The Infamous Ellen James (Infamous Series)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  The door opens abruptly and in walks my ex-fiancé John with that procrastinating asshole Tony. They are loudly discussing supplies for a dressing change on a patient as they step through the door. Both suddenly stop talking when they see us standing there looking a little out of breath and slightly disheveled.

  "Uh, h-hey Tony, Dr. Ryan. I was just, uh, showing Dr. Hamilton around. Have y'all met?"

  Y'all? Where in the hell did that come from?

  I hate that my nerves always manage to bring out my Louisville twang. I know John can sense this. He is practically penetrating my skull with his intense stare.

  "Yep, we've met." John's tone is clipped, and he doesn't so much as glance towards Dr. Hamilton's direction. I can't quite read the expression on John's face, but I think he almost looks pissed.

  "Yeah, Elle, I met Dr. Hamilton a few minutes ago. Remember?" Tony conveys to me with a curious look on his face.

  "Must've slipped my mind. Well, let us get out of your way." I attempt to quickly escape this extremely uncomfortable situation.

  "Have a good one, guys." Trent gives a smug grin.

  I try to get some distance from Dr. Hamilton but he manages to catch up with me as I hastily walk away from the supply room. As I head back towards the nurses' station, I glance over at him and can't help but notice that he's the epitome of every woman's fantasy. He had my body so riled up in that supply room that I'm not sure if I would have ever stopped.

  Was I really going to fuck him in the supply room?

  Oh my god! I was going to fuck him in the supply room! I'm pathetic! A pathetic, dirty little slut! I can feel my blood starting to boil at the thought of being so reckless and out of control.

  "I'm pretty sure that kissing a staff member in the supply room could be considered sexual harassment," I whisper sternly to him before we make it back to the nurses' station.

  "I'm pretty sure it's not sexual harassment when said staff member actually kisses back and grinds her scandalous little body right into my hard cock." He gives me a treacherously sexy smirk.

  Nothing comes out of my mouth.

  I have no words right now.

  None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

  I have no idea what to say, because he's technically right. I was grinding all over him. I was basically climbing up his body like a god damn spider monkey! Before I can even respond, he grabs my wrist and pulls my body close to his. We are so close that I can feel his warm breath on my lips. I get lost in his penetrating blue eyes.

  “Elle, I will be thinking about that kiss all fucking day,” he slowly whispers while looking down at me.

  Somehow, I manage to compose myself and angrily whisper back to him, “Well, that will be the last fucking kiss you'll be getting from me.”

  He remains silent for about five seconds. Then I actually hear him laugh quietly.

  Is he really laughing at me?!

  "Sweetheart, don't kid yourself. We both wanted that kiss. Your body practically begged me to fuck you in that supply room, and believe me, I enjoyed every second of your lips on mine. Your hot body pressed tightly against me. Every. Single. Second,” He breathes roughly into my ear.

  My traitorous nipples immediately harden…again.

  Traitor nipples! Behave yourselves!

  His lips softly brush my ear before he slowly pulls back and looks into my eyes. I can't help but feel like he knows something I don't. I get a sudden feeling of déjà vu as Dr. Hamilton winks at me and walks away, leaving me at a loss for words…again.

  I'm starting to see a pattern here.

  I wander to the nurses' station and immediately sit down in one of the chairs. I pick up a piece of scrap paper and fan myself in a weak attempt to regain my composure.

  What has gotten into me?

  I'm either going to need to schedule a date night with my B.O.B. or drink lots and lots of alcohol tonight. I take my cell out of my pocket and send a quick text to Amy.

  Me: Hey, asshole. You owe me drinks. Pay up tonight after work.

  Immediately, I get a text back.

  Amy: Anything for you, Dirty Pirate Hooker.

  Decision made. Tonight there will be lots and lots of alcohol.

  Chapter Seven

  “Never mess with a baby sporting a Fu Manchu.”

  I'm standing in this kitchen that looks oddly familiar. Everywhere I look there are little, dark-haired babies in chef hats.

  Am I having a psychotic break?

  Oh god, my therapist was right! I DO need Prozac!

