Chapter 3: You're Lost, Little Girl
The bridge of Margot's nose was bruised for the following days and was slowly lightening as time passed. Her mind couldn't concentrate on any of her classes. Instead of working on the project assigned, Margot would sketch the night at the Whiskey A-Go-Go in a 3" by 5" sketchbook she had bought in a small shop in Sacramento. Margot's memory remembered things she deemed important in almost exact detail. The drawings were surreal but so were the Doors. They were her muse. Especially Jim.
He was everything she had searched for her entire life, and now he was gone. That night was all that she wanted to replay in her head. He was an angel sandwiched between heaven and hell.
—
Nancy was talking Margot's ear off in art history knowing full well that Margot was drowning her out. She daydreamed of Jim running his fingers through her hair and whispering poetry in her ear. How badly she wanted to be held by him. To be his girl.
The next morning, Margot had gotten ready for her new job as a waitress in a small breakfast cafe on the Sunset Strip. She was grateful to have a job and not have to be owned by her parents' money. She put on her classic light grey turtleneck and her black and white plaid mini skirt, yet Margot was in such a rush, she had no time to consider its shortness. She put on an old pair of black flats she had gotten at the age of fifteen.
Margot hadn't grown since she hit her puberty peak in eighth grade. Her small B cup breasts and small frame were an example of this. If someone looked at her body, she would still seem fourteen but her face was another story.
Margot had deep-set eyes and a resting nihilistic facial expression that served her no good in getting boys in highschool. Her irises were so dim, they were almost black.
Margot quickly headed out the door of her dingy apartment and down the stairs to the streets of LA. She placed herself on the rusty, pale, yellow bike she had gotten at a thrift store for fifteen bucks. It worked. That's all that mattered.
The cafe was old and beat up with a modern coverup to hide its age. The cafe was frequently called Mickey's because of the owner Michael Romano, a fat, middle-aged man who had a thick Italian accent that at times you felt like he was talking in gibberish. He welcomed Margot in with open arms. When she applied for the job, Mickey would constantly remind her that she had similar personality traits as his daughter. He was a short man with a bad temper who kept his employees in check.
Margot quickly escaped to the backroom as she set her bike down at the back entrance of the cafe. She put on the blue-grey apron and stuck her sketchbook in the pocket of her mini skirt.
"Margot, give these to table three, please." The cook responded from the square hole in the wall as she entered the cafe.
"Yes, sir."
The four plates were filled with sausages, eggs, bacon, strata, and biscuits. Margot's apartment bill had gone up, and she hadn't eaten anything all day. Despite not quite being a relapse, it harkened back to her days of
Margot turned her head up to see the direction to table three then her heart stopped. Her feet locked in place and felt as if she was in quicksand and couldn't escape. Her muse was there in his shining glory. His lips pursed in boredom as he listened to his bandmates, drifting off into space. His brown curls covered his eyes as he wrote something in a notepad in his lap.
"Margot, hurry up!" Mickey's hand touched Margot's back and made her jump back into reality.
The feeling of being starstruck was something Margot had never experienced. Her legs trembled over, her mind trying to re-concentrate on balancing the plates on her arms rather than the band that sparked her like a match. She was thankful enough to have reached the table without dropping any plates. The way her hands shook as she set the plates down was obvious to the band members who stared at Margot curiously, all except for Jim. He kept looking at the notepad in his lap. He still wore the same outfit he wore that night at the Whiskey A-Go-Go.
"Umm… I-I" She felt her forehead begin to sweat and then blurted out, "I was there at the Whiskey A-Go-Go and you guys were amazing. I've been completely inspired by you."
Jim looked up at Margot, his eyes wide with curiosity and taken back by her directness. Margot caught his glance and she now realized he had blue eyes. His brow bone shadowed over his eyes allowing onlookers to only imagine what was going on behind them. Was he imagining ways to brutally murder all those around him in a single blow? He intimidated Margot, but that was the basis of his appeal.
She placed the sketchbook in her pocket on the table, gesturing for one of the members to explore the extent of their influence. Jim took the bait and began to flip through the pages, his eyes focused and intent on absorbing each stroke of the pen.
"This is good." He said in a whisper-like voice. Margot started to fall deeper and deeper into him, with his over-pronunciation of words. It felt as if he was choosing them especially to make Margot swoon.
"Ma'am, can I have some more coffee?" An old man's voice from behind her asked and Margot tried to quickly grab her sketchbook, but Jim grabbed her wrist, send shivers down her spine. His hands were rough, and his grip was painful. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He was touching her.
"Leave it." Jim looked into her eyes with hunger and excitement and let go of her wrist.
Jim's bandmates stared at the pages with him. Jim was stuck on one page which was a drawing of him standing over a skeleton. He stood like Saint Michael the archangel, with a microphone in his hand, looking up at the sky, with flowers surrounding his feet. Margot prayed and pleaded that he would like it. She never so badly wanted to be validated by someone she barely knew.
Margot turned around a fetched the old man his coffee. She continued to bring people their food and coffee, keeping her peripheral vision on the band as they flipped through the sketchbook's pages. Jim would occasionally catch Margot's eye with a lingering, curious stare. She realized this and made sure her awkward quirks weren't quite as noticeable, as she answered tables. She turned her back for about five minutes until she heard the bell chime of the door opening. She swung herself around and saw the band walking out the door, leaving her forever. She felt defeated. Not a single word. Not a single glance.
Margot went over to clean table three. She stacked the plates on top of each other to then realized. They took her sketchbook.
Margot felt a smile run across her face. She still had a chance. Once her shift ended, she would search all over the Sunset Strip for Jim, using the alibi: "You took my sketchbook."
The shift couldn't end any slower. Her eyes shifted from the clock down to her assignment at hand. Margot felt as though Jim was staring at her from corners and creeks, but it was simply her imagination. Her guardian angel watching over her. The image of Jim pulling her away from her previous to a new life full of splendor and chaos was what kept her attentive.
Finally, she felt a friendly hand grasp her shoulder.
"Your shift is done, Margot. Go home and get some rest." Mickey was warm and protective like the father Margot could only dream of.
Margot's father was Welsh, and she inherited most of her physical traits from him with his dark eyes and hair. Her personality was so similar to her father, that she started to despise herself for it. She did everything she could to please her father as a child, even letting him take naps as Margot watched over her little brother. Yet he never repaid the favor.
The car rides she spent with her father were filled with silence, and sometimes the occasional question asked by Margot about her his day. To these, he would only reply with a single shrug. The only difference was that Margot wasn't as lifeless as her father was. Life was all she had. And she lusted for it.
