The Conflict Algorithm, Chapter 2
Quick link to Chapter 1. Shout out to National Novel Writing Month.
“Hi,” Leo said.
Sara smiled, “Hello. The usual?”
“Yeah.” Leo sighed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, yesterday was crazy. It’s like,” Leo shrugged, “It’s like I don’t even want to go in to work.”
Sara waved her hands exaggeratedly, “oh no, somebody doesn’t want to go to work,” then serious, over her shoulder as she poured the coffee, “join the club.”
Leo couldn’t identify exactly what had his stomach in knots.
“Want to come to a party tonight?” Sara asked.
“Yeah.”
“You have my number, right?”
“No.”
She gave him his muffin and coffee and pulled out her phone. “I’ll call you, then you’ll have my number.”
Leo sat down at his desk. No one else had come in yet, but he felt like he was ready to address the group about the incident at the bar.
He was writing an email to follow up with the funders when a new email popped up from Nyla in HR. He felt his heart start a floor gymnastics routine.
Theirs was a small arm of a CUNY research lab, working in partnership with a new startup working on conversational AI. Leo loved the tedious work because he felt like he was cracking the code of conflict, a perennial problem with humanity.
Even though last night had gotten screwed, he was sure he could go into HR with the facts and be able to repair the damage with his team.
He logged out the computer, grabbed his bag and headed to the main corridor. Even though it was 8:30 in the morning, he had the brief urge to turn out the lights.
Sara tossed her apron in the bin and flew out the coffee shop. There was no way she was going to be late again to pick up Edwin from school.
It was a series of challenges, take the bus or grab a gypsy cab? Sometimes it felt much better just to walk the 25 minutes to her kid’s school. She checked her watch and started walking. A gypsy cab honked at her in the rapid staccato that advertized its availability. She looked over at the beaten-up Lincoln town car with just the driver in it. She shook her head and kept walking.
The cab driver trailed her for a few feet, periodically tapping his horn. It was amazing how unsafe she could feel at three in the afternoon in her own neighborhood. She waved him off again, this time with her hand. He accelerated away at a reckless pace.
Walking always made her feel peaceful, and she passed landmarks and noted changes. Oh they’re tearing up that street, that store closed, this store opened. Someone in her indigenous group had told her that this street, Jamaica Avenue, used to be a native foot path. In her mind, she tried to picture this city as the Yameco band might have seen it, pristine with rocks and rivers and hills and trees.
A few shopping carts full of fragments of lives later and she arrived at the school. The check-in, the pickup, the walk home, discussing the day.
Home was a small one-bedroom she shared with her mom. Her brother had wanted to stay there too when he came home, but the parole officers didn’t approve it.
That was four years ago, when Edwin was two. Chickie, her brother had made it out in time for her son’s second birthday party.
The evening routine went something like this: prep dinner, do homework, go walk to Uncle Chickie’s dojo, do the stretching, pain, sparring, come home, take a shower, eat dinner, watch TV, then go to bed.
Sara’s greatest satisfaction was watching Edwin excel at learning to use his body. His balance and poise were like a dancer. He was strong, too.
It wasn’t a far leap for her to go from thinking of Edwin Junior to thinking of Edwin Senior.
She was only living cramped like this with her mom because she’d left Edwin’s dad. He still showed up, but last time Chickie told him if he saw him again he’d kill him, so Edwin hadn’t been around in months.
How could you want to fuck the whole world and be possessive too? If Edwin hadn’t put hands on her that last time, she’d probably still be with him — still be going through the same crap.
She had come home, excited to tell him for sure what she’d already intuited, that she was pregnant. She’d unlocked the apartment door and overheard him say “Oh, shit!,” in the bedroom. The walls of that Bronx apartment were paper-thin.
She’d stormed to the bedroom, sure of what lay behind the door, but more importantly, needing to know who was fucking her man. He popped out the door and closed it behind him, she had only gotten the tiniest glimpse of a woman in black and red lingerie, fairer skinned than she was.
“Who the fuck is that? Who is that, Edwin!?”, she’d screamed.
Edwin had guided Sara away from the bedroom door. He kept holding her wrists and she kept snatching them away. They gotten halfway to the apartment door, still ajar, when the bedroom door popped open.
In that instant, Sara decided to destroy this other woman. She’d shoved Edwin out the way and sprinted into a full-on Jerry Springer-style fight. Edwin had stepped back to watch.
Sara and the girl both had fistfuls of each other’s hair. Tables had been bumped, trinkets knocked to the floor.
“Whoah-kay, ladies. Babe, I’m taking you outside so Vee can get dressed.” Edwin had said with a bit of a laugh.
Edwin had pushed them apart and Sara fought harder than she did before, now with the hurt disbelief that she was getting kicked out of her own apartment.
“Oh my God, Edwin!” she’d sobbed, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”
At the doorway, Sara had collapsed, gut-wrenching tears erupting from her, and her arms flailing, slowly reaching for Edwin’s leg. Edwin had smoothly reached down and dragged her by the wrist over the threshold into the hallway and closed the door behind them.
Even though that was two years ago, she still didn’t think she’d ever trust another man.
