I've decided that my life has become a string of freely interspersed one-liners. For example: "Long distance isn't for me anymore." Or "Corporate called, and cuts have to be made on the part-time level." Or best yet, the crème de le crème of all life-altering statements: "We're sorry to inform you that your re-admittance to Pennsylvania State University…."
Now, you're probably wondering how someone of my age could recover from such devastation. How does Santana Lopez, recently dumped, recently let-go, recent college dropout, prevail?
Great question.
I'll let you know if I ever figure this shit out.
In the meantime, I stroll through downtown Philadelphia in search of employment. It's wild just how few places are hiring. Yeah, there's always the local MegaMart, but who much feels like catering to the general public? There's even serving or hosting at one of the many C-grade restaurants that plague this city, but the turnover rate just isn't worth the time. Panhandling it is, I jokingly consider, the true irony being that my life has become one massive joke, and my eventual plummet into the bottommost realm of society is its grotesque punchline.
But I digress. Eventually, a "Now Hiring" sign draws me into The Beanery, a decently-sized coffee shop on the corner of Emerson and Eagle's Landing. A few strokes of the pen and I'm applied. A quick meet-and-greet with the store manager and I'm hired. Easy as one, two, three. Desperation is a beautiful phenomenon.
Brown on black is the shop's standard attire. Bring a smile and a can-do attitude and you won't have any trouble navigating the rocky waters that are customer service. It's the same spiel you hear in any training seminar, the only kicker being that our group of three "resembles a literal pile of shit bigger than what this job could possibly entail". Puck, the new-hire to my right's words, not mine.
"What brings you to the esteemed Beanery?" he asks me one day, as I filter new grounds into the vat of much older ones.
"An education system pitted against anyone born without a six-figure trust fund," I grumble. "You?"
He lifts the container from which I work. It clicks into place. Voila, medium roast Turkish blend is ready for the brewing. "Girlfriend wants a place of our own. She's tired of living in my mom's upstairs annex."
"Females," I mumble.
He sighs in agreement, and we go on in silence. This is the way it continues over the course of our first week. Puck, which I learn is short for his last name, Puckerman, and I often make small talk. We chit chat about life's ups, downs, and everything in between. Like two prisoners with sentences long and far, we maneuver through our shifts with steadfast trepidation.
That is, until one particular morning. We're opening up shop as usual—configuring the registers, prepping inventory, setting tables—when our first customer arrives. It's nothing out of the ordinary, as there is always at least one person who walks through the doors just as Puck unlocks them. This morning, it's a blonde who orders our cheapest drink and settles into a corner booth.
The hours practically crawl by; disgruntled members of the general public come and go. The blonde, however, she remains. She remains in such a way that is utterly inconspicuous. But every so often, she'll mosey along to our free-standing products cart (where customers can doctor up their beverages), grab a handful of sugar packets, and sit back down. Some make it into her cup, the others elsewhere. Occasionally, she'll go for the dry creamers. Sometimes, she'll splurge for napkins. All of which fit comfortably into the crooks of a black backpack she totes around.
I eventually channel Puck's attention to the situation, and we watch in silence. The charade goes on for the better part of two hours, both of us admiring the girl with detached reservation.
"Are you going to say anything?" I whisper from behind the counter.
"Not if you don't," he dismisses. "Real shame, though. Always the hot ones who do the weird shit."
We both chuckle. Puck smacks my arm just in time to watch our culprit emerge from the bathroom. Her backpack has since taken on some size, a bulge protruding at odd angles. And then, just through the crack where it won't quite zip, I see what resembles a roll of white. Toilet paper? Who steals toilet paper?
A while later, the same girl drops her cup off for a refill. She happily shells out the fifty cent fee. Whereas our policy is to call the customer's name, allow them to retrieve their product, and call it a day, I volunteer myself for a quick delivery. Puck eyes me suspiciously, but I give him a reassuring nod.
The girl looks bewildered to see me approach her table. Like a deer in the headlights, she plays it coy as I place her drink on metal tabletop. Moments later, I slide into the booth.
"My manager's going to be here in about thirty minutes," I say coolly. "He pays far more attention than I and my coworker."
She appears to mull over my offer. Not too concerned, if I may add, considering that she still sits, sipping from her coffee. Everything about her seems too cocky. Too self-assured. Part of me wishes I hadn't said anything, let Greg catch her stealing, and watched her ass go down.
Regardless of all personal wishes, the blonde eventually responds. She reacts simply by standing, grabbing her bag, and tossing it over her shoulder. The coffee cup is lifted once more before reaching its final destination, an area that I will soon have to wipe down. Then, without missing so much as a beat, she leans over and smugly whispers, "See you tomorrow."
Ever since that morning, work continues as such throughout the week. The girl shows up like clockwork, cleans the place out, and vamps before Greg rolls around. Puck and I have each held true to our respective vows of silence, mostly because minimum wage isn't enough to further confront those committing harmless crimes, but also due to the blonde's general appeal. She's a rebel in her own respect, and it's quite entertaining to play into.
