unclear. Had he imagined they all carried stun guns or some electronic weapon ready to use on fat, cross-eyed or short children? But as his car cruised around the corner, alongside its dirty mirror image in the story windows, he sensed that the boys and girls lurking there were, though with slightly different faces and tiny genetic deviations, still the same. Angry kids from varying degrees of dysfunctional homes, raised to be packed with hatred they were anxious to discharge on the weak and unlucky. Perry had been, if not weak pound for pound, small, slightly chubby, and definitely unlucky.
         Despite an urge to swing around the block for a second look from his now superior position, Perry headed towards the bridge that would take him over the river to his job as assistant foreman at Norton and Day’s, a small factory that made electrical parts. On the whole he felt satisfied. His job earned him an income of twenty-four thousand, not bad at all for the area. There were a lot of welfare recipients in town, mothers everywhere on food stamps, so he was doing better than most. Around Lanesville, he was in the upper economic crust for someone his age who had not gone to college.
         As he turned onto Route 7 heading north, he saw Carly Brannen’s blue Cavalier parked in front of Hanaman’s Funeral Home and, glancing at his watch, pulled over to park in front of it. As he climbed out of his car, he could see her sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. As he approached, he was conscious of the uproar of his feelings—evidence, he thought ruefully, that he was still in love with her as he’d been in high school. Unconsciously, his hand reached up to check his freshly moussed hair. He found it still in place. He knew his grooming was impeccable as always; his black polo shirt neatly tucked into his gray slacks, nails trimmed, cologne in the right spots and the finishing touch of two tiny gold hoops and one diamond in his left ear lobe.
         “Hey, Carly,” he said through her partly opened window.
         For a moment she didn’t move, then somewhat reluctantly flipped the key and lowered the window the rest of the way. “Perry. What’s up?”
         Though her face looked oddly contorted at the moment, she was beautiful. Thick, dark brown hair, arched black eyebrows over chocolate brown eyes, the whites of her eyes like skimmed milk. Tiny hairs sprouted from her hair line as if newly born. A French braid hung down her back, tied by a white “squishy,” or whatever they were called. He had studied her so many times that he knew every detail of her appearance and noticed instantly that she had chewed her nails down to the bloody quick.
         “I’m on my way to work,” he said, very conscious of his flabby midriff, his too pale skin, of everything he (and he knew other people) thought wrong with his looks. For some reason he was afraid to ask her what she was doing sitting outside Hanaman’s at 7:30 in the morning.
         She looked at him, then away, both her hands now gripping the steering wheel. “My father died yesterday.”
         “He did?” said Perry, startled. “What happened?”
         Her expression was one of disgust. “Stupid drunk. Stupid drunk got in a fight. They said he had a concussion or something. Bleeding in his head. You’d think at forty-five years old, he’d know how to act like a man instead of a stupid high school kid.”
         She wiped a piece of hair back from her face. The movement was furious.
         Perry didn’t know what to say in the face of such clear cut rage. Even pissed off, she was breathtaking. God, how he wished she’d agree to go out with him, not that he had ever asked. In high school, they’d been in the same class, but she ran with the arty crowd, the funky people. He, on the other hand, well … he’d been lucky they didn’t beat him up. But then the arty, funky ones didn’t usually waste their time beating people up. That pastime fell to the jocks and psychos who had enjoyed throwing Perry around like a ball. Indeed, biology was destiny, as he remembered his science teacher once saying. In other words, if you’re born with short, chubby genes, your life is more likely to suck.
         “I-I guess you’re pretty upset,” he said. He sneaked a look at his watch. As much as he longed to stay with her, he wanted to arrive at work before the foreman.
         She gave him the kind of look one would give to a dog that had just peed on the carpet. “What do you think? His favorite evening activity was spending his paycheck buying everyone in the bar drinks. My mother works two jobs to support us. I hate him.” And then she burst out crying, lightly banging her forehead on the steering wheel.
         “Um, listen,” he said, his entire system in a whirl. “If you want to talk, after I’m done work—I mean, I could—”
         “What?” she said. Her eyes were wild, as if she didn’t know who he was. “Uh, no. No, thanks.”
         He knew he was dismissed but he lingered. “Um,” he said, “what time’s the funeral?”
         She didn’t answer. He hesitated a moment, then walked to his car. As he started it back up, he understood that in Carly’s eyes, he was invisible. The hurt rose in his chest and threatened to spread up his neck and over his back. With practiced effort, he managed to push it back down into the pit where it normally lived.

Work was a world unto itself with its own laws—mainly: 1. You must do the work decently in record time, and 2. You must have the respect of the workers under you.
         Perry had no problem with the first law; his success with that one was how he had earned the chance to deal with the second one—well, that and the fact that his uncle was part owner of the factory. Law number two was the one he tackled now. His uncle was not in the least bit interested in helping him on the actual job. Perry hardly ever saw the man. It was sink or swim.
