It's breaking you down
Heels clicked on a tiled floor. A smile rested on my lips as I strutted a little more for the stubby, stuffy men in their penguin suits, letting them have their fantasies that they could actually have this. There wasn’t a bank account or dick large enough in the world to have that happen for any of them.
Now that you understand there's no one around
I strutted with my head held high, inside my head ran a list entitled How To Fuck What’sHisFace Up”a list I seriously doubt I’d actually follow through on, because really, it was my fault. There was no one to blame, but me. I’d slipped. I’d fallen.
And this is the shit that happens when you get stupid.
Take a breath, just take a seat,
I continued to smile at the drooling fools that were eyeing me shamelessly, while swallowing the ‘what the fuck are you looking at’ that I wanted to spit at them like volcanic ash. If I was running this shit (this shit, being a magazine publication called Life & Times”specializing in bringing you the news necessary to make you a better housewife or husband (L & T thought househusband was more PC than kept man), lover, parent and citizen. There was even some international news. Some people thought we (and by we, I don’t really include myself) were trying to do too much, be too many things to too many people. Less than a decade old, L & T sometimes replies to such critics with a prompt and smartly wise “So!”), they would’ve kept their jaws off the floor a little better than that.
you're falling apart and tearing at the seams
One year of kindergarten, four years of elementary school, two years of intermediate school, two years of middle school, four years of high school, four years of college and a degree in Communications and all I had to show for it was a piece of fancy-looking paper that couldn’t do me any good except to wipe my ass with. All that work, all that sacrifice, all that debt”so I could get that damn degree. That damn degree which was supposed to take me somewhere. The only place it took me was here, working behind a desk as an assistant for more years than I care to think about.
Getting to my desk, I spied my boss Marge Howell coming out of her office. Marge embodied daintiness in every form of the word. Her gait, her style of dress, her make-up, her stature all brought about a seeming fragility to her appearance. Almost a porcelain doll without the potential creepiness (that is, if you’re the type to be creeped out by those kind of dolls). Until she opened her mouth.
Pushing a smile on my face again I said, “Good morn”“
“Coffee.”
When I neither moved nor spoke, she smiled, a sinister curl of lips. “Do I look especially great today as to explain why you’re just dumbly blinking at me? I said, go get me some coffee.”
I swallowed back every colorful word that would have gotten my ass fired in a heartbeat, not because I particularly liked this job, but because I can’t give her the satisfaction of getting to fire me.
I sleep with one person’s husband and it had to be a bitch’s who holds a grudge like Rosie O’Donnell’s death-grip on the last donut (thank Donald Trump for that simile).
Technically I never slept with him (her husband, because of course I wouldn’t sleep with Donald Trump, because as quickly as his multi-million bank account could turn me on, his hair and general physique would just as easily turn me right back off), but whenever he’d come around he’d make little flirting comments to me. I never said anything back. Just smiled and giggled and that was enough. I might as well have ripped the man’s clothes off and boned him right in front of her.
Apparently, she has trust issues on account of his trifling ass sleeping with nearly every woman he comes in contact with.
So even though, he failed to get me past a smile and giggle in Marge’s eyes I must have slept with him. Or would in the future and Marge just liked to plan ahead. So from that day on, literally from the first day I met the man, she’s been torturing me. She went from being the boss of anyone’s dream”nice, understanding, flexible”to the evil bitch from hell who was saving a seat for me.
When I first started working for Marge before the new fiction book deal, before talk show offers (which she’s so far refused every single one), before all of the TV, magazine and radio interviews, before all of those self-help books she’s pushed out year after year. When I started working for her, she was just a local San Fran celebrity”and barely that.
And I was just another one of many assistants, the only difference was the other ones were usually just interns. Interns who turn came back as college grads and became journalists for L & T and maybe even eventually needed assistants of their own.
As just another one of the lowly assistants, I tediously sorted all of the mail, going through and reading each one and then picking the better ones and reading those aloud to Marge.
As time went on and her popularity grew and grew to near combustion and people began whispering about her fifteen minutes of fame, which stretched out to hours and days, weeks and years”the phone was ringing incessantly, everyone wanted a piece of her (except for her husband, apparently). And one day I went into her office, as usual, to read her the letters that I thought were “worthy” of her attention (that’s what she said after awhile, only the ones that were “worthy”), then in mid-sentence she interrupted me and said, “Can you do me a favor?”
