by Tiffani Lynn
The complex she lives in is one of the better ones but when I say better I mean better for this area. Not necessarily decent by anyone’s standards. She’s struggling in more ways than one. How has she made it this long?
When I pull into a parking spot, Quinn and I exchange a glance and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am, we don’t want to leave her here.
Chapter Five
Marina
I can’t decide if I want to slap him or kiss him. One minute he’s a standoffish jerk and the next he’s melting like warm chocolate right in front of my eyes. That’s the Jase I remember, the melty one. There was nothing I needed more than him to carry me out of that hospital room. His sturdy chest, strong arms and comforting heartbeat were exactly what I was in desperate need of. Not the uptight, overly controlled dickhead that acts like he doesn’t care about anything.
I turn to Officer Rivers. “Thank you for taking care of things and working it out for me to be there.” Then I turn my attention to Jase. “I know that’s not how you wanted to spend your day and I’d like to say I’m sorry I messed up your plans, but the truth is I’m not. I didn’t know what else to do and calling you turned out to be the right thing. I appreciate you being there for me and for the ride. I know I’ve passed my quota on favors so I won’t bug you anymore. Take care of yourself.” Without another word, I slip out of the car and walk toward the building.
I stop and turn when Officer Rivers yells, “Marina!” She jots something down on a card, jogs to where I am and hands it to me. “Here’s my number, both the station number and my cell. If you call late I may not hear it, so leave me a message. I turn off the ringer so it doesn’t wake everyone in the house after hours. If you need something, call me. I’m sorry about your friend.” She pats my shoulder and jogs back to the car.
Jase is still staring at me through the windshield but I can’t let that get to me. Despite the sweet moments I’ve seen from him today, it’s clear he doesn’t care to see or deal with me again so I turn and continue inside to my subpar apartment and my less than stellar life. Although, I can’t seem to allow myself to be too upset about my living situation when I at least have my life to live. Shitty or not, it beats the alternative. Today was another crappy reminder that I’d rather live a hard life than have no life at all.
It’s obvious I’m not Irish since I have absolutely no luck. I haven’t figured out how it is that I seem to be able to screw up an already major screw-up, but I always do. I can never have a regular problem, solve it and move on. Nope. Each incident has to be bigger than the last. Although I don’t know how getting busted being forced to suck off a cop in order to avoid jail while my friend dies on the ground next to me can be beat, but hey, I can try.
After watching Fern die, sadness sort of set in and I walked around the rest of the day feeling numb and it never occurred to me to check my work schedule for updates. Of course, because it’s my life and my luck, I was scheduled at the last minute to work yesterday and didn’t show up. They were shorthanded and there was a birthday party on top of it. Apparently, the place was a zoo and everyone was flaming mad at me. The manager yelled at me for 10 minutes and then threatened my job when I showed up today. I think he would’ve fired me if he didn’t need me on the floor so badly today.
One of the girls I work with, Cindy, tends to sleep with the customers—too many, too often. We look a little bit alike in that we both have tattoos, piercings and hair with colorful streaks but she’s much shorter than I am with thin lips and a shrill voice. Of course, her boobs are way bigger than mine and I think that’s the appeal for the men. Midway through my shift a woman with a fierce scowl storms through the front door, past the hostess, and around to the bar like her ass is on fire. The frizzy brown hair she should’ve stopped perming years ago gives her a weathered look. With eye makeup reminiscent of an ’80s hairband groupie and clothes that are clearly a size too small, she’s a frightening site. She’s waving a phone in the air and screaming about wanting to see the chick with the tattoos. Cindy is off today so the two servers and bartender turn and point to me.
