Published: 2025-08-20

He wasn’t a playboy, but he definitely thought he was. Not even six feet tall and out of shape, Patrick wasn’t the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. His signature black suit complemented his dark skin, but his beer belly didn’t allow him to button the jacket. Every day, he dressed to kill, shaved, and applied cheap lotion. In his mind, he was James Bond; In reality, he was a security guard in a mall.

Patrick worked for a small bank branch in a local mall. His job description was security guard, but his actual job was opening the door for customers and pointing out where to stand for them.

“Welcome. Are you here for customer service or to make a transaction?” Was his tagline. It was honest work, and it paid the bills.

Patrick’s favorite part of the job was not wearing the same polyester suit every day, nor that feeling of importance after opening the door for someone really important. What he loved the most about his jobs was the ladies.

“Why would women go crazy for an out-of-shape man in a cheap suit?” You may ask. And the answer is they didn’t. Patrick’s luck with women matched his luck with everything else: it wasn’t good. That didn’t mean he would stop trying. When he put on his suit and stepped out of his house, it was crunch time for him. Everyday.

There were busy days at the bank, but most of them were not. During busy days, he would step out of the bank and instruct people where the line, which usually extended beyond the front entrance, started. He would use his façade of good, concerned employee to strike up a conversation with women waiting in line.

“You are going to customer service, right? If that’s the case, you don’t have to use this line.” He would ask an unsuspecting victim. “No, I am actually going to the cashier.” The potential victim would reply.

Jackpot! Conversation struck up successfully. — He would think.

“That’s a nice accent. Are you from around here?” He would then ask.
“No. Actually, I’m Colombian.”
“Oh, really?”

Call it charm, coincidence, or just dumb luck, but the man knew how to start a conversation. The problem, you see, was not striking up a conversation with an unsuspecting woman. The problem is that it never led to anything. It could not lead to anything.

On most days, when things were not that busy, Patrick would take a stroll around the mall. What was the harm? — He would think. I cannot greet customers if there aren’t any.

Everybody in the mall knew Patrick, be it an employee of one of the many stores or a regular customer of theirs. He would go to the stores and talk to the clerks, usually beautiful women, about whatever.

Patrick had no type. Women were his type. Be it tall, short, skinny, or thick, he did not care. There was, however, a kind of woman that he preferred: blond women. There was something about the combination of milky colored skin and golden hair that fascinated him. He would happily strike out with anyone, but if a blonde woman was in sight, he would stop whatever he found himself in the middle of and take his turn at bat.

That was Patrick for you, a flirty man, not quite creepy though. He was warm, respectful, and would not overstep his boundaries. One might even say he was a gentleman! Of course, one would be wrong, but there’s no law against calling Patrick that.

One thing is certain, though, come hell or high water, Patrick would be at the mall. From Monday to Friday, from 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM, and from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM on Saturdays.

It was a day like any other. Patrick stood at the door and welcomed customers with a smile. Same polyester suit, same cheap lotion, and same flirting. His telephone rings, he steps outside and takes the call. “Yeah?” He says. The voice coming out of the speakers tells him something. He nods in agreement, hangs up, and takes his place behind the glass door. The uneventfulness of the day continues. Customers approach the door, Patrick opens it for them, he greets them, maybe even flirts a little. The usual.

Days don’t last forever; In fact, under corporate capitalism, days finish at 5:00 PM. Employees turn off the lights, leave, and prepare for a new day, which starts at 8:00 AM Corporate Universal Time.

Not even Patrick’s love for the mall could make his shift last forever. Today, he wishes he could.

Like everyone else, Patrick says goodbye to his coworkers and leaves for home. It’s the rush hours; The symphony of horns from the street vehicles and the exchange of body fluids — mostly sweat — in the subway awaits him. Even during this ordeal, he wears his best smile too.

When Patrick arrives home, a woman is waiting for him on the porch.

“Is she in her room?” Patrick asks.
“Yes, she is.” The woman replies.

Patrick enters the house, removes his jacket, and throws it on the couch. He walks to the end of the corridor and opens the door to the left. A woman lies in bed. He kneels by her side and softly talks to her.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry for coming before. Work has been crazy; Lots of busy days. They make me stand all day long, and traffic is horrible after 5:00 PM. Anyway, I know Karen has been taking good care of you, she a good daughter. Wish I could have been a better son.”

The woman who waited on the porch was Karen, Patrick’s sister. She enters the room and says, “Patrick, we need to pronounce her dead.” Patrick stands up and walks towards the door. Before exiting the room, he turns around and says, “Mom, I’m sorry you didn’t get to see me married or hold my children.”

Karen hugs him, and they both cry together.

THE END.