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?he bus ride home seemed unusually short tonight. Maybe it was because I didn't exactly know where "home" was. Up until this morning, home was an apartment above Tommy's Cleaners on a relatively safe street in the heart of Chicago. And up until one week ago, the bus ride home was from my excellent job as a gossip columnist working for the Chicago Tribune part- time. Although I rode the bus for forty-five minutes longer than I used to, all the way down to the lakefront, the time went by faster than I can express in words. Maybe it was because I was bombarded by the thoughts of my unraveling life; thoughts of my apartment being moved into by a happy couple, my boss firing me last week, and the fact that I had nowhere to sleep tonight. I lay out a blanket on the beach and sat down. Next to me, sitting almost as uncomfortably as I was, were three suitcases and a tote bag filled with whatever I could fit in them. I looked out at Lake Michigan and cringed as I saw a light from a yacht. Boats were the thing that got me fired in the first place. I was invited to the company Christmas party even though I was a part- time member. I felt it was a high honor and was, of course, very excited. This year the party would take place on a yacht rented out by the company. I called my best friend Miranda because she works at Barney's on Michigan Avenue and could get me a deal at any store I wanted. I ended up going to the party in an adorable red sparkly cocktail dress that complimented my light blond hair and green-blue eyes extremely well, if I do say so myself. And although my dress was quite sophisticated I, however, was not. At the party I have to say that I got a little.tipsy. Okay, by 10:15 I was flat- out hammered. And needless to say, I made a complete fool out of myself and anyone who didn't know me already probably questioned my presence on the yacht. In my "state" on the boat, of course I forgot that even though there was a Christmas party, the Tribune was still received by many over Christmas break. And I had a celebrity column due the following Monday, which did not get turned in because I didn't actually wake up until 4 hours after it was due. Funny, I was still on the yacht when I woke up as well. I was also in bed with my boss's son. I assume that all of these factors (one being that my report was never turned in, two being I embarrassed myself and my company, three being I slept with my boss's son) helped my ever-so- smart boss come to the pretty easy decision of terminating my work at the Chicago Tribune. And my apartment? Let's just say that without a job I wasn't making enough money to keep it, and my rent from last month was due yesterday. My landlord promptly gave my humble home to his brother-in-law and kicked me out. He kicked me out to the lake front where I now sit looking out at what is probably the same yacht that got me in this much trouble in the first place. I sat up and looked behind me across the park and remembered that about two blocks away there was a small Motel 6. I decided I could afford to spend a night there and lugged my suitcases into the lobby and then my room. I turned on the TV, and after adjusting the antenna for about 25 minutes I realized that it was never going to receive any channels clearly so I just turned it off. I slept fitfully completely under the covers, desperately afraid that a cockroach would somehow end up on my face when I woke up. Four hours after I had sunk under those covers I woke sharply. I realized (sooner than most) that I needed to get my life back on track. Sleeping in a Motel 6 being afraid of cockroaches isn't going to teach me any of life's lessons. I needed to shape up and get out of here. I decided that I had to call my childhood friend. He was a director, and filming a movie here. I knew I could trust him. "Gordo?" I said softly after he picked up the phone. There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Lizzie." He immediately knew who it was. I was the girl who had dumped him numerous times for any hot guy I could find. I was the girl who had been dumped by every single one of those guys and turned to him for help. I was also the girl who got too cool for him senior year and left him in the dust, until this very morning. "How have you been?" I asked flatly. "Lizzie why are you calling me at 5:45 am 7 years after highschool ended?" "I need help! I got fired from my job, I lost my apartment, I am in a Motel 6 and I only have enough money to pay for the next two nights. You know I am not qualified for any other job, hell I was lucky to get a job before!" At this point I began to cry. "I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell I think I'm doing. I won't bother you again." "Lizzie- wait! You can come live with me. I can get you a job interviewing the stars of my next movie. It will be great press. You know I would do anything to help you!" "Oh Gordo I've always liked you, I'm just so glad I got it out now!" "But there is something I should tell you. You'll have to use the couch, since my wife and I obviously use the bedroom." I stared at the telephone. "Your what?" "My wife, Lizzie. She works for Oprah. That's how we stay in Chicago for so long. You might remember her, come to think of it. We went to highschool with her, and junior high." "Well, who?" "Kate Sanders." "You mean that slutty bitch who never gave you the time of day?" "Listen, Lizzie. You never gave me the time of day either so shut the hell up and come over to 21 Michigan Avenue. That's where I'm living." "That's right by Miranda!" "Yeah, didn't she tell you? She designed Kate's wedding dress!" I had wondered why Miranda had always changed the subject when I brought up Gordo. I felt so betrayed. "Uh, yeah. I'll be there in like 30 minutes." I hung up the phone and stared at my reflection in the mirror. What happened?
