Three Minute Fiction #2

For today's post, I'm going to deviate from my usual steam flavored  fare. The setting for this one is modern day, near Chicago, and is based off of a true story. 

"Oh, I wish the police would finally do something about these vagrants. It's getting worse, you know. You can't even pull up to a stop light any more without having some bum staring at you, asking for money. Disgusting." Jeff walked with his wife down a busy street in there home town of Evanston, a small city near Chicago. "Next time let's drive to dinner. I don't care how close we live, I just want to bypass all this garbage."

"Honey, we're almost there. Let's talk about something else, please," said the woman accompanying the grumbling man. Patricia didn't want to have to think about other people's misfortunes while she was dressed nicely and on her way to their favorite restaurant. 

"I mean, really, it's getting as bad as down town Chicago, here. What do homeless people want to do in a suburb anyway?" The couple approached a street corner and an old toothless man stood there asking for a quarter to get on the bus. Patricia avoided eye contact and looked away, dreading how her husband was going to react. Luckily, he passed the man without acknowledgement. 

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" Patricia's attention was caught and she stopped. A teenager was flagging them down. She was dressed in boy's clothes, sported blue uncombed hair, and was holding a binder. "Excuse me! I'm a volunteer with Development Aid from People to People and I'm looking for small donations of around $1.00 to help with our projects in Africa."

Patricia was about to waive her off. "Oh really, YOUR projects in Africa? Do you even know where it is?"

"Well, of course I do! In January I'll be leaving for Zambia. I'll be leading youth groups there and teaching them about how to prevent HIV/AIDs. We're fundraising so we can fund..."

"Listen dearie. You want this dollar?" Jeff pulled a dollar from his money clip and waived in her face. "Go GET A JOB and quit embarrassing your parents!" he shouted. "You're not going to Africa! Not with THAT hair!" 

The girl just stood there, looking stupid, mouth agape. "We're late, honey," said Patricia.

The next day Patricia and Jeff were at home when their doorbell rang. It was the same girl. Now even Patricia was angry. Did she follow us to our home? As soon as Jeff opened the door he bellowed at her. "I told you yesterday! I'm not interested!!"

Again, the girl looked shocked. Maybe it was an accident. Patricia watched the girl run across to where her partner was ringing doorbells on the other side of the street. Jeff fumed as he picked up the phone and dialed the police. He kept watching out the window, but saw nothing after the pair walked away. 

About six months later, during a cold March afternoon, Patricia went to the end of their driveway to pick up the mail. Usually they didn't get much except bills and weekly advertisements, but on this day a post card was sitting on top of the pile. The postcard was smudged with dirt around the edges and smelled like a campfire. It showed a photograph of a girl surrounded by a bunch of smiling African children and it read "I DID make it to Africa. Even with this hair."