Self appointed as the best employee at her yoga facility, Porcha prides herself on her superior intellect and niche hobbies. From her natural born ability to juggle jellybeans, to knowing the exact age and gender of any Central Park squirrel, Porcha is a jack of all trades.
A health nut and an Earth advocate, Porcha will always be there to speak for the trees when they aren’t able to.
It was like trying to clean up a water stain on the bottom floors of a fully filled Olympic pool. Porcha never would have entertained even the idea of having a crowd to witness her feeble attempts at something she should be a professional at, but there’s a first time for everything.
Thick, sludgey, chunky, crunchy, sickeningly sweet, and vomit colored, Porcha’s peanut butter protein smoothie was bound to end up stuck in the loopy glass straw she brought everywhere with her. Frowning at the mushy slop, Porcha knew she needed to full power swing into utter concentration mode. She jolted her back straight in her metal cafe chair, her feet, once propped up on the seat of another, slammed into the concrete, her jandals kicking up dust as her toes wiggled with determination.
The solid liquid sat immovable in her straw, its large, uncut bits of chunky peanut stuck in the vast number of loops of plastic reinforced glass. Porcha breathed in a deep breath, hints of wilting tulips in rotting wooden pots and sunflower seeds from the spindly fingers of a nearby almond mom wafting into her mouth. They danced in with the overbearing stench of a five year old’s drool, its putrid saliva scent settling onto the back of her tongue.
Porcha ran her tongue in between her gelled lips, attempted to set her brows in determination, but couldn’t because her face was immovable, puckered her lips and hunkered down on the straw. Air rushed into her lungs, her Botox engorged face moving barely despite her effort as a squealing noise emanated from where her puffed lips met the clear straw.
Eyeballs threatening to disconnect from her head, veins performing a metal concert out on her forehead, Porcha did not at all look like the composed yoga instructor and health advocate she very much prided herself in being. Her clawed fingers wringed uselessly in the air, a whining noise, similar to that of a dog whistle, building up with higher and higher octaves in her throat.
She sat there for some time, her face and body twitching with angst. Alas, when her attempts proved fruitless and her inability to suck up any smoothie became clear, Porcha jumped up— her recently fixed Brazilian Butt Lift sending her chair flying back. The force of her sudden movements sent the metal chair straight into the glass windows of the cafe, barreling past patrons, steaming mugs of coffee, and other thick, immovable smoothies in dinky plastic cups. Chunks of glass, wood, and metal shattered everywhere, sharp objects flying across the small building. Screaming erupted.
Ignorant as ever, the offender paid no mind, even as a child screamed out in agony, his small hands flying up to clutch his bleeding eye, his dinosaur print pajamas heaving and shaking with the rest of his frail frame. Perhaps though, subconsciously, Porcha was aware of the child, for she opted to copy the child in his actions. She, like the child, also started screaming out in anguish. Only it was directed at the still-standing smoothie and the faulty glass straw, tears from an innumerable amount of causes spilling out from only her big eye. She clamped a hand over her mouth and stood there, sobbing.
If you asked anyone else, they might have said that the reason why the cafe owner had proceeded to grab a broom and scream at Porcha to, “get the hell out of here or else I will stuff you down a gutter!”, was because she had destroyed the front window and harmed someone. However, if you had asked Porcha, she would’ve said that it was an act of hatred and discrimination, through passionate tears. Despite her not being a part of any minority group, maybe except the criminal type, she would have found some way to make her statement true.
Porcha stood there, shock and anger and disbelief all combined onto her face, her ignorance to the world briefly useful. She didn’t hear distressed and fearful people around her call the cops on her, or scream at her, or even begin to film her. There was only one case where her ignorance became a curse.
The broom came up and over in a graceful arch, so much so that for a brief moment Porcha felt mesmerized with the woman’s ability to swing a heavy object to such a proper degree. There was something so beautiful about the design of such a useful and productive invention.
Porcha stared at the broom with intense appreciation, cocking her head to get a better view of the broom, the angry face behind it be damned. With the same amount of time it took for her to turn her head, Porcha’s vision went black as quickly as it did, the broom striking squarely on the side of her smooth bald head.