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?he bus ride home seemed unusually short tonight. Maybe it was because I didn't exactly know where "home" was. Up until this morning, home was an apartment above Tommy's Cleaners on a relatively safe street in the heart of Chicago. And up until one week ago, the bus ride home was from my excellent job as a gossip columnist working for the Chicago Tribune part- time. Although I rode the bus for forty-five minutes longer than I used to, all the way down to the lakefront, the time went by faster than I can express in words. Maybe it was because I was bombarded by the thoughts of my unraveling life; thoughts of my apartment being moved into by a happy couple, my boss firing me last week, and the fact that I had nowhere to sleep tonight. I lay out a blanket on the beach and sat down. Next to me, sitting almost as uncomfortably as I was, were three suitcases and a tote bag filled with whatever I could fit in them. I looked out at Lake Michigan and cringed as I saw a light from a yacht. Boats were the thing that got me fired in the first place. I was invited to the company Christmas party even though I was a part- time member. I felt it was a high honor and was, of course, very excited. This year the party would take place on a yacht rented out by the company. I called my best friend Miranda because she works at Barney's on Michigan Avenue and could get me a deal at any store I wanted. I ended up going to the party in an adorable red sparkly cocktail dress that complimented my light blond hair and green-blue eyes extremely well, if I do say so myself. And although my dress was quite sophisticated I, however, was not. At the party I have to say that I got a little.tipsy. Okay, by 10:15 I was flat- out hammered. And needless to say, I made a complete fool out of myself and anyone who didn't know me already probably questioned my presence on the yacht. In my "state" on the boat, of course I forgot that even though there was a Christmas party, the Tribune was still received by many over Christmas break. And I had a celebrity column due the following Monday, which did not get turned in because I didn't actually wake up until 4 hours after it was due. Funny, I was still on the yacht when I woke up as well. I was also in bed with my boss's son. I assume that all of these factors (one being that my report was never turned in, two being I embarrassed myself and my company, three being I slept with my boss's son) helped my ever-so- smart boss come to the pretty easy decision of terminating my work at the Chicago Tribune. And my apartment? Let's just say that without a job I wasn't making enough money to keep it, and my rent from last month was due yesterday. My landlord promptly gave my humble home to his brother-in-law and kicked me out. He kicked me out to the lake front where I now sit looking out at what is probably the same yacht that got me in this much trouble in the first place. I sat up and looked behind me across the park and remembered that about two blocks away there was a small Motel 6. I decided I could afford to spend a night there and lugged my suitcases into the lobby and then my room. I turned on the TV, and after adjusting the antenna for about 25 minutes I realized that it was never going to receive any channels clearly so I just turned it off. I slept fitfully completely under the covers, desperately afraid that a cockroach would somehow end up on my face when I woke up. Four hours after I had sunk under those covers I woke sharply. I realized (sooner than most) that I needed to get my life back on track. Sleeping in a Motel 6 being afraid of cockroaches isn't going to teach me any of life's lessons. I needed to shape up and get out of here. I decided that I had to call my childhood friend. He was a director, and filming a movie here. I knew I could trust him. "Gordo?" I said softly after he picked up the phone. There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Lizzie." He immediately knew who it was. I was the girl who had dumped him numerous times for any hot guy I could find. I was the girl who had been dumped by every single one of those guys and turned to him for help. I was also the girl who got too cool for him senior year and left him in the dust, until this very morning. "How have you been?" I asked flatly. "Lizzie why are you calling me at 5:45 am 7 years after highschool ended?" "I need help! I got fired from my job, I lost my apartment, I am in a Motel 6 and I only have enough money to pay for the next two nights. You know I am not qualified for any other job, hell I was lucky to get a job before!" At this point I began to cry. "I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell I think I'm doing. I won't bother you again." "Lizzie- wait! You can come live with me. I can get you a job interviewing the stars of my next movie. It will be great press. You know I would do anything to help you!" "Oh Gordo I've always liked you, I'm just so glad I got it out now!" "But there is something I should tell you. You'll have to use the couch, since my wife and I obviously use the bedroom." I stared at the telephone. "Your what?" "My wife, Lizzie. She works for Oprah. That's how we stay in Chicago for so long. You might remember her, come to think of it. We went to highschool with her, and junior high." "Well, who?" "Kate Sanders." "You mean that slutty bitch who never gave you the time of day?" "Listen, Lizzie. You never gave me the time of day either so shut the hell up and come over to 21 Michigan Avenue. That's where I'm living." "That's right by Miranda!" "Yeah, didn't she tell you? She designed Kate's wedding dress!" I had wondered why Miranda had always changed the subject when I brought up Gordo. I felt so betrayed. "Uh, yeah. I'll be there in like 30 minutes." I hung up the phone and stared at my reflection in the mirror. What happened?