The favor turned out to be writing her column for her. She’d just listen to the letters being read and then quickly give me her thoughts on it and then I had to translate that into the four-letter wordless non-tirade about how pathetic they were (without, of course, saying that they were pathetic) advice reply.
"Are-are you sure? I mean, are you sure you want me to do this?"
"It's not rocket science. I can do it in my sleep now, in fact, most of the time it puts me to sleep. Be a little funny, a little maternal, big sisterly, you're not trying to reinvent the wheel here. You think you can handle this? Or is typing and getting coffee too much responsibility for you?"
"I can handle it."
And ever since then I have been handling it.
The column got more popular after I started writing for it, which Marge noticed and did I get a raise? A pat on the back? A 'good job' even? No, that only upped the ante on her hatred of me. Now I was deemed a no-good husband-fucker and column-stealer to boot.
Which wouldn’t really bother me if I was at least getting the pay or acclaim for my writing that she was. If I didn’t have a very strict ‘fuck no husbands’ rule, I’d fuck him now just so then the torture would be justified.
Heaven forbid you end up alone and you don't know why
I know what you’re thinking, probably the same thing that my friends have been saying to me every time I complain about this damn place: why don’t I just get a different job?
Hold on tight, wait for tomorrow,
Well other than not wanting to make Marge’s year, I have this weird thing about me. I like to eat. With a roof over my head. So because of this tiny peculiarity I must continue to work here, because with the job market being more about laying off than hiring nowadays I just can’t afford to do otherwise. Maybe one day I’ll lose that peculiarity though and start looking like Lindsay Lohan or Nicole Richie and get a new job. Or at least try to get a new one.
Until then, I’m stuck getting the coffee. With extra spit. Just the way she likes it.
you'll be alright
Uneventful.
That’s the perfect word to describe my day. Completely uneventful. Which was A-Okay with me because I’m oh-so very tired of the drama.
After a day of answering insipidly moronic letter after letter in between doing what Marge called my “real work” aka running her errands, I finally got to hop into my hoopty named Charlie (which I named that, because the guy who sold it to me looked dead on how Charlie Sheen had looked in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off””back when Charlie semi (if you squinted) had it going on) and blasted the radio the whole way home.
Not caring that people were staring at me at every stoplight. If they wanted to stare, then stare on with their nosey self”was my attitude.
It's on your face, is it on your mind, would you care to build a house of your own
And when I did get home, I made my daily mistake of checking the mail. Bills, bills, bills, bills, junk, bill, junk. Damn couldn’t somebody ever send me something in the mail that didn’t require me going deep into my pockets? I scanned the box to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Nope, nothing.
Carrying my mail to my apartment, I spied Bragging Barbara, who I didn’t feel like being bothered with, coming out of her door. I didn’t care what award Barb’s child had won for this or that, didn’t care how much Barb or her husband had won at the boats, and definitely didn’t care to hear how Barb’s middle son, Kaleb was such a good man, but had such bad choice in women and how by the way, he’s single.
I didn’t care how nice, how good, or how single Barbara’s son was”marrying into that family was a big…oh hell no. Or a little one at least.
“Hi, Miss Barbara.” I said, ready to just keep it moving and walk on by, acting like I was in such a rush and had no time for small talk.
“Hey yourself.” Miss Barbara replied, without her usual exuberance and added nicknames. No ‘Hey sugar’ or ‘How you doin’, honey?’ No…nothing. Something was wrong. Damn.
“Something the matter, Miss Barbara?”
“Oh it’s nothing, baby. I can see you’re in a rush and I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
Something was wrong alright. And here I thought I’d be able to slide on by. Shoulda known, should have known.
“Aww, Miss Barbara, you know I always got time for you!”
And I did, Miss Barbara over the years had become like a second mother to me (that’s why I can be annoyed to see her, yet love her at the same time), or first”because sometimes I found it mighty hard to see my mother as anything more than the receptacle from which my life was begot. But don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. Lord knows I do.
Sometimes for the life of me, I don’t know why I do, but that doesn’t stop me from loving her anyhow. Miss Barbara was special though, and I don’t mean “special” in the new way the term has started to be defined as. Miss Barbara despite wanting to brag about every- and anything that happened to her and those close to her, she was a good listener and would be there for you anytime you needed her with a shoulder to cry on and fresh-baked cookies with a tall glass of milk (chocolate, white or strawberry…depending on your taste). And for that reason alone, if Miss Barbara needed something and I could give it to her, she need not want for it for too long.