         As he pulled into the parking lot of Norton & Day Electrical, he felt the usual tightening in his stomach, the sudden awakening of the horde of butterflies that lived in there.
         “Morning,” he said to the guard as he punched in. He was supposed to be on salary now but they hadn’t yet made all the changes. Actually, he’d prefer to continue on hourly where you got paid for overtime. Salary, as least when you started out, was a gyp. Sometimes salaried guys did ten or more extra hours a week and didn’t get anything for it.
         The guard, a skinny, middle aged cop wanna-be, gave Perry an amused look. “Mr. Foreman,” said the guard. “What you doin’ with all your new money now?”
         Obviously, the guy was out of touch with reality, thought Perry. Yet he smiled. “Not much,” he answered.
         “You got a girlfriend?” asked the guard.
         “Not really.”
         The guard had one of those pointy fox faces with deep grooves running from each side of his nose to the corners of his mouth. The face could have been sardonic and intellectual were it not for such cruel and stupid eyes. “Not really? What does that mean, man? Either you have one or you don’t.” He smirked, enjoying himself.
         Perry chose not to answer and made to pass into the plant but the guard grabbed his arm. “You don’t got no girlfriend. I guess big-ass foreman means shit in the pussy department, don’t it?”
         Perry’s stomach lurched as he jerked to free his arm. His face reddened as he entered the cavernous assembly room. His section was on the back side. Four men and two women had been at work since seven. His body began to recover from the insult as he felt himself move into work mode, glad for the distraction.
         As he approached his area (they were now putting together a shipment of switches due in Erie in less than a week), he felt his muscles tighten and his posture straighten. Anything to make himself appear a bit taller, more in command. When he spoke, his voice was lower pitched than usual—his “boss” tone.
         “How’s it going with this batch?” He directed the question to Mitch Myers, a dim but congenial man in his thirties. It was safe to make Mitch the spokesperson for the group since Perry didn’t feel the man was smirking behind his back.
         “Not too bad,” said Mitch. His teeth were yellow with stained brown edges. Probably hadn’t seen a dentist since he was forced to in elementary school. “Up to 54A. Just starting on 29C’s.”
         “Not bad,” Perry echoed. “Any trouble anywhere?”
         “Some of the blue wires was twisted bad and took time to undo. Other than that, okay.”
         Perry was grateful for small things, especially on a day when he’d run into Carly and been reminded of where he stood in the world. One thing to have your grandmother tell you that life was short and tinged with pain, another to be in the moment and have it rammed down your throat.
         He noticed then the two women in the group, one a fat, greasy-haired, chain smoking matron and the other, Amy Pearson, a girl of nineteen or so, a town girl with the town fashion of “trasher” hair (long with a stand-up feathering over the forehead), already going to beefy fat and wearing a long T-shirt over fraying jeans. The T-shirt said “Party Til You Die.” Her eyes were still innocent, giving her the appearance of having a child’s head on an early middle-aged body. There were so many women around Lanesville who looked just like her; to Perry they were all just part of the scenery, like Schroader’s grocery store or Gray’s Lumber. Generally, the women who did escape the look were those who left the area, who went off to college or married a boyfriend in the military. You’d run into them years later, home for Thanksgiving or the Fourth of July, still slim though a bit tougher looking, holding the hands of toddlers, their stride purposeful. It was clear, just to look at her, that Amy wasn’t going anywhere.
         At the moment, she was mindlessly inserting screws into tiny holes in the plastic and giving them half turns. In an instant he dismissed her and walked to his office, a tiny crowded affair next to the foreman’s larger, airy one. Small as it was, Perry loved it. With the door closed, it was his Domain.
         Someone rapped smartly on the door, then opened it before Perry could respond. His boss, Stan, stuck in his massive head. “What happened to you this morning?” he joked. “First time you were ever just on time!”
         Perry blushed. “I—I ran into someone on the way here, death in the family, I had—”
         The foreman cut in. “No need to go into it. Listen, I gotta run up to Johnson City. The socket order didn’t come in and they’ll have my ass. Should be back around one, two. Hold down the fort.” He snickered and disappeared, leaving the door hanging open.
         Perry, of course, knew what the real score was. Stan was seeing some woman in Binghamton on the side. According to the gossips, she was twenty-four to Stan’s forty-five and she wasn’t his only side dish. He left his wife and four kids alone most nights. If he wasn’t with women, it was his bowling team, his hunting buddies, something or other. His mere size was disheartening to someone like Perry, let alone his overbearing, red-faced good looks.