The woman rushes over to me and it’s obvious she’s crazy-mad, but I’ve never seen her before so I can’t figure out why. I’m holding an empty tray ready to bus the table behind me, wondering what in the hell her problem is. Thinking maybe she’s going to yell at me, I don’t see it coming when she pulls her fist back and punches me in the face, sending me backwards several steps and over a nearby table. I crash to the ground, along with all the leftover dishes on the table, and when I stand she comes back for me again. I was unprepared once, but it won’t happen like that again. I snatch the tray up off the floor and swing at her with the bottom side toward her face. She swipes at it and tackles me to the ground, knocking more tables and dishes over. Now she’s straddling me and swinging like a maniac as I do my best to protect my face. What the hell is going on? Who is this lady?
Finally, she’s pulled off me and I look up to see the daytime manager holding a squirming, screaming woman. Gingerly, I get up and face my boss.
“What the hell is going on, Marina?”
The woman shouts, “That bitch fucked my husband and got knocked up!”
What the hell is she talking about? “I’m not pregnant. And I doubt I screwed your husband!” I yell back at her.
“My friend saw the tattooed waitress from this place go into a motel with him last week. Now he’s leaving me because she’s pregnant and says it’s his. That’s you, bitch! When I asked for the tattooed one, they pointed at you! Now tell me why you fucked my husband!” she screams as her already red face morphs to a purplish color. Families and old people have all stopped eating to watch this spectacle.
“I didn’t screw your husband!”
Still a little dizzy from the tumble I took and the head smack to the floor, I forget to tell her that I’m not the only tattooed waitress here.
“You goddamned husband-stealing whore!” she screeches at me. “You try to look all exotic with your piercings, tattoos and colorful hair but you’re just a husband-stealing whore!”
Before I can say anything else two very familiar cops come through the door. Of course it’s them, because why would anyone other than Jase and Officer Rivers be privy to the latest episode of my-life-is-a-shit-show? If there were a rock in this room, I’d crawl under it.
As soon as they get a look at me, Jase’s face turns to stone and Officer Rivers’s softens. She takes the lead. “What’s the issue here?”
My boss tries to tell them I was attacked at the same time as the crazy woman starts yelling about me being a husband-stealing whore again. Jase stifles the woman with a low verbal warning I can’t hear and then he stares daggers through me.
I yell loud enough to stop chatter in the entire restaurant. “I didn’t touch her husband! I don’t even know who he is!” You can hear a pin drop by the time I finish.
My boss comes over and says, “I don’t care if you did or you didn’t. This woman thinks you did and destroyed my restaurant trying to get to you. I don’t need your chaos, Marina. You’re fired. Get your stuff and get out. If I could count on you to be here on time or at all and do your job, I might listen to what you have to say, but the truth is I don’t care and I don’t believe you anyway.”
Unbelievable. Now he’s poked the dragon and I’m ready to breathe fire. “Has anyone noticed that Cindy has tattoos, piercings and streaks in her hair too? Or that she sleeps with the customers? I don’t! I’ve never slept with a customer.” The woman finally stops struggling and stares at me for a minute and then at my chest. She swallows hard and flips her eyes back to mine before she says solemnly, “You don’t have huge boobs.”
“No, lady, I don’t! That’s Cindy. Thanks to you and her slutty leg spreading, though, I no longer have a job. I hope you feel good about that!” I wiggle out of my boss’s grip and go to the back to get my stuff. Jase follows me.
When the door swings closed behind us, he asks, “Marina, w
hy does drama always follow you?” Is he for real? My anger explodes like Mount St. Helens and I turn and yell, “Screw you, Jase! Not everyone got out of this fucking pit and made a life. I’m stuck here on the bottom rung and no matter how hard I try I can’t climb any higher out of the depths of hell. If you’re going to arrest me just do it. At least that way I’ll have somewhere to sleep. If not, let me get my shit and get on my way so I can find another hellhole to work in so maybe I can pay my rent and avoid living on the streets again.” His already tense muscles turn to stone.
“Mari! You say it’s not your fault, but I’ve never met anyone who ends up in as many situations as you do. Seriously, this is the third one in a week. Some of this could be the choices you make.”
Oh, my God! If I could slap him, I would. Then I’d really go to jail. Assaulting a police officer, that would make a lovely addition to my rap sheet.
