Feeling Creative and I Finished Chapter One!
There are times when I wonder if I’m insane. Because, from my perspective, I’m either insane of I derive some perverse pleasure from having the Botoxed, mani-pedied, wives who lunch call me a fat idiot. Under those circumstances being insane is certainly preferable. They come in here either in groups or toting dogs who weigh less than a bag of potato chips-not that any of them have touched a bag of chips since the Zone came out. They want to know why we don’t have the new Stella and make weird noises when we tell them that we won’t have it for another six months since it’d been shown on a runway in Paris just the day before. And God forbid you don’t know the latest accessory. One of the girls who works here almost had a nervous breakdown after an incident involving Fendi bags.
I hate the women but they aren’t why I have this job. I work here for the clothes. Though to look at me you wouldn’t know it because I tend to use myself as a kind of fashion Guinea Pig. But working here gives me a chance to see what the beautiful (and not so beautiful) are lining up for. And I can spend my rare slow mornings daydreaming about them wearing my bright tees and embroidered jeans. But, like my dream that John Krasinski from The Office will fall madly in love with me, the likelihood of that happening is roughly equal to that of me getting hit by an asteroid. Read that as virtually non-existent.
It was a typical Tuesday, meaning I’d spend the majority of the morning inflating the already large egos of my customers. The only bright spot came at about eleven thirty when the front bell rang and my roommate Hope stepped into the shop.
Hope couldn’t have been less like the usual customers here if she tried. She’s pretty in a natural, Jennifer Garner-type, way. A way that is alien to these women.
I smiled as I crossed the marble sales floor, “Hey, Hope, you need anything?” I asked.
“A brain would be nice,” her tone was distracted, which was odd because Hope is usually the most on-top-of-it person I know.
“I don’t sell those here; they went out of style in 1989. But, really, what’s wrong?”
Hope smiled at my funny, which was a good sign. With her when she got to brooding nothing distracted her, except chocolate revel ice cream.
She absently picked at a pile of $200 scarves, “Rent’s due next week.”
I nodded, trying to figure out where she was going with her open ended comment.
“I was sick earlier this month and couldn’t work...” she trailed off.
Suddenly I knew where she was going, “And you don’t have it?”
“I have most of it. I’m short $75.”
Only Hope would be worried about $75.
“Hope?”
She looked up from the scarves, “Yeah?”
“You were honestly worried about $75?”
“Yeah,” her voice was almost a whisper.
“Idiot. I’ve got it; don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll sell someone an extra leather skirt and the commission will cover it,” I steeled myself for what I knew was coming next. Hope may be five foot nothing but she has the rib-crushing hug of a four hundred pound linebacker.
We talked for a few more minutes then she headed back to Happily Ever After, the bookstore where she worked. As soon as I knew she was gone I headed back behind the counter and dialed the phone.
Trey Young, the only trust fund baby/drummer in my acquaintance answered after three rings.
“Yes Abby?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“You know I hate it when you do that,” I said.
He laughed, “Why do you think that I always do it?”
“So that you seem even more the Zen Guy.”
“You got me there. Because everyone knows that omniscience is connected to Zen. Anyway, what’d you call for Abs? You never call when you’re at work.”
“I need you to do something for Hope.”
“What?”
“Come up with some kind of paying project. When she was sick she didn’t get paid. I’m spotting her the rest of her rent but, knowing her, she’s probably giving me everything that she has to pay it.”
“Will do,” Trey said without hesitation.
“What will you have her do?”
“Mom and Dad are always in need of someone to do press releases and stuff. I know she hates PR but she’s good at it.”
“You won’t tell her that I put you up to this, right?” I asked.
“Hell no. You know I’d do anything for her. Besides, every once and a while she does this so it isn’t totally unheard of.”
“Good,” I looked up and saw one of our regulars here with her microscopic dog, “Gotta go. Hope, Nikki and I are going to Harold’s tonight. Wanna join us in making fun of the drunks?”
Trey laughed, “Sounds good. What time, eight?”
“Yeah,” I confirmed before I hung up.