With the number of costly beatings that her head has taken— even if most consisted of oddly shaped syringes and needles and powdery gloved hands sticking into or on her skin— Porcha’s scalp had become very malleable. The consistency of oobleck, her brain matter moved to the side to make room for the broom, which rooted itself into her head, the bristles embedding themselves in her skin like how a hair transplant would for one’s receding hairline.
Eyes widening to the size of saucer pans, the woman slowly backed away, the sobs of the child still ringing in the cafe. Nearby, everyone began yelling and many were still recording what was happening. In the distance, a heavily accented voice yelled out, “Aren’t you my yoga instructor?”
Porcha blinked in a daze, her eyes shifting across the crowd, seeking out who that voice could’ve been. When she came to the conclusion that there was no one she could recognize, though her brain was doing acrobatics, she shook her head, the broom pushing deeper into her skull.
“Yes, I am. Thank you for reminding me, kind soul. I should be getting to work.”
Sniffling, Porcha turned her back to the cafe owner and the growing crowd, snatched up her straw and sashayed away, the ghost of her dignity trailing behind her like a guilty puppy. Being the bigger person, Porcha removed herself from the situation. Or rather, she sprinted away from the situation the moment she heard the sirens.
Running barefoot on the dusty streets of Logos was not a first for Porcha. The only reason why was because she would never run in her genuine kangaroo leather jandals– should they break, someone would have to skin another one of those poor jumpy animals, and that would be harming the environment. Which is one of the few things that Porcha does not stand for.
Hardly breaking a sweat, she rounded a corner and screeched to a halt, her head jerking back and forth which caused the broom engrain itself even further into her head.
“Goddamnit! What the hell! I nearly ran you over, you fu-”, The man stopped in his tantrum, clearing his throat awkwardly when he realized who he was talking to.
Standing in the middle of the street, Porcha looked up in mild shock at the open window of the van that had almost steamrolled her over. Romantic rays of sunlight glinted off of his van’s windows and off of his perfectly straight name tag, where the printed letters formed the word “Harold”. In his skinny jeans, wool stitched pullover sweater, and floor length white beard, Porcha would’ve brushed this encounter off like nothing, if it weren’t for the fact that he was Porcha’s stuck up and annoying boss. He was more than annoying, and that observation, one which Porcha had long since come to realize, was an understatement.
Tied to the top of his van were two yoga mats, one gray and thick and the other purple and thin. Porcha rubbed her ear in shock and amusement, a spot that her nail frequented. Images of a fat walrus and a sea urchin on a diet flashed through her smooshed and sideways brain as they were always the first things that she thought of when she saw those colors.
Still slightly shell shocked, Porcha laughed slowly, her breath becoming more halting and rapid, until she was clutching her stomach and doubling over in laughter at the sheer oddness of it all. Harold cleared his throat, his small beady eyes straying up to the broom, working out how close the handle was to his own head. For good measure, he leaned back and cleared his throat once again.
“Porcha.” A snort. “I was going to call you to ask why you’re so terribly late, but it would seem that you were clearly occupied with… other extracurricular activities,” his permanent eyebrow arch was comically and characteristically still a staple to his face. “Just out of curiosity, do you know what time it is?”
Porcha cleared her throat, her mind unable to decide if that was a bodily reflex of mockery or just a reflex. “I don’t know how to read a clock.”
Curling his lip up in disgust, Harold shifted slightly, then out came his phone, which he shoved into Porcha’s face. She smiled sincerely, though her lips didn’t move much, grabbed, and pocketed the phone right in front of his spluttering and reddening face. “Yeah, well, that’s the one I never learned how to read.”
Grinning from nostril to nostril, she stared up at the elderly man’s tomato red face, his chest heaving with anger, his flaring nose revealing the intricate mass of matted gray nose hairs inside. Disgust curled low in Porcha’s gut. Oh, how she absolutely despised people with unhygienic knowledge.