  The babies are running around this kitchen and seem to be chaotically cooking some type of chicken dish. Chicken cacciatore maybe? I then realize that the kitchen uncannily resembles the Jersey Shore house. Oh! Maybe it's Sunday dinner and these are all of Snooki's kids!

  I thought she only had one baby, though. What's that baby's name? Lonnie… Leon… Luigi… I know its L-something. So how did she end up with this many babies?! Holy shit, that Gianni must have some powerful spunk!

  “Snooook? Vin? JWOWW?” I scream over the crowd of cooking midgets.

  I look down and notice that the baby to my left is scowling at me under his tiny Fu Manchu while furiously chopping a green pepper. Wow, he sure looks like an angry little man. Where is this child's mother? I bet she'd shit herself if she found her creepy Fu Manchu-wearing baby using a butcher's knife.

  “Hey, little buddy. Why don't you go ahead and hand me the knife?” I calmly ask the scowling baby with a disturbing amount of facial hair.

  Uh, oh. Baby Fu Manchu looks pissed. Really, really pissed.

  He stops chopping his pepper and proceeds to yell some sort of baby-talk code word, and then all hell breaks loose. All of the babies stop what they're doing and seem to be yelling profanities at me. Now they're running towards me! Oh my god! These babies are coming after me! I'm going to die by the hands of Snooki's kids!

  Damn you, Gianni and your nuclear spooge!

  “AHHHHHHHHHH!” I'm screaming at the top of my lungs as I attempt to run away from the midget mob. “AHHHHHH! SNOOKI, YOUR FUCKING KIDS ARE GOING TO KILL ME! AHHHHHHH!”

  Then I can barely hear someone saying, “Elle! Elle! Wake up!”

  Snooki's little bastards start to slowly fade away and I open my eyes to the familiar surroundings of my bedroom in my and Amy's apartment. The July summer sun is shining through my curtains, and my eyes squint in reaction.

  I was dreaming. Oh thank god.

  I've always thought dying in a fire was the absolute worst way to go, but now I'm thinking that being burned at the stake by Snooki's Fu Manchu-wearing little bastards is definitely the worst way to die.

  I notice that Amy is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me curiously.

  “What was that all about, Elle? You were thrashing around and screaming about Snooki having bastards that were conceived from super spunk. I told you we shouldn't have had tequila last night. You always have the weirdest dreams when you drink tequila. And I told you that Jersey Shore marathon was a bad idea last week.”

  “Don't get snippy with me. I love tequila, and that mind-numbing bitch loves me. Tequila and I are the best of friends, and you will never suggest that I quit her!” I wail as I attempt to slowly sit up and lean against my headboard.

  “Chill out, dickhead. No need to re-enact Brokeback Mountain on my account.”

  I roll my eyes at my sarcastic asshole of a friend and look down to realize I'm currently sporting a white t-shirt that has “Shirley Swallows” sloppily written in black sharpie and nothing else.

  What happened last night?

  “First of all, I owe you an apology because I honestly didn't realize how serious you and tequila were about each other. Secondly, as much as you love that crazy bitch, tequila makes you dream the creepiest shit. Last time you drank tequila, we had an hour-long discussion on why you had a dream that you gave Honey Boo Boo shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says while attempting to find a pair of my pants on the floor.

  “Hey there, Ms. Judgy. I was s
eriously freaked out from that dream about Honey Boo Boo! That little pageant queen was so pissed that I'd taken her Red Bull and Pixy Sticks away that she threatened my life! I honestly had no other choice but to shake the ever-living shit out of her. I still don't understand how a grown child hopped up on energy drinks could get shaken baby syndrome.”

  I slide on the pair of black yoga pants Amy threw on my bed and attempt to stand up without falling face-first into the hardwood floor.

  “Calm down, crazy. There is no explanation for that, because it was a dream. A tequila dream at that. Anyways, I think Honey Boo Boo might already have shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says with a smirk before she walks out of my bedroom.

  “Tequila does not make me dream crazy shit!” I scream at the top of my lungs towards the hallway, which unfortunately causes a throbbing pain inside my skull.