It’s funny, really, that none of us are huge drinkers. The boys will drink beer or wine and Nikki likes those fruity drinks that really pack a wallop. But I rarely drink and Hope never does. I don’t like how I feel when I’m drunk and I think that Hope is afraid of losing control.
We’ve made a habit of spending at least one evening a week nursing sodas and plates of cheddar and bacon French fries while we watch the other patrons make fools of themselves.
Hope and I were the first to show, which was no surprise since we were both notoriously early. The one time I can really remember Hope losing her temper was when Nikki was really late for something. We sat in our usual booth and waited for everyone else to show.
“Did you call Trey?” Hope asked me after we’d settled with round one of everything for the night.
“What are you talking about?” I tried to ask innocently.
“The fact that less than twenty minutes after I talked to you Trey called and offered me freelance work for the vineyard kinda clued me in.”
“What about the vineyard?’ Trey asked as he sat next to Hope. Hope didn’t notice how close he was to her and I wasn’t about to say anything.
“Abby called you about me not being able to make the rent, didn’t she?”
Most guys would be able to BS their way out of this situation but Trey seems unable to lie to Hope about anything. Or almost anything. He constantly lies to her-and himself-about his feelings for her.
He brushed a strand of stick straight blonde hair out of his eyes, “Yeah.”
“I should have told you no.”
Trey turned to her, “Why? Pride isn’t always a good thing Hopeful.”
“Because it feels like charity.”
“This is about your parents telling you that you can’t make it here, isn’t it Hope?”
“Trey…” Hope’s tone was warning.
“No, I’m not gonna shut up on this. You aren’t a failure Hope. I could strangle both of your parents for making you feel like you were bound to fail. And I don’t believe in violence.”
“They haven’t…” Hope started.
“Yes, they have,” Trey cut her off, “What’s the first thing that they ask every time you talk to them?”
“When I’m coming home.”
“And how does that make you feel?” he pressed on, more animated than I’ve seen him in a while.
“Like I’m not doing something right,” Hope’s voice was quiet.
“And that’s what’s driving me insane. Sure, you’re not rich but you’re making it.”
“Barely.”
“But you ARE making it, Hopeful, that’s more than a hell of a lot of people can say. You are making it. You’re writing, you may not be getting anything published but you’re writing. What more could you want?”
She stirred her water with her straw, “Enough money to not feel like Mark at the Life Café every time we’re all out.”
I had to snicker at her offhand Rent reference which told me that she wasn’t nearly as pissed at Trey as she was pretending to be.
Trey smiled at her, “One day, my dear, we’ll all be mooching off of you.”
Hope snorted, “The next rock god and the next Diane von Furstenberg? I hardly think so.”
I had to laugh at that, “Like you aren’t going to be the next…quick Trey give me some wunderkind author.”
“Helen Oyeyemi.”
“Okay, thanks. Like you aren’t going to be the next Helen Oyeyemi.”
Hope snorted, “I doubt I will because, one I’m not from Africa and two I have no working knowledge of Santeria.”
“What’s Santeria?” I asked.
“Kind of an amalgam of Catholicism and African religions.”
“Okay and why does that matter?”
Hope stole one of my fries, “Because Santeria played an important role in her last book.”
I nodded, “Gotcha,” I glanced into the crowd, “Ooooh look, Drunk Mets Cap guy is hitting on someone. Who wants to bet coffee on when she throws a drink in his face?”
“A small skim hot chocolate on half an hour,” Hope pulled a bright green pad of sticky notes out of her purse and wrote down her bet.
“Last week it took almost an hour so I bet a large whole milk turtle latte on forty-five minutes,” she added Trey’s bet to the log.
“Put me down for a soy macchiato for five minutes,” I said around a mouth full of cheddar and bacon.
We watched one of the bar regulars with interest as he pursued yet another woman completely out of his league. At the twenty-five minute mark she rose from her bar stool and threw what looked like a cosmopolitan in his face.
“Yes! I win. You guys owe me hot chocolates,” Hope did a little dance in her seat while Trey smiled indulgently.
God, I love my friends.