Week Two Re-Do: Series of Events

                It wasn’t love but I won’t deny I had a small crush.  My fingertips melted into the softness and I imagined how they’d feel on my skin. Heavenly, I thought. Like nothing I’ve ever had. Then there was the white lace detail. I may have been able to bypass the lace but white?? It was too much, I couldn’t resist. I looked at the price tag and reluctantly pulled my hand away from the silky material. Maybe I could resist after all. “Hello!! Can I help you with anything?”

                “No….I was just browsing,” I replied.

                “Well what kind of jeans do you normally wear?” the girl asked. Her brown eyes sparkled behind a pair of black glasses and she was smiling brightly.

                “Uh….jeans?” I said. What kind of question is that? “American Eagle mostly,” I clarified.

                She looked me up and down, a frown of concentration on her face. “Turn around for me?” she asked. I turned around awkwardly, uncomfortable with her critical assessment of my body. “You look like you’d wear a size two or zero here,” she said. I was still stuck on her delusion when she asked “What kind of jeans were you looking for?”

                “Skinny jeans,” I said. Wait!! What?!?! I didn’t want ANY jeans!

                She came back with two pairs and led me to the dressing room where I found out how that silky fabric felt against my skin. Weightless, I felt like I was relaxing around the house in leggings. They were even the perfect length. At five feet, that never happens and my jeans always end up tattered and frayed. They were perfect.

                Handing them back to her I said, “I didn’t really like them.”

                “What exactly didn’t you like about them?” she asked, visibly concerned. Clearly, this wasn’t something she heard all the time.

                “I don’t know. They just didn’t fit right.”

                “We do have other styles. I saw you were looking at these ones when you came in?” and she pointed at the jeans. “Why don’t you try these on and show me so you can tell me exactly what you don’t like about them.”

                Ohhhh, I was getting sucked in. I could feel it. My first attempt at walking out of there without swiping my card failed, my second one did too. This girl was a force to be reckoned with, she was winning every round. She had me trying on jeans I never wanted to buy; I was just trying to kill some time before my flight. She flattered me, manipulated me, and now she had figured out my weakness in these perfectly girly, tomboy jeans that made me look amazing.

                I’d like to blame it all on her and the fact that she probably relies on commission to pay her rent; it’d be so much easier that way. But it wasn’t all her (even though she literally forced me to try on jeans). No, it was a combination of my seemingly uncontrollable spending habits and the irrational guilt I felt. She had been so nice, so helpful. I didn’t want to waste her time and every girl needs a pair of nice jeans, right? I swiped my card and the second I entered my pin I knew I was making a mistake. I would never wear these jeans. I should’ve gone with the skinnies, I thought. At least then I’d be able to wear them. She wrapped them up and gently placed them in a little brown bag, sliding them across the counter as if she were giving me a gift. I took it and smiled at her as I vowed to stop shopping for two months…..or one.

big risk, big reward?



               

              It is called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could get used to the incessant name dropping and blatant lies.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that part of his story was real, but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney.  

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for years and even though I was disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti, it’s a part of me. The strip-mall atmosphere and smog wasn’t enough to pollute my dream, so I have to go. Even though most people I talk to question my sanity and people who live there advise against it, I have to go. “Good luck finding a job,” said a woman I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Thank you, kind lady, for your advice and encouragement.

I got off the phone and panicked. Was I really that naïve? I thought that I would fly into LAX with three suitcases and my cat and find a job within a week. Maybe a month. It had never crossed my mind that this plan might not work out. The idealistic optimism that had given me the courage to go was suddenly my downfall.

I was thinking the worst. The cute apartment in a secure building became a small room on the first floor with five locks and bars in the windows. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.

It’s sad, I think, that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged. Maybe it’s just fear that has overtaken my excitement or maybe the reality this might not work out has cut deeper than I realized because I don’t feel like myself. Maybe I know I’m doing the wrong thing but don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy for giving up everything or maybe my risk will get me everything I ever wanted.

I’ll keep you posted.

and we ended up here

              

                She wasn’t surprised they had ended up here.

The distance used to keep her up at night. She’d go over and over in her head where he was, no, who he was with, always imagining the worse. There was one girl, pretty. Prettier than her. Petite, she was tomboyish in that beautiful way that tormented girls because they wanted to be her friend but at the same time they were insanely jealous of the way every man flocked to her. He’d go to the bar every Thursday night to see her and insisted a little too adamantly that he didn’t find her attractive. “Kate?!” he’d say, a twisted grimace hiding behind his beard. “No way.” They exchanged mysterious text message that didn’t say much but reeked of hidden meaning. She knew he understood what they meant even though she couldn’t. He captured her essence in a jar and kept it on a shelf in the kitchen and he’d laugh about it with his friends but never explained to her what it meant. She was grateful.

She opened the jar of melatonin, shaking three into her hand before swallowing them. You were supposed to take two but that was never enough. The chocolate coconut water wasn’t cold enough and it left a rotten aftertaste in her mouth. Or maybe it was because she had just brushed her teeth. He wasn’t home again and it was time for bed.  

This addiction to sleep aids was unfortunate but it was the lesser of two evils. At least she wasn’t a walking zombie during the day. Every night she tried to go to sleep without them but it was impossible. If she had to use something she figured melatonin was the healthiest solution. Benadryl, safe in the short-term, caused long-term memory loss if used on a regular basis and everything else was too addictive.

                She woke up the next morning, still alone. The cat was crouched on a pillow above her head, purring to herself. With a dainty meow the cat arched her back, lifted her tail above her back to touch the back of her head, and came closer for morning snuggles.

                He hadn’t come home. Again. The white comforter next to her hadn’t been ruffled, his pillows were still fluffed. “Thank God for melatonin,” she thought before getting out of bed to get ready for work. She was excited for the day. It was finally getting a little warmer out and she only had to work six hours. She’d be out by four. She didn’t even think about calling him until she grabbed her purse on the way out but decided not to. She didn’t really care where he was. Is that when you know it’s over? When you just don’t care anymore?

                His birthday came and went and she never got him a card. It was sad and she even cried a little because she remembered how she used to buy him cards for no reason. One time he was struggling a little bit, depressed. So she went to Hallmark and got him something silly, really. The card was humorous, a list of ridiculous reasons he was great. “You give me butterflies” was the last reason. She told him she loved him and it made him smile.

                She wanted to still love him but all she could think about all the reasons she couldn’t anymore. It was obvious that things had changed. Every time he touched her she pulled away as if it were a natural reflex, like pulling your hand off a hot burner. She was always the one to end a kiss and he always said “I love you” first.

                It was the first time he had done anything for her birthday in the four years they were together. The rings he bought her were beautiful; she knew he spent hours picking them out. One was white. A statement right, it was cut into an isosceles triangle and in different light it shimmered shades of lavender and light blue. She knew she should feel full, consumed with love, but she knew the only reason he did it was because he thought he was losing her.

                The thing was, he lied all the time. Stupid lies about things not worth lying about.  She always found out the truth.“Did you clean the cat box?” He’d say yes even when he hadn’t, only to be caught a few hours later when she got home. When he was drinking his lies were outright weird. One night he had the audacity to tell her that the reason he didn’t come home until five was because he was sitting on a park bench after the bar closed. Every time she felt insulted that he actually thought she’d believe something so ridiculous.

                “I love you too,” she said, wishing she was strong enough to see the hurt on his face so she didn’t have to say it back.

                “Hey….I have to work early so if you don’t want to come home tonight, you don’t have to,” she said, hoping he’d go out. She needed some distance between them.

a little slice of heaven