Victoria's Window--A Novel by Randy Evans

Most towns have unsightly back streets, neglected in many different ways--old dilapidated buildings, upper-story empty lofts with dirty windows, repair and rental shops, barber shops and beauty salons, bars and restaurants for the locals signed with one-syllable names like “Don’s” or “Darlene’s,” pot-holed streets lined with broken-down cars and delivery trucks, sun-faded “men-at-work” signs on broken sidewalks that seem more permanent than temporary, like those loose, bent-over street signs that never quite fall down even in strong wind.  

Victoria looked out on one such street as the morning light filtered through the old factory windows of her third-floor rented apartment; her cat nuzzled against her legs.  She sipped strong, black coffee, and began to think about how this day would be so different from her usual routine.  For the first time since high school, she would no longer be working the night shift at the board mill in town.  She would miss some of the old-timers, all the petty confidences, and life dramas of her co-workers, all the old instruments in the quality control lab where she worked, and the emanating warmth of a freshly cut-to-size skid of paper on a cold winter morning.  What she would not miss was the predictability of it all--trapped in an endless cycle from the parking lot, to the locker room, to the shop floor, to the windowless break room, back and forth in days of nights and nights of days.

There were sixteen panes in her apartment window, each reflecting the light in a different way.  Each pane seemed to hide a quivering revelation of what her new life might be, a slurry of sky and clouds.  She unlatched the only two-paned casement that hinged open, and pushed it out as far as it would go until it reflected the sidewalk below--an image of concrete liquified in shadows. She noticed how the reflection turned the grease spots and urine stains into something that was entirely more pleasing to her eyes.

What would it be like to live without putting on her work face?  How would she feel if she could do what she wanted each hour of every day, instead of feigning interest when she was bored, containing her emotions when she wanted to cry or scream, reserving her judgments when she had the impulse to speak out?  What would it be like to sleep through a normal night, and wake refreshed?  What limits would she impose on her new freedom?  What promises would she make to herself?  Would she discover new dreams and let them be temporary and short-winded?  For a rare moment she stood still in readiness, then ran a restless finger across the dust on the window frame and watched dustballs form and float away.