Diamonds by Elyse Wigen

Miracles happen. Bullshit, Hector thought to himself, passing an electronics store with Miracle on 34^th Street playing an array of display TVs. Walking towards the bus stop, the December wind seemed especially pitiless, despite the fact that it was unusually sunny. It was funny how exorbitant amounts of garland and Santa hats did nothing to squelch Hector’s hatred from what Kathy fondly called “consumerist cheer.”

“Get it?” she’d said, “It’s like Christmas cheer.” He thought it was cute.

That was last Christmas, when she gladly accepted his diamond engagement ring—before she threw it at him and it rolled under the refrigerator. She said she couldn’t get married if it was to someone who was as selfish of a bastard as he was. Of course he became depressed then. Losing his job was only inevitable. And if karma hadn’t given him a hard enough kick in the pants, the diamond had dis-lodged from its crown mid-roll, and, for a long time remained unfound on the floor of his unswept, pigsty of a kitchen.

Miracles don’t just happen. It’s like money, Hector decided. You have to earn them. But it was clear that fate wasn’t going to let him earn either money or miracles, considering he already had three unpromising job interviews that week. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kathy had called them both.

“Hi, Fate? Future employer? Hector is a selfish bastard and doesn’t deserve money or miracles… sure…sure…uh-huh…thanks, you have a Merry Christmas too!” Fingering his secondhand tie, he thought of his mismatched suit jacket and pants; under the sun’s mocking light, one of the navy blues almost looked black.

When the bus finally pulled up to the curb and the doors sighed open, Hector didn’t get on. Out of the corner of his eye, something had caught his attention. What was that being pulled into the departing bus’ poof! of exhaust? Was it…? Yes, it was. A red and white playing card. It seemed significant that by the time he chased it down First Avenue, and caught it from jumping into the sewer grate, it had been already stepped on and driven over. Significant because he too, knew the feeling of being run over by metaphorical SUVs and taxis.

Jack, Hector dubbed him—because he was the jack of diamonds—accompanied Hector on all of his errands that morning. The corner store for cigarettes, the bank for cash and an overdrawn notice, the pharmacy for his anti-depressants. At first, Hector stowed Jack in his billfold, mostly because it kept the billfold from being completely empty, but eventually Hector moved him to his coat pocket.

Standing in line for a 7:00 movie, Hector pulled Jack out and carefully rubbed a bit of dirt from the bottom diamond. It wasn’t dirt however because the black mark remained.

“I’m sorry sir, this show is all sold out.” It seemed Kathy had called the theater as well.

Irritated, Hector headed for a nearby diner. Not seeing a street performer, Hector kicked over a guitar box, spilling coins all over the sidewalk. The bills had already been swept away in the wind.

“Fuck you!” the guitarist yelled, but Hector didn’t notice.

Ducking into the diner, Hector squeezed into the only seat he could find at the high-stool bar. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and placed the card on the table. Jack appeared to be smiling, from what Hector could tell from his profiled gaze. But not the happy kind of smile. Smiling as if to say, “I know something you don’t know.” What did he know? He looked at the black mark—pen, marker maybe—and tried rubbing the diamond again. The diamond.

Hector’s thoughts turned to the real diamond in his other pocket, the one he had found that morning while trying to salvage a dropped piece of toast. He had planned on bringing it to the pawn shop before his interview, but couldn’t do it. Thought it might bring him good luck.

But it didn’t. And now he couldn’t remember why he and Kathy broke up in the first place. He was a selfish bastard, that part was true. To be honest, what he couldn’t remember is why he hadn’t gone to her house after she hung up on him. Or called again, kept trying…anything.

She wasn’t beautiful, the girl who sidled into the now-empty stool next to Hector, but there was something about the way she sat that made her look almost regal. Turning his profile to face her, he asked her was her name was. Maggie, she said. She was a nanny for a family over on Washington.

They sympathized about finding dream jobs, laughed over a couple of kids who had dribbled hot chocolate down their snowsuits, and ordered more coffee. He was impressed at her determination to go back to school and become a teacher. Both had to check their watches when the barrista began flipping the chairs over on the tables.

He asked if he could see her again, maybe get her phone number. Sure, she said. Fumbling in her purse for a piece of paper, she pulled out a pen, and right there on the back of a Target receipt was 555-6496.

When Hector looked up, Maggie smiled. Her two little dimples were enough to convince him to pocket the number and promise to call. Screw the diamond, he thought. First thing tomorrow morning he would head to the pawn shop. With new resolve, Hector imagined himself cleaning up the house, cleaning up his life, Maggie smiling.

The little bell on the door jingled as he left the diner and turned left, walking toward the bus stop. And then he stopped.

Standing across the street was Kathy, watching a display TV in a shop window.

“Hey you again! Fuck you!” the guitarist provoked. “Did you hear me? I said fuck you!”

“Kathy!” Hector tossed Jack and Maggie’s number into the guitarist’s box. He didn’t have money to give, but he had Jack.