  “Denial is the first step towards realizing you have a problem!” Amy yells back.

  She is quite the sarcastic bitch.

  Chapter Eight

  “Technology makes it impossible to escape moments of drunken insanity.”

  I walk out into the kitchen to find Amy making coffee. Two mugs are already set out on the counter with my favorite French vanilla creamer.

  What a sweetheart.

  "If I liked vagina, you would definitely be my number one lesbian lover," I tell Amy as I grab ibuprofen from our communal medicine basket. We might as well have a bowl of them on our coffee table like damn M&Ms.

  "Aw, Elle, you always know just the right things to say to a girl." Amy smiles at me.

  "So are we going to talk about what the hell happened last night?" I glance down at my Shirley Swallows t-shirt.

  Amy lets out a loud laugh and shakes her head at me. "Oh, Elle, I'm not even sure how to start this conversation with you."

  "Is it really that bad?"

  "Depends on what you consider bad. If you attempting to get the bar to make a Harlem Shake video is something you would consider bad, then yes. Prepare yourself to hear the worst." She pours coffee into both mugs.

  "Whaaat? A Harlem Shake video? Oh, fuck me. Please tell me there is no documentation of this."

  Amy picks her phone up off the counter and hands it to me. "Actually there is video proof."

  "Video proof!?" I quickly take the phone out of her hand and scroll to her videos.

  I don't even have to ask which one it is, because I see a video icon that is a picture of me with my Shirley Swallows shirt. I'm assuming this shirt is in reference to our nursing manager Shirley. I am praying she is not directly involved with last night's shenanigans.

  I take my coffee mug off the kitchen counter, toss back the ibuprofen, and sit down at the table. Amy sits down next to me, and I can tell she is fighting back a smile. I don't even have to look over; I can feel her enjoyment. I sigh in anticipation before pressing play.

  The video starts with Amy turning the camera towards her; she smiles, her brown eyes sparkling as she drunkenly says, "You can thank me later for this."

  Add 100 cunt points. Supreme cunt status achieved by the dickhead sitting next to me.

  The camera turns towards the corner of the bar. I notice that someone with a motorcycle helmet is standing completely still while everyone else in the bar is going about their business, conversing, and drinking. Then I notice that said person is wearing a Shirley Swallows t-shirt.

  Oh, no.

  The intro to the Harlem Shake begins to play loudly in the bar, and that is when I begin to awkwardly thrust my pelvis to the beat of the music. Don't worry, the motorcycle helmet is still on my fucking head.

  I'm going to kill Amy for this.

  The song continues, and I am still in the corner of the bar, gyrating and pelvic thrusting like a god damn idiot. The camera swings back towards Amy, and she says, "Wait for it." Then you hear the lyric "Do the Harlem Shake" blaring from the jukebox as the camera turns back towards me in the corner.

  Oh, god.

  Fuck my life and my ability to continually make terrible decisions when I'm shitfaced.

  The motorcycle helmet has now been replaced by my t-shirt.

  Yes, my t-shirt is now tied on top of my head and I am thrashing my body around in nothing but my cut-off jean shorts and black lace bra. Someone plan Amy's funeral because this girl is not going to live another day.

  But it gets even better…

  The Harlem Shake is still blaring in the background, and I abruptly stop thrash dancing because I am finally realizing that everyone in the bar has stopped what they are doing to watch my crazy ass act a fool.

  No one is joining in on this little Harlem Shake revival.

  We have reached the part in the video where I get very angry and begin to scream at everyone in the bar. I am now standing on top of the bar and roaring profanities I didn't even know existed while still wearing nothing but my bra, cut-off jean shorts, and t-shirt still wrapped around my head.

  Could this get any worse?

  Yes, actually it can get worse. And it does.

  The video continues with me shouting while I can barely hear Amy's giggle in the background. The bartender grabs me by the knees and throws me over his shoulder. I am thrashing around and yelling for him to put me down, but this doesn't even faze him.

  He proceeds to haul my stupid ass out of the bar. The video ends with the bar cheering and clapping when the bartender comes back in sans the idiot drunk girl who just managed to make a complete fool of herself.

