Peppa Ryan swiveled around for the third time, looking for something, anything, familiar. She’d stood at this exact intersection just two weeks before, but now it seemed a bewildering mishmash of commercial real estate, bus exhaust, and people. To her left, a couple of geezers sidestepped an overflowing garbage can in front of a packed Off Track Betting Parlor. To her right, a Chinese laundry gave off a faint odor of perc, and next to it, a deli specializing in everything bagels added a strong layer of yeast. The Family Dollar store, already open, and a Chase Bank, still closed, stood directly across the street. But Peppa remembered none of this. To make matters worse, she was sleep-deprived and anxious, and this combination always produced the uncomfortable sensation of a need for food, at odds with her ongoing resolve to avoid it.
She looked across the street and spied a Queens-bound bus approaching. Now it occurred to her that she really could ditch all of this, an idea she’d been toying with throughout a night of fitful sleep and then the pre-dawn bus ride to Brooklyn. She could race across the street, catch the return bus and go back home. Anyway, what could they do to her?
But then she smelled falafels and suddenly remembered the halal cart that had been parked near the building she was currently looking for. She followed her nose and rounded a corner. There was the food cart with an impressive cluster of customers already lined up, despite the early morning hour. And just across the street, she saw the circles stacked horizontally across the façade of the Flatbush Avenue subway, including the red one with the number three in white. Peppa decided this was a good sign.
She slid her new monthly MetroCard through the turnstile and skittered down multiple stairways toward the train that would eventually deposit her in the Wall Street area of Manhattan. Just as she hit the platform, the number three slowed into the station. With dozens ahead of her, Peppa decided to go for it and shouldered her way through, garnering more than a few daggered looks.
“Sure, honey. Whatever you want,” one disgruntled man muttered, his arm sweeping a grand gesture toward the train door. Peppa skulked ahead of him and stepped into the car. She’d already endured the almost hour-long bus ride from Sandy Point, Queens, so the timing of the subway was something of a miracle. Yes, part of that lucky sign. And really, if she was actually going to go through with this job thing, arriving late was not an option.
As the train gained speed, she motioned to the sarcastic man, indicating they should switch places. Her idea was to give them both more room, but he didn’t seem to appreciate, or even understand, her intention.
“Sure, sweety. Take aaaall the space you need.”
Once they swapped, she grabbed hold of an overhead pole and scanned the packed train. Some sipped coffee while reading the paper. A few nodded off. One woman wept quietly. But the majority stared into space, looking anywhere but directly into another’s face. Peppa thought about this—all these people squished within an inch of one another yet behaving as if they were completely alone. It struck her as a peculiar example of mass delusion. Actually, kind of a joke, and she couldn’t help but chuckle out loud, which prompted the man to look up from the New York Post he’d buried his nose in.
“You think this is funny?”
She shrugged and pursed her lips, determined not to respond. But when she considered the approaching day and all that it portended, the guy had a point. Nothing at all was funny. In fact, this day, of all days, felt as treacherous as walking down a heavy wooden plank suspended off the tip of a flimsy canoe in the middle of a faraway ocean. Peppa was about to plunge into day number one of her very first job.
You will, in all likelihood, do well.
Oh, thank goodness, Peppa thought. There it was: the voice. It had been with her for most of her life, piping up with encouragement at moments when she was fearful, nudging when she doubted herself. She imagined its source as a middle-aged woman with long hair fashioned into a bun at the nape of her neck. A thin nose and slightly sad eyes. Very kind, yet at times quite insistent. Just like a good and true best friend would be. And Peppa wanted to believe that, yes, it was possible that she’d do well.
Now she sensed the weird guy giving her a once-over, so Peppa looked down at the sensible shoes she’d purchased over the weekend. They were meant for comfort, but as with all new shoes, blisters at both heels had already gotten a solid hold. And it was hot in the packed car. She shifted her weight, felt her thighs rub against each other and regretted wearing the formfitting blouse and pencil skirt she’d laid out the previous night. Why hadn’t she worn those pantaloon trousers with the elastic waistband her mom had insisted were a more forgiving option? Peppa unbuttoned her wool coat to let in some air and found that her blouse, moist with perspiration, was adhered to the skin below her bra. A rivulet of sweat escaped from her hairline and did a swan dive off an eyelash. She wiped the moisture away and managed to drag some mascara along for the swim. Then she noticed her fingers. Blood in various states of coagulation circled eight out of ten cuticles. When had that happened? Suddenly the conductor braked hard and everyone, whether sitting or standing, canted in one direction. Peppa, once again, found herself much too close to the weirdo. He jerked his head back and to the side. Maybe her breath had gone south too. But offending him or any of the other human sardines packed into this speeding tin can was not her biggest concern. It was her new boss Peppa meant to impress, an intention that was now in serious doubt.
They’d finally met at the last of four interviews that had been held over a couple of weeks. The first thing that stood out was his speech. Precisely executed, he had a distinct non-accent, similar to a newscaster. But when he asked if she needed to visit the “loo,” Peppa knew he’d spent at least some time in the UK. The other remarkable feature was his outfit. He’d worn a three-piece suit so deeply blue it read as black, except when a particular light caught the fabric weave. And underneath, a lavender shirt with intricate triple stitching around the collar and cuffs. Below the hem of his pant legs, tasseled suede loafers poked out, looking as if they’d never said hello to a pavement in their life. Then, on his right hand, third finger, a thick gold band gripped a red stone. A class ring from some first-rate university, no doubt, though she’d not been able to make out the curlicue lettering. And he was very handsome, with wiry black hair that had been sculpted with enough product to defy hurricane-force winds. She then noticed a tiny dot of blood on the edge of one nostril. To snip nose hairs so close as to draw blood was a level of fussiness Peppa couldn’t relate to. She’d grown up around cops and firefighters and those who, like her father, worked in some aspect of the construction trades. Most were hardworking, a few harder drinking. But they certainly hadn’t the time or inclination to consider, much less organize, the insides of their noses. So with all this, it was no surprise that when he offered her the job at the conclusion of that interview, Peppa had spent the next two weeks fretting about what to wear. And now, as if victim to its own gravity field, her pantyhose was slowly but surely slithering down her hips. She gave up on any decorum and yanked them up with a mighty heave-ho. As the doors opened to the final stop in Brooklyn, the weirdo exited with a final shot:
Don’t worry, honey. Somebody will marry you.”
“A perfectly dreadful excuse for a human.”
True enough, Peppa thought.
But his words hurt because Peppa knew the truth of it. She wasn’t pretty. A gap between her front teeth measuring about an eighth of an inch never failed to elicit bug eyes. But she brought it on herself, because she couldn’t help but smile without hesitation, spontaneous even at her own expense. Then there was her pug nose, her alien-looking eyes, her dimpled chin, and her sharp cheekbones, which typically brought on comments like She’s from another planet or Where the hell did all that come from or She’s a one-er, all right. But a point of pride no one could deny was her hair—long, thick, with endless bounce, and as platinum blonde as her first day on earth. In fact, that very morning, Peppa had taken pains to blow out her hair in a style she imagined took the emphasis off her face. Then, before leaving the house, she’d slipped the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill her dad had given her in case of a disaster, along with a certificate of highest honors from the executive assistant program she’d just graduated from, into her purse. But most importantly, a picture of Virginia Woolf, who Peppa believed, no, knew, was the voice that spoke to her.
Dear Virginia, Peppa thought, send me your courage.
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From Dear Virginia, Wait for Me by Marcia Butler. Used with permission of the publisher, Central Avenue. Copyright © 2025 by Marcia Butler.
