Not Again

 

Felix 

Felix was the kind of guy everybody noticed. Six feet tall, dark-skinned, and handsome in a quiet, confident way, he moved like he already knew where he was headed. Back in high school in Brooklyn, he was a star on the soccer team—fast, skillful, the kind of player college scouts came to watch. Off the field, he was just as sharp; one of the top math students in his year with a full-ride scholarship already waiting for him when he graduated. Girls in sororities whispered his name in the hallways. He never bragged, never kissed and told. That silence, that respect for the private moments he shared, only made him more magnetic.

Life felt unbreakable—until it broke.

One ordinary practice, his leg snapped beneath him. Just like that, the soccer dream was over. The scholarship vanished with it. Felix didn’t waste time grieving; he turned every ounce of that discipline toward his books and graduated with distinction in Microbiology.

He thought the degree would open doors. It didn’t—at least not fast enough. For almost two years he hunted for work that matched his qualifications and found nothing but closed doors and polite rejections. Pride took a backseat to survival. He hauled boxes, poured concrete, swept floors—anything that paid. Some nights he lay awake thanking God he wasn’t trying to feed a wife and kids on the little he made. Friends and old classmates slipped him cash when they could. He swallowed the shame and took it.

Then, finally, a miracle: a solid job with a company holding a fat federal contract. They made him a manager. The salary was more money than he’d ever seen in one place. He walked into that office every day determined to prove they hadn’t made a mistake. He worked late, fixed problems before they happened, and dreamed out loud about buying his first car.

He never saw the end coming.

One morning he found an envelope on his desk. Inside was a single sheet of paper: the contract had been terminated. The company was shutting down effective immediately. He marched into his boss’s office, heart hammering.

“Sir… this is a big blow. Nobody told me this was coming.”

The boss didn’t even look up from his computer. “Not my problem. You’re hired, you’re fired. That’s how it works.”

“But I’ve given everything to this place—”

“Don’t care.”

“I just… I thought—”

“I said don’t care. Pack your stuff and get off my property. I don’t give a damn where you go next.”

Felix stood there a moment, waiting for the man to soften, to offer some explanation, some shred of humanity. Nothing came. He walked out with a cardboard box of personal items and the echo of that slammed door behind him.

On the sidewalk outside, the city kept moving like nothing had happened. Felix looked at the box in his hands—pens, a plant he’d kept alive for two years, a photo of his high-school soccer team—and felt the weight of every closed door he’d ever faced settle on his shoulders all over again.

He whispered to himself, voice cracking, “Not again.”

But it was again. And this time, he had no idea how he was going to get back up.

That day Felix dragged himself home with a broken shoulders and a heavier heart. Two solid years at the company — ups, downs, late nights — but the paycheck had always landed. Now the box in his arms held everything he owned from that job. As he walked the familiar Brooklyn streets, his mind drifted back to Abraham Lincoln High School. For a second he pictured himself standing in front of a classroom, teaching science, steady checks, summers off. He actually laughed out loud and shook his head.

“Forward ever, backward never,” he muttered.

The memory of SUNY Downstate Health Sciences University hit him next — the grind, the pride, the degree he’d fought for. Life had answered with a cheap shot below the belt.

He dropped the box on the floor of his small apartment, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wall. Thirty grand in savings. Rent was due in three weeks. He whispered a prayer that night and fell asleep still searching for an answer.

Morning came with sunlight slicing through the blinds and an idea that felt like lightning.

“Logistics,” he said to his empty room, grinning for the first time in weeks. “I’m going into logistics.”

That same week he bought a used 2018 Freightliner box truck, painted FELIXLOGISTIC on the doors in fresh, and filed the paperwork. USDOT number, MC number, insurance — everything by the book.

For three long months he hustled. Flyers on windshields in Red Hook, cold calls, posts on LoadUp and Truckstop.com. Nothing. The savings shrank fast: truck payment, insurance, diesel, Con Ed bill. Some nights he lay awake wondering if he’d just burned his safety net for nothing.

Then, on a gray November morning, his phone rang.

“Good morning, FELIXLOGISTIC. How can we help you today?” He tried to sound like he had ten trucks, not one.

“Yeah, I need electronics to move from Brooklyn into Manhattan. What’s your rate?”

Felix shot upright on the couch, heart hammering. First call in weeks.

“Depends on weight and exact addresses, but for a full 26-foot box into Midtown today? I can do it for two-eighty flat — fuel, tolls, tax, everything included.”

“Two-eighty? That’s steep, man.”

Felix forced a calm laugh. “Trust me, after NYC traffic, bridge tolls, and diesel at three-fifty a gallon, I’m barely covering costs. But I’ll throw in free waiting time up to an hour because I need the work.” He winced at how desperate that sounded, but it was true.

The man on the other end paused. Felix heard voices and static in the background.

“How fast can you be here?”

“Money upfront or Zelle, cargo ready — I’ll roll in thirty minutes.”

“Alright. Send me the company address. Pickup’s right in front of Brooklyn Borough Hall, 209 Joralemon.”

The line clicked dead.

Felix stared at the phone, then let out a long whistle.

“Borough Hall? Must be some big-shot politician or a court thing,” he said to himself. He grabbed his keys, threw on his clean jeans and the one button-down shirt he owned, and headed for the truck.

For the first time in months, the city didn’t feel like it was trying to crush him. It felt like it was finally opening a door.

After loading the truck, he hit the road. It was a beautiful drive—clear skies, open highway—and it felt good to finally have his first real contract. This was it: the start of something bigger. He’d made a promise to himself to deliver on time, earn that recommendation, and let the rest write itself. They always say that’s how it begins—the rest is history.

He was right on schedule, aiming to slip into New York before the afternoon gridlock swallowed the streets. Cruising along, he glanced at the river of brake lights ahead and shook his head. Where’s everybody rushing to in such a hurry, he wondered, when they still manage to clog everything up?

He eased into a turn when he heard it—a sharp, unmistakable hisssssss. Flat tire.

“Damn it,” he muttered, jaw tight. He pulled the truck over, hopped out, and walked around to inspect the damage.

That’s when he heard the voice booming from a little portable speaker on the sidewalk. A street preacher, megaphone in hand, was mid-sermon:

“Behold! The sinner will always get a flat tire on the road of life if he don’t give his heart to Jesus Christ!”

He froze for a second, stared at the preacher, then at the shredded tire.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said under his breath, half-laughing despite himself. “What the hell…”

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