Huffing and puffing small clouds of steam out into the cold Chicago air, Melvin Jacobs waddled the distance between his job as a security guard at Loyola University and the train station where he would board a train for home.
It would be a short ride. Melvin only lived five blocks from the school. Four if he walked home from his post in the parking garage rather than walk in the opposite direction. Melvin Hardin, however, wasn't one to walk farther than the nearest train station, bus stop or standing cab. Weighing in at nearly three hundred pounds, walking was always more trouble than it was worth.
It wasn't the strain on Melvin's soft and heavy body that caused him to avoid walking whenever he could, although his physique certainly didn't encourage it. It was the looks he'd get between wherever he was and wherever he was going. Melvin couldn't stand the way people looked at him.
Being the fattest person on campus brought with it a terrible popularity not entirely unlike the fame he endured in high school. The difference was that in high school, he'd been a star football player. He was the anchor of the De La Salle defensive line. Almost no man alive got past him and the few that did paid a heavy price for the honor. He was everyone's friend (who'd want two hundred and seventy pounds of muscle as an enemy) and the girls, while not exactly fighting over him, were always available.
Now, he was a security guard at the same school where his football career ended. Double-teamed by a knee injury and a relaxed training schedule, Melvin ballooned up to three hundred pounds and rode out his academic scholarship on the sidelines. Having graduated with a degree in criminal justice and few skills save those his diploma suggested he possessed, Melvin became a security guard at the school. He was working the only job he was qualified for with the only people who would hire him.
And since then, he had to deal with the look.
The look said "Why are you here?" It was pitying and accusing at the same time. In a single glance, usually accompanied by the person quickly looking away to avoid eye contact, people would ask him the question he asked himself every chance he got. What happened?
When he was still in college, shuffling back and forth between classes, he at least appeared to have a purpose. A reason for being there. As long as his scholarship held and he continued going to classes, he could fool himself into believing he was actually accomplishing something on that campus.
Now, with his life summed up in a stiff canvas badge that was sewn on his shirt, he could no longer afford himself the delusion of believing he was moving towards a goal. Having encapsulated his entire life into the five blocks between his claustrophobic little apartment and his worthless little job, he couldn't even delude himself he was moving towards anything at all. It was over. This was where he would spend the rest of his life. His only realistic hope was that he would die young, suffering a pointless life rather than a long and pointless one.
Melvin stared out the window on the subway, avoiding eye contact with everyone else. The dirty brick buildings outside rattled past as the train coughed its way through Chicago's north side. Melvin looked at the crumbling structures and realized that he would look at these same buildings every day for the rest of his life.
He spent the rest of the ride staring at his shoes.
With an uncharacteristically gentle stop, the train hissed into the station nearest Melvin's home. Melvin considered just riding the train to the end of the line and letting his mind run free. He'd contemplated his future more in the past twenty minutes than he had during his entire college career. He wondered what conclusions he might come to, what he might learn about himself if he were to just stay on the train and think on his situation.
His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that he was watching the train doors slide shut right in front of him. Standing on the train platform, he watched it pull away, leaving him behind in all-too familiar surroundings. He considered for one brief moment getting on the next one and thinking about what to do next. What really to do next. Surely he could do better than this?
Oh well, there was always tomorrow's train ride.
Melvin was making his way along the dark, shadowy street where his apartment was when he heard a voice call out to him.
"You! Come here!"
Turning around, Melvin saw a street vendor with her wares on a small wooded table underneath a picnic umbrella. She wore a greasy red scarf over her silver hair. Large, golden hoop earrings hung from her withered ears. Even from across the street, Melvin could see what must have been dozens of rings on her fingers.
Melvin looked to either side of him to see if there was anyone else she might have been calling out to. After all, she was all the way across the street. He knew though. He knew he was being called as surely as if she'd actually said his name.
The old woman looked up from her table and locked eyes with him. They were piercing, even at that distance. She held up a glittering hand and gestured for him to come to her. There was no kindness in her face, she didn't smile or take her eyes from his. It was less as if she wanted to sell him something and more that she wanted to impart some grim and disturbing information. She looked like a surgeon about to tell a family member that the patient wasn't going to make it.
Melvin made his way carefully across the street. Melvin's mother had instilled a fear of crossing the street in him at a young age, making it abundantly clear that if a car was coming at him, there would be little either he or the car would be able to do about getting their massive bulk out of the way in time.
Standing in front of the woman's table, Melvin could see she was selling candles. "Gypsy Candles" was written in black marker on a paper plate. Melvin reached out to examine one of them when the woman spoke to him in a harsh voice.
"That one is not for you boy."
"What."
"I see you walking towards your little house," the woman said in a child's mocking voice. "You are sad inside, unhappy. I know what you need. You need a gypsy candle. I will pick the one that is for you."
Melvin had half a mind to walk away. He didn't like her high-pitched, swaying voice. It had the quality of a teasing child's song. He was about to turn around right then and there when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
One of the candles was lit, it's flame still and steady despite the constant blasts of legendary Chicago wind that came whipping down the street every few seconds. The huge picnic umbrella over the table bent and skittered with every gust and the woman's colorful scarves and robes danced in the breeze as well. The candle's flame never even flickered.
"You see," the woman said. "My candles are special. They bring luck."
Melvin was impressed, but he wasn't ready to dive off the deep end with this lady. The candles were special all right. Probably the best made in the history of the craft. He wasn't ready to believe that they were magical though. She had him pegged for the wrong kind of sucker if she was trying to sell him a "magical" candle.
"Real nice lady. I'll give you five bucks for one of the big ones."
The shriveled little gypsy hissed and made as if she would spit on him.
"No," she barked. "I will pick the one you need."
She reached into a wax-stained cardboard box beneath the table and pulled out a blood-red candle that could have been no more than two inches high.
"Twenty dollars," she demanded as if she was offering him wealth beyond his wildest dreams and he should be grateful.
"Twenty! For that thing," Melvin made a sound that was half-laughter, half-disgust and almost sprayed the woman with spittle before turning away to leave.
"Wait. Watch."
The woman's voice was icy and hard. Melvin found himself turning around, his desire to leave washed away in the sound of her voice.
The old woman picked up a burned match from the assorted debris on the table and placed the scorched charcoal tip between her thumb and forefinger. With a swift motion, she snapped her fingers and held the now lit match up for Melvin to marvel at.
"Neat trick lady. I still don't see how that makes these candles worth twenty bucks," Melvin said. Still, he was beginning to feel uneasy. The woman didn't seem to be performing for him. Her movements were deliberate and practiced. This seemed less like a magic trick and more like a ritual.
Ignoring Melvin altogether, the old woman touched the tip of the match to the candle's wick. It caught instantly and the flame crawled down the cloth wick towards the red wax of the candle. The old woman was staring intently at the candle. When a strange smile broke out across her face, Melvin leaned in closer to see what she was seeing that he wasn't.
