Modlę się do Ciebie, aby ten przystanek
The alien words stared back at me in the warm glow of the summer morning. Etched crudely into the soft wood of the inside of my closet, they reminded of the juvenile graffiti that was frequently carved on the desks at my middle school. However, there was one stark difference here – sticking out of the final letter of the statement was a shard of what looked to be a red-painted fingernail.
This was a most discomforting way to start the work week.
I didn’t have time for this shit. I had to be at work in 15 minutes and my hair was still sopping wet from the shower.
I pried the shard of potential fingernail out of the carving and put it in an empty jewelry box on my dresser. I punched the words into a note on my phone to translate at work before throwing on my clothes and leaving.
The translation would make it nearly impossible to work for the rest of the day.
I pray to you to make this stop.
The language detected was Polish. I sat at my desk numb and nauseous for a few moments before I was jolted by a co-worker walking up behind me to remind that we had to leave for an off-sight meeting.
At this point, I am going to have to backtrack a little bit to put this situation into proper framing.
A few months before this, I took a job selling condos in the first modern living complex ever installed in the Big Sur area of the Central California coast. After spending years in LA chasing a half-cocked dream of being an actress, the full-time position in one of the world’s most picturesque and relaxed locales sounded like a dream.