In silent awe and great annoyance, she watched— almost in slow motion— as her boss leaned his head back and let out a violent sneeze. Saliva, dust, phlegm, and substances of all manners flew high into the air, lingering briefly in the air, until it all came raining down on Porcha’s face. She blinked, wordlessly communicating any form of a threat that she can with her Silence stretched thin in the air, his spit dissipating as her anger started building. The two stared at each other, his saggy fading eyelids peeled far back up his face, her own eyebrow-less face stiffly fuming.
Faintly in the distance, the constant alarm of the police sirens blared closer and louder in the air. His sneeze saliva dripped down her chin, falling onto her bare feet. Water to a live wire, the sensation of his saliva on her bare skin set her off. He let out a wheezing laugh, his lips parting to talk, maybe even apologize, but Porcha didn’t give him the chance to.
Turning her head sharply to the side, Porcha glanced down the street to check for the police. The end handle of the broom slapped him on the cheek, eliciting a sharp yelp from him. He glared at her, using her faint distraction, and jumped into action– as much as an eighty year old man with breathing problems could. Grabbing onto the broom, Harold yanked it towards him, likely assuming that it would drag Porcha with it. To his surprise and disadvantage, the broom popped out from her head, leaving a noticeable dent and an insulted expression on her face.
The sirens got louder and louder but none of that mattered to anyone anymore. Red blotted her vision and even with her many hours of self control and meditated practice, Porcha lost control of every one of her emotions. Jumping closer to the van, she swiftly reached her hands up and grabbed a hold of the yoga mats, two-ten foot lengths of foam unrolling by themselves, her arms suspended up in a composer's position.
Yelping with the pitch of a dog that just learned how to bark, Harold jammed the broom out the window, swatting at Porcha as if she was a large fly. Paying no mind to the blunt bristles smacking into her face, she calmly but quickly reached in and shoved one corner of the purple mat into his mouth and twirled it around his head, wrapping him in foam.
Stepping back to admire her work, Porcha decided to top it off by sticking her dirty and dysfunctional loopy glass straw onto the very top of her masterpiece. She sniffled, tears coming forth to her eyes, but for all the wrong reasons. Her crying mixed in with the sound of police sirens that echoed down the street.
Porcha turned her head once more before booking it off the street. Tears obstructing her vision, she crashed into a nearby child on his scooter, his plastic covered cranium keeling for the concrete. He landed with a very solid thonk, one that deserved to be used in all future movie editing. She stared at the now sobbing child, his dinosaur attire reminding her of the child at the cafe shop. Just at that moment, two cop cars pulled up next to them, their guns out and directed at her.
“Ma’am, step away from the child, we don’t want to use violence, so get going!” one officer called out, his eyes glazed over, boredom oozing out from where he stood behind his open car door.
“You really gotta stop targeting little kids,” the other cop chimed in, waving around a chocolate donut with sprinkles in his free hand.
Despite their lifeless expressions, Porcha knew better than to follow the advice of these lethargic law enforcers. Glancing down at the second sobbing child she’s seen that day, Porcha bent down to grab his black and green dinosaur helmet, slamming it on her own lopsided head.
“Ma’am, what the hell are you do-”
“I’m getting going! Safety first!” she belted out, heaving the remaining gray yoga mat at the cops’ heads.
Before the donut munching cop was able to finish his sentence, Porcha popped the scooter up, switching the flick on with expert speed. The child on the floor sobbed even harder and Porcha chalked it up to him being jealous that she was great with scooters.
She let out a cackle as she watched the two grown men argue while attempting to pull the yoga mat off of themselves. Turning away from the struggle fest, she did a kickflip and zoomed past Harold’s van, where his screaming foam head could be heard up and down the street. She looked down at the scooter with pride and appreciation, noting with pleasure how smooth the sound of the electric machine allowed her to cruise despite the rough terrain of the unpolished streets.
Porcha smiled true, euphoria and joy apparent even with the muscle immobilizing toxins in her cheeks.
“I quit!” she yells, pumping her fist up in the air, the sun casting golden streams of light off her dinosaur helmet that sat atop her lopsided head.
A story written by: Sabrina Ha
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