The Agency

What would you do if someone gave you the opportunity of a lifetime? An opportunity to change not only your life but the life of your descendants. All you had to do was offer up a name. Would you do it? This is not a story for the holier-than-thou do-gooders. This is for the down-on-your-luck, hate your boss, more month at the end of the paycheck than money, mommy I’m hungry, feed me women. All others can just stop reading now. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wells. There’s simply nothing I can do,” the lady behind the desk at DHS says to me in a voice that told me she gives this speech hundreds of times per day. “We have sent a letter to the non-custodial parent’s last known place of employment. However, they have informed us that he is no longer working there.” I give her a look. We have been playing this game for 4 years. They find him. He quits. “He is taking odd jobs through his former employer--under the table!” I growl and bang my fist on the table. “Ms. Wells, we’ve been through this. We cannot garnish something that is being paid under the table! I wish I could help you, but I have another appointment. It is time for you to go!” “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get angry with you. I’m just so frustrated,” I say, my eyes brimming with tears. “It’s just that I barely have enough to buy food once I pay my rent and daycare. The ones you referred me to that take assistance have waiting lists.” “What happened to Mrs. Wilkins? The neighbor? I thought she was helping you out,” she asks flatly. “She had a stroke a few weeks ago and can barely watch herself,” I respond. As I leave her office, I notice a well-dressed woman in red-bottoms. Her entire outfit makes her stick out like a sore thumb. She looks to be mid-fifties to early sixties. Her hair is long and brunette but has some gray at the edges. She has pulled it into a stylish bun with a few short curls framing her long face. Her skin is the color of caramel and reminds me of the apples my brother and I used to eat at the pier. Her eyes are hazel. She is wearing a crisp, white blouse with flowy ruffles and a long, black skirt that's trimmed with leather and lace. She makes eye contact with me and nods as I pass by. “Her daughter must’ve gotten knocked up by a loser like me,” I think as I exit the building. I head towards the bus stop when I hear a female voice, “Do you need a lift?” I turn around, and I’m stunned to see the well-dressed woman speaking to me. “No, thank you,” I say. “Too bad,” she says. “I have an opportunity for you to make some real money.” “Look, lady! I have to get back to work. You’re wasting my time. I’m not a stripper or a prostitute. You’re gonna make me miss my bus!” I say with irritation in my voice. “You mean that bus??!” she laughs and points a perfectly manicured nail at the bus that I needed to take back to work. It is now rounding the corner headed towards Palm Avenue. “It certainly looks like you could use that ride now! And stripper?? Prostitute?! Darling, I, for one, have nothing against the world’s oldest profession, but you girls these days think too small. Why use your body to earn money when you can use your brains?! It’s a lot less work! Take it from me, and I’ve been around the track a few times if I do say so myself!” “Fine!” I say. I’m out of options. She leads me to a long black limousine parked in the back alley. An older man steps out and opens the door. His demeanor strikes me. He is eerily quiet—almost as if he’s not human. He is tall and wiry with smooth ebony skin, yet his eyes are gray and glassy. His hair is graying, and he is handsome, but something is missing. “Get in,” she says--more of an order and not a request. “Where are we going?” she asks with a bit of a warmer tone once the car starts moving. “I need to get back to work. 5th Street Grocers, ” I say. “Excellent. Maurice! Did you hear our young companion? 5th Street Grocers.” Maurice nods assent, and she continues, “My name is Minerva Crane. What is your name, dear?” “I’m Jasmine Wells,” I respond. “Jasmine? Like the flower? What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl! I bet you get all the boys,” Minerva replies. “Only the wrong ones, lady!” I bite back. “Oh Jasmine, dear girl, there's no such thing as a wrong man. You simply need to know what to do with him when you get him.” At this, I laugh, “Lady! I already told you, I don't strip, and I'm not a prostitute!” Minerva grabs my arm--her deep, red nails are almost sharp enough to puncture my skin, “Darling, do I look like a stripper or a prostitute to you? However, just from listening to your predicament in the office back there, it seems like you gave your cookies away for free, and the jar has run empty. Pity. At least the prostitute and strippers get paid. They can afford their children.” My mouth drops in disbelief. “You b***h! Who do you think you are?!" I am fighting back tears, but the wetness on my cheeks tells me I'm failing. "My children are not your concern. They are two of the most genuine humans I ever met! You will not degrade them or me. ” I say as the bile rises in my throat. “Of course not. Don't misunderstand Jasmine, ” Minerva says. “I love children. I have quite a few myself. I was once like you. In fact, you remind me of myself when I was your age. As I mentioned earlier, I have an opportunity for you.” "I'm not interested," I deadpan as the car pulls up in front of 5th Street Grocers. "Oh no?" Minerva questions. "A shame. You haven't even heard my pitch!" Maurice opens the door to the limo to let me out. "Jasmine?" Minerva says. "In case you change your mind..." Maurice hands me the strangest business card I've ever seen. It's made of leather embossed in red metallic letters. "The Agency" M. Crane, Proprietor. On the back is a phone number. As I walk away, Minerva says, "Jasmine,dear, the offer expires in 24 hours. I do hope to see you again."