         Perry’s heart sank. While things went well when Stan was in the building, when left alone, Perry didn’t yet hold enough authority. By the time the day was ending, he’d be psychically exhausted. He could keep his own group up to par, but there were three other sections, one consisting of seven men and one loud-mouthed woman, skinny and wiry and mean. Undoubtedly, she would insist on smoking just to break his balls.
         With a sigh, he set aside the reports he was expected to finish that day and walked onto the floor. It felt to him as if his body weighed a thousand pounds. When he passed by his own group, he saw that though Mitch was gesticulating wildly as he related some story to the others, they were for the most part steadily at work. The next section, however, was a different story. Karl, a kid of eighteen who headed up the team because of his unusual speed and accuracy, was now sloughing off, laughing and joking with the tough girl, Melanie, who having pushed aside her work, was sitting on the table. Sexual sparks were flying.
         Perry stood near the table and cleared his throat. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Karl’s wide mouth danced in a suppressed laugh.
         “You guys need to get back to work,” said Perry. His voice first came out in a muffled squeak, then settled into a slightly higher range. “Stan may be gone for a few hours, but he’ll expect to see a full output when he gets back.” He hated himself for sinking to bringing up the boss, knowing full well he should wield his own power. Either that or eventually drown.
         “Where’d he go?” asked one of the other guys, using the change-the-subject distraction, a favorite of high school students.
         Perry felt his ire rise. “It doesn’t matter where he went. What matters is that we get the work done.” This little outburst sapped him further.
         “He up there stickin’ it to some babe again?” The man made an obscene gesture.
         Oh man, thought Perry. Did they all know everything? Had he forgotten that when he worked on the floor, he’d known pretty much what everyone was up to? Hadn’t they all known what Stan did then?
         “Whatever a person does is his own business,” said Perry. A lame thing to say. “What matters here is do we get the work done. That’s all I’m concerned with.”
         One of the men grunted and proceeded to work. He dropped a part on the floor but picked it up and continued.
         Perry, a lump of cement in his stomach, said, “You know what happens when you fall behind. They fire the slowest one and hire someone new. Why play around with that?”
         “Yeah, why don’t you do some work for a change,” mumbled the kid, but the girl hopped down from the table and grumblingly, they all returned to their tasks.
         As Perry moved from section to section, he endured the snickering behind his back, the half muffled remarks and derogatory names. It felt like it took him hours to make the rounds, then with a false and only temporary relief, he slunk back to his office to do the paper work, knowing he’d have to repeat the whole process once he’d finished. His eyes stung with held back tears.
         He left his door open, but had the sense of some privacy. His office was, to him, pleasant. Dusty, permeated with factory odors, light filtering through dirty windows, cool and somehow tranquil in the manner of a basement on a stifling summer day. With relief, he turned to the reports—endless forms to fill out but much more pleasant to do than dealing with the employees. For the millionth time in his life, he wished he was six feet tall and muscular, wished he was dark-complected with skin that didn’t freckle in the sun, wished by mere physique alone that he could exude the power needed to walk in the world and get things done without harassment.
         Though he heard barks of laughter from the floor accompanied by an occasional female giggle, he permitted himself to slip into a few moments of relative peace as he clicked his pen and began to jot figures into waiting blanks. He noted that he felt much calmer and was, incredibly, enjoying himself. Just then someone tapped on the half-opened door and he looked up to see Amy standing there in her usual lumpy pose.
         “Um, Mr. Braxton?”
         “Yeah?” he said.
         She was a mess. He wondered why some girls knew how to make the best of what they had while others just added to their bad points. Carly, for example, kept her hair clean and shiny and wore just enough make-up to enhance her features and not a speck more. Her clothes were simple, her blouses tucked into her jeans, and in her ears she wore simple silver hoops. Class.
         Amy’s hair looked in need of a good washing and was teased into a rat’s nest. She’d lined her eyes all around with black and plucked out most of her eyebrows. Her face was babyish, with chubby cheeks and a sullen expression. She could stand to take off maybe twenty pounds and wore her stretched and stained T-shirt hanging out to cover, he guessed, her fat ass. This was the first time he’d taken such a long look at her.
         She advanced a foot closer to his desk. “Um, Mr. Braxton, I need Friday off. I’m moving out of the house to an apartment and that’s the only time my friend can help me move my stuff.”
         Perry’s head shot up. “Friday? That’s really not good. We have to finish that order and have it out by Friday at five. At the very latest, we can send it out Saturday morning, but I need you to help. I—”
         She broke in, her voice growing petulant. “It’s the only time Wayne has to help me. The only time. I gotta get out; you don’t know.” Her little pointy chin at the bottom of her fat cheeks puckered and began to quiver.
         “Your family can’t help you on the weekend?” he said, only barely managing to keep the irritation out of his voice. “There must be somebody.”
         She was silent for a moment, then said (the quiver now in her voice), “There isn’t.”