Come Sunday evening, I'm grateful to have the following two days off. Puck and I wish each other well, and I make the short drive back to my apartment building. The floor above mine is a complete dead zone. No blaring music, no yelling, and no random pops that may or may not be gunfire. Tonight is a good night.
A short-lived mentality, I'll admit, once I reach the second floor. Not because the McClann's dogs go absolutely ape shit at the sound of my footsteps, either, but because the handle to my door appears to be stuck. Again. I give it the usual lift-and-nudge. Nothing. Once more for good measure. Nada.
That's when it catches my eye.
The little pink slip nudged in the door's crevice.
Notice of eviction: as a matter of two months' overdue rent, Apartment 783 will be placed under the jurisdiction of building management. The tenant has seventy-two hours to comply with complex regulations, or all items within will be forfeited.
My heart sinks just a little bit. In fact, I'm less compelled to cry than I am to punch the door, secretly hoping that with enough force, I'll be able to jar the wooden frame.
Considering the time, there's no use in attempting to argue my case with the main office. There's always the option of waiting outside until morning, but that would mean running the risk of coming face-to-face with the groundskeeper, Leonard. He still hasn't forgiven me for last year's tulip incident.
I decide not to fight it. Not tonight, at least. So as I saddle up in the car, gauging just how comfortable it might be to live in, I break out my phone and Google the nearest bar.
The counter is cold and swollen as wood does when drenched one too many times. Dim lights do well to hide the room's eerie demeanor. Smoke creeps along and billows from the walls. This appears to be either where hope goes to die, or where the hopeless somehow reside.
Light from my phone screen illuminates the immediate area. More unimpressive are the numbers it displays. Or lack thereof, considering they are but a small portion of the extremely underwhelming entity that is my bank account.
"Seems like we can't get enough of each other in the workplace," a voice soon rings out, breaking my trance.
I look up to find none other than the thieving blonde bearing her signature smile.
"Yeah, I was just stopping by to see if you had any sugar packets to spare," I quip.
Her grin subsides. "What'll you have?"
"Whatever's most inexpensive?"
"Glass of water and a high five?" she returns, now chuckling.
I sit and wait, trying to stare down whatever is left of her snark. There's always a time and a place for playful or witty banter, but being newly homeless has drained me of any sense of humor. "Beer," I eventually give.
We exchange nothing more as I pull from bottle after bottle. I occasionally steal a glance as she bounces between patrons, charming her way into a dollar or two more. Her efforts are fruitful, I'll admit. The way she flutters her eyes in the middle of seamless conversation. How gracefully she dances behind the bar. I'm a captivated audience, even if the one-woman-show has no intention of entertaining.
By the time last call comes around, my brain is far too muddled for anymore wallowing. I grip onto the counter, leveraging my weight back then forth to heave a leg from the barstool. The problem is, someone begins blocking me from behind. The blonde bartender, to be exact.
"Any chance you're not okay?" she asks, sounding somewhat genuine. "No one ever sticks around here until close unless shit's seriously terrible."
I peer around. She's right. This place is a graveyard. "Yeah."
"Yeah, you are okay?" she continues. "Or yeah, shit's terrible?"
"Yeah," I say again.
Typically, being a deadbeat conversationalist is enough to kill anyone's interest quickly. I've often used the same tactic for when guys come around, insistent on bagging the lesbian. But the blonde is a persistent one. In fact, she goes as far to take my arm and lead me outside. I think I'm simply being kicked out of the bar, something I haven't done since sophomore year, but she helps me to the curb. We sit side by side. She waits before saying, "Go ahead. Spill."
I'm hesitant, but also very drunk. And not drunk in the typical sense, but I'm also holding on to the earth as not fall off of it. I'm pissed off. I'm tired. I'm tired of being pissed off.
And so it goes, I fear. I sit, I ramble. She sits, she listens. She'll occasionally nod as to let me know that she's still paying attention. It's actually quite pleasant, being heard, and it's enough to make me begin questioning her further. Her motives, what she's capable of.
"Can I ask a favor?" is how our wondrous conversation comes to its end.
"Depends."
"I may or may not need some help breaking into my apartment."
Almost instantly, the girl rises from our spot. I'm convinced that I've scared away with such a rash proposition, as she bolts inside the now-closed bar. Just fucking marvelous, I think, up until she reemerges, holding a crowbar. I'm caught up the confusion of it all, but then she beelines for my car.
"Keys," she demands.
I willingly comply, unsure of what exactly is about to occur, but with a pretty firm understanding of who it was brought on by. And before I'm giving any more time to weigh the pros versus all of their consequences, I'm mindlessly rattling off my address to the strange girl.
As it turns out, aside from swiping decorative goods, the blonde is a master of breaking and entering. That's what I gather from the crowbar she finagles into the doorframe's wedge. It's a simple procedure—one nudge, two, three, four—and a hunk of wood flies free.
