11 POV
[POV someone on the streets of Manhattan]
My name is Ernest Chain. I am a 43-year-old man with a wife and a kid.
I am illiterate, and never went to the school when my mother insisted to. Our household was not a rich one, not even the middle-class kind to tell you the truth.
So from an early age, I worked at Florey Garage, where my father used to work for Howard Florey.
Mr. Florey paid me half of what he used to pay my dad, more than the women working with us, and that was enough to at least maintain our poor household, at least better than falling down.
It was all going well, I mean we were not the richest or the most handsome of the bunch but our family was doing fine.
Until my dad was killed, he was put down in a gang war, of which he secretly part for a year, a small-time henchman for the big people in suits, he was just trying to feed his son and pregnant wife.
I never mulled over that event, I was eight then. Whatever he did was his choice, his solution for us to live a better life, but I refused to follow in his footsteps, working earnestly in the garage, making me a full-time worker there.
I was learning quite well, and while it may sound horrendous for a child to say about his father, but with one less adult to feed, the expenses equated themselves to our favor.
My sister was born the same year, a premature birth by a fortnight, but no complications whatsoever.
The next years went down positively as I worked my way to the main worker cum manager of the garage. It paid well might I add. My sister went for her education in a public school, where she was hailed a genius, by the time she was in high school, scholarships laid down on her path to higher education, which, I and my mother supported with our maximum capabilities.
She was now 17, a beautiful woman with goals that overshadowed my own, which frankly made me happier than her.
One day I had just come back from work. I had just received my salary from work, a whole $2200 dollars with a 200$ bonus from the boss when I saw something in the trash can.
It was something I would not have dreamt of witnessing in my life, but it was there.
The letter of acceptance from Havard Medical, in the name of Daisy Chain, my younger sis, it was dated a week back.
But it was torn apart, with stains of tears and ink on it. I thought of rushing inside with anger about this, I knew it was her dream to go to Harvard.
But I stopped with my first step, thinking back on my actions.
Havard medical school was famous for its low acceptance rate, high quality of education, and most important, high fees.
It would require 60k to 80k per year for her to join the college, and with my sole income as the head of the house, a measly 2000$ a month, it was near impossible for me to pay for her education.
Loan-? That could work out.
I could ask Mr. Florey- No even he won't have that much to pay to me for straight up 5 years and then more for further degrees.
Education loan? the rates were high but maybe I could muster some money from out there.
That night I could not sleep a wink, thinking out ways for her to weasel out enough money for her future, going back to work the first thing in the morning. I made trips to the bank, scholarship charities, and anywhere to gather information, for some kind, any kind of financial help.
The night when I entered the home, the pleasant smell of my mom's cooking greeted me.
"What's special?" I asked as she brought out the chicken from the oven, dressing it for a feast as things stood.
"Daisy here is engaged! She was secretly dating someone and she is here to show me her wedding ring!"
"Look." My sister offered her hand where the diamond ring shined, impeccably foreign to our home.
I stood there, staring at the ring, not for its design, but because I could not muster the courage to look into her eyes, to not provide her the choice of going away for studies, to not get her a chance to escape this facade of a marriage she had brought up to close the way to live her life how she wanted.
The only thing I remember from that night was how I smiled back with a broad face, congratulating her on the event and supporting her in marrying the love of her life...
.
.
Twenty years have passed since that day, and not a minute goes by when I am not reminded of the smile I placed on my face then.
My sister married Mr. Florey's eldest grandson, the two had known each other for a while in their childhood as favors accumulated over Mr. Florey, and our families came close.
Our household is still n the same condition, where now I earn less than then as the garage caught fire once, after which our families combined to start it anew, with equal partnership instead of the previous employ-boss setting.
I married, an Indian second-generation American. It was love at first sight at the Church community service.
I have a daughter from her, Arya Chain, seventeen and counting.
On her 18th birthday, the same letter H that had given me many sleepless nights knocked on my door.
It was the same letter of acceptance, from the same medical college, the same test font, and the same sender, and the contents followed the same format and language as they did twenty years ago.
I was horrified beyond measure, Do I give her to her and tell her that I can't pay for it? Do I burn it here and never let it reach her hands? What do I do?
No
No
No
Not today
Not again
Not this time
Not with my daughter
.
.
.
I collected every dollar, every nickel I could, breaking years-old bonds, selling my mother's jewelry and everything, and had mustered a total of 40,591$, the most I could have gained.
I searched for ways to make money, internet news everywhere, some way that could make her ticket to enter Howard possible, anyway for her.
Finally, this investment banker contacted me and gave a brief overview of his services, telling me he had inside information about various companies and such sweet talks.
I knew he was sweet talking to me, but there were seldom ways to earn quick money, a large amount of money.
So I invested the forty thousand to his name, which he managed, buying 30k worth of Stark and 10k worth of other small to big stocks.
But I needed more.
I needed a lot.
And then came an opportunity for me when I was checking a Mustang in the garage.
"It is hard to get men nowadays, there is some Batman lunatic beating men left and right around the docks. Boss is not happy with the men leaving."
"Well if someone wearing a black costume in the middle of night followed me to work, I would be creeped out too."
"You want to get in?"
"As security? not for small bucks."
"Bos is paying 10k per day for the next week, the shipment is that important."
"10k! DAILY?"
"Daily." I looked at the two talking men, smoking cigarettes at the corner of the garage.
"10k DAILY?"
"Huh? What is the matter to you?"
"I was listening to you, are you really paying ten thousand dollars per day if I got in?"
The women looked at each other before answering.
"Look we are in shady business, you would not fit into the kind of work, piss off."
"My dad was the left-hand man of the Garrod gang and died with them twenty years ago."
The man stared at me, checking out my physique, which I maintained to be somewhat robust.
"You killed someone?" I stood silent at the inquiry, I had not in fact killed or harmed anyone in my forty years of life.
"Well come to the port tonight, here is this number." He tore a piece of paper to write a phone number. "If you are lucky, you would not have to run from the costumed man."
.
.
.
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[Inform me if I am doing a blunderous job with the story]