“The first night I saw you I was with a friend who’d started using drugs again and I didn’t know it. The second time was me trying to take care of a dying friend. Today? Today has absolutely nothing to do with me except that I happen to have tattoos like the waitress who is a husband-stealing whore. My boss fired me more because he was mad that I accidentally missed my shift yesterday after watching my friend die. How could I have changed any of that? Realistically I couldn’t, not without changing who I am, which is a loyal friend. I’m sorry you don’t like it.”
I spin back around, grab my purse and pull off my apron. Today’s tips get shoved in my pocket and then I toss my apron at my manager who is now blocking the doorway as he listens to our exchange. Without another word, I storm past both of those idiots and out the door. When I glance down at my dollar store watch and realize the bus doesn’t run for another 45 minutes, I want to scream. Why can’t even the littlest thing work in my favor? You know what? I can walk. It will be a haul but at this point who cares? It’ll be better than sitting here stewing in my anger and self-loathing. As I turn to do just that, I see Officer Rivers striding up to me.
“Marina, wait. Are you okay? You’re still bleeding.”
“I am?” A quick survey of my limbs reveals nothing. She reaches out and swipes under my chin and comes away with blood on her fingers. I hate the sight of blood; it turns my stomach. My head swims and I wobble as I process the scarlet wet streak on her fingers. She reaches out to steady me.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. You may need stitches.” I let her support me a little, afraid that the wooziness will send me to the ground for more injuries.
“I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford to get stitched up. I’ll clean it up at home and tape it together. It’ll be fine, officer,” I say, feeling the defeat of the last week and even the last few years all the way to my soul. Why do I fight so hard to keep going when it always turns out bad? Maybe not always this bad, but nothing is ever roses for me. It’s just a fact of life.
“You aren’t cleaning this up yourself. I’ll handle the bill.”
“No way. I don’t take charity. I’ll be fine.”
She gently pulls me back to the restaurant and I begin to protest when the manager glares at me.
Quinn whispers in my ear, “Shhh, let me handle this.”
“Did you notice the blood when she walked out of here?” The tone of her voice makes it clear she’s not happy. My manager nods, glowering at me as he does.
“It’s in your best interest to file a report and send her to get this taken care of on the company dime or she can sue you if anything happens since she was on company property and on the time clock.” Glaring at me he mutters under his breath several words that sound a lot like cuss words, he finally gives in and says, “I’ll get the paperwork started.”
Two hours later, Quinn and Jase, who still hasn’t spoken to me since our altercation in the staff locker room, drive me home. I ended up with five stitches in my chin. I have a few other bruises and some I’m certain will show later, but I don’t care right now. I just want to go home and get some rest. I can figure out what tomorrow’s survival tactics will include when I wake up.
It’s dark and the neighborhood’s sketchy population that’s usually hidden during the day is roaming the streets while some are huddled on street corners, so Quinn insists on walking me to my door. I let her, because with my luck I’d get robbed of my last $80 on the way to my door.
Of course, because it wouldn’t be my life if this weren’t the case, my front door is open a little when I arrive. I would think it’s weird if I couldn’t hear Dee’s voice coming from within. A quick peek inside allows me to see Dee standing with another uniformed officer. Tears stream down her face as she runs for me. When she reaches me, she throws her arms around me. I hold tight and close my eyes because I need the hug as bad as she obviously does, but I’m a little freaked out not knowing what’s going on.
“What is it, Dee?” She leans back to gain eye contact and the bloodshot state of her eyes alerts me to the fact that she’s probably been crying a lot longer than a few minutes. She turns and waves her hand toward the room like a game show hostess. It takes everything in me to remain upright as the scene of what I walked in on settles inside me. There’s nothing here. No pink and white floral couch straight ahead, no ratty brown recliner to the left, no flat-screen TV to my right. No pictures of me, Dee and Reggie, or our other friends, or Dee’s family on the walls. On the back wall, before you reach the hallway, there is no framed poster print of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss hanging up. Even our old scatter rugs are gone. Not even a dead leaf from the one houseplant we’ve managed to keep alive can be seen. Nothing that was in the room when I left earlier today remains.