She said, “Well, it’s Kaleb…”
When I sighed, she smiled. “I know you’re always telling me that you like being single and having your freedom, but I think if you just went on one date with Kaleb you could decide if that old maid life is really for you or not.”
I smiled. “I’m only twenty-five, that’s hardly an old maid.”
“So is that a yes?”
“Miss Barbara…” I sighed.
“One date. That’s all I’m asking for. Just one little date. An hour or two out of your time. You two go out and eat and if you don’t want to do it again then that’s fine. No hard feelings.”
“I don’t know…”
How much longer, how long can you wait,
It's like you wanted to go and give yourself away
“How does next Friday sound?”
“Like you’re not taking no for an answer.”
Grinning, she said, “I’m not doing this just for Kaleb, you know. This’ll be good for you too. I see some of those high-stepping scrawny boys you bring up in here that don’t stay more than a night. You need some quality in your life.”
Without arguing the probability that a son that she’d been trying to pawn off on me since the day she met me could actually be a ‘quality’ guy, I said, “I can’t go Friday, I’m going on vacation.”
I left off the ‘in two days’ part because today was Thursday and she wouldn’t take ‘I need to pack’ for a reason to get out of the date I’ve been avoiding ever since I moved into this apartment complex three years ago.
“A vay-kay, huh? Now that sounds nice! I can’t remember the last time Teddy and I went on a vacation. Where did you say you were going?”
I didn’t, but… “Jamaica.”
“Oh, yes, that sounds real nice. Real nice. I’m sure Kaleb would’ve loved to be able to go with you.”
“Okay.” I was backing towards my door now. “Well, I’ve gotta go...pack. Yeah, pack. So I’ll talk to you later.”
“We shall. We definitely shall.”
I’ve never been threatened before, and as innocent as those words seemed that sounded damn close to a threat to me. Without saying another word, I stumbled and fumbled my way back into the safe haven of my apartment.
I know what you’re thinking (other than that if I start making that phrase a serious habit, you’re gonna have to strangle me)”I should just bite the bullet, suck it up, give in and/or give up and just go on the friggin’ date with him. I would, I just…I don’t know what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he acts like. I don’t do well on blind dates.
My last blind date ended with my foot up some jackass of a guy’s ass because he didn’t seem to understand that telling me I had and I quote “nice tits” was not an acceptable compliment then reaching to feel them to see “if they’re real” was damn sure not going to fly.
For all I know, Kaleb could be the man of my dreams”though I seriously, seriously doubt that”but I can’t take the risk of winding up having to put my foot up Miss Barbara’s son’s ass.
Call me crazy, but I just don’t think that would help us to become better neighbors.
My answering message was blinking. Red light on. I pressed play. What’s his face’s voice filled the room. My finger lingered over the erase button, only to fall resignedly to my sides.
Heaven forbid you end up alone and you don't know why
I listened to the message, twice. First time, for rolling my eyes and griping over what an asshole he’d turned out to be. Second time, for sighing and wondering what it would be like when I didn’t get to hear his voice at all.
Hold on tight wait for tomorrow, you'll be alright
As I hit the erase button, my cell phone hummed. Text message coming through.
Are you home now?
I rolled my eyes, but found my fingers texting back anyways.
No. I’m in Mars now.
Greg 5:22PM
Funny.
Greg 5:22PM
Did you check your messages yet?
Georgia 5:23PM
No.
Greg 5:23PM
Liar.
Greg 5:23PM
You erased it didn’t you?
Greg 5:25PM
I miss you.
Flipping through my phonebook, I clicked on what’s his face’s name. Waited as the call went through. At the first sound of his self-satisfied voice on the other end of the phone, I said, “Fuck you.”
He laughed and said, “Actually, that’s what I was wondering if we could…”
Heaven forbid you end up alone, and you don't know why
I hung up, cursing myself for calling him. The only thing that’s keeping me for truly going crazy was the thought that I was soon going to be away from all of this.
My cell phone hummed again. Another text.
For old time’s sake?
Hold on tight wait for tomorrow and you'll be alright
I swear sometimes with the way these so-called men act, if I wasn’t strictly dickly I would go lesbian. Nah, not even then. Bitches piss me off too.
