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 ^{(it's beta!)}

"Pardon me," James touched the shoulder of the girl in front of him. "Do you have the time?"

"11:11." She smiled slyly. "Make a wish." James blinked, and rather than asking just made a wish. He wished that he wouldn't be late for his interview.

"Thank you." James scurried into the crowd, the girl's vivid red hair sticking firmly in his mind. He was feeling strange in this new part of the city dressed in a suit. But his friend Booker had told him about the job and had even gone so far as to set up the interview for him. His interview was at 11:45 and he was still lost.

Across the street a woman sat outside the butcher shop fanning herself with this morning's newspaper. She was watching the children playing baseball in the street, eyelids half-closed as she nearly dozed. James looked again at the street signs with unfamiliar names a began to panic. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly called Booker. The phone was still ringing when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, but you dropped this." It was the red-headed girl from two streets over holding out his grandfather's handkerchief, his lucky charm.

"Th-thank you," James stuttered.

"Are you alright?" She tilted her head to the side, one hand on her hip. The sun was sweltering, raising wavy, cartoonish heat lines off the sidewalk into the air. James nodded slowly, the world starting to get a little fuzzy at the edges.

"Yeah. . ." he answered as the ground came rushing up to meet him. Fainting was like falling down the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. He could hear pieces of conversations from the past year-- his mother asking him about Betty, who he'd just broken up with; Booker's cheers as they watched baseball on TV; Jenna, from his last job, reading Kurt Vonnegut aloud as she sat on the counter between customers. Everything was slightly jumbled in the black tunnel.

"Hey there." The red-headed girl was holding his head in her lap when he came to, looking at the stark blue sky and the fly away strands of her hair. "Just take it easy." James's suit coat was folded neatly on the sidewalk beside him and his tie was loosened.

"I'm gonna be late f-for my interview."

"I wouldn't worry about that right now," she smoothed away a few strands of his hair with her fingertips. "You've got a pretty nasty cut on your forehead there."

"Where's 2346 North Jackson?" James struggled to sit up, but as the world lurched he laid back down.

"You're on the wrong side of town there, kid." She smile. "What time's your interview?"

"11:45." He answered, watching the pigeons flutter from one rooftop to another with soft cooing.

"It's 11:23 now, and you'll never make it. What's the number for the place?"

"346-5576," James blinked heavily and listened to her dial.

"What's your name sweetie?"

"James. James Stuart." She smiled.

"It's a Wonderful Life, huh?" the ringing stopped and she tilted her head. "Hello? Yes, this is Marilyn Monroe, I'm calling to reschedule Mr. Stuart's interview. He took a nasty tumble down the stairs this morning and can't make it. I'm terribly sorry." She made soft noises of agreement as the secretary on the other end looked at her schedule book. "Next Thursday?" She looked down at James who nodded. "That would be great. 12:20? sure thing. Well thanks a lot, hun. You have a great afternoon. Bye." The girl hung up the phone.

"So?"

"You've got an interview scheduled for next Thursday at 12:20. You should be good for getting yourself home now, do you know the way?" James nodded, it was everything he'd just done but backwards. The kids were yelling as one boy hit a home run, sending it straight toward the gutter. "Great." She made a move to get up and James said, "What's your name?"

"Alicia." She just smiled. "Good luck on your interview, James." James got up and watched her walking away, wondering just who she was and where she'd come from. James took off his tie and started the walk back to the train station, his mind suddenly caught on the sliver of sky between the buildings and the way everything had looked like bigger refractions of the reflections in her eyes. James wished he was a painter.