Over the course of the next half hour, we shove random belongings into what's left of my trash bag supply. The essentials, of course, and then a few other amenities. A single trip down both flights of stairs, then we're lingering outside my car once again. The blonde folds her arms atop the vehicle's roof, cocks her head, and grins slyly. "Where to now?" she cheerfully offers, as if it's not already three in the goddamn morning.
I bite my lip, teetering from the alcohol's last few effects. The adrenaline of breaking into your own home works great as a sobering agent. "Didn't think this far ahead."
The girl chuckles, opening the driver's side door. I follow her lead, unsure of what's to come until she casually mentions, "Seems like I owe you this one then."
It's roughly ten minutes before we pull into a neighborhood that makes my apartment complex look like the Hilton. Seriously, every other house has a car on blocks. Yards consist of weird amalgamations of either weeds, dirt, or dirty weeds. The homes are in lesser-than condition, but as I've already established—being a person currently without one makes me less inclined to judge another's.
My car is ushered up a driveway and into a carport. The blonde quickly tosses a mud-ridden tarp over its top. She then fiddles with at least three different locks, nudges her door with the same verve as breaking through mine, and shuts it tightly behind us.
A quick survey of the house yields multiple observations: it's small, cluttered, and could use some serious renovation. Dishes litter the countertops, few decorations cover the walls. The door has led us into the kitchen, but just across the way, the living room appears to have suffered a similar neglected fate. I pander around, waiting for the blonde to lead the way once more.
She does, first by venturing to the fridge for two longneck bottles. I don't think that consuming anymore alcohol is in my best interest, but I find myself more comforted by the gesture than, say, having a weapon pulled. The girl smiles after popping both caps, pulling from hers feverishly. I do the same. It's the cheap stuff, even more decrepit than what I had at the bar.
"So," she eventually says, as if our evening has been one long, drawn out conversation. "Your girlfriend decided that commuting from Ohio to Pennsylvania wasn't enough to keep your relationship afloat, your college decided that your overall lack of discipline wasn't enough to keep your education afloat, and your renters have decided that your overall lack of funds wasn't worth keeping your lifestyle afloat."
"If you put it that way," I joke.
She shrugs. "Just trying to figure out if there's anything else I need to know beforehand."
"Before what?" I ask, taking a seat at the laundry-covered heap I assume to be the dinner table.
She rubs the rim of her bottle, teasing its edges. I'm not paying much attention, at least not until she haphazardly offers, "Before we fuck."
I choke on the beer mid-swallow. "That wasn't—" I stammer over each individual syllable. "I don't—"
Slender legs suddenly work their way across the tile floor, and one soon drapes over my pressed thighs. My mouth feels as though I've swallowed a ball of cotton. More so as two lips perch themselves atop my cheek. Then as they begin working downward toward the base of my neck. Back upward—she takes a moment to move a string of my hair—to that area just below my ear.
"You don't what?" she asks in barely above a whisper. That same sultry tone from our first encounter at the shop.
I groan. Where is this coming from? Why is she playing so far out of left field? Is this a "thank you" fuck? Is it pity fuck? Should I push her away and insist that I've just been trying to fly the straight-and-narrow? That in no way has this evening meant that we have to have sex? I honestly didn't even realize that the girl was gay.
All rationale flies out the goddamn window when she takes one of my hands and drags it under her shirt and up the expanse of her back. This is probably the worst idea in the history of ideas, or at least in the last five hours, but God. When she forces her body down into mine. The firmness of each individual muscle that grazes against my own. The softness that offsets just how rough everything else is. It's nothing specific, but it's everything right now.
"Don't know what I was thinking," is all I can work to choke out.
Instinct forces my body into overdrive, and before I'm fully aware, our pair is floating through the air. Seconds later, we're crashing atop the kitchen table, sending a pile of shirts to the ground. I force my lips to hers, and she returns with equal energy. We're pawing, clawing, grabbing at each other, working at the nearest articles of clothing. I'm down to my bra before I can still her hands, beginning to inch my way downward.
I hadn't realized what the girl was wearing until in one fell swoop, I'm able to remove her underwear. With the help of the world's most miniature skirt, of course. She aides my efforts, and just as I'm able to make her bottommost half vulnerable, keen on burying my face in between the fabric surrounding her thighs, a sly finger presses the expanse between my eyes. "Down the hall, first room on the left."
"Is that a new move, or?" I stumble over the words.
Her legs are no longer propped up by the time I blink. She smiles mischievously, then drags me by the hand into the darkness.
Hours later, with the sweat, exhaust, and pure elation of the evening weighing down on me, I melt into the mattress beside a girl whose name I do not know. I listen to her breathing, how calmly it rises and falls. And then, in the midst of it all, I try to consider what in the hell I'm doing. Am I being impulsive? Am I being crass? Have I reached the end of my rope?
I don't know this girl. I have no clue of who she is, where she comes from, or what she's capable of. She's been a mystery since the beginning, and there's no telling what she'll be tomorrow morning. Maybe she's a secret wrapped up in something a lot more, and maybe I'm in for much more than I've imagined. After all, there is no telling why a girl like her would need a house like this all to herself.