A few dust bunnies gather near the corners and a few handprints I didn’t notice before are visible on the walls.
“What the hell, Dee? Are you leaving?” I can’t come up with a better explanation for why everything would be gone, even if that doesn’t add up either.
“No, honey.” Her lower lip trembles as she replies, “I’d never leave you. We’ve been robbed.”
I glance over to the cop, who nods, reinforcing what Dee told me. My eyes widen as panic shoots through me and I dart toward my room. The only thing I care about is that damn shoebox. The only important things that I own are in there. Please let it be in there. Please let it be in there.
The closet door is standing open and everything is gone, including my sacred shoebox. There’s not even lint on the floor. That’s the end of it. The one finger grip I had on my control and sanity is finally gone and I lose it. My knees give way and I land hard on them. I only stay in that position long enough to transition to a little ball on the floor. The tears flow hard and heavy. Neither of us had anything expensive other than the TV. Why would anyone want my hand-me-down dresser or my ratty old tennis shoes? None of that meant a damn thing to me until losing it meant I have absolutely nothing. I only have what I’m wearing. That shoebox held the few pictures I had of my grandparents, the only picture of my sister, my favorite shirt—which was my sister’s, and the beautiful silver locket that Jase gave me when we were in foster care.
Now I have no job, no belongings, no car and hardly any money. Who takes someone’s clothes? They weren’t designer brands. They were cheap. I don’t even have a pillow or blanket to sleep on the floor with, thanks to our burglar.
A warm body curls around mine and holds me close with an arm around my waist. I know it’s Dee because she’s done this before when I’ve fallen apart, which doesn’t happen often, but it does on occasion when my shitty life proves it can get shittier. She holds tight and stays quiet until I settle down. I can hear voices in the living room, but they all leave us alone.
“Dee, why does God hate me? I try to be a good person. I don’t understand why things keep piling up.” My heart hurts for what I’ve lost. It doesn’t feel like I can dig myself out of the hole I seem to be in. As a matter of fact, I feel like the more I dig, the more dirt someone else piles on me to keep me down.
“I
t’s not your fault, honey. God doesn’t hate you. This is just life for people like us. It happens. This sucks, but at least we weren’t home so we weren’t hurt. We have each other. No matter what stuff is gone, we still have each other. I’m not going anywhere.” She squeezes tighter to make her point. I lace my fingers through hers over my belly and lie there in the middle of my floor, trying to be thankful that I still have Dee. Without her I’d have almost no one, well, no one of substance anyway. I hate to be alone, am absolutely terrified I’ll end up completely alone in this world, so I cling to anyone who gets close enough to me. Fern dying yesterday didn’t help that feeling. Dee’s been with me the longest. I met her a couple of years after I got off the street.
After a few more minutes go by, a shadow crosses the door and Jase’s deep voice echoes in the bare room, “Do you have anywhere to stay?”
I don’t answer. He’s seen enough of my humiliation this week and doesn’t need to see more. The truth is, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I could stay with my friend Callie but she lives almost an hour outside the city and I don’t have a car to commute that far.
Dee answers for both of us as she climbs to her feet and helps me up. “We’ll work it out. We always do.” I wipe away the tears that collected on the side of my face and clear my throat. Dee leads the way past Jase into the living room where the cop who was standing with Dee when I came in is talking with Quinn. They both turn to us and the first cop says, “I need you to review this list your roommate gave us, add anything else you can think of and then sign it. I’ll call you if we have any questions or anything turns up.” He looks at me. “Did you have anything valuable stolen? Your roommate didn’t think you did but I wanted to confirm.”
“Yes, I did,” I answer in a low voice. I don’t want to share with the room that I kept that damn necklace that meant so much to me when it obviously never meant anything to him. If it did he wouldn’t treat me, the person he gave it to, like I’m a huge inconvenience every time he sees me.