Chapter Text
He let his head fall against the grip of the steering wheel, perspiration slick against his forehead, his hands clammy and shaking.
His mind couldn’t settle on hopeless, angry, or devastated, but wavered between the three, pushing against his sternum with greasy hands until his lungs tried to squeeze into his throat. Eventually, he pushed the door open and dropped out of the driver’s seat, work boots thumping the tarry pavement.
Chakotay shoved his key into the loose handle of the door, one he’d repeatedly fixed, but which insisted on defying him. One more thing in his shabby apartment and his shoddy life that made him just want to run away and give up on this mess. He threw his keys onto the table, the metal gouging into the smooth surface as it skittered with a jangling racket.
The thin salmon colored slip, crumbled in his other fist, landed unsatisfactorily on the kitchen counter as he stripped off his pale blue uniform shirt. As the material rebounded off the wall into the laundry basket in the pantry, a large slice of paint drifted into the pile of blues from previous days.
Stripping down to his briefs by the time he got to the bathroom, he filled the sink with tepid water and dunked his head under the cloudy surface. Holding his breath until his lungs starved, he released a yell, raw and desperate, before he broke the surface, leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain and pulling the stopper. Half-lidded eyes watched the liquid swirl down the drain until only dirtied droplets cut paths around the dents and grooves.
His mind spun, irate with the very moments in his life leading to this point; he frustrated himself as he lingered. Every few months when he got laid off again and repeated the gruesome routine of faux grief in his shady little abode, he would carry on the next day and join the lines at the employment center in the morning. For some reason, it felt different this time. Ten years ago, he couldn’t have seen himself, sorry as he was, arriving here, desperate for more with no escape apparent. He mused that he was one of the better off, he at least had a small savings holed away in case he ever got the courage to leave or go back home.
College had done him no good. He’d been idyllic and proud when he’d gotten his degree and passed his certification. He’d gotten a job immediately teaching in a suburb of LA, but violence, violence like the riots now…that permeated everything, turned his world into a dark-edged truth. He was outraged as much as the next man or woman, but he didn’t see it all leading to any kind of progress. As a student of history, he believed that violence very rarely led to the kind of revolution they wanted, time and hard work would lead to progress instead. For now, as much as he wanted to be involved, like many, he kept roof over his head only just. Where would he find the time to advocate for his beliefs? He barely had time to sleep. But he couldn’t go back home, not then and not now. Even if home meant a salve to his wounded dreams.
He’d gotten stuck in the down-draft of recession and floundered, barely treading the surface of survival, with interspersed oases of stability that gave him hope, just to squander his resolutions for a better life before he could appreciate what might be in front of him. Eventually the school succumbed to outside forces, closing its doors and leaving him shocked and lost. His friends and mentors were long dispersed and in their chosen careers, and here he was a former high school teacher, former aerospace assemblyman, former odd-jobs-to-get-fed pity-case.
No more.
He was done.
This time it would work out.
He’d do what he’d have to, and he’d get there.
By God.
He didn’t care what it was that would make his dream real.
Nor did he know what he wanted any more.
But, he knew that this wasn’t it.
Something had to give.
Weeks later, despite his best efforts, he found himself in the cycle he loathed all the same. Leaving the worksite, Chakotay confirmed that he was meeting Murry and the others at the pub once they collected their daily pay from the office and took groceries home to their families for dinner. Some days he smirked, glad that he could put away a bit since he didn’t have anyone depending on him and he could survive on packaged pasta and condensed soup indefinitely. For what, he didn’t know, but every day, he came early to the employment office and checked with his counselor, Pam, about permanent postings, anywhere but here, that might interest him. Honestly, when Murry’s girl had recommended the agency, he’d been suspicious of the shining statistics that boasted “Fast Employment, in the Career for You!”
Most days, it meant a steady stint in manual labor until something long-term popped up in their system for their clients. More often than not, it took a few months before the perfect fit came along, but that was pretty good in the current financial climate. Until then, he coached himself from depression, through every aching muscle and sunburn as he worked wherever they put him for the day. At least someone was doing something for folks like him, and Pam really seemed like she wanted him to succeed. She had an inordinate amount of faith in his abilities.
Chakotay parked in front of his building and cut the engine. He didn’t bother rolling the windows back up, there wasn’t anything to steal, and he didn’t want to get into an oven when he came back out.
Running his hands through his cropped raven hair, his fingers came back gritty, but relatively clean. He judged a shower could wait until he got back in for the night, otherwise he’d just sweat and get caked in grime again. Brushing his teeth seemed prudent though, as did a fresh set of clothes. Fresher, rather. He’d been short of quarters for two weeks and too busy to go to the corner to trade in for some.
He looked around, disgusted at the state of his apartment. Hopefully his break would come soon so he could just ditch the mess and drive off into the sunset with whatever he could fit in the truck.
His head smacked into the low door frame of the hall closet as he reached for a fresh wash-cloth so he could clean his ears and fingernails. Every damn place. There always had to be something he could slam his forehead on in every building he’d lived in. Apparently, he was freakishly tall compared to these stunted city architects. He groaned and checked the bathroom mirror for any marks, dark eyes darting to the reddened line above his brow. By most standards, he wasn’t too tall, everyone else was just overly short. Everyone in his family was fairly consistent in size; wide but lithe frames, even most of the women were at least 5’8 and sturdily built. It served them well at home, where his cousins and siblings worked in some incarnation of the family business, tending orchards and occasionally manning a fishing boat off the coast. Chakotay had to be different though, and went to the land of the Lilliputians where he’d gotten his education and slid down a rabbit hole.
Shrugging broad shoulders into a clean button-up, he reapplied deodorant and grabbed a handful of pocket change and crumpled bills from the bowl by his couch to fund his pints for the evening. He still had Saturdays to look forward to; the end of the workweek heralding his one concession: a meal and drinks with the rotating roster of temp workers he called friends.
Today everything changed. Pam had come through. She’d submitted his credentials to a job and they’d requested an interview over the phone. After an hour in the call, he was optimistic. They’d gushed about his credentials and experience. There was only one problem. His new employer (he hoped) couldn’t pay for his moving expenses, but they could advance his salary upon signature of his contract to soften the blow. It was as good a deal as he’d get. He would have liked a sign-on bonus, but his last severance from the factory wasn’t completely gone. Between that and the rest of his pithy savings, he could probably scrounge enough for a modest down payment on somewhere to live, even if it wasn’t luxurious. It wouldn’t be here, that’s all that really mattered.