It’s a damn good thing that in a matter of 48-hours I was going to get to tell San Fran and everybody left behind in it to kiss my black ass, ‘cause I’ll be off to Jamaica to get my groove back.
Hopefully, Stella already took the temptingly tasty, too good to be true, because it is”really a gay man off the island. That would be just my luck though if she didn’t.
Heaven forbid you end up alone
I really do miss you.
and you don't know why
Trace and Jess had a two bedroom apartment. So when my old apartment complex burnt to the ground, I got to move in with my two best friends, which doesn't sound bad on the surface.
A fire that started because some brilliant guy had been setting up for a Valentine’s Day surprise for his sweetie and had set candles all around the room then remembered that he’d forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning and no knowing how much she hated his forgetfulness he skipped out the door to get it, forgetting about a candle that he'd left resting against a drape.
When he returned proudly with the dry cleaning, his sweetie was standing in the parking lot with the rest of the tenants watching the complex go up in flames.
From where I was eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation that went a little something like this:
Stupid: “I went to go get the dry cleaning." (finally notices the raging fire) "What’s happened?!”
Pissed: (silent)
Pissed: “You happened. Just like you happened to my great-grandmother’s urn. Just like you happened at my niece’s ballet recital when you somehow convinced the people that you could fix the lighting. I tried to tell them to just postpone the show, just wait ‘til a professional comes.”
Stupid: “It wasn’t permanent damage. They said the cast was only gonna be on the little boy for a month at most.”
Pissed: “It was a full body cast, Frank! A whole row of child-sized lighting fell on him.”
Stupid: “It was an accident.”
Pissed: “It’s always an accident with you. I bet you’re going to say you accidentally left a candle against the drapery too.”
Stupid: “Shit.”
Stupid: “I’m sorry. I was just trying to make everything perfect. I was…”
Pissed: “My computer is up with there, y'know. My entire manuscript. The one I’ve been working on for the last two years.”
Stupid: “Maybe…maybe they saved it. You know, the fire fighters.”
Pissed: “Our apartment is charcoal. Wanna know why? Because you left the fucking door open, Frank! You forgot to close the goddamn door! So maybe, maybe even if you hadn’t managed to burn the whole building down, maybe some person less idiotic than you would have just waltzed in through our unlocked and wide open door and stolen my goddamned motherfucking laptop!”
Stupid: (silent)
Stupid: “But if that did happen, then at least we’d be warm and toasty inside.”
That was about the time that she leapt on him, claws out. Sara had extremely long nails. They were pretty strong too. Not one broke or even chipped when she was digging them into his neck and arms. Or when she was thrashing around when someone eventually decided to help Frank. There was a rock, paper, scissors contest first before that happened. Not that we didn't like Frank (even though he was a complete moron who'd just burned all our homes down, we still liked him) or as if we didn't want to help him, but it was just that Sara, Ms. Calm and Peaceful, Love Not War, was whooping the mess out of Frank at the moment and none of us was exactly clamoring to get in the middle of that.
It was the best two out of three. Billy from the first floor lost.
Apparently, losing doesn't make you a total loser, because though he may have lost the rock, paper, scissors matches and gained several scratches and an elbow to the face, he also lost his virginity that night. Turns out a little blood, a little psychoticism tinged with pent up aggression and a lot of burnt down apartments brings out the freak in Sara.
A few weeks later Billy and Sara were married. Sara wrote a new story about an idiot who had idiot friends and idiot family members and it’s never quite sure which decade they’re in (80’s? 90’s? 2000’s? Who knows), I think she named him Napoleon Dynamite. From the sounds of it, it doesn't seem like anyone would actually go and pay money to see it in the theatres, but everybody's still hoping for the best for her.
Frank got hit by a car. A mercedes driven by one of Matt Damon's kids. I didn't even know Matt Damon had kids. Needless to say, Frank is kind of rich now. So I guess it all worked out. For them.
The fire was months ago. Since then I’ve been living in the bedroom which conveniently shares a wall with Jess’ and Trace’s bedroom”so I’ve heard all the noises. Subsequently, I haven’t been very good at keeping my dinner down.
Currently, I was lounging on the couch, not looking for another place to stay, despite waking up with that thought every morning when I hear their sunrise session. I already told them I was getting them a new bed-frame for Christmas, the creaking is ridiculous on the one they have right now. I knew I'd been here too long when I'd started to name the different creaks.
They said I didn’t have to worry about that, because by that time they would’ve kicked me out.
