Episode 5: A Love Story, of sorts

I’m skipping over Episode 4 for now since my co-author didn’t get a chance to write it over the weekend. Episode 4 will be Robby’s thoughts once he finds out Jennifer is in the hospital through the surgery. Frankly I can’t wait to read it. Can you believe he was such an insensitive ass? If you haven’t read the first three episodes, you can check them out here: Episode 1 Episode 2 Episode 3

The first two episodes are told from Jennifer’s POV. She is a 20 something who, was 2 credits shy of earning her Bachelor’s degree, has spent the early part of her twenties flitting around the country trying to find meaning and purpose in life. However, the only thing she really learns is that she has a penchant for dating total losers. That and she is a skilled waitress.

The third episode is written by Robby. He is an almost thirty year old just starting out in the real world. He’d spent the last ten years dabbling in college, enlisting in the army at the on-set of the first Iraq war, dabbling in college and finally earning a degree that eventually lands him at an entry-level engineering position in Denver, CO.

This next episode takes us back to the beginning of the story just a few weeks before Jennifer meets Robby.

***

I woke up hungry and hung-over. “Fuck,” I sighed, as I realized I drank away my last twenty bucks the night before and wasn’t scheduled to work for two days. I looked on the floor beside the futon I called a bed and was thankful to see a full pack — less one — of smokes hidden under a dirty sock.

I lit a cigarette, staring out the window wondering how I was going to get money to eat for the next few days. The new Millennium lurked in the back of my mind like a villain in a bad horror movie. And no matter how hard I tried to be the heroine, I knew if something didn’t change, I was more likely to be the next victim.

I’d been living with my brother, John, in Denver’s gay ghetto. The apartment we shared had threadbare gray carpeting and cantaloupe orange counter tops; and those were its finer points.

I lit another cigarette and continued to stare, but quickly gave up trying to solve my current dilemma. At this point, the only thing thinking would do was give me a headache.

The faint scent of Coco Chanel swirled into my room. “Hey, Turd,” John said, peeking around my bedroom door that was cracked open just a bit. He scanned the room and shook his head in disgust.

“Hey, Turd,” I replied without turning to look at him. Any movement at this point, other than hand to mouth to smoke, would certainly bring on the headache I was hell-bent on staving off.

“Watcha doin?” He came in and took a seat on the edge of my futon after dusting off my duvet-less down comforter. He stole my half-smoked cigarette and took a shallow drag.

“Contemplating life,” I said, lighting another cigarette.

“Oh Gawd! You’re so boring?”

“Boring and broke. I spent my last twenty bucks last night; I forgot I’m not scheduled to work for two days.”

“So, pick up a shift.”

I had one of the most coveted waitress gigs in all of Denver. I worked at The Blue Bonnet, the best and oldest Mexican restaurant in town. Unfortunately, since I was relatively new to the staff, I worked most lunches and never anything but Monday — Wednesday nights. I was barely surviving.

“Not worth it.”

“Wait, isn’t your boyfriend a cook, or something? He should be able to feed you.”

“He was a cook.”

“What? He quit his job?”

“No, I quit him.”

“Really? When?”

“A couple days ago.”

“It’s about time!”

“I knew you’d be pleased.”

“What happened?” He took a drag of his cigarette and settled into the like he was preparing for story time.

“The fucking idiot wouldn’t stop smoking pot.” I winced as if trying to avoid a left hook. That much emotion was sure to bring on the pending headache.

“You sound surprised,” he said in a lowered voice.

“Well, yeah, I mean, he was in a coma for a month…he had to relearn how to read, how to walk …”

Chris, the guy I’d been dating for about a year, had been in a snowboarding accident the previous March. Though he had permanent brain damage, he was able to re-learn most of what he’d lost.

He certainly didn’t forget how to roll a joint.

“Frankly, Jennifer, I’m surprised he even knew how to read at all.”

“Ha ha. You know John, Chris is actually a pretty smart guy…he just doesn’t care about, ya know, stuff. Besides, at least he went to community college for a couple semesters. That’s more than you can say for yourself.”

“How many times do I have to tell people that school is not necessary when you’re as pretty as me?” he said. He framed his face with is left hand while he looked around for a place to put his cigarette.

Without speaking or moving my head, I pointed to the ashtray that was sitting on top of a make-shift bookshelf across the room. As for me, I was ashing in a half-empty Diet Coke can by the window that was cracked ever so slightly.

John was a sometimes model. However, most of his income came from dating rich, older men. He prided himself as being the pretty one in the family.

“Someday you’ll be old, wrinkled, and sugar daddy-less…”

“Bite your tongue, Woman! I will never be wrinkled. I plan on pickling myself with Grey Goose and Veuve Clicquot.”

“Well, I’d say you’re well on your way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m gonna put my resume together.” With a leap of faith, I sat up and paused. I adjusted my ponytail. No headache.

Yea.

“You’re gonna what?”

“Put my resume together.”

“What for?”

“So I can try to find a job…a real job.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Advertising. Marketing. Do something useful with my education, you know.”

“Well, good luck with that,” he said, crushed out his cigarette and sashayed his way out of my room and into the bathroom. Just as I was about to get up he popped his head back in my room and said, “So, what are you going to do about the Goldman Group debacle?”

I cringed. “I don’t know. That’s what I was just contemplating.”

I cringed. “I don’t know. That’s what I was just contemplating.”