  I set the phone down on the kitchen table and slowly lift my eyes to look at Amy. She is doing her famous silent laugh as tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  "Amy! What the hell?!"

  She isn't holding back the laughter now. Amy is laughing so hard that she is snorting. Her chest is vibrating with laughter as she slaps her knee and wails in hysterics. My anger level is rising to new heights at the moment, and I decide its best to leave the kitchen before I start re-enacting Fight Club. I am so unbelievably pissed that I just stand up, throw my mug in the sink, and stomp my way back towards my bedroom.

  "Elle, come back! I'm sorry, but that is some seriously funny shit!" Amy chokes out through continued bursts of laughter.

  "I take it back, Amy! If I liked vagina, there is NO way you would be my number one lesbian lover! You wouldn't even be in my top three! You'd be behind the fat girl in Pitch Perfect!" I scream at her before slamming my bedroom door.

  Dear Hangover,

  I'm your bitch.

  Sincerely,

  Ellen

  Chapter Nine

  “Karma can be a snarky little bitch.”

  I am finally fully recovered from my hangover after the infamous Harlem Shake night. Although I love that bitch dearly, tequila rocked my ass, and I found myself severely hungover all day yesterday. Even ibuprofen and greasy fast food couldn't save me from the nasty headache and all-day nausea.

  I know, poor me, right? But seriously, my whole body is still aching today!

  I'm presuming the muscle soreness may be a direct result of all the dancing I apparently took part in. I'm using the term dancing very loosely here. The moves I was displaying on Amy's video were nothing short of pathetic, looking more like I was having an actual seizure rather than the sex kitten I was probably picturing in my drunken head.

  So here I am, facing another exciting day in the emergency room. I have officially made it halfway through my shift, and I'm getting close to being able to sit my tired ass down for a few minutes. I told Nurse Ratchet I would see this last patient before going on break.

  I pull back the curtain in bed one and find this frail, little elderly woman quietly sitting on my gurney. She's an eighty-year-old petite little thing who's about five feet tall and couldn't weigh an ounce over one hundred pounds soaking wet.

  "Hi, Mrs. Franks. What brings you in to see me today?" I ask as I pull the curtain back for privacy.

  "Oh, honey, I've been having this awful pain down in my undercarriage and I feel like everything is go
ing to fall out." She nervously fidgets and adjusts the stark white sheet around her legs.

  Did this woman really just say undercarriage?

  "Okay. So how long have you been experiencing this pain and discomfort in your undercarriage?" I attempt to ask with a straight face.

  "Hmmmm. Well, dear, I would say it's been at least a month now," Mrs. Franks replies quietly.

  "A month, Mrs. Franks? What made you wait so long before seeing a physician?"

  "Well, I have always just been able to push my undercarriage right back inside until today, so that's why I came in here to see you." She somehow manages to tell me this without a hint of emotion on her face.

  Push her undercarriage right back inside?

  God help me if this is going where I think it's going…

  "Mrs. Franks, have you had any surgeries on your lady parts? Like maybe a hysterectomy?"

  "Oh no, dear. I have all my lady parts, undercarriage included!" she says a little too excitedly.

  Yeah, this really is going where I think it's going.

  I do a quick assessment and vitals check on Mrs. Franks. Everything is stable and within normal limits. I politely tell her that the physician will be in to examine her shortly before closing the curtain behind me. I have a suspicion that this woman's uterus is quite literally falling out of her vagina. I'm pretty sure any time a little old lady is telling you she pushes her "undercarriage" back inside on a daily basis, we're most likely dealing with something falling out of her hoo-hah.

  I hand John the chart for this patient to ensure that he's the one who gets to witness her "undercarriage dilemma." He's taken aback by the fact that I'm actually acknowledging his presence, and it's just too bad he hasn't quite grasped my motives yet.

  "Here ya go, Dr. Ryan. Mrs. Franks is waiting patiently for you in bed one," I say to John with a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on my face.

  "Thanks. Would you mind assisting me with her?" He asks while glancing through her history and physical.