The Hometown

“Whatch you got there, Mala?” Rakisha glided out of a fully decorated cubicle. Tacked on a board were funnies from the newspaper, a faded Eminem-concert ticket stub, Steak ‘n Shake coupons, a Sybaris gift certificate, and a memo dated four years prior with “waive” spelled “wave.” A photo collage of friends, pets, and family wallpapered the interior of the cube. A set of high school senior photos displaying Rakisha in various graduate poses and wardrobe changes was secured in a long, double-decker graduation-themed picture frame.

My name was spelled “Mula” on the outside of my cube. I had asked a few times for a new nameplate, but no one ever bothered to mount a replacement. I blew it off because I had planned on being there for no more than three months. I was the only employee on staff lacking cubicle décor. I believed that cube celebration was for lifers who committed their existence to losing their sparkle in office squalor. If ever fired, I could simply throw my purse over my right shoulder and walk right out. Boxes would not be necessary for packing up my belongings—lip balm and a 3.5-ounce bottle of lotion.

“Girl, that is real cute.” Rakisha yanked open the handles of one of the shopping bags, pulling out a soft, flushed-yellow, striped scoop-neck tee. Her Midwest Bank photo badge with employee number and name hooked crookedly on the strap of her throwback jersey dress.

I refused to distastefully adorn myself with the badge. Management had threatened, in six separate incidents, to write me up if I continued to disregard policy. I was never in distress over the warnings. I was too bitter to take management seriously. “I like the brown and light blue stripes against the yellow. They had it in pink and green, but I liked this one the best.”

“That’s real cute,” she said. “Um hmm, I like that.” She pulled out the jeans. The legs naturally unfolded out of the bag. The bronze embellishments on the back pockets clashed with the seven gold, clunky rings on Rakisha’s semi-ashy hands. “Them are cute too.” The denim was a light color with strategically placed, fine-spun rips on the front thighs. It was a pale fabric unsuitable during menstrual cycles or on rainy days where mud could be splattered on backs of pant legs.

I discovered the top and jeans on a mannequin together, an inspiration for a complete outfit. I was buying everything in sight—earrings, gaudy bracelets, purses, sunglasses, kitten heels, casual tennis shoes, jeans, capri pants, mini-skirts, socks with creative prints, bras, panties, perfume, scented lotions, mocha coffees from Borders, Starbucks, and the Nordstrom espresso bar, Giorgio’s Pizza slices, and other food from the restaurants around the Circle. It was a daily show-and-tell for my co-workers. I was convinced that I was shopping because I needed things and not because I was depressed.

“I like this belt.” The price tag got caught between the twisty twine handles of the shopping bag as Rakisha pulled the belt out. Five sections of silver-lined holes perforated the white leather. Eight miniature holes sandwiched each section. An oversize silver buckle fetched the white color like fluorescent pink marker on recycled loose-leaf paper.

“I never wear belts, though.” As I put the clothes back in the bag, my six rigid, sparkly, maroon bangles glimmered in movement. A musical sound emerged.

“Ooh. I like those.” Rakisha forcefully touched my bangles, causing them to swivel around my wrist. The bangles were vibrant in color, with leveled strokes of design and squinting spheres that looked cutting.

I had a frenzied shoe box of assorted Indian bangles. Some were broken and some no longer fit, but I kept them anyway, along with jingle-bell anklets from my childhood and empty circular Indian jeweler boxes with felt interiors.

“Where’d ya get ’em?”

“India.”

“You Indian?” Rakisha leaned to the side and out of her chair. She looked me up and down with crumpled eyebrows. Her jaw dropped as her lips tilted in disgust.

“Yeah,” I replied in one swift, harsh syllable.

“You don’t look Indian.” She rolled away from me, back into her cubicle, until her chair hit the desk. She sustained her head with her fist. “You ain’t be lookin’ like those other Indian people I see.”

“I’m Indian.”

“And you ain’t be smellin’ like rice and curry.” Rakisha whirled in her own world.

“And you ain’t got one of them dots on your head.” She tapped her forehead as if a bindi were suctioned to her skin. “I knew you was mixed. I just didn’t know what.”

“What?”

“I knew you was mixed. I just didn’t know what you were.”

“I’m not mixed. Both of my parents are Indian.”

“Oh, I know,” said Rakisha. “I knew that you was mixed. I just didn’t know that you was Indian.”

I turned away and went into my cube, unable to handle any more of Rakisha’s ignorant comments. I locked up my purchases and purse in the middle drawer of my filing cabinet. Theft was a common occurrence around the office. My hand sanitizer had been stolen on my first day.

There was a letter on my desk in a Midwest Bank standard envelope. I immediately knew what it was—a job offer for the upgraded dead-end job that I had applied for. A promotion. I ripped it open with my fingers, the torn sections resembling a skyline of different-sized buildings. The letter said I didn’t meet the qualifications. It then referred me to the job bank for many more wonderful opportunities at Midwest Bank.

I was stunned. Mr. Brown, the head of the department, had been discussing the position with me on a daily basis. He said that I would definitely get the job but that management had to follow HR guidelines and was required to interview a certain number of people. I walked over to Mr. Brown’s office, confident that it was a misunderstanding. I handed him the letter.