Literary Orphans

The Supervisors by Alison Grifa Ismaili

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“I’ll give you fifteen hundred,” the short one begins. His broad shoulders pull his t-shirt tight across the wide V of his back.

“Don’t tell me fifteen hundred,” says the other one so tall and thin, he stands erect like a pencil. His shorts belted around his middle still slide down around his hips. He has to stoop to talk to the short one. “If you tell me fifteen hundred, you can just get back in your car, take your friends and go home. Don’t waste my time with fifteen hundred.”

“You don’t even give a chance to negotiate,” says the short one. “You don’t even give a chance to talk about the price.”

“You want me to tell you four thousand, so you can say two? The price is twenty-two hundred. That’s the last price I make it for you.”

“It’s expensive for me.”

“I haven’t even listed it yet. You’re the first person to come see. I do this only for La Chiquita Amiga at the Crowne Plaza. La Amiga, your friend. I put it online, someone’s going to give me three thousand easy.”

“I’ll give you seventeen fifty.”

The tall one shakes his head and looks away. From the pocket of his shorts, he pulls a packet of Marlboro Golds, packs them, and then returns them to his pocket. It’s too damn hot, even though it’s October. “Two thousand.”

The short one slaps the side of his head and scratches. His hair is cropped close to his scalp similar to the tall one’s. “It’s too much. I don’t have that much.”

“You’re a mechanic. You look at things. You see how they work. You fix things. You know this is a good car. The engine is clean. You can chop it up. Sell the motor. The parts, the tires. Don’t tell me you don’t have any money.”

“I just arrived here.”

“So? Me, too. You’re not the first one who just arrives.”

The two men could be cousins—the tall one and the short one. One, green-brown like when you peel away the bark from a pecan tree; one golden-brown like autumn leaves. Glancing only briefly, one might think their blood lines crossed at some point way, way back in Mesopotamia, Babylon, on through the Red Sea, through Alexandria, across the Mediterranean, Greece, Tunis, Gibraltar, across the Middle Passage that fucked everyone, on into Hispaniola, the turquoise blue Caribbean, the red-clay earth of the Aztec Kingdom, along with the monarch butterflies, the coral reefs of Roatán, along the Ruta Maya, Copán, Tegus with its diesel exhaust staining everything the color of ashes and lost dreams, to San Salvador under its mud and war. But no. No matter. Not today.

“The tape deck is broken.”

“That costs thirty bucks to fix on Florida Boulevard. Anyway, you probably listen to music on your fancy phone.”

“Eighteen hundred.”

“Two thousand.”

“Duro, man! Eres duro.” The short one looks to La Chiquita Amiga and the Blond Nicaraguan. They’re chatting with the tall one’s wife on the driveway cracked by weeds. “He’s too hard,” says the short one, pointing his stubby thumb at the tall one.

The tall one flashes his eyes to his wife

“Don’t look at me,” she says. “No soy la supervisora.” La Chiquita Amiga and the Nicaraguan laugh.

“Eighteen hundred.”

After a long sigh of annoyance: “Nineteen.”

“Eighteen fifty.”

“Now, you’re the one duro.” He calls to his wife in Arabic, “Saab!”

“I’m only in charge of paperwork,” she calls back. Then, she grins at La Chiquita Amiga. Not the Nicaraguan. She doesn’t like the look of him.

“Nineteen hundred, okay?” He extends his long hand. “That’s the final price. Only for you. Because you know La Chiquita Amiga.”

The short one doesn’t want to give in. He could’ve done better, but duro este arabe. “Bueno,” he finally says. He takes the tall one’s hand. “Duro!” he exclaims one more time, but still he opens the car door to check the inside. His movements are suddenly lighter. He’s become younger.

It smells good. It’s been scrubbed clean with Turtle Wax soap. All the mushy Cheerios, the remains of Goldfish crackers, stains from five years of Capri Suns, and whatever else from five years before that—all erased. It’s over now. New again.

The Nicaraguan strolls over to take a look. He slaps the short one on the shoulder.

Meanwhile, La Chiquita and the tall one’s wife stand on the driveway with their hips cocked and their arms folded over their chests. Their shadows are long and lean as the sun drops behind the Church Lady’s house across the street. Every once in a while, they swat away the mosquitos or scold the three toddlers playing with the rusted lawn chair, the meager jalapenos in the truck-tire planters, the wilted parsley, and the dandelions. Resounding like solitary gunshots, acorns and pecans keep dropping from the trees and smashing against the tin roofs of the neighborhood.

In HispanoArabish, the few words they share between them, the wives mutter about how people think roosters only crow at dawn, but it’s not true. They’ll crow all day and all night, no matter where you are, and anyway, they could have been done with all this business a half-hour ago.

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Alison Grifa Ismaili‘s work appears in Fiction International, Bartleby Snopes, and Press 53’s Everywhere Stories, among others. Most recently, her screenplays have been recognized at the Nashville Film Festival and the International Film Festival for Peace, Inspiration, and Equality. Currently, she resides in the great state of Louisiana with her very patient family.

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–Foreground Art by J Stimp

–Background Art by Thomas H

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