I just laughed because (1) I knew there was no way in hell I was going to make it living here that long anyways”bouts of laziness be damned and (2) well there is no two, but I know I won’t be here for Christmas unless I decide to take up the lease myself, because by then they should be the ones long gone.
Trace had finally decided to gather his balls and tell his father that being a fashion designer was his dream job and explain how it was a real job and no, “that fashion stuff” as his father called it wasn’t just for “the queer boys.” So now Jess and Trace were California bound, leaving me all by my lonesome in Florida.
And before I could even think about what that would be like, Trace was already busy trying to convince me that California was where I needed to be.
“Wasn’t it you who just last week was threatening to kick me out?” I frowned at him, propping my feet up on the coffee table.
Smacking my feet back down, he said, “That’s only because once you and Tegan called it quits, you went into Super Bum mode. You were stinking up the place. People thought I was running a zoo in here or something.”
“Whatever.”
“You weren’t bathing, man!” He laughed, shaking his head. “Anyways, I’m just glad you’re over that. My olfactory glands thank you.”
“Whatever.”
He only let a minute go by before he said, “In Cali you could surf.”
“I could surf here.”
“Well, Cali has playboy bunnies.”
“Florida has boricuas.”
“Okay, but Cali’s gonna have your best friend. Florida definitely won’t. And you know you can’t make it long without me. It’s kind of sad, actually.”
Walking in with two beers in hand, Jess said, “Will you stop badgering the man? Damn.” She added, handing over the drinks.
“Thank you, Jess.”
Smiling at me for a moment, she said, “You’re just wasting your breath.” She took a seat on the armrest next to Trace. “We both know he’s going to follow us like a lost little puppy.” They both laughed, knowingly, at this.
Watching them together was the best of times and the worst of times. Not really, but if it were, the best of times seems like it would be awfully creepy, don’t you think?
They’re a good couple. They’re a dream team. The type of couple you hate to be around during Valentine’s Day, not because they would be overly affectionate or anything, but sometimes they just gave off too much happy couple glow. And too much happy couple glow was detrimental to a single person’s emotional health.
As Trace’s fingers ran lightly over Jess’ arms, I remembered what it had felt like to stroke her soft skin, to pull her hair and have her scream my name. Whose is it? Oooh, ooh, god. Whose is it? Ooh, fuck. Yours. Ooh, fuck me. Mmm, all yours. What’s my name?
“Justin!”
Laughing nervously as I blinked back into focus at the sound of the voice, I cleverly covered up with a well said, “Huh?”
Jess smiled at me for a bit, as if she was trying to figure out where my mind had wandered off to. “So since we’ve decided that you’re moving to Cali, now you just have to get ready to come with us to Montego Bay.”
“Aren’t y’all going as some kind of pre-honeymoon thing?”
“Well, yeah, kinda.” Trace said with a shrug, as if that wasn’t weird at all.
“So why would I want to go and spend my time as some kind of freakish third wheel?”
“Oh, shut up.” Jess chimed in. “It’s no different than what you do here. Just add in some tropical weather and hey mon accents.”
“Yeah, doesn’t matter where it is. You’re the freakish third wheel. Love it. Embrace it.” Trace said, getting up and pulling me into a tight hug. “But it’s not going to be all fun and games, you’re there to keep the wedding planning going, while Jess and I do…other things.
Groaning, I pushed him away. “Please don’t continue down that thought path. I’m not ever gonna be drunk enough for that.”
I didn’t bother arguing anymore because, well, Jessica was right (you won’t be hearing me saying that very often). I was the lost little puppy without them. It was sad, pathetic, actually. But I cursed my-damn-self to be forever and always the freakish third wheel.
Since college it had been the three of us. We were the three musketeers (and yes, we really used to call ourselves that. Out loud and completely sober). From freshman year on we were all very close.
I’d always been protective over Jess when it came to the guys she dated. I always said I only acted like that because I just loved to piss her off that much and they both believed me because according to them, I was “that immature and would do something like that.”
I never once thought that it might mean that I was in love with her. That is, until she told me she was getting married. To my best friend. Our best friend.
So how is this a curse I brought upon myself?
Because in my denial phase, I’d set the two up on a date. A blind date. It was supposed to just be a joke. Turned out that the joke was on me, three years later when they were announcing their engagement.
_____________________________________
This chapter features: The Fray - Heaven Forbid
