Literary Vandals

By Robert Dean

The bill collectors never stop calling. I recognize their numbers. 
My children ask me if I’ve got a job yet faster than they say hello. 
Every day, I throw applications for employment into a volcano, and what sputters out floods my inbox with, “We’re sorry, but we’ve decided to move on with other candidates.” 
A hammer in my heart pounds against my insides, daring my soul to break away from the skeleton of worry. 
I’ve stolen plenty from the self-check-out. I’m no thief, but I’m used to decimal points, not commas. My bank account is a graveyard of missed connections, rejection emails, and those bill collectors shaking their cups for my quarters. 
I’ve dreamed about what homelessness would feel like if I could handle the long nights of cold wind if it would break my kids’ hearts if I drifted off into the shadows. 
Ghosting isn’t just for dating; it also happens when you’re broke. As the Amazon drivers traverse my neighborhood, dropping boxes with a pep in their step because Bezos’ foot is on their neck, I wonder what I did to get ignored by them, too.