         He sighed. If the order wasn’t done, he’d have a mark against him. They knew about his respect problem with some of the employees; he didn’t need this on his record, too. In a last attempt at talking her out of it, he said, “Why do you have to move this weekend? You can take Monday, Tuesday or any day off next week.”
         “I told you,” she said, now growing angry. “My friend can only help me Friday. He’s got a truck. I gotta get out of there. You don’t know what goes on.” She stopped abruptly.
         He thought she’d go on and he waited, but when she didn’t, he said, “Well, either I’ll have to take your place on the floor or help you move myself.”
         Her face suddenly was radiant with relief. “You’d do that?” she said. “You have a truck?”
         He did not have a truck, but it was possible to borrow one from his brother-in-law, Rich, who was recuperating from a back operation. But the thought of spending a day working like a slave for someone like Amy was quite unappetizing. However, it appeared to be the only alternative. It would not do for him to go back out on the floor, not when his authority was precarious as it was.
         “Yeah, I’ll help you. Saturday morning. If the order isn’t done and I have to work a little then, it’ll be later in the day or Sunday. That’ll have to do.” His voice was hard.
         She did a little hop on one foot and clapped her hands, a childish action, but it pleased him to see her happy. “Back to work then!” she chirped and disappeared out the door.
         There went his weekend.
         They got the order out by four on Friday so Saturday morning, Perry pulled Rich’s truck up in front of the address Amy had given, a squalid looking two-story house on one of the back streets of Lanesville. Looked like it hadn’t been painted since it was built, maybe in the nineteen-thirties—porch about to collapse, mangy dogs circulating in the mostly dirt yard, long abandoned toys half buried in the ground. Perry rolled his eyes and got out of the truck to see Amy burst out the front door, her face a storm of tears. His heart sank. What was he getting into? Some white-trasher hullabaloo?
         Evidently yes. A man wearing a filthy white T-shirt which did not cover his large, hairy belly, burst out the front door after her, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, YOU LAZY FAT WHORE, GOOD FOR NOTHING DRAIN ON THIS HOUSEHOLD, GET OUT AND DON’T COME BACK!” He threw a beer can at her, a full one, which smashed into the side of Rich’s truck.
         Oh God, Perry sighed to himself. Now he’d have to pay Rich out of his own pocket—what would it cost—two, three hundred dollars? Amy was suddenly inside the truck, sitting with her head down, trembling all over. The irate man had gone back into the house after slamming the door and no doubt locking it. There was nothing to do but get back in the truck himself. When he did, he saw that she was sobbing so hard she was almost choking.
         He didn’t know what to say. All he wanted in the world was to be home, sitting at the breakfast table having coffee and eggs while his mother and sister argued good naturedly. Even if they’d lined up ten chores for him to do, that would be immeasurably preferable to this whole scenario with Amy and her dismal problems.
         Yet, when he stole a look at her, he couldn’t help feeling a certain empathy. He saw himself in her place, having come from such a family, such a house where everything she did was met with derision and shame, and wanting nothing but to get out and have some peace.
         “Look,” he said, “is all your stuff still in the house?”
         She hiccoughed, shuddered, and said, “Most of it. Some of my clothes and my bed and most of the furniture I was going to take. My new pots and pans and towels.”
         “My mother has an old bed stored out in the garage. I know she has some extra pans and stuff. Towels don’t cost much. We’ll help you out.” Immediately, he felt good; such a shift in emotions. He suddenly understood why helping others could be pleasurable. Of course it was only pleasurable when you were in control of the situation, not at the moment when someone was throwing beer cans at you.
         He drove her to his house, introduced her to everyone, and explained about the car. “I can pay you back,” Amy told Rich. “A little bit at a time.”
         “We’ll see,” said Perry.
         “We’ll fix you up,” said his mother. “Just sit down here and have a bagel first.”
         By the time they’d got her settled in the tiny apartment with what felt like cardboard walls, it was after dark. “I’ll see you at work Monday,” she told him as she closed the door. He heard her lock it in two places.
         His sister and mother rode home in Rich’s dented truck and Perry followed in his Focus. Pleasantly exhausted, he enjoyed the ride home alone and savored how differently he felt now than he had in the morning. Not that anything could or would develop between him and Amy; she was definitely not the type he found alluring.
         But somehow, he felt larger.

MARGARET KARMAZIN is both writer and artist. Her short stories, literary and sci-fi have appeared in many publications, including North Atlantic Review, Mobius, Virginia Adversaria, Reflections, Weber Studies, West Wind Review and others. Her story in Eureka Literary Magazine was nominated for a Pushcart prize and Piper's Ash Ltd. in England recently published a chapbook of her stories. Her fantasy novel, Bones, is available on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com. Margaret's artwork has appeared in A Summer's Reading, SageWomen and regional publications; her paintings can be seen in local galleries and exhibitions.